It’s Like Coming Home.

Hi All

Just one more day and my DIY sparring partner goes back to work. I can hardly wait. Don’t get me wrong, it’s been quite nice having him around, under my feet for the last fortnight, and we have refurbished the bathroom, but my nerves are at an all-time high.

I need head-space. Time to think without being constantly bombarded with questions.

‘Are you hungry yet? What are we having for lunch? What time are we having dinner? Would you follow me in the car so that I can take my motorbike to that chap in Nova Scotia, (slight exaggeration) and pick me up, because it isn’t running right?’

That sodding motorbike is like a cloud of doom hanging over my head. I’ve lost count of the hours spent taking it up and down the motorway to the ‘’guy who is really good with bikes!’’ If he was so frigging good why have we just collected it for the third time in as many weeks? And then, when I’ve arranged my whole day around ‘us’ Richard announces, ‘Do you mind if I piss off out on my bike for a ride?’

He doesn’t actually say ‘piss off,’ but he may as well, because that’s what he means. By this time I’ve lost the will to live, besides anything else, and just spend the alone time scrolling Facebook instead of writing.

I controlled myself a little better last night, when the boy-racer took off for a quick spin…and spent two hours on You Tube listening to sad songs from artists that most of you wouldn’t even know. I’m feeling terribly vulnerable at the moment. Sad. A little depressed – well, quite a bit depressed, actually. I have no real reason or reasons. I think the trip-out to the coast last Monday started this dip.

We travelled to Sheringham, on the east coast. Sheringham is a smallish town, very unspoilt and with the local ‘accent’ to be heard on every corner. I know it so well…Sheringham not the accent. My parents had a caravan there, when my brothers and I were young, and the memories I have of that place are ingrained in my heart forever. I remember stropping off, under instruction from my parents, to clamber up and slip down Beeston Hill, along the sea-front and into town to the local bakery at the crack of dawn to fetch a large uncut loaf. It felt like a bit of a chore then. It wouldn’t now. Not if I was returning with the still warm, freshly baked bread to two loving parents.

Somehow I seem to have an affinity with the place – the east coast. I guess that’s why I set my novel ‘Starfish’ in this area? It’s like coming home. I can only explain it that way. Travelling the coast road, seeing the places I saw so many times as a child, brings the memories flooding back. Sometimes they come as a ripple on the beach, sometimes they come as a tsunami. I can handle the ripples. The tsunami is harder.

And of course…it’s Father’s Day, and it’s mighty tough knowing that there is no one to buy a card for. Memories of my dad, like the childhood memories, come as daily ripples or a once in a while tsunami. Again, the ripples are easier to manage.

But…hey-ho all things pass and I will shortly rise from this gloomy me. I always do. And I really don’t mind feeling this way. I’m an extremist. I have black and white moments. I have manic highs and silly self-indulgent lows. It doesn’t matter. That’s me. And frankly, tell me, is there anything more sad and self-indulgent than Des O’Connor singing ‘My Cup Runneth Over,’ (You Tube ). It’s a bloody miracle I made it through the night!

So you see, I can’t blame Richard for this…well not totally. He is a bit to blame…

As I write this he is attempting to mend a leaky u bend beneath the kitchen sinks. I am having nothing to do with this. I am writing my gloomy blog. However, I fear that having mentioned ‘tsunami’ twice, I should lift my feet and wait for the flood to hit?

Take care my lovelies x

PS A special welcome to new followers Amy Saab, WilliamtheButler, Jonathan Roumain and theeditorsjournal.

Would I Lie To You Honey… Er…Yep!

 

Hi All

I have always been of the opinion that timing is everything, and I don’t mean in some weird or rude way. I mean…if you judge the ‘atmosphere’ and the ‘feel’ of a situation your requests are usually granted. Richard has not learnt this.

He walked in from work at 2.00 pm, and verbally ploughed straight in, while I stood at the kitchen sink washing my mobile that had fallen out of my top pocket and into my home-made, butternut squash and chilli soup. This was not a good time. The timing was wrong!

“Could you do me a favour,” he said, not even bothering to ask why I was washing my mobile.

“Bit busy,” I hissed.

“You know my BMW (motorbike) I need to take it to have it serviced and I wondered if -”

“Yes!” I cut in.

“If you would – ”

“Follow you halfway round the country and bring you back.”

“Yeah…and then – ”

“Yes!” I cut in again. “Take you back to pick it up.”

“Oh great.”

He glanced at the mobile and left the kitchen.

Ten minutes later and he was back. I now had the sim card out of my mobile and trying to dry it.

“Do you think if I set the satnav you could find your own way there and then I could scoot on ahead and have a chat with the bloke.”

See! Pushing his luck. Timing so wrong. I rammed the sim card in and pinned him straight between the eyes.

“I think if you “scoot” on ahead you can sodding well “scoot” to the taxi rank and get one home!”

“Oh…OK…well I’ll just follow you then.”

“Probably best if I follow you, seeing as it’s you who knows where he’s going?”

“Ah, yes,” he said frowning. “Why is your mobile orange?”

I can’t tell you my comment.

We set off Friday, Richard in front on his bike, me following in the car. Three minutes on the M1 and a motorbike overtook me, and then another, and then another, all pulling in front of the car…. The tenth bike rode at the side of me for a bit, the rider glancing over, winking and giving a thumbs up. I noticed he was riding one of those Harley things… with the handlebars three feet above his head. He brummed off and joined the other nine bikes ahead of me… and behind Richard. Obviously it was one of those motorbike-club things. Probably on their way up to Matlock, where they all park in the main street and stand around in biking leathers comparing dip sticks or something?

Others followed and I found myself and my little WV UP part of a convoy, racing up the M1. Richard meanwhile, was like the proverbial pig in clover, riding ahead of the group like Champion The Frigging Wonder Horse, leading his herd of mavericks across the Texas plains. I don’t know if they have mavericks in Texas, but it was my vision and I am allowed to visualise my vision my way.

I didn’t have the slightest idea where I was going, but there was a motorbike in front (15 in fact) so I just followed the convoy. Eventually, the entourage left-wheeled off the motorway and I followed.  Up ahead I could see Richard had pulled over and his little herd of scabby ponies galloped off towards the distant horizon, each biker nodding at him as they passed. God! You would have thought that he was Moses leading his people to the Promised Land, the Ten Commandments tucked firmly into his panniers. I pulled up behind him and he was grinning from ear to ear.

‘Did you see that lot?’ he muffled from under his helmet.

‘No, Richard, I didn’t see fifteen sound-barrier-splitting bikes go past me! Of course I did you idiot!’ He likes being called an idiot. He considers it a term of endearment.

‘Ah, OK, I bet they were going to Matlock to…’

‘Yes, I know why they were going to Matlock, Richard, so that they could play bikes and compare the ideal depth of tyre treads!’

He scurried back on board his hot machine and slowly pulled away. He knows when he’s beaten.

The following day we repeated the journey, but without the Hell’s Angel convoy. I’d asked Richard if he was sure that the bike would be ready. He said it would. I said I thought he should ring to check. He said it would be ready. When we got there the motorbike guru was still working on it. It wasn’t ready. Richard shuffled up to the car and announced sheepishly that it would be a while yet and did I want to wait or attempt to find my own way home…

Having refused to listen to all his attempts at telling me how to access the M1 from the middle of nowhere, I bid him farewell, and took off. How hard could it be? I was north, I needed the M1 south.

It was incredibly hard finding the M1! Road works, idiots pulling in front of me, and all that stuff, made it very difficult to follow the painted bits on the road and the overhead thingy’s, but I did, and I made it home alive… with  tachycardia and fifty more worry lines across my forehead. There was a point at which I thought I’d made a horrendous boo boo and was actually heading north to Scotland! That would mean a quick exit off the M1 and a hundred mile trip across country to get back…and it was already chicken-corning time!

When Richard finally arrived back, I was slobbed-out on the sofa, watching The Chase, and looking cool. He tested the atmosphere with a nervous grin and said, ‘OK? Any problems?’

‘No, none,’ I said, returning his smile.

He stood for a minute or two, leaning on the door frame, and I could see the admiration all over his face.

‘You know… you make out you can’t find your own way, and then you access the M1 from that point… which, by the way, is really difficult with all those road works and lane changes. You’re not really incompetent at all, are you. It’s just an act.’

 

Twenty-two-ish years it’s taken him to realise that. What a plonker!

 

Take care my lovelies x

How Not To Erect Your Precious Cadac …

Good Morning All

Well, that was lovely. Two whole days of spring sunshine and today we are back to normal. Grey and threatening drizzle. In fact, it has started to rain.

Richards ‘other’ love is sitting out in it. Shame. Nice weather brings the motorbike out of storage and Richard uses it for work, preferring to abandon me an hour earlier than necessary and going for a ‘ride round’ before work. It is a bloody great lumbering thing – the bike, not Richard – although? Usually it is kept covered, garaged and pampered, but it is a bit of a struggle for him to put it to bed when he gets home at 10.00 pm.

If you remember I mentioned in a post a few weeks ago that Richard had suggested buying a stove like Ade Edmondson’s, in Ade In Britain, so that he could cook ‘up at his summerhouse.’ I had squashed that stupid idea by informing him that he could only cook oven chips and to forget it. He then had the brilliant idea of retrieving his new and precious Cadac from the attic and using that. I offered no argument.

Two days ago, in the middle of our super heat-wave the Cadac was found and brought down from the attic. A Cadac, for those of you who have never come across such a wonder of creation, is pretty much like a barbecue, stands on three legs, has a removable griddle, wok etc etc and runs off gas. Obviously, after ‘setting it up’ at the side of his summerhouse (shed) he wanted to go a step further and disappeared to go rummaging through the deep freeze for something to cook on it. He returned with stir-fry and salmon. The stir-fry was OK but the salmon proved to be cod.

I kindly produced a few wild garlic leaves and chives and took my seat and waited.  And waited …

The stir-fry had virtually disappeared by the time the frozen fish had cooked and the whole thing looked rather … different. On the whole, for Richard, I have to say it was a success. This might sound strange. But trust me. It was a success. This is Richard’s second Cadac. The first one died very prematurely. And this is what happened …

We spent a weekend camping with Richards sister and her family (before she decided I was a stroppy cow and fell out with us!) and Richard, being Richard, decided to erect his new Cadac and cook everyone a barbie – that’s cue not doll! Even Richard isn’t quite that weird.

With steaks and sausages and other dead flesh spitting and burning he performed his little show, in-between swigging gut-rot cider and telling ‘Richard’ jokes, which are really best avoided unless you have recently emptied your bladder. With his eye firmly on the bottom of his upturned cider bottle it was moments before he or anyone else noticed that the Cadac was shrinking and slowly tipping.

Half choking and in slow motion Richard lunged forwards grabbing the steaks as they slid off the grill, burning his hands, and shouting, ‘f**k me, an earthquake!’

Everyone else stared in horror as the whole thing collapsed into a bubbling, melted heap, sending black, toxic smoke belching across the camp site.

Obviously the idiot had put the thing together wrong, allowing the flame to burn through the plastic stand and the whole thing had tipped and dissolved into the grass like the Wicked Witch of the West.

So, all things considered, the second Cadac was a success and lives to cook again … and so does Richard. He is taking a holiday next week and has already informed me that we can pop to Morrison’s and stock up on masses of barbie stuff and eat outdoors every day next week. I just nodded. Best to just nod  – sometimes. 

Take care my lovelies x

 

 

Boy Racers, Shiny Black Leather Gear, VWUP And Land Rovers …

iHi All

I hope you all had a good weekend? We woke to snow here again on Saturday, not much, but enough to settle for a while. Now it is cold and the idea of spring being just ten days away seems impossible.

Last week, for one reason or another, was a bit of  a pain. I spent far too much time sitting in front of the laptop, messing about and producing nothing. So I decided  that getting out of the house for a few hours on Saturday morning might be just the thing.

Suited and booted off we went with the car pointed towards Leicester. We turned off way before Leicester. Strange but on average I reckon I must go into ‘town’ once a year …or even less. We decided to go to a shopping complex nearby where Richard could purchase something for Mother’s Day. Within two minutes of leaving the house Richard started ranting about a car that pulled straight out from a side road. I took a deep breath. Richard then began his ten-mile rant about how some ‘boy-racer’  had cut him up on his moped, on his way to work, almost causing him to fall off it.

Yes I know, the vision of 6′ 4″ Richard on a moped is funny right? Apparently his work mates always shout, ‘Pizza delivery!’ whenever they see him arriving at work. He does paint a funny picture actually, all geared out in posh black leathers and with a fancy shiny black helmet. But, I should point out that Richard also has a massive, black, super-duper motor bike. He chooses not to go to work on that in favour of what he lovingly calls the goped. Work by the way is no more than two miles from the house so he isn’t seen by millions. Just the odd neighbour (all our neighbours are odd) who shouts,  ‘Bike still going alright then, Richard?’ He never hears him. And that is reassuring because I am often under the impression that it is just me he never hears.

So Richard had his rant about crap drivers, insisting that one day I would be getting a phone call from the police to say that they had him in custody for bashing some lousy driver who had sent him into a ditch. Ten miles on, I decided it was time I hauled him in and merely said something like, ‘It’s just another case of the big thinking they can shit on the little.’

And you know something? It is. I noticed it immediately when we bought the little VW UP. We had only driven it off the forecourt and some 4 x 4 cut us up on a roundabout. I notice it all time. The big guys dumping on the little guys.

I told Richard that he needs to get Betsy on the road and use her to go to work in.  He let my words sink in while he negotiated his way into a parking space and turning to look at me with that smacked-face look of his said, ‘I shouldn’t have to go to work in a tin box just to feel safe, should I?’

I was taken by surprise and almost choked on the banana that I just finishing off. Betsy a tin box? His beloved Betsy a tin box?

He saw the astonishment on my face and quickly added, ‘Well you know what I mean.’

I do know what he means. Betsy is an old tin box. It’s not world breaking news, is it? I’ve always known it.

Sunday, being Mother’s Day, off he trotted to see his mum, gift secure in a lovely silver bag that I produced for him. He’s a bit lacking in the presentation department and won’t blink an eye at giving gifts bunged into an old, plastic supermarket bag. He gives cards with the price label still on as well.

My son arrived shortly after Richard leaving, with a bouquet of pink flowers, a box of heart-shaped chocolates and two cards. And while I made the tea Matt checked out my new laptop that has windows 8 and found lots of bits on it that had been alluding me. I have still only scratched the surface with windows 8. Bit confusing if you ask me.

So, my friends, just a peaceful little blog today. No major rants. No pulling plugs on fb pillocks. Just a little, discreet, subliminal message for the big guys – in ALL walks of life –  STOP shitting on the little guys.

Tomorrow is the love of my life’s birthday. Who? Richard of course. I have bought him chocolates, chocolate Turkish delight (yuck), A toffee birthday cake (couldn’t be bothered to make one), and the 3 x DVD collection of Africa, the series that has just finished on the TV and that I didn’t get the chance to watch at the time. I’m not sure if he wants the Africa DVDs but I do so, there you go. And as Richard is always saying – if I’m happy, then he’s happy. Not much for the love of your life I hear you bellow. No, it isn’t. But then he has me and I’m priceless! Ha ha. And if you believe that you will believe anything!

Joking apart, I shall give him a bit of dosh to spend on frigging Betsy the Land Rover and then maybe he will finish her off (if only) and he can go to work to the shouts of, ‘Oh arr, oh arr, here comes Farmer Giles, watch out for the pig shit.’

Take care my lovelies x