“Come swimming,” insists the LTLP.

The thought does not appeal. I make my ‘I do not want to come swimming’ face.

“Go on,” she says. “I always have to take the Toddler on my own. Come with us. You’ll enjoy it.”

“I will not enjoy it,” I reply. “I don’t enjoy swimming.”

“You enjoyed it at Centre Parcs.”

“I liked going to the pool at Centre Parcs,” I clarify. “But that was because it had loads of water slides and stuff, and you didn’t have to actually swim. You could just go down the slides, and that meant I could shut my eyes and hold my nose and still enjoy myself without any swimming being involved.”

“Well I thought you’d like to see how well she can swim,” she responds, waving at the Toddler whom she has previously bribed to look sad because I might not go swimming. “And perhaps look after her for a bit, and I can actually do a few lengths rather than just stand there holding her hand.”

“No – I really don’t want to go swimming,” I reply, closing the conversation.

I go swimming.

I do not understand why swimming is meant to be a thing that people universally like. If I were a keen bagpipe player, I would be very happy to invite my friends and family to share with me the enjoyment of playing the bagpipes, but I hope that I would understand if they didn’t share my enthusiasm for bagpiping and wanted to do something else, e.g. play the banjo. But if you turn down the offer of going to a swimming pool then you are suddenly looked upon with suspicion, like there is something wrong with you.

It is not as if I am a non-swimmer, as I can easily do a length before I get tired. It is the fact that swimming is very much like ice-skating – once you have been round one way, then been round the other way, there is really very little else to do except more of the same, unless you are really good and want to try all the dangerous twirly-whirly stuff.

“Take that expression off your face,” demands the LTLP, as I stand in the shallow end holding a long foam-rubber thing that may or may not be a buoyancy aid.

Going swimming with a small child is basically exactly the same as day-to-day childminding on land, with the added concern that somebody might drown on your watch. I try to explain that it is no good putting me in charge, as I would be unable to perform any heroic rescue acts as I don’t really like getting water in my nose. But I am looked upon as a contemptible non-aquanaut. There is a snort, as the LTLP zooms off doing 1000000mph freestyle.

I know people do not believe me – but there is no great hidden reason why I am a nervous swimmer; no huge trauma from my childhood etc etc etc. I just do not much like it, for no reason at all.

There are other people in the changing rooms as I exit the pool. I hold my towel round me tightly and try to get my pants back on without them seeing my thingy.

We have ordered a new mattress, from a discount mattress place.

Until now, I have been perfectly happy with my old mattress. It has been my faithful nighttime companion through many years of my life. It has been by my side or, to be more accurate, underneath me – first in London, then here in Norfolk and the Cottage, then over in Narcoleptic Dave’s place, then back in the Cottage. You cannot put a price on such memories.

I am still not convinced that we need a new one. But admittedly it was quite cheap when we bought it, i.e. under £100. And – let’s face it – any mattress will suffer in an extra heavy duty wear-and-tear sense when it is me that is using it, ladies you know what I mean [n.b. not that I am fat or overweight, I mean that I am an energetic and enthusiastic lover]. [n.b. (2) although obviously I can be tender as well and do not have to go on top.]

The telephone rings.

“There has been a bit of a problem,” I tell the LTLP, when I have found her. She is upstairs, stripping the bedding off in preparation.

“What do you mean: ‘a problem?’”

“That was the discount mattress people. We cannot have the mattress that we have chosen, as it has been soiled.”

The LTLP gives me a look, as if I have walked into the room dressed as an elephant and singing ‘A Little Peace’, by German 1992 Eurovision winner, Nicole.

“Apparently, they were taking it out of storage, and there was all soiling on it,” I clarify.

There is a short lull in the conversation. The LTLP starts replacing the sheet.

“Hmmm,” she says, holding it at arm’s length.

My sister, RonnieB, looks on, impressed.

“The antibiotics are obviously starting to work,” reports the LTLP. “The swelling’s gone down quite a bit. It’s still horrifically manky between these two toes, however. Would you like me to put on some more cream?”

I shake my head, experienced enough to know the right answer.

“I can’t believe how sympathetic you’re being,” gushes my sister. “Honestly, I wouldn’t go near it if this had happened to him.” She jerks her head contemptuously towards my brother-in-law, who quails in the corner. “You’re obviously a very caring person.”

“It’s only because there’s somebody else here,” I interject. “You wait – as soon as you leave it’ll be…” I tail off, following a sharp pain in my toe.

“Well just don’t expect that from me,” my sister continues to her husband. It is a shame how some men can get so hen-pecked.

“Right, you bastard,” snarls the LTLP, 0.0000001 seconds after my family have left to drive home. “I want a glass of wine, and I’m going to sit on this sofa and watch you load the dishwasher.”

“But I’ve got a bad foot!!!” I counter.

“And make sure it’s a cold one,” she adds.

I limp off to the fridge and get to work on the dishwasher. When it’s fully loaded, I have to wipe the surfaces and put the rest of the dinner stuff away.

“I think it’s starting to hurt once more,” I complain, as I get her a second glass of wine. But she is not listening; she is too busy looking up the Dignitas clinic on the laptop. It is time for some more antibiotics and some mank-cream.

I am not entirely sure that the cream is working.

I am putting it on every day, and rubbing it in really well, but I suspect that I have been ripped off by the foxy blonde pharmaceutical assistant who had seemed so interested in my condition. I complain to the LTLP about this.

“Let’s have a look at it then,” she offers.

She looks at my foot.

“Jesus,” she mutters, supportively. “It’s the size of a balloon. And blue.”

“Is that not what athlete’s foot looks like?” I ask. “The size of a balloon? And blue?”

She orders me to go to the doctors immediately. I get an appointment straight away, as everybody is scared of catching swine flu.

“Jesus,” mutters the doctor, supportively.

“It was just a bit athlete’s footy,” I explain. “Then I sort of went on a stag do pub crawl thing and walked about a lot and it got a bit sore and I hoped it would go away, but instead it sort of swelled up to the size of a balloon. And went blue.”

The doctor prods my shins. “Well it doesn’t look as if it’s spread to your legs and got in to your bloodstream.”

“Would that be bad?” I ask. I am not a medical person, but I do not want balloony blue legs as well, especially in the shorts season.

He gives me a look. “It would.”

He taps away on his computer whilst I struggle to get my shoe back on. I am sent back to the reception area to wait for my prescription – some powerful antibiotics.

A thought occurs to me as I leave the room.

“These antibiotics – are they really really powerful?”

The doctor sighs. “A small drink. You can have a small drink with them.”

I approach her, coyly.

Do not get me wrong. The fact that I have mentioned that she is blonde is just there to set the scene, and to give readers a vivid sense of place. Although it is accepted as a stereotype, it is not at all necessarily true that girls who are blonde are more ‘up for it’ than girls with other types of hair, and judging people by the colour of their hair is foolish in any case.

Although it is true that you never, ever, ever see blonde nuns. So it might be that more dark-haired females are taken away from the sexual marketplace, thus meaning that on a purely scientific and mathematical average basis, girls who are blonde are more up for it.

I am a bit nervous about speaking to her. Recently, I seem to have lost all my confidence when it comes to speaking to women, as if the past twentyish years never happened and I am in my mid-teens again. It is not that I am particularly shy, it’s just that the only topics I can think of to talk about are the late thirtysomething equivalent of programs for the ZX Spectrum and the meaning of Jethro Tull lyrics, viz bowls and chickens.

I clear my throat.

“Have you got anything for athlete’s foot?” I ask.

She looks at me with beautiful eyes.

“Is it powdery and flaky, or gungey and weepy?” she asks.

The conversation is already out of control – I am sure there is nothing in the ‘how to stop being a sad loser and get off with shop assistants – GUARANTEED’ self-help books about this.

“Erm – gungey and weepy I guess,” I reply. I have blown it already.

“This is the most popular thing we have,” she offers. “It comes in a cream or a spray – which would you like?”

I hesitate. She has asked me a ‘closed’ question – a sure way of terminating the conversation. But if I am clever, I can keep her going – I do not have to reply with a simple single-word answer.

“Well it’s between my little toe and the one next to it, so I think a spray would be a bit difficult. I think cream would be better?” I reply, raising the pitch of my voice a little at the end to indicate a question, which will both extend the dialogue between us and flatter her by asking her for an opinion.

“Cream it is then,” she replies flatly. Damn!!!

I leave the shop with my cream. I am not currently in the market for dating, strictly speaking, but it is always good to keep your hand in – just in case. As I go, I remember that I have forgotten to play the sympathy card – this is how out of practice that I am.

I administer the medication on my return home. It is very, very sore and hurts a lot.

Hullo everyone.

There seems to have been a bit of unscheduled service disruption, viz the whole thing went a bit tits up last night.

I don’t know why, but my best people are on the case.

Thanks to those who contacted me, and sorry for the inconvenience – something seemed to go quite seriously wrong with either WordPress or the host itself. I’m now going to play about with things for a bit to check they’re still working, which is annoying as I should be cooking a tortilla.

If you spot anything amiss, please do leave a comment.

JonnyB

That is two garages now. A pattern is emerging.

“I really, really wouldn’t bother spending any more money on it,” warns the Garage Man, implying that I have spent some money on it, ever.

I sigh deeply. “How much do I owe you?”

“Just give me a tenner.”

Ten pounds!!! It is eating money. But the financials are the least of my worries. If I have to get another car, then I will have to choose what car to have, and I am not interested in cars, or at least not the sort of cars that I can afford. Plus I am bound to get ripped off, as that is the sort of thing that happens to me. I drive off crossly, loud techno music playing from my steering rack.

“Scrap it in now, and you’d get a new Fiat Punto for four grand,” someone advises. I do not know what a Fiat Punto looks like, but I suspect it is not something that is going to cause me to leap out of bed in the morning, throw my curtains wide and shout to the world ‘four thousand pounds! Four thousand pounds! Why did I not spend this money sooner? Fiat Punto! Fiat Punto! How thou hast transformed my life!” Basically, things will be exactly the same as they are now, just with less money.

I drove a friend’s Daewoo the other day. I could probably afford a Daewoo, although it was a bit basic. I am not saying that it was like a museum inside, but it was the only car that I’ve been in where you have to enter the drivers seat via the gift shop. There was an unusually-shaped dent in at the rear. The hatchback hadn’t shut properly the previous week, so she had given the thin metal a nudge with her hips. I drove down the road in this Ninky-Nonk car that sported a dent shaped exactly like a female arse.

The fact is that I do not want to spend any money on a car. But I need a car, as I need to drive to places. Short Tony is getting a motorbike, which is a good idea, but I am a bit more naturally fallingoffish than he is. So I do not know what to do.

Does anybody have any ideas?