After a quick weekend visit, my daughter was packing up her car today when one of the aliens that inhabit the Twilight Zone in which I currently reside appeared to ask whether she was off back to uni. My daughter is an English teacher and finished her formal education some years ago but still gets asked for identification every time she wants to purchase something that necessitates her being over eighteen. We are blessed with youthful looks in our family for much longer than most folk. There is an upsetting period around the late forties when age suddenly clicks in but, as readers of this blog will be aware, we make up for this by acting anything other than what might normally be expected. We are all growing old disgracefully; just wait till I start writing about Aunty Grace! Anyway, the neighbour was too late as I’d already packed my son and his life into the car the day before for the trip back to Swansea University.
The beloved one had the grace to be reasonably emotional about leaving as he looked out across the heath towards the water. Let’s face it, he’d been home for four months. Mind you, he wasn’t as emotional as I was when I went to clean his room! Once my car has established the fact that it isn’t going to work, it pretty well knows its way to South Wales now including the turn-off which avoids Bath and takes us over a little toll-bridge manned by strange folk who exact sixty pence for the pleasure of cutting straight onto the road up to the M4. Once into Wales, we felt the urgent need for coffee and pulled off towards some services. ‘Do you remember that strange place we stopped at before?’ he says. ‘Yes, I think we might be there again’; which, of course, we were. It’s a geographical void inhabited by extremely obese people. Well, that’s Wales; but I’m talking about some weird place west of Cardiff.
This year, my son, along with nine other lads, is renting an ex-guest house on the front. Currently, there’s only one other occupant so it’s looking good. I hate to think what it’s going to be like in about two week’s time. There are two kitchens and four fridges. Ten into four doesn’t go: folk coming in looking for something to eat after a night on the lash head for anything readily available. I am so glad I don’t live there. He arrived home after the first year minus anything I’d sent him off with: not a memory of bed-linen and no cutlery. This time, I’m wiser. No point trying to buy the best…just go to Asda. I thought they’d picked this place for the convenience of the uni and because it’s right on the beach; turns out they hadn’t noticed this but it is five minutes walk from the nearest student friendly pub.
On the way back I had to do the Severn Bridge alone. I don’t like bridges. It’s yet another phobia and one I’ve inherited from my grandma. I am that person who is irritating every other motorist by driving at a steady sixty in the middle lane which, by virtue of traffic passing either side, precludes me having to glimpse the peripheral reaches of the Severn. This time I was ready for it. Last time I did the journey back I was feeling tired and decided I needed a sugar hit. Spotting a sign for services, I turned off in search of chocolate. Many miles later, with all signs leading to Chepstow, I found myself on the old bridge completely alone. Now, I only have to see a bridge looming and my palms start to sweat. If there’s someone else in the car I make them talk incessantly to take my mind off the fact I’m in mid-air. Then, there was no-one. Coupled with that, I was on another attempt to give up the weed. I crossed that bridge dragging frantically on my imitation cigarette; I sucked the thing dry. All alone on that old bridge which is about two feet wide and contains every pot-hole you could dream of, I had a nervous break-down. No-one knew I was up there in the air. When I finally reached the other side and thus located the services I was a wreck. I staggered into the shop which no-one has visited for the last twelve years and bought all the old dried up fags that they still had. I think they were Capstan Full Strength.
Here come the boys! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gaZCZnmdmbA
The beloved one had the grace to be reasonably emotional about leaving as he looked out across the heath towards the water. Let’s face it, he’d been home for four months. Mind you, he wasn’t as emotional as I was when I went to clean his room! Once my car has established the fact that it isn’t going to work, it pretty well knows its way to South Wales now including the turn-off which avoids Bath and takes us over a little toll-bridge manned by strange folk who exact sixty pence for the pleasure of cutting straight onto the road up to the M4. Once into Wales, we felt the urgent need for coffee and pulled off towards some services. ‘Do you remember that strange place we stopped at before?’ he says. ‘Yes, I think we might be there again’; which, of course, we were. It’s a geographical void inhabited by extremely obese people. Well, that’s Wales; but I’m talking about some weird place west of Cardiff.
This year, my son, along with nine other lads, is renting an ex-guest house on the front. Currently, there’s only one other occupant so it’s looking good. I hate to think what it’s going to be like in about two week’s time. There are two kitchens and four fridges. Ten into four doesn’t go: folk coming in looking for something to eat after a night on the lash head for anything readily available. I am so glad I don’t live there. He arrived home after the first year minus anything I’d sent him off with: not a memory of bed-linen and no cutlery. This time, I’m wiser. No point trying to buy the best…just go to Asda. I thought they’d picked this place for the convenience of the uni and because it’s right on the beach; turns out they hadn’t noticed this but it is five minutes walk from the nearest student friendly pub.
On the way back I had to do the Severn Bridge alone. I don’t like bridges. It’s yet another phobia and one I’ve inherited from my grandma. I am that person who is irritating every other motorist by driving at a steady sixty in the middle lane which, by virtue of traffic passing either side, precludes me having to glimpse the peripheral reaches of the Severn. This time I was ready for it. Last time I did the journey back I was feeling tired and decided I needed a sugar hit. Spotting a sign for services, I turned off in search of chocolate. Many miles later, with all signs leading to Chepstow, I found myself on the old bridge completely alone. Now, I only have to see a bridge looming and my palms start to sweat. If there’s someone else in the car I make them talk incessantly to take my mind off the fact I’m in mid-air. Then, there was no-one. Coupled with that, I was on another attempt to give up the weed. I crossed that bridge dragging frantically on my imitation cigarette; I sucked the thing dry. All alone on that old bridge which is about two feet wide and contains every pot-hole you could dream of, I had a nervous break-down. No-one knew I was up there in the air. When I finally reached the other side and thus located the services I was a wreck. I staggered into the shop which no-one has visited for the last twelve years and bought all the old dried up fags that they still had. I think they were Capstan Full Strength.
Here come the boys! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gaZCZnmdmbA
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