Today is the last day of the boy's summer holiday. All nine weeks of it. I know it's been nine weeks because his maths teacher told me on Saturday night after I danced with his wife. The maths teacher is looking forward to going back to school, I think the boy is too. He's spending his last day with his girlfriend. No doubt they'll take the dog for a walk in the Forest, and I hope Fido doesn't run away and get lost if his walkers are distracted.
We were at at 50th birthday party on Saturday night. This was not just any 50th party. This was an Essex 50th party. For the 110 guests, the champagne flowed all night. The marquee was large and luxurious. It did have a disco ball hanging from the centre. The waitresses kept us topped up with food and bubbly. The garden around was adorned with 750 sculptural lights which illuminated a 4' bronze sculpture of a running hare which had been specially commissioned for the celebrations. The talk was generally about life in the City, and a toast was given to 'the most important man in my life. The man who has made all this possible. Mr JP Morgan.'
The boy had been invited as a guest of the daughter who he's at school with, I was invited as a friend of the birthday girl. We were given a lift by the father of the boy's best mate, and he kindly collected us too. Whilst it made me feel young to be ferried around by a parent, it felt equally very uncomfortable too. As indeed did being the only singleton at the party, and having to respond to questions about where my partner was. The explanation that I didn't have one was met with astonishment, and I hung my head in shame. Next time I'll rent.
Not so long ago, I went to the 50th birthday parties of the parents of my friends, and it's taken the wind out of my sails a bit to discover that having gone through the engagement party stage, the wedding party stage, the house warming stage, the christening stage, the divorce party stage, I'm now at the half centenary party stage. Next it'll be the wake stage. And Grandma in Cyprus hasn't helpd by ringing to mention that it's Big Brother's fiftieth this year. I'd like to pretend there's a decade and more between us, but that would be a Big Fib. We count the difference in our ages in months, not years.
So Monday is not looking good - social pariah for not having a wife, and heading to my grave as a lonely old sod. I'm going back to bed and staying there. Or maybe it's time for fake tan,hair dye and a facelift. After all I do live in Essex.
Monday, 7 September 2009
Saturday, 5 September 2009
Dr Who?
Tenants. Who'd have 'em?
Today I've been running around after one of the tenants. Somehow he'd managed to fly to the USofA on an out of date passport. They let him in but they won't let him out. Which seems a funny way of going about it. Perhaps thats the approach all illegal immigrants should take. So I've had a continuous flow of calls from his mum, dad and sister as we tried to find a spare set of keys to the flat so that sister could go in and find his proper passport and FedEx it to him. They're all very grateful of course, but in these days of terrorists plotting to blow us up left right and centre, I'd love to know how you can travel half way round the world with an out of date form of identity. The same way I guess that when we flew to Germany, unthinkingly I had in my hand luggage a large bottle of sun tan lotion, after shave, toothpaste and deodorant. We sauntered through security at Stanstead, but the hyper efficient Germans at Munich wouldn't let me fly back with it as it wasn't in one of those see-through plastic bags - they must be very clever if they manage to stop an explosion.
Other tenant adventures having been rung up in the middle of the night once. "We've got no electricity" "Oh dear - have you looked in the fuse box?" "That's fine" "Oh, erm, erm" "There's no electricity anywhere" "You mean there's a power cut?" "Yes. We thought you could ring the electricity company and find out when it will come back on" "Feck off"
Or:
"My bicycle has been stolen" "Oh no - the flat has been broken into?" "No it was downstairs, outside." "Erm, oh. Was it locked?" "No" "Feck off"
Or:
"The heating's not working" "Oh dear, do you know if the boiler is switched on?" "Yes, its on" "I'll come round and have a look". When there, I look at the radiators "They're turned off" "Yes we did that for the summer". "You're an idiot"
Or even:
"Whenever we use the washing machine it fills up with foam" "How much detergent do you use?" "About four cups or five cups" "Have you ever done any washing before?"
and indeed:
"We've got no hot water" "Is the hot water switch turned on?" "No it's in the off position" "Oh really"
Even:
"There's no bed in the flat" "You specified you wanted it unfurnished so we took the bed away." "I know, but I want a bed" "Feck off"
And oh so many more....
Today I've been running around after one of the tenants. Somehow he'd managed to fly to the USofA on an out of date passport. They let him in but they won't let him out. Which seems a funny way of going about it. Perhaps thats the approach all illegal immigrants should take. So I've had a continuous flow of calls from his mum, dad and sister as we tried to find a spare set of keys to the flat so that sister could go in and find his proper passport and FedEx it to him. They're all very grateful of course, but in these days of terrorists plotting to blow us up left right and centre, I'd love to know how you can travel half way round the world with an out of date form of identity. The same way I guess that when we flew to Germany, unthinkingly I had in my hand luggage a large bottle of sun tan lotion, after shave, toothpaste and deodorant. We sauntered through security at Stanstead, but the hyper efficient Germans at Munich wouldn't let me fly back with it as it wasn't in one of those see-through plastic bags - they must be very clever if they manage to stop an explosion.
Other tenant adventures having been rung up in the middle of the night once. "We've got no electricity" "Oh dear - have you looked in the fuse box?" "That's fine" "Oh, erm, erm" "There's no electricity anywhere" "You mean there's a power cut?" "Yes. We thought you could ring the electricity company and find out when it will come back on" "Feck off"
Or:
"My bicycle has been stolen" "Oh no - the flat has been broken into?" "No it was downstairs, outside." "Erm, oh. Was it locked?" "No" "Feck off"
Or:
"The heating's not working" "Oh dear, do you know if the boiler is switched on?" "Yes, its on" "I'll come round and have a look". When there, I look at the radiators "They're turned off" "Yes we did that for the summer". "You're an idiot"
Or even:
"Whenever we use the washing machine it fills up with foam" "How much detergent do you use?" "About four cups or five cups" "Have you ever done any washing before?"
and indeed:
"We've got no hot water" "Is the hot water switch turned on?" "No it's in the off position" "Oh really"
Even:
"There's no bed in the flat" "You specified you wanted it unfurnished so we took the bed away." "I know, but I want a bed" "Feck off"
And oh so many more....
Thursday, 3 September 2009
Skeletons in the cupboard
I wanted to write about how rubbish Homebase is, but as I'm still fuming, I'm going to leave it until I've calmed down. By which stage I probably won't care.
Instead, here's a picture of the contents of the cupboards of our kitchen. There are two Maggies, a Ronnie and a Diana. If you're the first to find them, I'll send you one of the bottles of wine. Unless you're Grandma in Cyprus, in which case I'll bring it.
Instead, here's a picture of the contents of the cupboards of our kitchen. There are two Maggies, a Ronnie and a Diana. If you're the first to find them, I'll send you one of the bottles of wine. Unless you're Grandma in Cyprus, in which case I'll bring it.
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