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I have not been on holiday for ages and ages.

I mean, a real holiday. To somewhere exotic, abroad. You know when you are abroad because they have separate money and do things differently at breakfast time. I went to Fakenham market the other week, but aside from that I have missed the thrill of adventure.

But with the global financial crisis and climate change, it is clear that it is no longer possible for a conscientious Westerner to take a simple holiday. ‘Philantholidays’ are now very popular in metropolitan circles, combining travel and relaxation with doing some good for the indigenous population.

Around Quebec. With Pants.

For the next three weeks or so, I shall be exploring part of Canada with the LTLP and Toddler. I shall also be taking all my old pants that the LTLP has been having a go at me for ages to get rid of, wearing them for one last time, and then leaving them for anybody who wants them. They are good pants, well-looked after and comfortable, and my hope is that they will find a good home amongst the Quebeccis.

I did this when I travelled round New Zealand and, although I received no actual feedback from pants recipients, I am sure that they brought someone, somewhere some relief. Recycling is not some ‘middle class’ option in today’s society – it is a duty for all of us. Having purchased some new pants, I have once more fallen into the trap of the consumer society – and this is one way of giving something back.

I will be doing my pants relief mission merely for the simple pleasure of charity. I do not seek or expect a book deal, although it strikes me that it would make an ideal paperback in the Dave Gorman/Tony Hawks vein, probably retailing at £7.99 and pushed heavily in the 3 for 2 promotions.

Writer away, due to pants project (above); competition.

The world changed post-9/11, and people do not want guest blogging. Private Secret Diary™ will resume next month. In the meantime, I will be launching a small competition from which readers can win something. That will keep things interesting.

Having struggled to think of a good idea for a competition, I have settled on this. The winner will be the reader who can think of the best idea for a competition, and come up with the most suitable prize. You will need to explain why your idea for competition/prize is the best. The entry judged the best/most inventive/funniest etc will win a prize of my choosing.

How to enter; unneccessary sub-heading for typographic reasons.

I am closing comments this evening, as there are nutters on the Internet. So you must enter via the Bizarre Appreciation Society on Facebook.

With respect to all its members, who are mad, the discussion forums have been a bit moribund on there recently, and I have been disappointed in the lack of society merchandise/club trips/special events/organised guest speakers on there. So it would be good to gee it on a bit.

As I am too dignified to join my own Appreciation Society, or even to publicise its existence, the first person to get over there will have to set up a discussion, or whatever you do in these things.

Terms and conditions

The judge’s decision (me) is final. If you post here under a secret name but are on facebook under a normal name then do not worry as I will not know your secret name/normal name link and would not tell anyone if I did. If you are not on Facebook then you should join, it is really good and I reckon will be big in the future – get a grandchild to help you set up an account if needed. Prize will be posted anywhere in the world, from the Post Office. Winners agree to take part in any publicity material that may ensue from press interest etc. Writers of Private Secret Diary (me) are not eligible.

Around Quebec. With Pants.

On my return I shall, of course, provide incisive travelogue about my experiences. From Norfolk to Canada – one of the world’s great journeys. Who will I meet? How will I cope with a simpler pace of life?

As I type, the Jehovah’s Witnesses have just called. It is time to leave the country. Quebec – here we come. So goodbye for a bit… or should I say ‘auf wiedersehen’…?

Things that have kept me away from the computer – #4 in a series of 945722572.

I clap my hands in anticipation.

My life has been a bit rutty recently, what with looking after the Toddler and playing Scramble on Facebook and practising ‘When the Levee Breaks’ on the banjo – but all this is about to change.

This is the wonder of the Internet, you see. You can be ambitious. You can sit down and research this and order that and email her, and before you can say ‘R – Tape Loading Error’, you have come up with a plan.

So actually this has not kept me away from the computer at all. Just a different area of computers.

Anyway, it is a plan. And I don’t think it is exaggerating to say that it is a plan that will not only make a difference to my own life, but to the lives of people in an entire region of an entire country.

Continued tomorrow…

“Women!” I repeat breathlessly.

“Women!” I repeat breathlessly again, concentrating on not falling off the pavement. Short Tony nods in agreement.

“It is just so unusual to see women in the Village Pub,” I elaborate. “Especially young ones, who look like they look after themselves a bit and know how to dress.” There is another nod.

“I am here, you know,” snaps Mrs Short Tony.

I try to explain that my comment was not meant to be in any way derogatory of the regular ladies that we hang out with, but it comes out a bit wrong, as abuse. Short Tony chips in to be conciliatory, but it is less like pouring petrol on the flames than chucking the petrol, the flames, some fireworks, a British seaside pier and Richard Reid the Shoe Bomber into a large hadron collider and switching it on to see what happens.

“To be honest, I wouldn’t know how to talk to one these days,” I continue sadly. “It is a shame that Big A left early. Although it might have been for the best.”

“Do I take it that the LTLP’s been away a couple of days too long?” enquires Mrs Short Tony, sarcastically.

“The thing is, although I am there in the Village Pub, I am really more of a metropolitan sophisticate type,” I ruminate, as I wee into a bush. “But they are not to know that. I should have said ‘hello’ and introduced myself.”

“Are you coming round for a bite to eat then?” demands Short Tony.

Although I have already planned a dinner, this is admittedly a Bombay Bad Boy Pot Noodle, into which I was going to dip a cold leftover lamb chop.

“Yes please,” I agree.

His truck is parked in the drive; I am keen to enquire about the eggs in the flower pot.

“Wha…?” I begin, as I push open the gate.

Short Tony is stood at the washing line, hanging up underwear. He turns sharply at the squeak of iron.

“Don’t say anything,” he snarls.

I retreat a couple of paces. It is very odd and unsettling seeing him with clothes pegs in his hand. It is like inadvertantly witnessing Brian Cant with a whore.

Muttering something apologetic, I return to the Cottage to put the shopping away. The gender-reverse thing is getting ridiculous, especially since the LTLP has been working abroad and Mrs Short Tony has got her job. I blame the permissiveness of the sixties that culminated with free availability of the contraceptive pill, the wider availability of university education and the subsequent heightened political awareness of working class women, or the advent of BBC TV’s ‘The Vicar of Dibley’.

Later on, I pass Eddie, who is taking some mail to the Post Office in a properly feminine way. Later, I pop in to see her, and interrupt her cleaning the bathroom. This makes me feel a bit better, but I can’t help that she is a one-woman Village Queen Canute.

I follow his truck up the drive, keen to tell him the exciting news about the chicken bark.

He disembarks from the cab and throws open the tailgate. Several badly-packed supermarket bags are revealed.

“What?” I begin. “Have you been…”

“Don’t say anything,” he warns, wearily lifting down the shopping.

I convey my message and slope back to the Cottage pensively. How was it that we all became so oppressed? If even Short Tony is being sent out to do menial household tasks then that is just about the end for mankind, and we may as well just be living in ‘The Worm that Turned’ by The Two Ronnies.

I hang out the washing to dry in the fierce heat of the Norfolk weather. I do not use the new pegs that I got for Christmas as there is a slight breeze and they are not overly sturdy. By the time I have put the rubbish out and placed some cups in the dishwasher I am exhausted, and only just have time for a couple of games of ‘Scramble’ on the Facebook before the antiques programme starts on the telly.

There must be a solution to drudgery like this. When I was a small boy it was generally accepted that by the time we reached the twenty-first century all households would have a robot that would do all the boring stuff for you whilst you went and leisured at the astropark with Jenny Agutter. But that has not happened yet. At the time when I actually WAS a small boy, my mum did all that stuff anyway. It is just my luck to be born in the wilderness zone gap between fully functioning housewives and robots.

A new lot of washing goes in the machine; I rearrange the shoe rack so that the shoes are in order of colour (lightest first). If I get the place nicely straight for the LTLP when she returns home then she will not mind finishing up by doing the washing up and wiping all the surfaces and clearing out the sink. Sometimes I suspect the lack of robot development is some sort of plot to keep people in their place. Either way, I am fed up with having to do more than my fair share.

Oxford!!!

Famous for being in the Inspector Morse shows, Oxford is actually quite nice in its own right and has several impressive park and ride schemes. The LTLP is giving an Important Talk there, and I decide to cadge along for the ride.

“Have you been to Oxford before?” asks the pleasant Oxfordian lady brightly, by way of introduction.

I pause. I do not particularly want to mention the debacle that followed the Oxford Union invitation and have already had several nightmares about people pointing me out in the street, waving their papers and crying ’shame!’. I had previously assumed that nobody in Britain had waved their papers and cried ’shame’ since about 1758, and thus my experience with the Oxford Union has always made me a bit wary of the city’s inhabitants.

“Not recently,” I evade.

In the event it is true that everybody in Oxford looks a bit peculiar. They look a bit peculiar because they are either a) from overseas and standing in the street and looking up; b) extremely clever, and let’s face it extremely clever people always look a bit peculiar; or c) extremely clever people who are also from overseas and standing in the street and looking up. My eyes scour the pavements of Catte Street, looking for signs of normality.

The city seems very pleasant in terms of architecture, as would any place you have to pass through Northampton to get to. I buy a nice pork and leek pie from a butcher in the covered market, and use the toilet twice in Debenhams. As I relax on the comfortable white seat, with the toilet paper positioned at the correct height on the wall beside me, I reflect that travel writing might just be my thing.