Another day in the life of.......

I’ve been looking for daughter number one. It’s another lovely evening so she must be out with the dog; except that the dog is indoors barking at the person knocking outside. Me. Daughter number one phones and we have another of those conversations about people I don’t know and things I don’t understand.

Daughter: I’ve had to wait for Mrs Hardy outside her mother’s house because we’re borrowing the fridge for two weeks.
Me: Mrs Hardy’s fridge?
Daughter: No, her mother’s fridge.
Me: Who is Mrs Hardy?
Daughter: Mr Hardy’s wife.
Me: Who is Mr Hardy?
Daughter: Clive.
Me: Doesn’t Mrs Hardy’s mother need her fridge?
Daughter: She’s dead.
Me (knowing how quickly my daughter can spot an opportunity): When did she die? (please don’t say this morning)
Daughter: February.
Me: Why are you only having it for two weeks?......... and so this meaningless communication continues.

Prior to that, I was painting the fence. Again. I’ve been painting the fence for over a week now. I’ve been waiting for one of the Twilight Zone inhabitants to move her car so I don’t splash it. She comes out to watch just in case. A one-sided conversation ensues about the local wild life, most of which currently reside in my small hedge. Five sparrows, a squirrel and two pigeons that are making a nest. Irritating neighbour tells me how she and the other Kraken, the one that started all this fence business by pushing a note of complaint through my door about the disreputable state of my woodwork, have finally managed to have all of another neighbour’s trees chopped down. Well, that explains the influx of starlings on my pocket handkerchief-sized lawn then. Poor buggers have nowhere else to go. Yesterday, I lived in a place called Tree Hamlets. Today, it’s apparently called No-Tree Hamlets.

Then she moves on to the global threat caused by squirrels. I haven’t yet responded although I’m finding the therapeutic benefits gained by splashing a lot of paint around waning. After this, she starts on the pigeons. I’ve got a pair nesting in my bush I report happily. Oh, we don’t want pigeons. They poo on the cars and take all the paint off. I’ll have to come out and bang on the fence with a broom she says. I try to explain that it won’t be necessary. Last year, the same two stupid pigeons tried to build a nest in exactly the same place and gave up after they crashed through the branches that couldn’t withstand the weight of so much activity. Presumably, they have short memories. And, she continues, someone is feeding the seagulls and they’re pooing all over the place. I know she thinks that ‘someone’ is me. I can’t resist it. It’s not me. I don’t feed the birds since the rat arrived I tell her. RAT! She screams. Did you see it? Oh yes. Every day. It sits on the lawn and smiles at me. I’m not telling her I haven’t seen it since February when I devised my patent rat deterrent which involves putting the rat poison, replete with picture of said vermin, in the shed window so that it can see what’s in store should it attempt a come-back.

Before any of that I had a day at work which included three visits to Kwik-Fit who weren’t that quick; otherwise it wouldn’t have taken three visits! It started at 8.30am with too much information about a stranded lorry driver who needed a number two, continued at 10.30am with the news that the radio that was working at 8.30am no longer worked due to a wrong code (only went in to get the brake fluid changed) and terminated at 4pm having bought a new battery and brake light and being informed that the toilet was still at DEF COM 2.

In between that lot, I had a student who, having failed all his exams, told me how boring it was having to live at home. I pointed out that he got fed, had his washing done and was loved. Don’t come to me looking for the sympathy vote sonny. Especially as student number two was also living at home due to all kinds of appalling problems that a young person shouldn’t have to bear. Student number three arrived armed with a card on which she had written that I was a star, a box of chocolates and a huge bouquet of flowers. It only takes one to make it all worthwhile.

The plot unfolds

Well, well, well. Gordy's sent the Ark Royal to Spain so all will be well in the continuing ridiculous saga that is, allegedly, the volcanic nightmare designed by Iceland to get its own back on Europe for being so nasty. I still don't believe a word of it. There's something rotten in the state of Denmark that even the nation's new darling, Cleggie, can't sort out for us. Good job we've got Compo in charge. Actually, there's something rotten in Kenya: namely, a shed load of mange-tout that can't be flown out to the rampant hoardes over here who are waiting for something green and tasteless to add to their stir-fry. Can't you give it to the Kenyans asks a logical thinking reporter? Comes the answer, no...it's not part of their diet. So, Africa starves because, sensibly, they don't want shrivelled up beans. Please.

Cameron's thinking of a reply. Cameron's thinking of a reply to a lot of things at the moment. Like how to get over the fact that he's a toff. It's a bit like Kinnock in the old days: you can't get over being ginger and Welsh. Doesn't matter what you do...you're stuck with your heritage and the Eton playing fields are as far removed from most of us as Iceland is from Kenya. Dave can't disguise it like Boris can but doubtless the working class Tories will have their wicked way eventually.

A woman phones into Radio 4: I'm stuck in Avignon. How absolutely appalling and second only to the frightful despair of the previous callers who are stranded in Venice. Could be worse. Could be Kenya with nothing to eat but mouldy mange-tout. The travel expert advises her to stop moaning and catch the TGV to Paris and thereon to Calais. Another caller: the French train drivers have gone on strike! Is this another hoax? Unlikely. The metamorphosing volcanic cloud hit on Thursday and as everyone who's ever spent more than two weeks in France knows, they always have strikes on Thursdays. It's the rule. The frogs love le weekend and once Thursday's written off, no-one's going to make an effort on a Friday.

Meanwhile, the Eastern Europeans who couldn't get back to Poland in time for the funeral of their government who, ironically were wiped out in a plane crash...don't make me laugh with that accident theme....are currently rubbing their hands with glee down at Tesco as they wait for five million punters to demand their cars be washed of Icelandic residue. So far, the dust has landed on Waterlooville. Well, serve them right. Couldn't have happened to a nicer place.

I've put the second coat on my decking. Autumn Red. It did what it said on the tin but, trust me, it wasn't the colour it portrayed on the front. The bloody pigeons, which can't stop their continuous sexual spring-time cooing, have already left their mark in several places. Now I'm waiting for the dust to land and my lovely tidied-up garden to take on a Pompeii-type incarnation. I don't think this is what was meant by the Mediterranean look.

A dark cloud looms

We are currently trapped on our sceptred isle as all flights in and out have been cancelled today. Is this another case of that militant tendency, the BA cabin crew, striking again? Clearly not. There’s not a bank holiday in sight for at least another two weeks so there are no vacation plans for them to upset. Apparently, a large cloud of volcanic dust is sweeping its way down England’s green and pleasant land with the potential to clog up aeroplane engines. The BBC online news reports that it’s ‘eerie at Aberdeen’. So, no change there then.

I’m not sure I believe this story. It seems very odd that the cloud is coinciding with the most momentous event in British political history i.e. THE DEBATE. Could it be a cover for a known terrorist plot? Maybe they were going to parachute onto the building and wipe out all three non-entities in one fell swoop; thereby making tonight’s viewing marginally more interesting. Or perhaps it’s a means of stopping anyone who was intending to fly to anywhere for a long weekend in order to escape the already interminable dearth of non-election reporting. Actually, that’s probably it: they’ve created a ‘day after tomorrow’ type news item so that we all stay indoors to watch TV to see how Nick, Dave and Gordy intend to cope with impending doom. Anyway, I’m going to bring the washing in just in case it’s true.

Not Christmas

Here’s a funny thing. A person can spend literally years ranting on about two important things in life….long-term friendship and the joys of France…and suddenly become disaffected with both after a matter of days. I can’t remember the last time I went on holiday and was anxious to come home. Until now.

Having recently been set back by work-induced exhaustion, both daughters have now decided that everything will be better due to new carpets and curtains. Bless them for caring and worrying. And it’s true that I’ve become obsessed with the black fluff on my new carpet which originates from my son’s socks. I bought him slippers but, apparently, due to global warming, it’s too hot to wear them.

They think I’m not happy living in the Twilight Zone. Well, it’s true that it’s in the middle of nowhere and the neighbours are awful but it’s quiet. I like ‘quiet’. I lived in Boscombe for seventeen years. Anyone would like ‘quiet’ after that. And there are far worse places to live. The trouble is that everyone now appears to believe that my house, which is quite nice actually, is a root cause of distress. One friend who I recently visited seemed to think I would be much better off living in a caravan. Why? If you’re reading this, I'm tired. That’s all. It’s nobody’s fault.

Clearly, when someone phones up in the middle of all this angst and asks whether you’d like to share the cost of a ferry and petrol down to the south of France you’d jump at it. I didn’t think twice. I probably wouldn’t again as long as it wasn’t the same self-obsessed person. How to ruin a latter-day obsession with the land of the frog:

Firstly, the other person decides that you’re going to do 800 miles plus in one fell swoop. The one redeeming feature of this most dreadful journey is the moon. Having been lost so many times that it’s impossible and, indeed, pointless, to recount the agonies, we emerged from the darkness of the interior of this most enormous country to take a long downhill turn into Macon. There was nothing to look at. Suddenly, on our left, a huge bright orange moon, with one small missing segment, had fallen out of the sky and was hanging precariously over the town. Its picture-book face was smiling awkwardly at us as, accompanied by the strains of Mumford and Sons, we searched for the motorway. That suspended pumpkin which was virtually touching the roof-tops, was not our moon. We saw our moon later; high in the sky where it should have been.

Finally, we arrived at our destination twenty hours after we had started. It was so cold that I went to bed wearing a chunky jumper over my pyjamas and slept under three quilts. The French passed Les Paques in their own inimitable way: days spent sitting outside smoking in the warm sun; nights spent watching unbelievable rubbish on TV; truly, they have perfected the art of wasting time. Mostly, this was redeemed by a drunken enjoyable Easter Day with thirteen for the lamb and a melange of vegetables. Sadly, for les Anglais, with only a few days to spare, it was disappointing. Still, there's always August.