I am disappointed by monkeys.

Posted on by Alex

We travel to Longleat Safari Park.

Longleat is fairly unique amongst major tourist attractions in the UK, in that it is not rubbish. I have been there once before, and whilst it is expensive – and no Dollywood – it clearly has a heart and offers value for money.

I think this is probably something to do with it not being owned by an Evil Corporation. As most people know, Longleat belongs to the Marquis of Bath, a man who, let’s face it, commands a certain amount of respect amongst the English heterosexual male fraternity. He provides good recreation facilities and quality animal contact opportunities.

The only thing that spoilt my previous visit was that the monkeys had herpes. I was disappointed by this, as to me a safari park is defined by the monkey experience, and not being able to drive in to the monkey enclosure (due to the herpes) had been a blow.

We trundle up the long drive towards the pay kiosks.

‘Due to unforeseen circumstances,’ reads a sign, ‘the monkey enclosure will be closed until further notice.’

I do not believe it!!! There are no monkeys once more!!! I wind down my window as the ticket lady looks down on me.

“Are there no monkeys today?” I demand.

Her eyes refuse to meet mine. “No. I’m afraid the monkey enclosure is closed,” she says. “Until further notice,” she adds helpfully.

“The monkey enclosure was closed last time,” I complain. “What is the problem with them?”

The lady shifts her stare once more. “They have… a virus,” she replies evasively.

I fix her with a look. “Is it the herpes again?”

She confirms that the monkeys have herpes once more. It is typical. “I can’t believe your monkeys keep reinfecting themselves,” I reply.

“It is not them; it is the humans. They get it from the humans. Then they give it back to us. The monkeys themselves are not that affected.”

“Oh,” I say, taking my change from her before scrubbing at my hand with a baby wipe.

We drive on into the attraction. We have a fine, monkeyless day.

I visit my father in hospital.

Posted on by Alex

I have heard it said before: there is something beautiful about seeing a person in their twilight years, serene and at peace with themselves in a hospital bed.

Whereas my father looks like a pissed off man covered in probes.

“Hullo!” I beam at him. “What happened to you?”

He shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “Nice probes,” I add. The things are sellotaped all over him. It is quite impressive.

“Absolutely nothing happened to me,” he complains. “One minute my blood pressure dropped a bit, so I felt a bit faint. But because I was standing on the stairs, it got all spectacular. If I’d have been sitting down in an armchair then nobody would have taken any notice.”

I study his probes. “It is quite bad luck that you weren’t in an armchair at the time,” I agree. “What were the chances of that?”

A nurse wanders by and gives my father a selection of studious pokes. “We should have you out of here in three or four days!” she promises.

“Three or four days?!?” he replies in alarm.

I look at my watch. “Well, time is getting on. Did you sleep well, by the way?”

My father glares at me. “What, with all these bloody probes?”

The Hospital Meal Operative approaches with her trolley. She passes over a card, which contains meal options and some instructions to place a tick beside the items required. My father studies the card with the out-and-out enthusiasm of a Christopher Hitchens addressing a creative writing group of left-leaning scampi.

He finally places a tick in a box. The Operative takes the card from him. “You’ve written on the card!” she laughs. “You’re not meant to tick on here – this is for the whole ward!”

“But it says to ti…”

“Look! He’s gone and ticked on the card!” she announces to the ward, before turning back to him with pitying eyes. “Don’t worry love, we’ll sort it anyway.”

“It clearly says to ti…”

“What are you having, anyway, love?” She stares hard at the card. “You’re having the pie, but you’ve not said what sort of potatoes.” She turns to us. “He’s not said what sort of potatoes.”

“I don’t really want any potatoes.”

“No potatoes?!?” She turns to us. “He doesn’t want any potatoes?” She turns to the ward. “Pie but with no potatoes! Oh, you are a one.” She reaches for a loudhailer, throws the window open and announces across the plains of South East Essex “no potatoes! You see he has ordered pie, but has not taken the potato option!!! Honestly!!!”

“Are you sure?” she adds.

My father looks on helplessly.

“Anyway, it’s been good to see that you’re ok,” I say. “I’ll leave you to it – I was planning on going to the pub for lunch.” I take my leave and go to the pub for my lunch. It is good to know that he is in capable hands.

I send my father an email.

Posted on by Alex

I do this occasionally, as we are close.

The email is mainly about the bound paper thing that I do not mention very often on my Private Secret Diary as I do not want to go on about it too much. My father and I have not talked about this thing a lot, as I am a bit bashful about the whole affair, and he is a bit like me and doesn’t quite believe it exists.

‘Anyway, people can order it on the internet now,’ I type, after the stuff about the weather. ‘It is bizarre – actually a few of them seem to be buying it.’

I sign off, diffidently. I feel a bit awkward mentioning it, but one of – if not the only – real and important reason for undertaking the project concerned was that I thought my beloved father might be pleased about it. He will be delighted, proud and amazed that I have actually achieved something in my life. I cannot wait for him to open the email and to know his reaction.

My mother calls later on in the day.

“His heart, you say?!?” I repeat, clutching the receiver in some concern. “Can I speak to the paramedic?”

I speak to the Paramedic.

“He will be fine,” she says. “We are just going to put him in the ambulance, and take him to Basildon Hospital.”

My alarm increases. “Isn’t that the one that is always on the news, where nobody ever gets out alive?”

I worked at Basildon Hospital for a very short while. And my Grandmother died there. Although I am 99% sure that the events were not related, there was a certain amount of recent media attention focusing on the fact that you go in with – say – an itch, and emerge with – say – plague.

I speak to my mother again.

“It is a bit irritating,” she says. “As I am meant to have a dentist’s appointment later on.”

I sigh deeply. One of the problems with being a nearly-famous author is that you can be called upon to attend book-related events anywhere in the UK at short notice. I leave a message for the LTLP, get in the car, and drive to Basildon.