Baldie on the beach

bald lady on the beach (2), originally uploaded by Kelteek.

Richard and I decide to leave our house for the afternoon to escape the smell of burnt cardboard. We drive to Penarth and eat an ice-cream while sitting on the pier. Through the railings I can see a small woman with little hair as she walks alone on the pebbles, her outfit matching the neutral tones of the sand and rocks. Both her slow pace and her contemplative gaze blend with the slow mood of late afternoon warmth. Penarth seems as old and quaint as ever as I devour my cornet of chocolate and vanilla.

I look over the other side of the pier and see a different sight – modern, brash, colourful and ill-fitting. I give up on the thought of scampi and chips after seeing what looks like a fashion victim of a drive-by styling by Edina Monsoon with cataracts. I'm not sure I could keep anything down! My previous reverie for the balding woman has passed - now I wonder if he's an aged drag queen looking for the seagull who stole his wig! Cue Judy Garland's "The mane that got away"

For font's sake!

There is a Christening at the church today –well I think it’s a christening. People are too casually dressed for a funeral or even a wedding (which usually takes place on a Saturday).

Some of the guests are dressed more for the ensuing party than the service. I spot gold court shoes, black leggings, a silver dress and that's just the men... no not really. Finally, I spot a lump in a shrug swinging her handbag like an extra from Band of Gold.

The shrugger-lump's family (top) were not as out of place as the mum in black leggings and heels (below) who has dressed her children in a similar vein… What will the vicar think?

I watched the christening from my window feeling more and more like Jimmy Stewart in a scene from rear window as people murder fashion through my lens. Unfortunately, there is no Grace Kelly to send on a styling mission.

The Vicar has retired home to lunch after the christening without visiting us to perform an exorcism on the poltergeist that is Daddy Shortlegs who is still rearranging the kitchen stools into a heap in the middle of the floor so that he can get into cupboards and rearrange even more things unnecessarily.

The smell of burnt cardboard and Richard’s raised voice lets me know that Jack has cooked a “Chicken and Potatoes” meal for one. I say cooked but mean cremated as among the instructions on the box were such snippets as “unsuitable for microwaves” and “cook for 28 minutes” – so this has translated to put in a microwave for 28 minutes – you could cook a whole bloody chicken in that time!

So today we have had one christening, four fashion victims and a cremation. I’m not sure if there is a poem to fit the occasion although with 15 minutes still flashing on the microwave we can settle for “Stop all the clocks!”

So Horny (horny, horny, horny)

Horn Truck going to Altoona June 2006, originally uploaded by shiphorns.com.

5a.m. and someone has the horn! No, not me - I was deep in Harry Potterland when the noise came to my attention. I read on but five minutes later the noise was beginning to irritate and so I am up and looking out of the windows but I can’t see where the noise is coming from: nothing to see in the back and only a group of three stragglers in the crescent strolling home from some late-night drinking den.

Well, the two men in front are strolling, bare arms around each other’s t-shirted shoulders. Some way behind is a young woman wearing a man’s nylon hoody (what we used to call a windcheater) and high heels. With the oversized hood pulled-up and the overly-long sleeves covering her hands, all we can see is her bare legs which are tanned deep brown (making a nice change from the mottled appearance one usually sees) but she drags her feet and keeps her distance. She looks like she is being forced to model a cocktail dress designed for the WAGs of the Ku Klux Klan.

Only the shouting between the two groups lets me know they are together.

Man #1: “She’s a liar!”

Man #2: “Jill’s always lying.”

Woman: “mumble, grumble, slurrrr…” Her hood makes her sound like Kenny from South Park, only she is from a Cardiff council estate and so less articulate.

Man #1: (louder) “Oh! so Jill told you! She told you, did she? Well she’s a liar, mate - I told you she’s a liar back there. What about when …slurr…!?”

The proceed slowly and unsteadily along the road and one of the men plays with what looks like a lighter flickering on and off – I rub my eyes to make sure I am not asleep and he isn’t a council dementor with a deluminator. Nope: Chav with a lighter, just like I thought. Ms Barelegs has caught up to the men with a tottering step, step, slide stilettos gratingly on tarmac sort of gait but backs off when Man#1 turns around.

I am distracted from the altercation at that point, as the horn noise gets louder and a car enters the crescent going at a funeral pace. The driver has his hand fixed firmly on the horn and after two laps of horner (worst pun yet!!) without any success, he starts parp-parping the horn but to what ends I can only guess. Is he looking for someone? Is he in need of help? Is it the end of the world and Angel Gabriel now drives an Audi. Or has the revolution started – hold on comrade, I need to touch up my roots! He finally parks and after five more minutes of intermittent honking he goes quiet.

The other three have made little progress – woman and man#1 are arguing face-to-hood and he now throws the lighter/phone into the air and kicks it across the road and stalks back to his grinning mate. Barelegs turns and walks back towards my house, while the two men stand gawking at her, once more comrades-in-arms. The argument continues with little sense although I pick up the latest topic is finding a taxi as they totter off down a side-street.The honking car driver has passed them twice so it has become obvious he is not their taxi.

Now I have two unconnected stories to ponder and when I get back to bed I find Richard has turned out the lights (not at all pointedly, he would say!) so I am also left in the middle of Godric’s Hollow. Oh well, I’ll catch up with Harry and Hermione tomorrow. Will the hoody catch up with her hunks? Will environmental health catch up with the horned one and his noise pollution? Email me with these and other solutions to fathobbit@ntlworld.com

Nothing is very strange on Flickr

unicyclist, originally uploaded by stegasaurus.

I am once again on a train and bored. The seats are tiny and made for the pinched posterior of a recently pensioned widow-woman from Devizes who has lost weight on a small allowance of reduced-cost dented canned goods. My traditionally-built Welsh arse has exhausted itself trolling about London, so I sit in a misshapen hump, penned in by sweaty commuters standing along the length of the train all the way from Paddington to Swindon! I have stupidly gotten on the 6:45 to Swansea which is the first off-peak train from London and therefore filled with people from the cheap seats.

To take my mind of the overcrowding, the smell of sweat, fear and market stall perfume, I listen to the iPod (Ethel Merman and Dame Shirley Bassey – not together… don’t start rumours.) Still distracted I decide to sort out my mobile as it now has 21 voice messages and 125 text messages. Browsing through and deleting a large number of reassuring “I’m on my ways” and rather pointed “I am still waiting outside” from my partner and free-taxi Richard, I found this from my former student Alex…

Just picking Gav and girls up and I’ve been overtaken at Boulevard de Nantes by a guy on a unicycle with a hockey stick! Not your average traveller! :-/

Superheroes need good pants!

Three Bare Builders (100), originally uploaded by Kelteek.

Do you remember that advert for Boddington’s where Tarquin had his trollies on back to front? Well he must have created a trend as both our builder above and Daddy Shortarse have sported this look recently – actually we discovered that Ben the Builder had simply torn a hole in his trollies.

Daddy Shortarse however had his big white Y-fronts on back to front today – accompanied by a check Viyella shirt tucked in to them. This ensemble was completed by beige socks and navy slippers. In his completely dull outfit inspired by the Major years, he doesn’t look much like a superhero even though his pants are on over his shirt and back to front – how quick did he change in that telephone box. It can’t be easy to spin round and change clothes in a kiosk with a home help in tow!! At least he is dressed today and doesn’t have out his double-scoop of plum surprise.

It was not easy to continue cooking with this muttering, shuffling nuisance under your feet in the kitchen. The muttering was only mildly annoying, even when the geriatric tourettes was cranked up to 11 when he discovered someone had eaten the last of Mr Kipling’s bakewell tarts. The sight of the blue veined legs shuffling about in slippers was worse.

We decided his alter ego would be named after both the veins and the swearing:

Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you the Blue Streak!

Lady Tess T. Clays

Lady Tess T. Clay, originally uploaded by Kelteek.

So there is a sense of humour in Pembrokeshire - this boat was seen bobbing about in Milford Marina.

Party pooper!

ipod_dalek, originally uploaded by wizard of olz.

I have to text my friend Lisa to say I can’t make her housewarming party – what a pisser as it sounded great: cast of Torchwood, Spike from Buffy, an apartment in Cardiff Bay. But no, I am in Droitwich, watching John Bleeding Nettles and having a Kit-Kat before kipping on a pullout bed. More like touch wood that it’ll hold my weight. They have broadband and sky TV so why does driving through Droitwich feel like it is still in 1947. What next powdered eggs, drawing a line up the back of my legs with an eyeliner and using teabag stain to look like tights. I'll be accepting bubble gum from yanks next!

I lie awake in the dark listening to Sophie B Hawkins.

As I lay me down to sleep
This I pray
That you will hold me dear
Though I'm far away
I'll whisper your name into the sky
And I will wake up happy

Fat chance. Where is Dr Who when you need him? I need a TARDIS taxi pronto!

The place: Cardiff.

The year: Now please!!!

Where the hell is Redditch?

train trip (28), originally uploaded by Kelteek.

I plod on to New Street wondering how much a taxi to Droitwich would cost … or to Cardiff? I am missing my computer and TV, I miss home and comfort, I miss Richard and the cat. I even miss his dad (but mostly the computer). Richard isn’t missing these but I think he would like to miss his dad. During my brief breakdown at the station, while I ponder ending it all, Richard is on the phone, upset. He’d be less upset if he didn’t have his dad in the background, brandishing a remote control and shouting that his telly isn’t working… again!

“Is the train going to Redditch?”
The guard checks the boards and answers in the affirmative.
“How often do the trains go?”
“Every hour – but if one is announced, take it – we have no guarantee whether the next one will as trains are all out of whack” (a technical term?)

The next train is in four minutes and I move like Mr Jelly on Skates towards platform ten – I am a veritable Tsunami when I have the mood on me!

I get on the Redditch train and four girls sit in the seats ahead of me. They continue to have mobile phone conversations in the quiet zone and then play music loudly, singing along until the train driver, like most of his colleagues pushed past the limit of endurance in this freak weather, leaves his cabin and shouts at them to turn it off or get off! Hurrah!

The station at Redditch is tiddly and Gavin and Amanda pick me up. I feel safe at last and we sit and have pizza and watch Midsomer Murder – ah normality. So dull, so boring, so blooming lovely!! I even watch the Tour de France – yellow is so last season and doesn’t suit the pale young man in the lead. I don’t like excitement and personal challenge –that’s what work is for.

Regrets, I’ve got a few mate!!

Birmingham Moor Street 27th April 2007, originally uploaded by loose_grip_99.

The biggest is still being in bloody Birmingham!!!!

An hour later, the Euston option has vanished. The trains cannot cope with the number of people trying to do that route, so ticket-holders for Cardiff etc are not being allowed. Rats! Despite having very little power left, I phone home and tell Richard the news. He suggests that his brother could pick me up if I can get to Droitwich. I can’t find it on any of the boards and assume trains are cancelled but a guard tells me I need to go to Moor Street station.

I still have my plastic bags (how common), I can’t get to Cardiff or London, I have to walk in the rain and I have a mobile phone that has only one bar of power left. My knees are aching and I hate everyone!

I somehow mistake the direction and do a tour of the Bullring wishing I could instead go to the Harry Potter party at Borders but I feel wet and dirty and unloved – I am accused of being a terrorist and now I feel old and knackered. Young people and couples bounce in and out of shops, looking in each other's bags at new purchases, laughing and planning nights out. Other single people are like me: older, slower and wary looking. I feel too wet and dispirited to face going into Debenhams to buy some luggage … hell, I feel too fat and tired to go into Boots for Nurofen. I can’t eat in public and alone – fat people often don’t eat in public because people assume it is all one does. I had a ham roll yesterday about 1pm and a bag of popcorn – it is now 3pm the following day and I am wet, tired, alone and hungry, wearing yesterday’s clothes.

I trundle slowly onwards to Moor Street but have missed the way, and after a lot of walking (more than I would ever usually do) I am not only wet and tired but back where I started staring at the entrance to New Street Station. My exuberance and Blitz spirit of the previous night have left me by the time I finally get to Moor Street but I am momentarily buoyed when trains seem to be running. But no, Droitwich is another no-go area.

I again ring home. Richard suggests I go stay in Manchester with my friend Linda – that is further from home and the rain is heading North. I don’t want to do this, I want to go home and have decided I am close to jumping under a train (if one goes that is) or buying that Nurofen and taking the lot. I want to cry but instead sit on Moor Street station and play Avril Lavigne on my iPod and other jolly numbers to try and get out of the funk. It makes it worse (dammit I did cry!).

I feel like ringing my friend Susan for a chat – she hates Birmingham with a passion so we could have a laugh but I now have almost no power on my phone. Another hour passes and I am glued to the bench, looking at the palm trees and cappuccino bar which look fake in this bleak empty station. I am feeling sorrier than myself than I have for a long time. I hate being alone, I hate having to fend for myself – I hate not being young slim and gorgeous and able to get a bed by batting my eyes in bars like I used to do!

Richard rings to say his brother can get me if I can make it as far as Redditch – “yes trains may run that far…” the guard tells me “… from New Street” You are having a fucking laugh!!!!

I am a flickr-terrorist! A fundamental blogger!!

"Mind the gap", Birmingham New Street station, originally uploaded by chailey.

The first thing I realise is my phone is powering down as I have no charger. My iPod seems okay still and I pack my goodies into the plastic bags (neither are eco friendly nor chic). I troll off to New Street which isn’t far but without Nurofen in my system my legs are sore and my knees are screaming louder than a bunch of gay men at a Kylie concert!

Back in New Street the boards still flash cancelled in big yellow letters. Bastards. I decide to have a hot chocolate and a sit down and see if anything develops. As trains flash up on the board they linger for a few minutes before the cancelled sign flashes up… Virgin is teasing us!

After an hour I choose to ask for some help and am told I could go to London Euston, transfer to Paddington and get home in about six hours all told. “Let’s do it” I think - though why I am talking to myself as another person in the plural I have no idea. What was in that hot chocolate?

It is an hour until the next Euston train and so, camera at ready, I think I will record the day the floods stopped Britain. Only two shots taken, up walks a station official and demands to see what I am photographing. I cannot take photographs of the Customer Service Information boards or any other signs or infra structure but pictures of friend or people are okay. We flick through my shots and I delete the ones of the station. Do terrorists need train announcements to commit crimes? How does that work? Surely by the time you launch an attack you don’t care if the train to Leamington Spa is 10mins late?? The board is useless for tourists let alone terrorists. The official has no idea why I can’t take the photos but he enforces the rules no less.

I feel like a criminal. I am from Wales. I am not a Welsh fundamentalist you know!

Which reminds me of the moment yesterday when flicking through the internet with Tina she notices that we have Muslim member of the Welsh Assembly. I look up his profile on Baydar – the Welsh Assembly site which has a similar layout to Gaydar – little pics of people with short biogs. Mohammad Asghar is the Plaid member for S E Wales. We know we shouldn’t but we can’t help but laugh guiltily when we read “Mohammad also holds a pilot’s licence and enjoys flying.” If he were an undercover terrorist the Welsh National Party is not the best disguise, is it!

Trapped in Birmingham

train trip (18), originally uploaded by Kelteek.

New Street Station is packed to the gills. People in now very inappropriate shorts and sandals are waiting for taxis. No trains are running South or West so Gawd alone knows if I can get back to Wales. I wonder if Richard’s brother can pick me up as he lives in Droitwich but they seem to have had the worst of the downpour that way and he has taken 5 hours to do his regular journey home.

Tina says she will come from Coventry and get me (it’s her wedding anniversary and no way could I have let someone tackle that journey as we may have simply spent the entire night marooned on a motorway (but lovely thought Tina!)

It is getting late and I book a room in the Ibis as a safety measure in case I am trapped here – I don’t want to end up spending the night on a station with the usual drunks and a whole host of people complaining about transport, the weather, global warming, the government, etc., I want my usual Friday night (BBLB, BB, 8/10 cats, BB eviction, Friday Night project, BB Live… sounds sad but such a blessed relief to watch the mindlessness of others after a busy week! Who am I kiddin’, I love the crap).

I avoid the worst of the crowds, kids being fractious and parents being, well… shouty! I dive into M&S for essentials like chocolate covered butter toffee popcorn and go to W H Smiths for some paperbacks. Boots provides some deodorant but without a pharmacist I cannot stock up on the Nurofen Plus. With matching plastic bags I trundle off to the Ibis - I feel like a bloody Ibis wading out into the rain with just my shirt on my back.

Once installed in the Ibis, I realise I am next door to the collection of nightclub eateries frequented by mini clad girls who are simply legs and hair extensions. These are the types who want to be on BB – why do I like them on the telly but not on the street? I actually prefer them less to the hoodie types who are at least interestingly menacing and quiet.

On top of the noise from next door, the shower is in a cupboard and the TV remote control has no batteries – I phone reception and they arrive with 2xAA batteries. I manage to last ten minutes before ringing down to tell them I need 2xAAA – normally I would apologise, make the trip to reception and ask politely but I was at the end of my tether.

Nicky gets evicted: Good times.
The batteries never arrive: Bad times.

Rain, Rain, go away!

train trip (22), originally uploaded by Kelteek.

It’s now Friday and as Tina’s asked me up to Coventry to do some interviewing, I am once again on a train with camera, iPod, phone and credit cards; all the essentials for a short trip. Cardiff to Coventry with only one change and a reasonably empty train: so far so good.

Interviews over, I trot into the rain to get to the station which is just across the road. Actually trot is a lie as I was stiff from sitting all day, so I was tottering and doing small steps so as not to slip on the sodden pavement. Try and imagine a cottage-loaf learning to mince and your close to the mark.

Inside the station is a pool of people looking up at the notice boards which have a host of cancellations flashing up – more every minute!, I sit on the 16:04 to Birmingham waiting on platform 4 but it’s gone 17:04 and we haven’t moved one jot so its not looking hopeful! Someone tells me about the “if-lud-ing-guh” which I work out means flooding to a Midlander.

After some discussion Al agrees to drop me off in Birmingham and I squash into his Micra (actually it weren’t too bad even with my bulk!) but we weren’t prepared for the flooding and we we’re delighted to get through the scene above. I worried that I would weigh the Micra down and we’d have to be airlifted.

You can imagine the scenes of me in the floods: Cue BBC Wales announcement “and a whale has been seen in the floods and the crowds are waving – ooh its waving back…”

Not the brightest button

On Thursday it was London and back: knackering! The journey up was reasonably good as I was sitting facing a lovely looking man and listening to my iPod. However, the journey back consisted of me trying not to listen to two students sitting opposite me, both discussing their life via mobile phone. The first was an overly enthusiastic bunny who described his trip abroad to friends (and the entire carriage) including “hysterical” jokes about camel drivers called Ahmed with business cards and the joys of haggling. At least he was happy - perhaps it Seroxat. He piled bags on to the seat next to his but soon had to move them as the train filled more and more.

The second was doing a fine impression of a miserable hippy chick who rolled her eyes as she complained to her phone. They rearranged their belongings incessantly – why do students have to carry so much crap with them. They block the aisle which is already full as too many people are travelling on each train. The tough-looking tanned bloke in a tracksuit opposite sat silently flicking through a discarded Gratzia – very macho. Perhaps the tan was too even and the trackie too carefully matched his eyes.

I got in at 9pm and could only stay awake for Big Brother and slope off to bed. Richard is also knackered as Daddy Shortlegs has been unable to get his lights to work. Oh, and his TV isn’t working… again. Richard put all the plugs back in the sockets. Daddy swears he never removed them: it’s either a poltergeist or Alzheimer’s?

Richard: “Of course, it's not working, you’ve turned the cable box off!”

Daddy: “No I haven’t! I don’t know how to – so I have not!”

Richard: “You have! You press this button in the corner of the box”

Daddy: “I haven’t! I didn’t even know there was a button!”

Richard: “Well how come the whole box is dusty except that one spot around the button then!”

Cue furious muttering from Daddy while waiting for the FX channel to spring into life. He may not have all his buttons done up!

Harry Potter at Mimosa

Having travelled back from London, I was picked up at the station by Richard. We went to Mimosa in the Bay for a meal and were considering seeing Harry Potter but after three courses we were too full and too tired. We looked around for a waiter to bring us the check and guess who was serving drinks…
Harry Potter at Mimosa, originally uploaded by Kelteek.

What would Jesus drink?

jesus drink´s, originally uploaded by sir smoke a lot.

Picture the scene: You’re at this wedding reception in the Cana Golf and Leisure Resort, where a group of women in the corner are being right rowdy, kicking their legs up and laughing raucously. The woman in powder blue puts out her fag, downs her drink and wipes her hand across her mouth, smacking her lips loudly. Her friend begins to refill it unsteadily, spilling and sloshing the liquid on to the tablecloth.
“Mother!” says a young man sits nearby with an expression that could only be called Po-faced.
The other women all throw evils at him. “Jesus! Oh lighten up, why don’t you?”
“What are you drinking?” he asks with a reproachful look.
Nervously, his mum picks up her newly-refilled glass and says “Water!”
He grabs the glass and sniffs – “It’s wine!” he declares as music drowns out his voice.
The women hop up onto their feet, laughing and dancing as Agadoo pumps out of the speakers… “It’s a miracle” they cry “a miracle!”

My Face

So I am in a meeting and we discuss new ways of reaching people via the internet. I’m no youngster, let’s face it, but even I know my way around t’internet. A suggestion from my boss was best though as he couldn’t quite decide if we were using Facebook or MySpace. ‘Why don’t we invite people to join us on MyFace?’

Why don’t we?

myspace.jpg, originally uploaded by tom bland.

Boiled beef and plastic

We felt like David Attenborough today as we voyeuristically watched Jack stalking the microwave. Having put in a ready-meal, we found him hovering over the microwave, a towel stretched between his open arms like a gladiator’s net as he waited for the ‘ping!’ that would signal the food to leave its traps and sprint out of the appliance. Softly, softly, catchy monkey or in this case beef stew and dumplings. He stood there in his slippers and pants, shirt tucked in to lessen wind resistance, without a hint of shame slavering at the lit window.

We’re not sure why he thought it necessary to watch the microwave so closely as he’d set if for 25 minutes (the package said 8) - anything cooked had long congealed to the plastic container and was going nowhere. Was he confusing it with a ‘ready, steady, go’ meal or has fast food really got into the spirit of the thing like Cuprinol and started to do what it says on the tin.

Anyway Richard could take it no longer and dragged the offending item from its stall without the aid of blinkers, setting down what now turned out to be 'beef crisp with sizzly smoke'. Sending signals to the Sioux Richard waved off the smoke with one hand and his dad with the other. Well we couldn’t let him eat it - you know how plastic goes straight to his hips!

Not quite the cocktail set

drinkers (4), originally uploaded by Kelteek.

Lately, I spotted these two anorak clad lovelies, skulking around the church, drinking cans of beer and plastic flagons of cider. In half an hour they get through everything they have bought in their carrier bags and then ride off on their bicycles slightly wobbling.

I quite understand as I have had some friends who loved drinking. Easily getting through a bottle of gin every night, our cellar looked like Baby Jane’s. In pubs, we put a double gin in each pint of cider (it’s called ‘sin’ and tastes okay but gives you a rough hangover). Others were complete wusses. One ex’s mother, having hidden for a couple of hours between two single beds during a lightning storm, emerged looking fearful and I suggested a stiff drink. ‘Of water?’ she asked… ‘Yes Mary, a stiff drink of water!’ (Roll eyes to Heaven)

Likewise, Richard’s family are not big drinkers. His brother once asked for a Cherry B in a Cardiff pub – the barmaid looked at him in disgust and said they hadn’t served it since 1973. He thought Baileys was a tad strong and put a lovely mixer of water in it – looked like a small jism on the rocks to me.

Gramps on the other hand once decided to make a shandy and added to his beer what he thought was lemonade but turned out to be decanted cointreau (no my family do not normally use empty lemonade bottles as decanters). It tuned cloudy and tasted rotten but it was alcohol so he drank it. Nice one! My Nan used to put cointreau in my tea/coffee when I first went to live with her to help me cope with anxiety at meeting people.

However they didn’t drink that often so beers bought for some celebration would be proffered each Christmas and some, well past the glug-by-date, smelt like alcoholic jam when opened. No, he didn’t drink this – we wouldn’t let him.

I feel like a large drink after spending the entire day making up Ikea bookcases (we now have a veritable library at home so shhhh!). Richard had a brief moment of panic when he got a splinter and then wasted half an hour looking for tweezers - he’s not tough. He’d rather have been at the tennis club where he claims there is a pint of cider with his name on waiting for him. The government threaten new health warnings on alcohol and one punter emailed the BBC to ask ‘What next: warnings on the glasses?’ I said the warning on Richard’s pint would say ‘Rob knows you’re drinking. He knows what you’re thinking!’ That would mess with his mind after a couple of pints of Strongbow.

What’s your favourite health warning:

• Drinking can get you pished!
• Alcohol could make a dog seem attractive!
• Drinking and driving could damage your car!
• Add yours…

Spoonful of sugar (and a whole heap of shit!)

Spoonful of sugar, originally uploaded by wit.

Richard gets in at 10.30pm. He’s been at work since 10am and so I have been alone all day with the geriatric gnome and the cat (who glides blackly around the corridors like a furry Mrs Danvers beckoning silently for anyone to follow her and fill her bowl). I’d like my bowl filled too and Daddy has only had toast. It takes about an hour for him to prepare each slice of toast and the whole house is full of the smell of burnt offering and crumbs.

Hearing me cough and splutter against the smoke, he stopped halfway through the sacrificial toasting to ask for help to reset his TV box. I have now stopped explaining what to do – he doesn’t care to listen as the TV company is obviously against him. At least he no longer rings NTL at the drop of a hat to complain. He once rang to tell them the Disney channel logo was in the way of the programme he was watching and could they remove it for him.

Now it’s late and Daddy Shortlegs doesn’t want to take his medicine. He is always confused about what he should take and when – he goes through various complicated mathematical set ups to try and decide whether or not he’s dosed himself. We gave him a medidose box into which you can sort seven days worth of medication for easy use but his need to fiddle with anything in reach, coupled with the 'what day is it?' saga meant that we were on a hiding to nothing. The box sits discarded among old TV guides and boxes of Bakewell tarts.

‘Have I finished these?’ He proffers a box at us despite the fact Richard’s head is in the fridge.
It’s not in the gas oven because we have gone electric having come home once too often to smell gas and find the hob rings alight or worse not alight but turned on. We sit in the dark with open windows wondering how long before we can turn on a light switch without blowing up the neighbourhood. One of Daddy’s aliases is “Lord of the Rings”… and in the Darkness bind them. He is a bind!

‘These, here… have I finished them?’
‘No, you’re just starting that one today’
‘This one?’
‘Yes. The box is full’
‘So I take this one tomorrow?’
‘No, today – have you taken any today?’
‘Yes… did I?’
‘I haven’t given you any. I was out early.’
‘Oh but have I taken them? No?’

This is a daily conversation and you can see why one might want to put one’s head in an oven. I’d like Richard to put a cake in the oven but we can’t all have what we want!

Thoroughly Modern Silly (or Truly Madly Dippy!)

His shingles have been exacerbated by his new routine of spraying the carpet in his room with an industrial strength flea spray. Despite the fact the cat does not have fleas (we’ve checked), he claims he is being bitten (it’s actually the first signs of shingles but does he let anyone look!?)

The spray comes in a toxic yellow canister and says the room must be well ventilated but he never opens a window – god forbid fresh air should disturb his funk. He stays in the room with the foul chemicals and forgets the bit about hoovering up the residue – Richard vacuumed when he was in Birmingham and said he believed that he hadn’t cleaned that room since he moved in there last year. Well he’s very busy – the telly doesn’t watch itself, you know!

Contained within his own environment we are not happy about his spraying but having explained the risks it is his decision. However, he has now gone one stage further.

I get tired after work and take a little nap. In my dreams I hear a sort of “puff piff” sound. It mingles in my dream and then I hear it more loudly and wake up. It is pitch-black. I lie still but can still hear the “piff puff” noise. Suddenly a blacker hump rises from the foot of the bed.

'Jack?!'
'Oh you’re in.'
'Jack, what are you doing?'
'I was spraying the carpets' (I am two floors above his room so he has made one hell of a climb just to poison me!
'In the dark? At 10pm!' I say as I look at the luminous figures on the clock through a mist of flea spray.

I feel like Miss Dorothy battling Mrs Meers in Thoroughly Modern Millie. Is he trying to kill me or just knock me out for the white slave trade – I can’t see a wicker hamper anywhere so perhaps I am safe. In a permanent tribute to Beatrice Lillie, I imagine driving knitting needles through his head as he wombles off and I’m sure I can hear him say “Oh, pook!”

Like a fat super hero who can’t get into his lycra anymore, I crawl naked towards the door panting ‘Must get… oxygen…’ I'll check the flea spray can for details of kryptonite later.

Bird flu - stock up on Hensip Max!

bird flu, originally uploaded by Kelteek.

Wales is going to the dogs – or the birds? On top of the TB outbreaks in Swansea and Cardiff we now have Bird Flu in North Wales. The acting Public Health bod for North Wales is quoted (by the BBC no less) as saying "There's no need to panic". It would appear NPHS are recruiting Dad's Army to run our health service. Stock up on provisions and stay in doors, I say as "We're doomed!".

Perhaps it’ll carry Daddy off, the old Buzzard. It’s not the word I want to use today but it’s close. He was spotted in the kitchen today, stumbling out of the bathroom with his open dressing gown flapping behind him. His shorts were missing and on display were some spring bulbs that wouldn’t win prizes at the Royal Horticultural Show. Even if they sprouted and came into flower I doubt any of the blue rinsed old ladies trotting around the petunias would pay much interest. "They don't like it up 'em Mr Mainwaring, sir!"

laid back lad

tree fellers (57), originally uploaded by Kelteek.

I pop home at lunch time to find the tree fellers are working shirtless and the younger one, fresh from yesterday’s nap, is now having another kip on a shredder – it’s a hard life in the council! The shredder also seems not to be working and has its top off – life imitating art?! Can I convince you this photograph is for my farm machinery project… no?

Uniforms do not make all men equal

Uniforms do not make all men equal, originally uploaded by Kelteek.

Daddy Shortarse can rivet you to the spot (with boredom not fascination) when he goes on about the war. Gramps told tales of how he was given his new white uniform and thought he was off to somewhere hot (he hated the cold) – was it Africa, somewhere southern – no, he was off to Greenland!! He talked about the tricks played on other sailors and the way they cheated at cards to get extra rations. My Nan’s stories are about stockings and bubble gum, parties and how they made do and mend but had such fun! She talks of leaving Belfast and staying at Ballynahinch where they lived in a converted farm shed so my mother was born in a stable.

Jack likes to talk about death – how many died, where they died, who died. Why they died (general’s foolishness) and why they shouldn’t have died. He writes cards to his brother who died in WWII (and to his wife who died 15 years ago). It ain’t cheerful.

I found this picture in his collection and thought they might have been the first Goonie Regiment – what an odd bunch. They’re not Top Gun – in fact I’m not sure the lift goes to the top floor in most cases!? Some have only one eyebrow – the one with glasses in the front is a hoot (try looking at him without pissing yerself in the full sized photo on Flickr!). Perhaps they have packed their wits in the bags about their necks – all they need is a label saying “Please return to the circus if found”.

Jack’s squad are here and seem to be having a lot of fun in their outsize undies which should be labelled “dangerous when wet”. Jack is seated in the front wearing white shorts. Funny how he dwells on the negative when he obviously had such fun in Africa. Well, I would have fun with this bunch...

Diet Coke Break

Builders@Canton House, originally uploaded by Kelteek.

The builders are also hard at work outside my office - is it a conspiracy of noise pollution? Will I never get to have another phone conversation without shouting. Thinking 'if you can't beat them, join them' I take my tea and sit on the window sill watching the plasterer. His movements are slow and languorous - there's something mesmerising about plastering.

Within minutes I am joined by the rest of the workforce. I sip Pepsi Max, and nibble at yoghurt covered coconut clusters and chocolate covered raisins. Do these and the vegetable extract in my soda count as three of my five-a-day? Our Diet Coke break is broken by the ringing phones.

I consider opening a website - a live updated directory of where you can spot and photograph good looking workmen with few clothes on www.buff_builders (wanna join?). Perhaps each county council could run one, charge the populace for snapping time and then give us a break with council tax. www.municipal_men?

Fit for purpose (they're fit all right!)

carpet fitter bloke, originally uploaded by Kelteek.

As we get ready, the men from Allied Carpets arrive to finish laying our new oak floor in the first floor living room. Despite Daddy Shortlegs being instructed a number of times about where to direct the fitters when they arrived, Richard thankfully nipped home yesterday and stopped them putting it down in the kitchen – they had already taken off the plinths and were mixing the latex screed and only Jack’s in-the-wayness had held them up long enough to prevent any lasting cock up. He was standing in the kitchen, mostly (but not entirely) dressed and seemed totally unperturbed by Richard’s shrieks. He was far more interested in breaking into the fridge.

‘Why… huff puff… why’s it not… arseholes… for god’s sake! Why won’t this open?‘ And it wouldn’t open, no matter how hard and fast he tugged at the horizontal steel bars that will surely never outlast him. Richard again shows him how to open the fridge explaining new fangled ideas like hinges. Then he shows him how to set the microwave (again) and finally reminds him that we have a dishwasher (a once daily task) and he doesn’t need to splash water over the new oak worktops. Daddy grumbles off stage left having ignored the warning not to splash both in the kitchen - and we note in the bathroom - so Richard shoos the fitters upstairs and takes the mop to the bathroom room floor to work out some frustration and clear up after Ol’ Man River.

Today I am spoilt for choice – watch the carpet fitters crawling on all fours with bottoms in the air or stare through the window at council workies swinging through the trees like Chainsaw Massacre meets Groundforce. Then I remember I work for a living and am parcelled off to the office.

Sleeping Beauty

tree fellers (2), originally uploaded by Kelteek.

I awake to find that they’re lopping the trees in my crescent – which means a better view across the crescent although the view of council workers with power tools is pretty alright! The noise is deafening and adds to the workers banging away next door. Then there is a nice bit when it all stops and the young man has a nap in his council van while his mate runs off for sandwiches at Tesco.

Richard wakes up as the cat treads on his bladder demanding a breakfast. He is taking his dad to the doctors with his leg (as if there was an option to leave it home). We didn’t get to talk last night as we were both out drinking with separate groups of people – absinthe makes the heart grow fonder.

Check your bulbs

bare chested builder with tattoo in progress (a), originally uploaded by Kelteek.

Daddy Shortlegs walks crookedly through the new kitchen, tutting about the unfinished floor and wincing and puffing on each step as his shingles play up (one of his legs is now double in size and looks like the spotty donner kebab in our local chippy window) – he’s not one to suffer in silence. Not that there is much silence at present. The workers are back in next door and banging away from 8:30am (don’t make up your own stories!). The heritage skip is still outside the house – now grade 3 listed as it has been there so bloody long. Daddy Shortlegs wants to know when all the work will be finished – as I haven’t any control on the builders in my own home, I have no idea how to predict the cowboys next door.

Later, I pop into his room to make sure he has everything he needs – sitting like a terry towelling clad Miss Haversham, he doesn’t notice I am behind him for some while, then takes another five minutes to find the remote control (cue furious muttering despite the bloody thing being absolutely in front of him and at arms reach!). He placed it there but obviously it is a free range remote control and likes to roam, grazing on the crumbs of toast he seems to manufacture from the very pockets of his dressing gown… there are toast crumbs about even when he’s not had any toast.

Despite the glorious sunshine outside, he has the curtains tight shut as sunlight would affect the TV screen and god forbid anything should destroy his enjoyment of Highlander and SGI. He has a fan heater on full blast and I sigh at the sight of four lamps burning away all now with ugly naked bulbs as the shades blocked the light – who understands. I move around to talk to him and notice he has his own ugly naked bulbs dangling about as he is sitting sans cullottes. Weeuughhhhh!!

To take away that image here is a photo of next door’s builder checking his own bulbs are ready for Spring! Perhaps he’s on the phone to Charlie Dimmick about his dangly water feature?

Homo Improvements

A quick sojourn to B&Q among the ‘happy’ heterosexuals who browse at power tools and radiator fittings, argue about tiles and shout at their nagging children. We are looking for screws and lampshades. We find packs of six inch nails which were my Gramps preferred method of BIY (botch-it-yourself!). He used to hang up pictures on these monster sized nails that looked like they would be surplus to requirement at the best of crucifixions. Once when my Aunt Violet was redecorating her house in Belfast, they took out a nail from her wall and apparently a mirror fell down from where it was hanging in Katie’s house next door. Was it the vibrations of the workmen? No, the mirror had been hanging on the other end of one of Gramp’s nails!

I give up very quickly in B&Q and make for the exit and the ice-cream van that I can see doling out buttery-flavoured lard with flake and nuts. Prevented from achieving the goal of a ninety–nine, I am accosted by a woman undertaking a survey. She is mid-fifties and dressed head to foot in black with too much gold jewellery. She is wearing one of Sybil Fawlty’s wigs, only she has dyed-it-herself with a shade of dark red that has turned the blonde bits a hue that we can only describe as … well, beetroot and looks a tad Raisa Gorbachev. The Goth Gorbachyova look is not one that works for her!

As a byway - Violet's best friend is called Olive. There's no "funny" stuff abut the relationship - they may be a colour scheme but they're not a couple. These sisters are not doing it for themselves.

Tennis elbow

, originally uploaded by vincentgr.

Richard is warming up for tennis this afternoon – he’s warming up his right elbow by lifting cups of tea to his mouth in preparation for sitting in the tennis club lifting cider in the same way. Most people have the labels of Slazenger and Adidas on their kit – Richard’s preferred brand is Strongbow!

If all the players at his club looked like this I would go watch, but they are usually called Sue or Margaret and have a racket in one hand and a pension book in the other. Foot faults result in falls and fractures and instead of new balls most are waiting for new hips. Playing each other in doubles, the older women are known as the Awesome Foursome. Richard says they know about their nickname as someone said it in their hearing - I guess they must have been standing very very close!

What’s in your Thermos?

It’s an old joke: What’s a thermos for? Keeping hot things hot and cold things cold. So what’s in yours? Two cups of coffee and a choc ice!

Gramps used to have three flasks. They had labels on, made from masking tape onto which he had penned the letters ‘A’, ‘B’ and ‘C’. Into Flask ‘A’ went any water inadvertently boiled by my Nan if she put more than the required amount in the kettle for the constant cups of tea Gramps required to keep his fighting weight at about 6 stone! Each cup was accompanied by half a jam sandwich (and sometimes half a polo mint).

‘A’ was the hot flask. ‘B’ had the warm but not hot water that may require another boil for tea or could be combined with the coolish ‘C’ flask for a quick wash or shave. Each time water was boiled the contents of the flask would be downgraded - the water from 'A' went to 'B' and so on! God forbid we should have had central heating or a combi-boiler. Gramps was the first environmentalist by accident!!

He loved saving money – tinkering with cars to get extra mileage per gallon (he didn’t) or wearing layers and layers to save on heating although he was constantly cold. Last week, we found a picture of him on the beach with his clothes off and were all shocked as this must have been a one-off rarity. God knows how long it took him to clamber out of his donkey jacket and overalls (he always dressed in Old Labour mode).

Richard thought I was joking about the flasks till he visited my grandparents for the first time and saw them lined up next to the sink. We thought they should have had pride of place on his coffin when he died. Tea came with Marvel powdered milk – bleuugh! Richard also tried the delights of my Nan’s lunch. We had chops that by their size and texture had come from a mummified temple cat in ancient Egypt. I asked what the accompanying stuffing was… she said ‘What stuffing?’ ‘The grey heap here’ I indicted with my fork. ‘That’s cauliflower’, she replied. ‘Cauliflower stuffing?’ ‘No, just cauliflower’.

You think Can’t cook, Won’t cook is bad – try Can’t cook, Will cook!

Do I look like a bloody Care Bear!?

Care Bear STARE
Originally uploaded by Fustigatic.

The social work students are about to leave and find jobs. We discuss interview techniques including what not to do… like the guy who came for the admin/finance post and mentioned he couldn’t add figures, type, and didn’t even know what a mail merge meant. ‘Is that going to be a problem?’

Or the older woman who thought an ability to use chalk in her former teaching post would be an advantage in outreach with young prostitutes as she could draw diagrams on the pavement to illustrate sexual health – she was looking to get her handbag snatched for her pains!

More than once people said they were quite confidential – you either are or you aren’t! They usually gave examples (with names and details) of people they had worked with and whom they had never talked about. D’oh!

One former student topped all these. He missed induction training as he was shacked up in Canada with someone he’d met on the internet. He began by telling me he’d always been a loner, unhappy and on the outside of things until he discovered a web group for large hairy gay men like himself. A little too much information you may think – but then, still out of breath from climbing the stairs and dripping in sweat, he followed it up with ‘they’re called Bears and I find them really sexy. Are you a Bear?’ A little shocked; I blinked and answered ‘No, just a fat bloke!’

Soup de jour

Only a few brief visits from the terry-towelling terrorist today. Once in full dressing gown and once half-exposed as well as a brief reprise when Richard gets home to make sure I have given him the message about the cream he wants. Despite it being 10 minutes past midnight he wants the cream now. There’s half a tube in the packet he showed us but…

The ointment is called Eurax so I suppose it has a dose of urea in it – cream of piss. As an ointment it’s effective but as a soup de jour it’s ghastly.

Bunch of Charlies

Molitva
Originally uploaded by Me & my life!.

This bunch actually won Eurovision. The backing singers appear to be channelling Charlie's Angels while their lead singer is channelling who...?

• Roy Orbinson
• Elvis Presley
  
• Rosie O'Donnell
• Fred Flintstone
  

Perhaps all four at once; no wonder she has no room to tuck in a shirt. Are they all touching her like a table at a seance... or trying to ensure she keeps her arms down not to show the sweat rings on her rented tuxedo.

They take forever to show up on stage to get their prize and we surmise the lovelies have got their hair entangled or at least put someone's eye out with their curls that appear to be sprayed into steel springs. Girls in my school went for this plastic flick look back in 1977! Even my Nan knew when to back away from the Elnette bottle and she was a devotee of the lacquer to the end.

Wogan calls them prison wardresses but I have a hint they may be Beauty School Drop-outs. Or perhaps they failed an audition to be a Cadbury's Flake slut... their mouths are in that 'Oooh Chocolate' moment. Hers is in a more realistic 'chocolate now' shape!!!

Bring Back Katie Boyle!

They arrive at five. After a two-hour drive Daddy Shortlegs is forced to seek immediate solace in the toilet. He pushes his way past us inexorably like a half-cut lava flow as he makes for the bathroom. Nothing stands in his path and we are buffeted out of his way. He wombles out to wash his hands in the brand spanking new kitchen sink until I point out there is a sink in the bathroom he has just left – cue furious muttering as he removes himself to his bedroom complaining about the lack of heating. The fan heater goes on full blast and the national grid starts to whirr with the effort. The regime has been restored.

We decide on pizza and Eurovision. I sit and knit my brows like a virtual Madame Defarge as the UK tumbrel heads towards nul points! Thank God for Terry Wogan who remains cheerful but where is good old Katie Boyle when you need her? The half time programme is a dire mish-mash of circus skills that would be moved along in any self-respecting festival. We all agree we can’t stand Finland’s answer to Sandra Dickinson (David Dickinson? asks Sonny above the roar of the music) as she totters about like Barbara Cartland’s ghost on speed.

Rich sits with his iPod on and the subtle leakage of harpsichord doesn’t enhance the viewing enjoyment or help the pizza go down. The judging is now so partisan that they may need to have BBC War correspondent Orla Guerin as a presenter (assuming Kate Adie or CNN's Christiane Amanpour wouldn't want to do it!).

BTW: here's a tip. If any of the above and/or Jessica Fletcher are listed in the hotel register when you go to check in - then check out ASAP!

It usually comes in threes

Daddy Shortlegs is also on his way home, travelling down the highway at 30 miles an hour if Sonny Longpockets is driving. We need to clear up from the kitchen fitting – we left the cat’s bowl and litter in Jack’s room while he was away; it improved the air of old man stink. Not to be confused with Ol' Man River which alludes to his propensity for missing the bowl and sometimes missing the bathroom altogether - and you wonder why we are tiling everywhere!?

We can look forward to the dishwasher not working, the washer/drier breaking, the microwave singing its last ping, and a lot of muttering as he realises that the contents of cupboards have all moved. I worry most about the ceramic hob – ‘I tried to get the lid off but it won’t work now!’

My Nan was buried on Thursday - Sonny's partner buried her dad on the Thursday before that. He was dead. Death usually comes in threes. If I were Jack I wouldn’t start any long books… or arguments!

Greece is the word!

We are on our way back to Cardiff and stop at the Little Fat Bastard (or Little Chef as others know it) for the Olympic-sized breakfast. They have other fabled meals but we decide to make our own.

• The Clytemnestra breakfast comes with a bathful of tomato sauce and gives you good wind.
  
• The Cassandra breakfast: ‘you won’t believe us when we tell you how big it is!'
  
• Push the boat out and have the Helen of Troy!
  
• Watch the stones roll on with a Sisyphus burger!

You may want to reach for Google or Wikipedia or if you’re already up to speed you could have a go at adding your own menu suggestions in the comments section. Later we stop for the lavatory where we pass the pillars of Heracles!

Tooth Fairy

We sit in Nanny’s flat and laugh our way through the mountain of photographs. Conversation turns to the olden days as her great-grandchildren call it (they mean the 1960s!) and we all have stories about Nan & Gramps or as I call them "Spend & Save". She loved slot machines (see pic right) and he panicked (see below) about every penny he couldn't wrestle out of Kwiksave.

Later we discuss politics and Northern Ireland. My family have old-fashioned ideas mixed with Protestant stoicism – it’s easy to keep a tight upper lip when you have a loose grasp on the medicine chest. Religion and bigotry often go hand-in-hand just as Seroxat adds to that air of everyone getting along and going with the flow.

Before long Arlene (only 3 years older than me) says she isn’t sure that she believes in homosexuals (what am I then? the fucking tooth fairy!). She doesn’t like them parading – though of course she’d fight for the rights of Orange men to march. 'I don't care who you are, I see you as a person', she says. 'Yes,' I think 'because you're totally blinkered to anything that doesn't fit in with your lifestyle or how you would like the world to be'. She equates her struggle of not getting along with a colleague (who just happens to be Catholic – pure coincidence) to centuries of persecution and unequal treatment by church and state.

Richard and I manage to let it go but it seems obvious why her brother moved to Australia especially after visiting us with his Catholic boyfriend. My other gay cousin has a black partner but I went past both their limits and entered two mixed marriages. The first didn't work - well she was a woman and we all know the divorce rate, so lasting as long as we did was against all odds.But Richard is ... I am so embarrassed to tell you... yes, he's um, well, sort of... English. God alone knows how she'd cope with all that information. I never thought of us as liberals but reading the Guardian must have taken its toll. They probably think of us as Libertines. But they're family and we love them. It's best to love the Christian but forgive their Christianity if you can.

Say it with flowers

The funeral goes well. As it turns out Nanny didn't need the extra wide coffin that Gramps had foretold would be necessary due to her arms getting locked in position if she died whilst knitting. They have 'NAN' spelled out in white flowers and I immediately think of the funeral in Royston Vasey with 'BASTARD' spelled out in the back of the hearse. Richard says he will save money by choosing only a four letter word for me - Aunt Jean correctly guesses it may begin with a 'C'.

They play Daniel O'Donnell as we leave the Chapel of Rest - well it made me leave! I spot my sister, Milford's answer to Burke and Hare: big as two people though not technically a grave robber. We exchanged curt hellos. Later we do the same. I said I wouldn't speak two words to her but if 'hello' twice counts then I think I may have broken my vow.

It pours with rain when we reach the cemetery which is always fitting but things seem drier back at the Legion until I get a gin and tonic. I have a momentary lapse and look around to see if Nanny has come in, then pull myself together. Her family are much fewer than in previous years as they all get old and ill and dead. Not always in that order. Many have their hair done by powergen with what looks like a Hi-energy perm. Walter and Doris are there. Doris is a gruff little woman (I think she's a woman). She's losing her sight which explains the wardrobe but it beats the shorts skirts she used to sport. Aunt Lilian rocks her grand-daughter Alys and sings the song about a woman who swallows a fly 'I don't know why she swallows a fly'. 'Because she's a man' I add in my gruff imitation of Doris.

We all laugh, fortified by welsh cakes and tea and we watch the kids run up and down the polished dance-floor. Nanny would have liked that - she wouldn't have liked it if it had been my generation or my aunts - we'd have been told to behave and possibly to sit in order of age or height to look neat and tidy. I say wouldn't it be lovely to have the energy of the kids and how I used to love sliding along the dance floor. Richard adds that I was 28 at the time!

Step back in time

I am in a rush as I madly decided to meet my Irish relatives at Cardiff station and take the train to Milford Haven. I have two hours so only pack the essentials – laptop, camera, mobile phone and credit cards. Clothes and toiletries can follow with Richard tomorrow. (my friend Olwen once said that If I was travelling I would need a couple of pallbearers to carry all my stuff - she meant Sherpas but given I am on my way to a funeral she may be right!)

3 hours, no buffet but a little old man serving tea from a trolley– it’s just like being home with Jack. The trolley-dolly, last seen serving afternoon tea on Stephenson’s Rocket, must be seventy if he’s a day but perhaps he’ll get younger as we head west and the years roll back to 1947. Did you know West Wales is in a different time zone to the rest of Britain? Colleagues say that accounts for my slightly old-fashioned prose style and the use of words like ‘hamper’ and ‘hinder’. I blame it on too much Miss Marple.

The journey is made worse by a slightly drunk, older gay type – you know, all leaning forward conspiratorially and patting the knee while making recommendations for day trips to Tenby for ice-cream. People seem to believe Northern Ireland is all inner-city bombscapes and would be surprised to learn it has lovely beaches … and yes, ice-cream. No-one mentions we are on our way to a funeral but then with all the laughing and storytelling you’d never know.

By 9pm we reach Milford. It’s shut, or at least appears to be closed for repairs.

Colour me beautiful: green sponges, red indians, white children with pink eyes, black moods and lemons.

We have been singularly untroubled by Daddy Shortlegs since his removal to Birmingham (this is an approximate address to preserve anonymity!). He is confused about when he might return.

‘So I’ll be back on Wednesday,’ he says.

‘No. You’re coming back on Saturday.’

‘Wednesday, is it?’

‘No, Saturday!’ says Richard taking the phone away from his ear and staring directly down the receiver as if telepathy could work its magic. The conversation continues ad infinitum…

I assume that he prefers Wednesday for some reason and will try to wilfully misunderstand but the kitchen isn’t quite finished; the fitter has taken the day off as some components won’t arrive until tomorrow. Rich and I have taken the opportunity to sort out the scary under-the–stairs cupboard. Witness the wonder of the ever-growing mountain of J-cloths or the self-replicating pan scourers that seem to multiply like amoeba at an orgy. The EU light bulb and kitchen roll mountain take up another cupboard or two. You wouldn’t find as many cleaning products if this was the sluice room of a hospital ward or the housekeeping cupboard of a Lusthouse Forte. We may have to have Jack’s shopping rights removed by Tesco... “Help the Aged to aisle 4 please”

We have 3 vacuum cleaners stored below the stairs. Rich is hard at work breaking his fourth. No sorry I forgot. He and his father don’t break things. They break. They don’t work. They go wonky. He’s got a screwdriver out so expect bad news. Not that they don’t love bad news or misery.

When they lived in Chippenham (Ooh! the spellchecker asks do I mean Chippewa – Big Chief Sitting Room? Don’t correct my Native American history as it’s merely a pun not a ruddy dissertation. I Google ‘Chippewa’ and it asks me do I mean the Ojibwa people. My Nan would have said ‘did they live over Hakin way? Next to the Harris family. Wasn’t she the woman with the hair who used to run the post office…’ Cue a lengthy ramble as my family come to the conclusion that she married a boy from Neyland and was last seen in Safeways buying cooked ham. Nearest we get to an Indian Reservation is a table for four at the Bengal Brasserie) anyway…

When they lived in Chippenham they had neighbours with albino children, one of whom fell out of a train and died. On the other side lived two of the Plymouth Brethren with a none too apt surname. ‘Gay by name but not by nature,’ as Rich’s mum used to say. Along with a matchbox label collecting brother playing Led Zeppelin on the wrong speed or backwards, Richard and his religious mania and closet homosexuality (quite common bedfellows) and Daddy Shortlegs with his love of Mahler and grumpiness, it comes as no surprise that Richard’s mum went out a lot. It’s life’s way of telling you to drink more. After all, if life gives you lemons, you’d better get the gin and tonic out!