D. visits a restaurant

As I write this I can already hear the whining and complaining from my other children who were not invited however it was payday so hang the expense. For some time D. had been asking to visit one of the better restaurants in our new home town of Romsey. It actually makes a change to the Indian and Bangla Deshi restaurants back in Northamptonshire. I rang home and asked her to make a reservation for later that evening for the three of us. It was booked for 19:30 because I get too hungry for dinner at 8 and also that would allow an ample 4 hours for D. to prepare herself. Bath, hair, shower, hair again , clothes selection, make up, shoes, clothes re-selection that kind of essential stuff.

Seven o'clock arrives and I call up the stairs that we are leaving now to give us adequate time to walk the 3/4 of a mile to the restaurant and may be have a drink before the meal.

'What! Why are you leaving now? Why are you walking? We have a car outside.' shouts D. from behind her bedroom door where she is still readying herself. I try to explain that the short walk will give us an appetite and also Hilary and I have can have a glass or two of wine.

'For heavens sake! It is only three quarters of a mile. You can drive that far without problem.' she whinges with all the conviction of someone who does not have a driving licence to lose.

After much footdragging we are on our way albeit by now we are cutting things a little tight for time. D. walks her customary 12 paces behind us just in case someone she knows sees her. Any 'street cred' she may have would soon evapourate were she to be seen with such an 'uncool' person as myself. Walking with your mother is OK but never be seen out with your father.

'Oh my God. Did you have to wear those socks? Why do have to be such a geek?' she shouts. I assume I must be sporting an odd pair of one Homer Simpson sock and one with bright red and yellow checks. A quick glance reveals that all is well, they are a regulation pair of dark socks.

'Why do you have to show me up like this?' she shouts just in case someone three streets away did not hear clearly the first time. 'You always do this'. Quite what 'this' is varies from occasion to occasion but she invariably manages to find 'this' and I am invariably guilty of 'this'.

I hoist my trousers up to half-mast to reveal both socks and two fluorescent white calfs. 'There. How is that? Any better?'

She chokes and drops back even further and we continue on our way.

A little later she hollers up to me 'Do you have to walk like that?'. I know I am in real trouble now because as far as I know I have been walking this way for 50 years.

'Like what?'

'Like that. That stupid way. You always do that.' She is right of course I do always walk this way but I know I have to make a special effort now to change just to please her. I adopt a gait that I judge somewhere between a crippled donkey and someone with an extreme case of piles.

'There. How is that any better?'

D. drops even further back and continues the muttered conversation with her mother. 'Look he is doing it again. He always starts doing stupid stuff. Why does he always have to start it?'

To my relief we eventually reach the restaurant and are shown to our table. By now there is no time for a drink beforehand.

'Why do we have to sit here? Can't we get a table somewhere else. Those people over there are looking at us. Look at these stupid napkins. Why do they have to fold them like that. That waitress thinks she is too good for this place. She is a real snob. Look at the way she walks' (I am glad it is not just me then.) 'The people in here are soooo old. Look at the way they are dressed. How can those people afford it in here. Do those people have to talk so loud nobody is interested in what they have to say.' In fairness I can see what she means about the napkins which look like have been pressed into the shape of a shirt for a midget so I sit through the monologue.

It continues in this vein for much of the evening. I pause only to have my photograph taken with one of those 'stupid napkins' just to confirm to D. that she really is eating out with a total buffoon.

Trying on the offending napkin

On the way home D. discusses the delights of eating in MacDonald's and I consider the considerable dent the evening has made in a credit card account. In some ways it is a blessing that payday only occurs once each month.

Visiting a few olds friends.

If you are easily offended by colourful language you may want to stop reading now....

It was as beautiful a sunny February morning as you could wish to see. Clear blue skies and the snowdrops have been in full flower for a couple of weeks now. I decided to drive out to see George, an old friend of mine, who lives in a village outside Winchester. Hilary dropped me at the end of the track which leads up to George's place and headed into town to the Sunday farmers' market.

I love the idea of a farmers' market. A place where the down trodden farmer gets a fair deal by cutting out the middlemen, those big multinational conglomerates who literally squeeze the living out of the man at the bottom of the food chain. The farmers provide good quality home produce at a fair price direct to the customer. Great.

I have found that the reality is somewhat different. The prices are significantly higher than supermarkets and I am always left with the impression that the farmers are just as greedy as the multinationals. Anyway I try and keep away just in case I can't keep my tongue and cause an incident and major embarrasment to my wife and daughter.


I made my way up the rutted track towards George's place. I was just greatful that the weather was sufficiently sunny to have dried out the potholes that I usually have to wade through. Half way up the track I met Bob, a neighbour of George's.

I have known Bob nearly as long as I have known George and so I stopped to chew the fat for a while. How is the wife family? How is his wife's Meniere's disease? That kind if stuff.

Bob is another amazing character. He is planning his 90th birthday party later this month and has invited another friend who celebrates is 90th birthday a few days before Bob. They signed up for the Royal Marines together in the 2nd World War.

Bob always likes to chat because he knows that I have been out to Crete and Cyprus. Bob has a special affection for the Greek people. During the war he was captured and taken prisoner during the Battle of Crete in 1941. He was sent on a forced march through the Cretan mountains and wore out his army boots. It later proved to be a hard blow because, as a POW, he was sent as a forced labourer to a village high in the Austrian mountains. During the winter he had no shoes and only rags to wrap around his feet when he was sent to work in the snow. He recalls how he broke down and cried because his feet were so cold.

He holds no grudge or ill will towards his captors and visited Austria and the farmer for many years after the war ven attending their family weddings. These days only the grandchildren survive but Bob still practices his German by writing to the family.

After a while our conversation drifted back to George. It usually does. I took a short cut across Bob's place down to where George stays while Bob returned to his chores of fetching logs for the fire. Not too shabby for 90 years old.

George now lives alone except for his cat Daisy in a small mobile home on the edge of what was his farm. Living room with a log burner, small kitchen and bathroom and one bedroom. George has lived here for the last few years and it is only in the last couple of months that he has started to light the log burner despite the fact that in the winter it is bitterly cold in here. Even though I fitted smoke and carbon monoxide alarms he was gripped by a morbid fear of burning alive that only several cold winters managed to loosen.

Daisy is a fat cat with spindly legs. George describes her as 'fat as a mole'. I am not sure where that expression comes from but it is just one of many that appear to unique to him.

I found him sitting in front of the TV watching some Sunday morning chat show and smoking the latest in endless stream of roll-your-own cigarettes. 'Rollies' are one of George's few remaining vices. Prostate operations, colon cancer and two colostomy operations have put paid to most of the others.

About 100 meters up the hill from here there are two warm and spacious bungalows. George built both of them and did all of the bricklaying and plumbing himself. For the first one he had no scaffolding so he used hay bales instead as he was also doing mowing hay at the same time. He lost both houses as part of his two divorce settlements. The farmland itself he has signed over to his youngest son except for one small area which he signed over to his other children and they allow him to live here in the mobile home among the chickens and geese. George has his home spun philospohical approach to these things. "Always remember Zeyemen 'The pride of your prick will bring rags to your arse' ". I am not 100% sure what he means by this but I am sure it is good advice.

I met George over 10 years ago when he was still in his 70s. At that time he was still living with his second wife in one of the bungalows. I was staying there as a bed and breakfast lodger and was only vaguely aware of a strange old man who also lived there and came and went at strange hours of the day. He had already departed when I left for work at 07:00 am. He was rarely around in the evening but instead worked out on the farm or in the winter evenings under floodlights in the barns.

One evening I was standing in the kitchen talking with his wife when the door opened behind me. I did not turn around but slowly became aware that there was something poking between my legs from behind. I put my hand down and discovered what I initially took to two pieces of cold copper plumbing pipe. A closer examination showed that it was actually the business end of a 12 bore shotgun. This was George's way of a friendly introduction.

Over the next few years we became good friends and George undertook my further education.

No small feat for someone who left school at the age of 9 and cannot read or write. And what an education it became. My lack of knowledge of even the most basic facts about running a farm, animal welfare, building, carpentry and a host of other subjects was all too obvious. He never makes me feel as ignorant about these as I should do.


We exchanged greetings and George almost immediately suggests that we 'do a bit'. George never fails to make the most of any opportunity to exploit an extra pair of hands around the place and 'doing a bit' is how he describes it. 'Doing a bit' may involve putting up new fences poles, moving hens and chicks to fresh grazing or building his latest henhouses. On this occasion 'doing a bit' was sawing and splitting logs.

The chain saw took quite some persuasion to pull into life and kept spluttering out. Inside the barn we nearly choked on the clouds of blue exhaust fumes. Half a mile away on the other side of the village is the Sparsholt Agricultural College where they teach modern farming techniques and specialize in sheep shearing and chainsaw courses. It may only be half a mile but it might as well be on the moon. George never had a chain saw lesson in his life and uses one without protective clothing and only soft deck shoes on his feet.


It is my job to push the logs along the cutting stump while he saws off the ends into 6 inch blocks until, with the last piece, my fingers are within inches of the moving chain. Even this is preferable to cutting fences posts when I hold the post and he cuts a point on it while I am direct firing line of any broken chain.


Eventually the chain saw stopped completely because it was over heating. The oil feed which would normally cool it no longer works because a tree fell on the saw. I don't ask why or how it happened it is best just to accept it. Then I started splitting blocks until there was sufficient to last a week. I placed them in a wheel barrow and we took them back to his home.


While we were working I noticed a few adults and children at the top of the hill. They are town people who keep horses in livery on the farm. They arrive most weekends in their SUVs and ride out or clean the stables. Renting out fields for livery is a profitable line of business. You provide a field and perhaps a stable with water supply then sit back while people give you money to keep their horses on your land. You can make it even more profitable by selling them the hay that they need to keep their horses through the winter.


George hobbled with me up the hill when I left. The weekend horse riders and their children looked at us like we were martians. George never even noticed them and merely grumbled about his wornout knee joints. I suggested he get a replacement knee joint knowing that he would never consider such a thing. He merely replied that he would like a new back bone first.

Advice wanted... any more suggestions.

I read the following message on an advice forum where a desperate mother seeks help for her son.

My son (aged 12) is a reluctant reader and despite getting him to read out loud daily, is still struggling. Does anyone have any suggestions on things that might help. Developing a passion for reading is not as easy as it might sound and it is now getting to the stage where it is impacting other areas of his school work. Any suggestions for 'small miracles' welcome - books to inspire 12 year old boys - tutors which could provide reading help - stories of hope.

I could not help but come up with a few suggestions.....

Suggestion 1

Give him a football/skateboard/Gameboy, let him go out with his friends but
above all get off the his back and stop embarrassing the kid!

Suggestion 2

OK you tried making him read out loud and that did not work? Try embarrassing
him further.

• Make him wear a skirt to school and tie his
  hair in a ribbon.


• Call him a girl's name in front of his
  friends.


• Make sure all his clothes are pink.

Suggestion 3

This unfortunate boy is suffering from a severe case of of OPS. (Overbearing
Parent Syndrome). It will only be cured when his parents get a life of their
own. These parents are easily recognized in educational circles where they are
known as helicopters. So called because of they have the annoying habit
of hovering around and interfering with the day to day running of the school.

Suggestion 4

12 years old eh? Perhaps he is starting to develop other interests that you
could use as an incentive.
Has he started to notice girls? Bribe him with an evening in a bordello when he has finished reading War and Peace.

Suggestion 5

Get him a years subscription to Playboy magazine and a pair of boxing
gloves.

Suggestion 6

You are too soft with the boy.
Start a new displined regime. Wake at 5 am for a cold shower and 3
mile run. Breakfast of gruel.
5 hours reading aloud and memorizing the standard text. The
bible. King James edition of course. None of this namby pamby New International
stuff. Any hesitations and deviations are dealt with by a good thrashing. Iron
discpline. Thats what made this country great.

I hasten to add that I used none of the above recommendations with my kids.

A Night Visitor

In the last few months H. and I have moved from our long time home in Brackley, Northamptonshire to Romsey, Hampshire to be nearer to my work place.


For those not familiar with Romsey I should say a few words about the town. It is a very nice (pronounced naice) little middle class town about 10 miles from Southampton. A twee town. Twee is a peculiarly English word which is hard to define precisely. It is almost kitsch but not quite. The covers that your grandmother places on arms and backs of chairs are twee. Paper doilies are twee. Lace covers to keep flies out of milk jugs and incense burners and scented candles are twee. Romsey could specialize in shops that sell solely tweeware. (I just invented that word and I am thinking of taking out a patent.) You know, the sort of shop that sells sets of thimbles with pictures on each one or life like collector dolls that 'are well worth an investment'. OK I think you get the picture of what Romsey is like now so to get back to the story.

H. and I were very surprised one Sunday afternoon when, going out for a walk, we disturbed a three burglars trying to steal garden machinery from our neighbours shed. They ran off empty-handed but a few days later the same thing happened again.


Our neighbours told us not to worry as it was probably just didicoys. (Didicoy is another peculiarly English word. It is a perjorative term refering to travelling people. For example in the expression "skinny as a didicoy's dog.") It had happened sometime last year when the didicoys had stolen various power tools belonging arbiculturalists working in the garden. Romsey doesn't have gardeners it has arbiculturalists and landscapers. Anyway I am getting distracted from the story again.

All this talk of burglars must have got my mind working overtime. On Saturday night I was very restless and I awoke when I thought I heard noises downstairs. As I opened my eyes I saw the dark outline of a figure standing by the bedroom door. Immeditaley I thought it was H. returning from the bathroom and so I asked 'Is that you?'.



The figure was silent and then H., who was still lying next to me, said 'No'.


Immediately I sprang from the bed and launched myself at the intruder, arms flailing in an attempt to get a knockout blow. Let me tell you that I taught that dressing gown hanging on the back of the door a lesson it will never forget. I beat it black and blue.


It took over an hour before my heartbeat returned to normal and I was able to go back to sleep. The dressing gown recovered a lot quicker and is none the worse for the experience.