More tapped than taped!

Tape 3, originally uploaded by mcloud.

I have spent three hours on a train – an hour more than usual for the trip from London as there is a landslide at Chipping Sodbury – I always thought that name was made up, I imagine it as some sort of cross between St Mary Mead and Dullsville.

I have DVT of the arse from sitting on a train and in meetings all day with the only light relief being a brief moment when we discuss MP Paul Flynn who is complaining about the lack of “good news” reported by charities. We all agree we hate the depressing adverts on TV as we watch the telly to get away from the world we work in – a world that can be depressing. Our pet peeve at the moment is the child abuse ads – we’d like them to stop. Full stop. “Her uncle makes her do things she can’t understand” the narrator says. Like what I ask myself – Algebra? Long Division? Conjugating French verbs?

There is good news: a pound a week can pay the Dogs Trust not only to look after a stray dog but get it to be your best friend and write you letters – if they can teach a dog to write a letter for a pound a week they ought to take over Learning Direct! Or perhaps they can teach Algebra and sort out the problems above!

When I finally get home I watch the channels with less adverts but my reverie is disturbed by a sort of crackling noise coming from downstairs. I sit bemused – what can it be? Is someone trying to break in? No, it’s too quiet for that. Bacon sizzling? No, can’t smell it. It’s a sort of crackly noise like plastic or something being ripped. I ponder a bit more – then I have the notion it could be the crackle of flames – is something electrical burning?

I rush (artistic licence there – as saying that I rushed is like saying a bus shelter could rush!) – I rush towards Jack’s room where the noise gets louder - has he knocked over the fan heater – is the crackling the sound of seared flesh?

Oh no, far more bizarre – I find him sellotaping the door handle, winding yards and yards of the sticky stuff round and around the shaft. The crackling is the noise of the tape being unwound.

“It doesn’t stay closed!” says Daddy by way of explanation.

“How will that help?”

He doesn’t know but looks shifty and guilty standing in his shirt, knitted sleeveless jumper, underpants and slippers, holding the smoking gun masquerading as a huge reel of cellotape. No point arguing, so I give up and go back to watching TV while mentally adding to the list another job to fix when he’s dead – the list already includes replacing the replacement UPVC windows that he bought for the back of house and slinging out the hideous doorbell that arrived with a remote bell contraption that can scare you by suddenly ringing in a different position around the house.

I’d like him to stop. Full stop! (Actually that’s an exclamation mark but what’s a little punctuation between friends)

Washday blues

Rich has just come in from work at 4pm on a Sunday afternoon – is there calm and decorum, a sense of lazy Sunday and relaxation? Nope. Daddy has yet again not “understood” the washer dryer. Whether the washing machine wants to be understood is another matter. I haven’t noticed it having an existentialist moment. No philosophical debate with the dryer. It isn’t receiving counselling from the fridge-freezer.

To Jack the concept of “instructions” is alien and he wants “one that you just turn on!” He is still having a go at Richard who, in exasperation, is suggesting he talks to the manufacturer while setting the dials to something more suitable for the few shirts inside the drum than the scalding boil wash and three hours of drying time Jack has selected!

“Is that everything?” Rich asks.

“Yes!” snaps Jack

“You’re sure there’s nothing else to go in the wash?

“Yes I’m sure – how dare you hmm murph gnash, I know what I wurgh rumph murnurmurrr…” he mutters as he walks off to the bedroom.

“Okay” Richard presses the button and it whirrs into action.

“There’s this,” he proffers some socks and underwear…

“It’s too late now.”

“Why don’t you ever wait for people to ….” Cue more fury and mad muttering.

It’s never like this on the adverts for soap powder is it?!

Crime of Fashion

Fashion victim on the street, originally uploaded by il_Medo.

We sit at home and await the inevitable phone call when Daddy Short-term Memory finds he has left something at home and wants to return early (not on your Nellie! BTW: Where is one’s Nellie?)

Gavin reminds us that he will bring Daddy back next Saturday and stay overnight – have we rid the spare room of any cat hair? The cheek! Although I do admit we are not the fussiest about issues such as cat hair. However, Richard has given the spare room three lots of flea spray and the cat has had a number of goes with one or two types of potions on the back of her neck and in her food. Not sure he hasn’t put some sort of potion in mine as I still feel ill. He might arrive home to find me in a heap on the floor.

The team from CSI Cardiff will photograph my body next to the name “Richard” which I will have written in the dust pointedly! Someone will have to draw a chalk outline around me – they may as well pack sandwiches and a flask of tea as it’s a long walk around my body. They should hire the bloke who marks the pitch at the Millennium Stadium.

In some parts of the country death is such a constant that the forensics have replaced the chalk outline with a permanent painted line – places like Midsomer, Denton and St Mary Mead. In Cardiff we tell how long a body has lain dead by the depth of chips strewn around it. I wish they would dust for fingerprints – Richard won’t dust for love or money! Well, perhaps money.

Meanwhile the team from Missing will help Daddy search for whatever he has forgotten this time? Turns out he hasn’t packed his Pyjama bottoms – poor Amanda may have to have her eyes surgically cleansed with Jeyes Fluid and a brillo pad after he flashes his Christmas baubles and grisly grey tinsel in a midnight dash to the lavatory. Brings a whole new meaning to the term “Fashion Victim”.

Lidl Trio - and the Droitwich Duo!

Lidl Trio, originally uploaded by Coffee Lover.

We arrive in a dark and bleak Droitwich – it’s one of those estates where they have chopped down trees and named cul-de-sacs after them. Other streets are named after writers and poets. We are visiting a cliché!

Theory One: Yes, it is cold. Daddy mentions it within minutes. Daddy does feel the cold and that is why we have an electric bill with added noughts that makes you wonder if he is using more energy than a fat boy chasing the ice-cream van.

When Richard later asks to turn the heating up, one of them says the other will do it. I recognise the tactic having used it myself – there’s a number of responses I have in my stock of delay mechanisms from ‘I’m not sure where it is’, ‘I’m not how it works’ etc., to be followed by ‘ask Richard’ which then means someone has to repeat a request, feels like a nuisance and usually shuts ups. But this is Richard and he is very single minded. He has become a heat seeking missile – well a heat seeking missy but let’s not quibble.

Theory Two: Despite my protestations that they should not do lunch (in the hope we could adjourn to the warmth of a pub) they have made sandwiches. There is a choice: beef or ham. That’s bread with beef or ham in it. No mayonnaise, no mustard, no horseradish or red onion, no lettuce, no salt – if it was any plainer it would be a member of Richard’s family (they’re not lookers and probably go along way to explain “you are what you eat”). However, alongside are some cherry tomatoes, sticks of cucumber and a bowl of lettuce – no dressing.

I’m taken back to the sixties and my Nan’s rubbish Sunday teas that consisted of plated salads. There’s even a watery coleslaw. I worry she may be haunting their fridge but they don’t mention jelly for ‘afterwards’ so we may be okay. Pudding actually turns out to be cakes that Gavin bought at Lidl – I know someone who shops in Lidl: I’m mortified! Amanda also seems put out by the cake and accepts one but agrees she won’t be eating a second chocolate covered Battenberg.

Theory Three: Yes there is clutter in every room and every work surface. I’m not sure who to call first – Gillian McKeith and Gordon Ramsay… or Ann Maurice and Kim and Aggy.

We turn the conversation to holidays – Rich and I as you may know are hopeless at holidays and never go anywhere. Amanda is off to Italy with friends soon. I can see why she would prefer that to her latest holiday with Gavin… he has dragged her to a B&B in Mablethorpe which advertises itself as a great place for families and senior citizens – so much so that everyone zips past on a motorised chair and every third shop sells them! Gavin dragged her there to meet a matchbox label collector. Let the good times roll!! Well we won’t be phoning Judith Chalmers. "Wish you were here" - no, not really!

Theory Four: Daddy has slept through most of the afternoon. I have sat stock still and yet am feeling bone tired. On the way home, when not sleeping, I eat my way through a packet of Starburst remembering when they were called Opal Fruits - next I'll be reminiscing about the the good old days and reaching for the Werther's Originals... old age is catching. Perhaps I'll get Daddy a motorised chair for Christmas. Well, one that we can plug in anyway.

Daddy is parcelled off...

high street floods droitwich spa, originally uploaded by Rincewind30.

Daddy has been duly parcelled off to Sonny Longpockets for the 'festivities' although I am not sure how festive a holiday Droitwich can provide! Daddy has packed one small suitcase of clothes and another for his various medications. I have to admit that a week in Droitwich would probably reduce me to drugs! Anyone reader who remembers my Summer experiences of a rain drenched Midlands (see below) would probably sympathise.

We set off on Saturday; Richard fetching the car to the door before whizzing past us and parking a further 50 feet away which is a considerable stretch for both Daddy and me. Daddy Short-Tempered (double barrelled – how posh!) shuffled along with a few curses as his feet tangled around themselves. The door behind the driver’s seat is not working despite four trips to the garage and Richard’s frantic grabbing at the handle and jiggling. Getting irritated, Richard gets onto the back seat and slams at it with his hand until he decides to give it a few kicks… Penfold meets Jackie Chan! It doesn’t budge. So daddy has to wait until the passenger seat is dragged forward, then he gets in and shuffles over before I can put the seat back fully and lumber in myself. There is much cursing and muttering under everyone’s breath at this point – a trio of grumblers emit a low rumble and we haven’t even started the engine.

Richard pulls off, somewhat flustered by the palaver of settling his dad and then stops, deciding to phone ahead to say we are on our way. I tell him to get driving and I will phone – this change of plan also unnerves him apparently … he is such a delicate soul. We get around the corner and he tells me that he is now flustered and cannot decide whether or not he shut the front door – we double back for him to drive past the house and check... and I thought it was only Daddy who had Alzheimer’s!

We spend the journey in idle speculation of what will greet us at Droitwich.

1. Theory One says it will be cold: there will be jumpers and slippers in lieu of central heating!

2. Theory Two is the concept of basic fare: we guess at sandwiches or soup.

3. Theory Three is the house will be a haven of even more clutter – sonny likes to collect (I can forgive the expensive items but he also seems to collect food labels and plastic bags of miscellaneous stuff (for 'stuff' read 'any old shit'). It’s Diogenes syndrome all over again – What with Rich getting Alzheimer’s by proxy and Gavin having senile dementia hoarding.

4. Which leads to Theory Four - Daddy Shortlegs is spreading “old” like a virus. I may have caught it! I have Alzheimer’s Nervosa – a bit like Anorexia Nervosa where you don’t eat at all or Anorexia Bulimia when you eat and purge – I eat and then forget to throw up!

Winter Draws on!

Aunt Jean taking the girls to see Santa, originally uploaded by Kelteek.

In this photograph lies a story... My Great Aunt Jean (Back right - as if she would be the one in the Santa suit!!) took the girls to visit Santa - this must have been in the late 40s or early 50s in downtown Belfast.

Having all sat on his knee one-by-one and told him what they wanted, they accepted the presents and had their photograph taken. Anticipating a long walk home, Jean asked them if they needed to go to the lavatory and dutifully they all trooped off to the ladies.

Young Jean, pictured bottom right was the smallest of the group at the time - I assume her even younger sister Kathleen had been deemed too young to go.

"Have you pulled your pants up? asked Great Aunt Jean
"I haven't got any pants on!" said Jean - indeed she had been in such a hurry to see Santa she had forgotten her drawers!

Filthy witch - leading poor old Santa on that way! I never imagined a four year old as an agent provocateur teasing dodgy old Santas into lewd behaviour. Usually they just get a mince pie and a glass of sherry!!! Brings a whole new meaning to "Junior Showtime!"

Two's company!!!

Thinking about Lady Di (see entry below) brings on a creative bent and I design a possible Christmas card featuring me and my sister on Santa’s lap (when that was allowed without uproar about paedophilia). Our Santa didn’t look like he would have the inclination or even the energy for any fiddling.

Band-Aid

365.013 b, originally uploaded by l.thomas.

I have taken the day off due to manflu – or possibly just a cold. Everything aches… even typing this hurts my fingers and the back of my hands. For some strange reason, the tops of my feet are achey: any clues out there?

Not to feel left out, Richard arrives home with a Band-Aid on his bonce – coming out of a client’s home, he walked into an up-and-over garage door. He hasn’t got concussion, so luckily there’s no chance of him slipping into a coma before he gets the dinner ready.

It’s not the first time he’s hit his head. He’s had a couple of blows on the boot of the car when he hasn’t opened it fully – once in the same driveway of tonight’s incident; talk about revisiting the scene of the crime. People may imagine I am battering him which is absurd as it would involve me moving about! I can’t think of domestic abuse without hearing Princess Di commenting on “Battered this, battered that…” Ah, her sensitivity was astounding.

Richard’s dad hasn’t had a blow on the head but is displaying sympathy pains by being even more confused than usual. He has been round to Tesco but couldn’t use his bank card – mostly because he had tried to enter the amount he was paying rather than his pin number! They have hold of his shopping but given him a receipt so he can collect it. Richard takes this ransom note and nips back to collect it with the money in unmarked bills.

Meanwhile Jack settles back to watch TV but pops back out as his shopping arrives to complain the FX are showing… and I quote “Fucking Family Guy!” Richard doesn’t mind his dad complaining but Jack makes it sound like we are personally responsible for the TV Schedule. Perhaps we could get a Band-Aid for his gob! We could start a campaign such as “gag the gaga week”. Would Bob Geldof play this version of Bandaid?

If we were responsible FX would only show Family Guy as Rich and I agree there is nothing else on that channel worth watching. We debate starting up a new channel – TLC: The Lovely Channel. It would just show lovely programmes for when you feel the world is horrible or when you are lying ill with Manflu. Programmes like Miss Marple (the Hickson years not the McEwan travesty!), QI, gentler documentaries that don’t mention Hitler, Egypt or the Holy piggin’ Grail (or the link between all three as the Hitler, sorry History channel is keen to prove!)

As there is nothing great on TV now, Richard decides that we should have some popcorn to make us feel better. Jack wants to know if we want milk on it??! Does he think it is cereal? Who knows? Who cares? Well, obviously Diana would have cared. She’d kiss your “ow-ie” better.

(Rich won't let me photograph his bandaged bonce so I made do with the lovely photo above - I'd kiss his"ow-ie", missus!!)

The trots run in his family

uncle colin & uncle jack, originally uploaded by Kelteek.

This morning, Daddy Shortlegs informed us that he has the trots. Well, I’m not sure if he said trots as I am not sure he can trot. He certainly couldn’t canter in an emergency dash to the bogatory. To be honest with his gammy ankle and my wonky knee, manoeuvring around each other in the kitchen has taken on the look of a grotesque dressage display by panto horses in It’s a Knockout!

We are not entirely sure why he dropped the bombshell at breakfast other than to put you off your bran flakes. Does he need help or an audience? Keep your poo to yourself... do I look like Gillian McKeith? Richard doses him with something to “bung him up” as he ‘oh so nicely’ put it!

We get a telephone call later from an old friend of Richard’s mum. She received a Christmas card from Jack that said he was sending it from “Jack, Richard and Amanda”. Amanda is the partner of Richard’s brother – the poor woman was unaware if there had been a sudden decrease in the family or if we went in for wife swapping. I’m not sure any of us would be happy with that thought.

Mind you, some of Jack’s old family photos would lead to believe he had the odd Ozark relative. It looks like the family were snowed in for a winter and spent the time in-breeding for Cumbria. Cue banjo picking...

I think these two were in Frankenstein meets the Wolfman!!

GI Jonny cum lately

LM7L5342, originally uploaded by Kelteek. (Photo by Patrick Olner)

Do you remember me telling you that I was going to do a GI Jonny event... well it was a salient reminder that I am an old git - an old fat git. Alex (a former student) and Linda (my current student) came along to help.

We dressed in khaki but the girls soon got into the swing with camouflage make up and GI Jonny T-shirts. I looked like something out of the A-team – the van, I think? Khaki does not suit me, and I had to keep moving about in case anyone mistook me for a Boy Scout Marquee.

Paul was in his element with the girls from SHAG (who were mostly middling class). Their ranks contained one called Jesney (which leads one to ask if her parents were called Jessica and Rodney - does she have a twin called Rodica? The whole thing sounds like a stuck together name... Remember Casa Bevron, Brookside fans?

After an hour (it may have been 15 minutes but it felt longer) Alex plucked up the courage to ask the DJ if she was going to play anything approximating to music but was told it was “Indie Night” as if that explained why only six people were on the dance floor till midnight, swaying in no particular rhythm to what sounded like the same damn song over and over.

The competition was to see who could put on a condom in the shortest amount of time whilst blindfolded (and before anyone complains about waste, the group were given out-of-date condoms to use for the task... is there anything sadder than a condom past its shag-by date?). Young men did very well but some seemed a little too enthusiastic about the dildo for their girlfriends’ liking... hmmm!

In yer dreams!!

Wayne put up a sterling effort doing one late night after another rattling his bucket and shaking his arse. He went with the wear red theme by having his face tinted orange like a sunbed tanorexic. Here he is wearing a Get It On T-shirt while getting it off...

Thru the Arch WAD 07 (90), originally uploaded by Kelteek.

He had great help from Neil Dunning and Gareth Theobald as well as the lovely Alex. I have to say I was as bog useless as ever. “Shake a bucket, who me, dear? Do I look like someone who could carry a bucket?” If the public and small change are involved, I expect to wear white gloves, a hat the shape and colour of a Chrysanthemum and be distributing Maundy money. Like the Queen I never carry money (well not by the bucket load!)

Maj’ figures a lot in my dreams, you know. I once dreamt I was in Woolworths and the pick’n’mix was shrouded in gold foil banners. Behind them was the Queen choosing a Peppermint Cream and Raspberry Ruffle. She was stuffing them directly into her voluminous handbag and said I could put my selection in there too, as no-one ever checked her bags, and they knew she never carried money. We were then standing on the down escalator and she confided that as they always opened stores just for her, she often shoplifted just for thrills!

I also dreamt that I was going out with Prince Edward – we were having an intimate cup of tea in a cafe in Carmarthen when his mum sent a helicopter to get him out of my clutches. Lucky escape for me, I says!

So who features in your dreams... let me know at fathobbit@ntlworld.com

NEWSFLASH: Night out in Newport - No stabbings reported!!

Thru the Arch WAD 07 (110), originally uploaded by Kelteek.

World AIDS Day has come and gone – and fair knackering it was too! I spent a night fundraising with colleagues at Thru the Arch in Newport where people like you or they don’t – they have no talent for two-facedness (which considering the state on the one they have, is no bad thing). Some don’t have the ability to smile at all, as dentistry seemed to be a lost art in Newport, but they don’t have that ability of Cardiffians to smile and then stab you when you pass. Well not verbally – although I do tend to think of stabbings and Newport in the same sentence a lot! A bit in the way Holby and accidents go together.

I once had an awful night out in Newport that marked (I can’t say celebrated) my 28^th birthday. I was staying with a very short-term boyfriend (he lasted about two nights and a pizza) who was doing a voice over for the deaf group’s pantomime. The deaf group did the acting (miming?) and others said the words into a microphone off-stage – not always in sync, and often in some sort of northern accent which didn’t entirely tie in with the Chinese theme. Ever watched Aladdin for 3-and-a-half hours – no? They cut a song at one point as it was over-running – thank God – because if they didn’t the audience may have cut their wrists or died of malnutrition. There were some good points – you could make a hell of a lot of noise opening raspberry ruffles without getting shhhh’d.

To clap (as if you would) one raises one’s hands and shakes them like enthusiasts attending an Elizabeth Duke at Argos convention; lights glinting of sovereign rings and identity bracelets that said Kyle and Jace. You could spot the tattoos of popular icons of the time: the cast of Howard’s Way and ink outlines of Bullseye. One young woman had LOVE and HAT tattooed on her knuckles as she’d lost a finger trying to steal Toffee Poppets from a chocolate vending machine on Newport Station.

Afterwards we went to a gay club... well, pub... well shit hole really but it had some vicious looking gay people in it to be brutally honest. It was called the Log Box – that tells you a lot doesn’t it. One of the deaf group worked in a bakery and had brought a cake for me – it had an antique car on it to show it was for a boy (original) and my name in squirly-whirly icing. I asked if anyone might have a knife assuming someone would ask the publican. But as quick as one could say knife, we had three presented by drinkers - including one from a young man with the squinty demeanour of Jack Palance with toothache. I didn’t feel entirely safe after that.

So to have a fun night out in Thru the Arch was fab and Neil, the host , lived up to his former calling of being a Red Coat – in fact everyone wore red, more or less, to fit in with the theme. John below was the “less”...

Thru the Arch WAD 07 (127), originally uploaded by Kelteek.

Never run (or wobble) with scissors!

Not So Grim After All - Banksy, originally uploaded by daddyw.

Richard is struggling to surf on the sofa and keep the cat off his lap as she is a walking fleabag at the moment. She seems most resentful at becoming Kitty-non-gratis. Richard’s attempts at pest control end because the cat suddenly darts off as, wobbling like a drunken Weeble, Daddy Shortlegs makes his way to my desk like the Julie Walters waitress from Victoria Wood’s “Two Soups” sketch. I carry on typing and wait for the wobbling to subside and for him to catch his breath.

He is clutching a Christmas card – a nasty cheap Christmas card and so probably from his family – friends often spend more on people they like as opposed to cheap obligatory greetings from distant cousins.

'Can you make this out?' He is pointing to the postcode scrawled on the inside cover where a hopeful sender has put their address which pathetically begs you to send them a card - quid pro quo. We look at where the moving finger points and notice the said digit is still covered in a Band-Aid from when he cut himself yesterday while attempting to trim his claw-like nails.

Why do old people get such long talons that it makes them appear feral? I am now thinking of Queenie being told not to have ideas in case her foot drops off in Blackadder II. “My uncle had a clever idea to cut his toenails with a scythe, and his foot dropped off”, she reasons.

Could he bleed into the bathroom sink – of course not – he chose to make a palaver in the kitchen sink while Richard is stressing out catering for the Tennis club quiz night. That paints a rosy picture of the suburban hell which I live through, does it not!! Although the leftovers from Delia Smith’s curried pasta salad and Nigella Lawson’s ham-in-coke have much the same effect as Seroxat or Valium – they don’t cure the problem but they make you relax and feel life is good.

Richard squints at the scrawl on the card and tell him the postcode.

‘Yes, but is it two distinct sets?’ asks Daddy.
‘What?’
‘The numbers – is there a space.’
‘Yes, always. EX1 for Exeter (the card is from Devon – who the hell do we know from Devon?) and then the other three.'
‘That’s what I want to know. Are they separate?’
‘Yes, they always are in three and three or in three and four.'
‘Okay. That’s what I want to know.’
'It’ll get there even if you don’t add a postcode.'
'But are they separate?'

This saga moment could run and run, and so I tune out and return my gaze to Sherlock Holmes but Daddy Shortsight has noticed my movement towards the TV and as if to question my indifference to his plight asks “Is that MacGyver?”

I have never been so insulted – how very dare you?! MacGyver! He knows how to wound even without nail scissors.

G.I. Jonny

Elephant Parade Rotterdam, originally uploaded by Photolivier.

Later this week we will be taking part in a Terrence Higgins Trust and BBC partnership event called G.I. Jonny at Cardiff University Students’ Union.

Alex, my former student is joining Paul, our current* administrator and fundraiser, and myself to dispense dogtags, condoms and common sense to inebriated youth – sounds like a riot. One problem: what to wear? It’s hard to camouflage yourself when you are the size of an elephant although the old joke would belie that…

Why do elephants paint their toenails red?... So they can hide in cherry trees

Google kindly tells me that the Boy Scouts webpage has a whole range of elephant jokes but dare I look and have the url captured by the authorities. A gay man, a scout’s webpage: it’s a ticking time bomb for the tabloids, ain’t it!! Anyway, back to the main story… camouflage.

“Cargo pants?” suggest Alex helpfully. Yeah love, if you want my arse to look like a super tanker!

Paul supportively suggests I wear “desert storm colours and go as the Gobi Desert”.

I fancy medals and epaulettes but so do all megalomaniacs who don’t deserve them. (The origin of the word comes from “Megal, megal megal” as Mutley would have said to Dick Dastardly)**

“Khaki?” said Alex – nope I just look like Anglesey if I wear green - or if I move, “Birnam wood come to Dunsinane”. (I had to look up that quote so for me it's time to brush up your Shakespeare!)

I finally give up and have a moment’s wallow in self pity about fat people and lack of nice clothes. I don’t want to look like Don Estelle in “It ain’t half hot, mum”. Then on the train of thought that takes me towards the Ryvita and skimmed milk, I have a brainwave.

The hunchbacked celebrity Dr Gillian McKeith, dressed as a fairy godmother and holding the shitty end of her wand, pops up and says “you shall go to the ball… as G.I. Diet!!”

*(Note from Addison DeWitt here: Paul, when I say “current” I mean as opposed to the admin worker colleague mentioned in my last post – it’s not a threat Paul, I don’t mean current as in there is a future one in the wings understudying your typing role like a conniving Eve Harrington! (for plot device see All About Eve 1950)- no don’t look it up, I mean go see it!!!

**Not!

Fags are dangerous!

Cigarette packet health warning, originally uploaded by Chapmanmania.

I go to lots of meetings (lots!) and thankfully I have a twisted sense of humour that keeps me from trying to choke myself on an agenda or batter my head repeatedly on the desk... well in those meetings for which I choose to stay awake!

A madly-departed colleague once sharpened a pencil and stuck it in her thigh through her jeans during a lesson on the Sage Accounting program as she couldn't see the double-entendre possibilities inherent in double entry systems. I have been known not to go to the toilet prior to a meeting so the pressing urge to not wet myself makes me look keen and fidgety rather than falling asleep in relieved bliss.

I particularly liked this week when, in a conference room next to an indoor bowling green, we heard the local AM trip on the phrase homophobic bowling instead of homophobic bullying – a new sport is launched, will it make the Olympics. With footballers outgaying us with their metrosexuality perhaps traditionalists have a refuge in Crown Green bowling amid the pleated skirts and acrylic jumpers.

By the way, when I say conference room, I actually mean a breeze block cupboard at the back end of a sports centre in Bridgend that took two Sherpas and a sat nav to find from the main reception desk. That walk was a work out in itself!

My stepmother (who was a stereotype from a fairytale – mad, bad and dangerously dull to know!) loved to watch bowls on TV, along with One Man and his pigging Dog (well sheeping dog actually, but you get the drift!). When I came out as gay at 17, she explained it to my dad so caringly “It’s a disease Ron, he needs help!” My dad ever more dull and practical suggested that I “...fuck off to London where they all live!”

According to some in our Welsh Institutions this may be true still – I was recently asked to speak at a conference in the leafy heart of rural Powys. The topic, Long Term Conditions and Self Management, was pretty dull for us (remember we have seen courses called the 'Arse Class'!)

The organiser assured me that she had telephoned ahead to the Christian Conference Centre and Trailer Park (I kid you not missus - only in Powys eh!) to let them know I would be speaking and warn them about me… not sure what she warned them about – gay, sex, AIDS? The whole kit and caboodle. They were lovely and explained to her that with HIV in the world as it is, it was good to know someone was doing something (Aw bless!). But it’s gratifying to know I make a mark and now come with a government health warning “THIS FAG IS DANGEROUS”

On the day itself, there were numerous presentations and obesity was one of the topics often associated with other long term health conditions. There it was, writ large on the PowerPoint screen for cancer, and diabetes and well everything really - but with me in the front row everyone hastily skipped through their bullet points and managed to avoid saying it out loud …

...imagine dear reader, I have become “The Elephant in the Room”.

Buttery Bollocks!

crumpet, originally uploaded by niznoz.

It’s been a big day Daddywise! I heard him up and bumbling about blunt and early.

'Richard! Richard! Richard, hurrumph, whatthefugishe, Richard!!'

New readers to the blog may be thinking of Marlon Brandon in Streetcar, tight white wife-beater vest shouting “Stella”… think again… balding dwarf, in loose white(ish) underpants and flesh coloured easy-top socks.

'Richard! Oh forgodsakeinfug-wuh-fu! Richaaard!'

I lie in bed wondering if he’ll ever shut up. It must be obvious that Richard is out. Up the stairs, one unsteady step at a time, comes the Balding Balrog. I hear him empty every drawer in the landing cupboard – open, rummage, expletive deleted, close, next drawer... I feel like we are being turned over by the world’s slowest jail warder – more Bad Girls or Cell Block H than OZ. No steamy shower scenes but a lot of shaky walls accompanied by shaky hands and heads as he short-sightedly rummages like a truffle pig with Parkinson’s.

He wanders into my bedroom – there is no privacy here. I could have been having a wank, or a toffee crisp or worse, sitting up in bed reading the sort of novel that I wouldn’t allow in the house (Maeve Binchy, and John Grisham spring to mind). 'He’s out!!' I annunciate clearly and loudly just to make the line sound less like a Lynda La Plant mini series. 'He’s gone to the vet' (thinking what a shame he hadn’t take the grumbling old git for the jabs mentioned in previous posts!)

'Well, yesterday, when I got back from Tesco (he lives in buggering Tesco!) I couldn’t get my, um, you know, whadoyoucallit, you know, to work. It wouldn’t go in. I was ten minutes fiddling on the doorstep. (Don’t make up your own jokes!) I’d bought a pound of butter in Tesco so I took that out and greased it and then it went in and I was able to turn it. So I was wondering where the spare, um, thing, was…. Key!'

Oh he's searching for a key - I have no idea where the spare ones are but I doubt they are in the drawer with pillowcases and blankets on the landing.

He proceeds to make his way back down the stairs and I get out of bed and catch him up on the landing below. He has moved on to looking for old video tapes (he has an entire cupboard filled with rugby league and David Attenborough documentaries among five to six copies of each episode of Stargate!

'Where are my tapes?'
'In the cupboard.'
'Here?' he says patting the top of the desk and picking up two audio cassettes.
'No not the desk – the cupboard.'
'Here?' He is now grasping the book case. Shall I just say Hot or Cold until he finds them?
'They're in the corner cupboard,' ...where they have been for six years. The cupboard is the size of a wardrobe. I point directly to it.
'Oh I’ll leave it,' he can’t bear the thought he might be wrong and he gives in frustrated yet again.

By the time I shower, dress and get ready to go, he is back truffling for keys in the hallstand. I slip out the front door and into the sanity of a waiting taxi.

Daddy has his card declined!

Turkey, originally uploaded by Matthew Harris.

Christmas came early and we almost received our first card today - not a Christmas card though! I'm not sure if Daddy Dearest hasn’t gone all “Yankee” on us.

He proffered his bank card – brandished would be more accurate, wobbling it about in a wild arc between me and Richard like a decrepit Jedi with an invisible light sabre. A few minutes later he realises from our puzzled look that this charade is not being guessed by either of us, and without Una Stubbs and Lionel Blair to help us guess, he moves on to verbal clues…

'Christmas.'
'Yes?'
'Have you bought things. Food. Take my card.'
'There’s a month before Christmas,' we suggest unreasonably.
It’s tomorrow,… isn’t it?
'No, it’s a month away yet.' (Does he mean Thanksgiving?”)
'Are you sure?'

It is of course our fault that it isn’t the date he would wish. We have done a Cher and purposefully turned back time to thwart him. We have done the worst thing possible in refusing the offer of the card. He is hurt and feels unneeded. Charity begins at home and, when snubbed, muttering and fury also begin at home although it lessens as he wanders back to his room like a deafeated boxer withdrawing to his corner of the ring.

Although later it is ding ding, seconds out, round two, and he proffers it again with a new Charade…

'The lights next door.'
'The lights next door…what about them?' (Are we ever to have a simple complete sentence that explains itself!)
'Well people have moved in.'
'And...'
'Did I hear you say you were going to get a covering for the window?'
'The kitchen window, yes. We are having blinds.'
'Well use this then.'
'We need to get the floors and radiators all done before the fancy bits' (the kitchen still isn’t finished!). It is also eleven-fifteen at night but that escapes his notice.

Turns out he is worried about the new neighbours catching him mid-trot to the bogatory in a state of undress – if only I could have blinds fitted on my eyes or blinkers. Jeez I would be truly thankful for a blindfold and a hearty last meal before I ever see his pork chipolata and turkey-neck balls on show ever again.

The bank that likes to say "What?!"

Uncle Jack & grandmother, originally uploaded by Kelteek.

Daddy Bigbucks is annoyed that he missed the post office yesterday as he wanted to send some money off to his family in Cumbria (no it's not charity though God knows one would need it if you live in such a bleak place judging by the photographs) but Christmas presents. Thwarted at that attempt (do people really still send postal orders for Christmas!) he wandered around the bank today and, having returned home and divested himself of a whole Oxfam rack of jackets and coats, scarves and a cap, indignantly informed us that the bank no longer could supply him with pound notes.

“No dad, we haven’t had pound notes in years - not since 1984!” (that’s the year not the book/movie)

Although Room 101 holds no horrors to compare to the sight of Daddy in the kitchen with a J-cloth tucked in his knickers – we have no idea why – perhaps he is using it as an incontinence aid or perhaps he is going to whip it out and polish the table with a bullfighter’s flourish like a frustrated Spanish waiter – just to be on the safe side we dispose of any J-cloths we find hanging about.

I wouldn't be seen dead here!

Flu jabs, originally uploaded by hugovk.

Daddy Arsewipe needs a flu jab – it’s not the sort of injection I would like to give him but we don’t live in any of the Southern States of the USA that still go in for that – though bunging a fiver and a bottle of scotch to the local veterinarian practice may achieve the same goal. Perhaps I could even claim it back on pet insurance. I did wonder if he had blue tongue disease the other week but it transpired he’d been sucking on a biro while doing the Telegraph crossword. Where’s Christophy Timother when you need him to cull your rellies. (Or even a nice lone-handed GP with a need for cash!)

He hasn’t done the crossword in ages – he can’t really see very well now which frustrates him and makes our electric bill soar – I can’t tell you how many lamps he now has in his room but if you poke your head round his door you might get a tan! Stuff Blackpool - It’s like Vegas (but without the unwelcome addition of CSI standing over his body!). Richard took him to BUPA for someone to have a look at his eyesight (the outcome is that they can both see more than they can have!).

Perhaps BUPA could do some private work for me, after all Richard says that it was a lovely building - which counts - my aunt always says that if she becomes incapacitated she’d like to go the Geneva where they practice Euthanasia and just end it all but then she heard that someone who had been didn’t reckon the apartments were much cop. Who do you complain to: the tour rep? “I wouldn’t be seen dead here!”

If I am going to end it all I don’t want it to look like a shitty Butlins’ chalet! When I go I wanna go out in style – Sardanapulus styles mayhap – start slaughtering the elephants Richard! (I know you’d never get this from a quick trip to the crematorium followed by ham rolls and beer at the British Legion in Milford – but we can all dream!)

Epidemic Warning or Fashion Forecast

Alys' Christening (16), originally uploaded by Kelteek.

There is news today that Obesity might be as big a threat to the world as Global Warming – well, yes, I admit there are those of us who look like a melting iceberg sauntering along the High Street but we are beaten into second place by Janet’s cousin (pictured above) who teaches schoolkids about nutrition. Blooming cheek as she is the size of a small portakabin. Her first question to the kids should be “Who ate all the pies!” They'd get 100 per cent straightaway.

BBC News say "Details have emerged of a government study which says that half the population could be obese within 25 years". So there was me thinking I was a porker and really being obese in 2007 makes me a trend-setter!!

A Milford Christening

Alys' Christening (2), originally uploaded by Kelteek.

I spent the day at a Christening in Milford Haven. It is a long time since I was at a Methodist Church and there were no tambourines in evidence but we did get a guitar-playing vicar in a built-up shoe so it wasn’t a total loss. There were hymns with complicated rhythms and plenty of room for me to make asides to Richard.

Vicar: … knowing an all-knowing God…

Me: Aha! Knowing everything about me aha… (good old ABBA/Alan Partridge)

Vicar: …giving all or nothing, but sometimes not knowing whether to go one way or another

Me: He’s having a go at Betty Bothways now (or rephrasing Losing my Mind – do Vicars do Sondheim? He doesn’t look like the Liza Minnelli/Pet Shop Boys type but who knows!)

At this point the beautifully behaved Alys, who even stayed happy during the serious ceremony of wetting her forelock, gave a little whelp. I nudge Aunt Kathleen and say “Did someone stand on her tail?” and that set of a round of noise that turns out to be her and Jean trying not to giggle in their pews. It’s amazing what you can find funny when you shouldn’t be messing about.

Later we meet at the Legion and have a buffet which included that pizza only found in Milford Haven and which looks like someone has ironed it. (I suppose it is a starch?) “I haven’t seen this pizza for 20 years”, I state prodding it to the back of my plate – “In fact this might be the one I saw then!”

Ellen who is in the photo above has turned radioactive – her wrist isn’t healing after a fracas with a (what is it patient/inmate/resident?) and so they injected her with some gloop that means she has to stay away from children for 24 hours. It’s like a mundane Milford version of Spiderman… bitten by a Radioactive Ellen, mild mannered photographer Robjohn turns into Ellenman... cue the Theme tune

Ellen-man, Ellen-man, does whatever an Ellen can

Drinks a drink, smokes a fag

Big and strong, like a man in drag

Watch ooooout! Here comes Ellen Man!!!

nothin' on?

nothin' on?, originally uploaded by --evolver--.

Some children decided to play a prank the other night –well I say children, to be honest they didn’t sound that young… or intelligent. They phoned our house asking for Richard and then posed pointless questions about gay sex – I suppose it was meant to be intimidating but frankly I am more intimidated by cold calls from mortgage companies. They didn’t realise that I have worked in sexual health services for nearly 20 years and there is very little you can say on the phone that could shock me. Perhaps “Mr John, you’ve won the lottery!” or “Mr John, your blog has won the Booker prize!”

In my time, I have spoken to countless people often worried about sexual shenanigans outside their main relationship with the complications of guilt and secrecy adding to the lack of knowledge of sexually transmitted infections. Men beginning their call with “I’m not gay but…” (But you are Blanche!) and “I don’t know why I did it but…” (cos you liked it!). So a call asking about what sort of sex I liked was none too worrying especially as I haven’t had time for sex since … oh, since Labour got in I think. For many people who work in sexual health, going home and doing it is like homework which we try and avoid. I would rather watch the telly!

However, there is a new phenomenon I have noticed which combines the two. Long ago pornography was posed, then acted, then airbrushed and finally made using computer graphics to enhance…, well let’s call them “the props”. We had a backlash and people made uber-real porn, no condoms, poor lighting, hand held wobblycam and lashings of…, well let’s call it “baby gravy”.

Dear reader: This censorship is for your benefit in case you are halfway through an eggnog or tucking into a saveloy and chips. You know how easy your stomach turns: how queasy you get when I mention seepage.

But now we have Flickr and men (and women I suppose but I am not really looking there, am I?!) post their own photostreams which tend to have a mix of all the photos they take without any editing. So we have a poorly cropped snap of the corgis, followed by an interesting (not) wall seen in Dorset, then a blurry pic of Aunt Mabel and her new invalid carriage, and finally a sepia-toned (artistic!) shot of someone’s knob taken in the living room. Usually on what appears to be a DFS sofa or sometimes a DSS sofa. They have wallpaper borders and tongue'n'groove dados, artex ceilings and often a Christmas tree regardless of the time of year.

• Does that shock me? No.
• Does the fact that they are appallingly dressed worry me, or that they kept their white(ish) tube socks on? No, not really.
• Having their head sometimes cropped, or covered in black scribble or blurred out? No biggie – they probably look better that way
• Does the fact that they left the TV on in the background distract me? A little…

I suppose I like photos to have some integral cohesiveness. If you photograph your erogenous zones with a macro zoom then I don’t expect to see Natasha Kaplinsky’s face in the top corner of the picture or a shot of conflict in Iraq/Darfur/Burma/Littlehampton. I saw one guy who had placed himself with his back on the floor and his legs up on the brown corduroy sofa, then photographed himself in mid-pull while Chris Tarrant continued to ask the question “Would you like to phone a friend?”

If they were playing porn I could understand but not everyday TV offerings. Sport maybe – skimpy shorts on Rugby League players, footballers’ thighs, now that may do it for me but Tricia? If you were gyrating to MTV or ogling E!Babes perhaps- but Richard and Judy? BBC News 24? These are the people who have Maggie Thatcher as a pin up!

What is the world coming to? The blurb on the members page who posted said items often has lines like “my dogs are my best friends”( I suppose the don’t fight for the remote control) or “I’m a pretty normal guy” … we’ll see?!

If you are sitting by your computer reading this and the TV is also on just think about it… does it get you going? Why should it, you’re watching Delia Smith (I could understand Nigella Lawson by the way!!)

So what are you watching now… let me know if you dare by comment or by email at fathobbit@ntlworld.com

choker

choker, originally uploaded by Kelteek.

Announcer: We interrupt this blog to point out that Richard is choking on cheese and cake – and yet he continues to shovel said foodstuff into his gaping maw between coughing fits!

Director: We cannot interfere with the process of life in the natural world and chose to document this incident rather than intervene in the spirit of integrity and honest reporting

Richard: Snort! Snorffel-aaa-aaah-hhaa-umph!

Merthyrsexual and Canton Crooks

We have the painters in...well, builders actually – at home, next door and now at work – is there to be no escape from improperly clad young men singing loudly and tunelessly to Radio One. Flaunting their tanned bodies and stretching their muscles – so annoying. (Do I sound even a tad convincing?)

I have my camera(s) at the ready but by the end of day three the sanding begins and we all need masks so as not to breathe in the fine dust – although the masks don’t keep out the lovely smell of the chips they have for lunch each day.

We move our desks to the front room of the building and have a view of the usual Canton crowd – hoodies and pick pockets hang about the kebab shop, bumping into people and stashing the wallets on the lintel above the door so they have no evidence on them if frisked. Knock off DVDs are sold and cars pull up and do the funny handshake – not the Freemason’s one but the one where cash and stash are passed none too surreptitiously.

Years ago Joe Jackson sang about “pretty women out walking with Gorillas down my street”. Now we look out and see well groomed, fashionably dressed young men with waddling girlfriends whose fat hangs over their low-waisted trackie bottoms and badly strangled hair. The men have made an effort although they still look a bit bender-like Beckham. Their clothes are cheap if trendy and their hair a little too streaked - Methyrsexual rather than Metrosexual. When we now ask “Is she really going out with him?” we are just wondering if she knows her boyfriend is gay?

Arsenic and old ways

Richard tells me that they went to the memory clinic today and Daddy Shortlegs scored poorly on the old mini-mental. He just can’t do sums any more! He can’t really keep a track on numbers, on time and dates, so he has a perpetual meal time, standing in the kitchen in his pants and slippers to graze on toast. Bloody toast crumbs are still everywhere! Perhaps he is trying to find his way back to his room like Hansel and Gretel finding their way out of the dark forest, following breadcrumbs in the moonlight.

Richard said “They mentioned the A-word”.

“A-word? Have you just forgotten which A-word, Rich; are you getting forgetful like your dad? Arsenic?” I perk up hopefully – what an obliging clinic they are!

“One of his current tablets conflicts with the Aricept treatment for Alzheimer’s” – although how anyone remembers the list of tablets he takes is beyond me – and I have the memory (and the arse) of an elephant. Jack now has the memory of a gnat: a forgetful gnat distracted by the promise of toast and JAG – which is like toast and Jam but available every day (not just yesterday and tomorrow) and always loud!

“They still have that skip outside” I mention apropos of nothing...

Nip Tuck Wax Sting

Hilda Ogden - The Early Years, originally uploaded by Belljw18670.

Following on from the lip smacking ginger-bollocks below, I hear from Alex who has had mishaps with her DIY plastic surgery. Having taken herself to France she finds herself stuck indoors during the rain and like most women of a certain age with few belongings in their hotel room she plays “make up” which always beats reading your Gideon Bible (or whatever the French version is). Quentin Crisp told us that make up was addictive, as is the art of applying it – one tweak with the tweezers can lead to startling consequences. Alex’s Facebook entry announces that she is nursing a near hair lip after going crazy trying to remove her moustache with Nair!

My cousin once had a problem with Immac – she was at Milford Haven Youth Club disco (woo!!) and dancing with her best friend. Doing that unenthusiastic seventies bop you see on TOTP2, they bitched about a hairy girl in her class. They shouted above the music…

“She’s a mess – what a state”

“Who does she think she is, Chris Evett – she looks like a man”

“More like Jason King - she should use Immac”

“What do you say?”

Milford was never big on technology, and in an age well-before advanced mixing techniques, the DJ coped with one turntable and so the music suddenly dipped as Julie screamed “IMMAC!”

She has never quite lived down that moment.

Alex meanwhile has updated her entry “Can you imagine how pissed off I was when a low-life wasp decided to drop half its arse into my cupids bow a day later! Spent the first four days of our French trip looking like I had a minute female sensory organ dangling from my upper lip! Combined with half my skin missing and the occasional spot of blood oozing over my frites, I think I looked spectacular.”

All of this in a week when I had to answer an email enquiry about Anal Fissures. I discovered that they use Botox on your butt to make the muscles relax and prevent further chapping! There’s something Nadine “Boggart” Baggot doesn’t mention when she’s flogging her pentapedtides. Call yerself a celebrity beauty editor – we all know she’s sharing a cheap rented flat above the Pound Shop with Beryl and Merle, the girls from the British Skincare Foundation.

Well, I’m off to the bathroom for a date with my moustache and “Just for Men”. What’s your nightmare tale of beauty gone wrong – email me on fathobbit@ntlworld.com

Ginger Tabby and Red Cross

chugger, originally uploaded by Kelteek.

Friday night: I am happily surfing, catching up with Facebook, Flickr and Big Brother Forum. Richard is less happily ‘serfing’, getting me tea and toast and sorting out a ham to boil in coca-cola.

Someone is knocking at the door. Richard answers but I can’t hear who he is talking to above the din of News24 (from my room) and SGI (Jack’s room). He is not inviting anyone in and as I am undressed I cannot go and investigate – I’m not dressing just for some hawker! However, by judiciously leaning over the banister I can hide my naked bulk whilst catching sight of something ginger in a suit and hear Richard’s nervous coughing. Rich and his dad are suckers for buying things at the door from our local gypsy or 'Lucky Heather' as we call her. They also fill in sponsorship forms and signs petitions. Richard will even talk to neighbours in the street. I worry we are being talked into a conservatory or PVC windows or something equally déclassé to lower the value of the house.

I go back to my room and shut up the smug twosome from the BBC. Why has the news decided on a Richard and Judy format? We never get two men or two women anchors at the same time as if Auntie Beeb had become so heterosexist as to consider that a single-sex news team may affront the moral dignity of the nation. I still can’t hear as Daddy Shortlegs has his telly volume set on “Wembley”. His room is next to the front door (for his convenient removal when the day comes that a long black car pulls quietly up outside) so the noise still masks the conversation in the porch.

The caller has ginger hair with chunky blond streaks and resembles a political refugee from Cats. I am sure his hairdresser said it will make him look like Geri Halliwell during the Ginger Spice years. Unless she is one of those older salon owners with vicious red hair of a colour only used by older salon owners to complement the Caramac (puppy scour) shade beloved by old males in the profession. In which case she might have hinted he would look like Holly Golightly. Unfortunately they are wrong – he has been tinted the shade of an old tabby with a grease problem and looks like “cat” in the rain scene at the end of Breakfast at Tiffanys.

Over his suit he is wearing a logo-strewn tabard – a vest affair normally sported by criminals, netball players and schoolchildren on sports day who can’t afford a set of kit in the house colours. An advert breaks occurs and Jack’s set dips down to the lulling roar of a Motorhead concert. I hear the ginger one saying he is working for the Red Cross so we are victims of doorstep chuggers – and with that hair! We are giving money to a charity which makes the young man lick his lips with delight. I work for a charity and yet Richard does not make a contribution to me. Charity begins at home you know!!

Never mind Rear Window – try Rear Exit.

builder with white van (2), originally uploaded by Kelteek.

I am sitting by the window bored between bouts of running to the bogatory (see below… that’s the blog below not my “belows”) and so take to photographing the passers-by and the neighbour’s builders.

One of them complains loudly to his boss (loud enough for me to hear although the Merthyr accent is almost impenetrable). “He’s got the camera on us all day”.

Well what is one to do when stuck at home with a new digital camera – take photos of the cat!

Hiding from the Pooparazzi

30 SECRETS IN 30 DAYS # 1:, originally uploaded by Me & my life!.

It’s been a long day thanks to Keith and Norman who gave Richard some homemade Bolognese sauce which they said was “a little spicy”. Richard joked that it contained five types of chilli which I thought was a pun on the old “5 types of cum in a Swansea curry” story - years of working on a helpline meant that more than once callers began a conversation with “Can you get AIDS from sperm in curry?” A case for CSI Madras methinks! But no, the Bolognese did had five types of chilli including jalapeños and tasted hot on the way in – and even hotter on the way out. So I have been stuck at home near the lavatory for most of the day.

I discover that Gavin has also had an explosion: he left the office today and when he got to his car the bottle of Lucozade left on the passenger seat had exploded. The entire interior was covered in sticky orange goo! And I mean covered - it's stained the roof lining and took him three hours to clean what he could when he got home. How happy do you think he was? As he said “Seats, windows, dashboard, carpets... even inside the cubby holes, over my CDs: fucking everything!” And to think they used to say it was good for you – I never trusted the stuff myself.

There have been other culinary mishaps. Picture the scene, as Sophia used to say, Haverfordwest 1986, me with big hair and shoulder pads galore making curry for my friends who had come around to help sew clothes for my wedding (it’s a long story and I’ll explain it some day - for now let’s just say “I liked cake” and have done with it). Could they resist meddling – no! Into the kitchen they trooped in twos and threes adding a pinch of something here and a pinch of something else there until the curry was metaphorically black and blue. One of the then decided to put a little salt in it and rather than use a teaspoon – oh no too simple – they upped the jar and heaps poured in. I tried sugar, vinegar, lemon juice everything but it was still the saltiest meal ever eaten (unless you count the Swansea curry above).

Of course using a teaspoon doesn’t always help. One former partner took me strawberry picking – turned out he wasn’t meaning M&S for a quick point at the fruit counter but a real farm – what next tobacco crops, cotton, nights spent running from Simon of Legree! (I only know Uncle Tom’s Cabin from The King and I – gay musical-loving stereotype that I am!! I’m still waiting for a food range containing Uncle Tom’s Carbonara – much safer than Mr Uphill’s Bolognese recipe!)

We made pounds and pounds of strawberry jam and then having used up all the preserving sugar, we turned the last few strawberries into a tart and a smoothie. The tarts were baking away in the oven and I was baking away in the kitchen as it was bloody hot day. I really fancied a cool smoothie but it was undrinkable. Thinking the Apostle spoon meant that the white stuff in a salt pig would be sugar, he’d heaped it in the blender. We poured the smoothies away and drank Canton’s water supply dry only to realise the tarts would be similarly saline! I’m not sure which of the Apostles was actually responsible so I blamed them all.

Had any culinary mishaps - email me on fathobbit@ntlworld.com

Prison Break: Daddy Legs it!!

EWWWW! Dad's Legs, originally uploaded by Jeff Danger.

3am and all the lights are out. I am sleepily making my way to the bathroom in the dark when the hall light goes on downstairs. From the doorway of the darkened bathroom I can see through to the hallway where Daddy Shortlegs is shuffling his way out of his room. His head jerks and wobbles as he looks up and squints as if to focus, making him like something feral sniffing out a predator (or prey!) but I am in shadow and he can’t see me. He can’t see as far as his own hand to be honest but I stand stock still just in case he senses any movement. “What is he up to?”

He shuffles along to the row of hooks and searches the coats and jackets one by one, constantly muttering under his breath and looking in all the pockets of items belonging to me and Richard as well as his own. Surely he doesn’t need cash so badly he’d rob our pockets – has he lost his cash card again? If I confront him he will get angry or shuffle back to his room, so as silently as possible I move closer to the top of the stairs and look around the banisters. I stand listening to the shuffling of slippers on carpet and the jangling of keys. He now has a number of keys in his hand and he is squinting into the kitchen, looking furtively for any sign of me or Richard. Coast clear, he makes his way to the front door, casting another sly glance upstairs and I have to retreat around the banisters so as to remain out of sight in the dark.

He doesn’t need a key to get out of the front door which he opens slowly and stealthily. It is obvious that he is now officially “sneaking”. With the door only half open, he stands in the draught of the porch, trying key after key until he finds the right one. He checks it once, twice, then removes the key and shuffles back into the hallway and drops the spare keys onto the hall stand. Another cagey glance upstairs and then a final shuffle back to the door with chosen key in hand. He walks out of the house and closes the door.

I race up the stairs to the first floor window and watch him progress slowly towards the lamppost outside our house. There he stands, like an OAP rent-boy clutching the lamppost in a terry towelling dressing gown, socks and slippers – sexy not! A car passes by and I feel like a guilty Mrs Danvers spying on him in his best Lili Marlene pose as he repeats the squinty searching look, his head jerkily covering the scene as if he can’t remember how to move his eyes independently of his neck muscles. Surely he can’t be looking for me or Richard, he could simply shout up the stairs as he usually does. And surely he isn’t trolling for trade! Is he ill – is he waiting for an ambulance or a taxi (or an ice-cream van?)

Is he planning an escape? Is he practicing for a quick (!) getaway wearing slippers so as not to alert us? Are his blue veined legs the equivalent of the tattoo in Prison Break, hiding plans for where to find the fridge and where he left the TV remote control? Thank God it is summer and not icy outside or the only break would be his hip when he careers along the path in his rubber-soled slippers.

I stop guessing as two minutes later he returns to the house, turning the key slowly and slipping the door back into place as quietly as possible, his hand on the lock so the latch slides home silently. I am not sure whether I feel more like a prison warder or a snitch as I wake up Richard and tell him what has happened. Did you give him his tablets? Did you shut his window? Did he eat his dinner? Yes, yes and yes... so I lie in the dark wondering what he wants. Should I spin his room for illegal stashes of Mr Kipling’s cherry bakewells? If he passes you a note or bangs out his plan on the pipes with his tin cup, email me on fathobbit@ntlworld.com