“You won the Ebay thing, then?”

Posted on by JonnyB

There is a short silence before I round on Mrs. Short Tony crossly.

“You’re always doing this,” I complain.

The LTLP fixes me with several eyes. “What,” she asks, very very slowly and carefully, “have you bought on Ebay?”

A few hours later, Short Tony and I are outside in freezing conditions constructing a chicken coop.

Clearly we want to have the best chicken coop in the village. Therefore ours is more professional-looking than Len the Fish’s, more spacious than Narcoleptic Dave’s and less townie than the Chap Over the Road Who Has Yet to be Given a Name’s. There is a suspicion that Big A’s might have the edge on the styling, having been constructed by a genuine farmer; however ours is situated in more varied landscape with a choice of terrain on which our hens can frolick. Nigel’s is more of an aviary, and Paul doesn’t really have a coop as such, just a bunch of chickens who have chosen to live in his garden.

It is also flat-packed, which causes some difficulty over the next two hours. The instructing diagram is gibberish and we are so cold that using a screwdriver is physically painful. There is one point when we decide that it would be quicker to wait for the chickens to evolve opposable thumbs and let them build it themselves, but after two flashes of inspiration and a short argument as to whose land the egg collecting bit will sit on, we are done.

I am the proud joint owner of a working chicken coop!!!

My aim now is to search high and low for somebody without chickens, so that I can offer them eggs as a neighbourly gesture.

And get some chickens.

My certificate has arrived!!!

Posted on by JonnyB

Almost two years ago to the day, we moved into Narcoleptic Dave’s place on a temporary basis, having instructed the Methodical Builder to construct an extension to the cottage.

The whole project went extremely smoothly (apart from the stairs collapsing under the LTLP, her getting electrocuted by the sink, the window being forgotten by the bricklayer, CORGI wishing to prosecute the gas installer etc.) and only took a little bit longer than promised, so I can have no complaints. And finally, it has arrived in the post: my building regulations certificate!!!

The two final things that I was ordered to do in order to comply were as follows:

  • Change the hinges on the upstairs windows. The hinges did not open wide enough. It is important that your upstairs windows open very very wide, so that if there is a fire you can flee via the medium of leap;
  • Put bars across the upstairs windows. Because the windows are very low due to short people in the eighteenth century, it is important that you put bars across your upstairs windows in order to prevent people from falling out.

Being quite safety-conscious I was happy to go along with this. I would hate to fall out of a window and/or be burnt to death (or even a bit). Obviously there are a couple of practicalities that I am mulling over, however. I cannot work out whether it would be better to leave the bars there but position a screwdriver on each windowsill, so that as the toxic smoke starts creeping under the door one can frantically start unscrewing the relevant bar, hopefully achieving this before death occurs.

Or would it be better to remove the bars, but keep them handy, so that if I trip up and find myself sailing towards an open window I am able to grab one with a spare hand and very very very quickly screw it into place to prevent defenestration?

It is an impossible dilemma. I might have to email RoSPA for some guidelines. Meanwhile the Toddler uses the bars to swing herself up onto the windowsill.

I am spoken to.

Posted on by JonnyB

It is possible that the LTLP is right, and I am drinking too much. But she constantly loads the dishwasher incorrectly, and who is to judge which is worse?

“I’m just going to the bowls AGM,” I plead, when she makes an aside about me going out once more. “It’s just a meeting.”

On my return there is a certain froideur between us, as she examines my leg injuries with a critical air.

Personally, I blame the constant pressure of the government targeting me as a middle-class binge drinker for my binge drinking. But whilst they are at risk of causing a backlash, I have to admit that I might need to cut down a bit. The problem is that my own drinking is typical of many peoples’ in that I drink to get over an underlying problem; in my case this being that I find it difficult to get drunk otherwise. It is a catch-22 situation.

I went to Tesco this morning. “Not got your whisky this morning?” asked the cheerful assistant, which came as a bit of a shock to be honest. I have bought whisky a couple of times before (not just for me), but to be identified by a stranger as a regular 8.15am Scotch purchaser was a jolt. Later in the conversation she asked me how my chef’s job was going, but the revelation of this a case of mistaken identity did little to improve my peace of mind.

After Christmas I have decided to be teetotal. There is no point in me trying to cut down, I must just bite the bullet. It will not be fun, but I am determined.

I write a joke.

Posted on by JonnyB

Anybody who has ever tried to write any form of comedy will tell you that it is the best feeling in the world when you write a really funny joke.

I am incredibly pleased with my joke. It is a lightbulb joke!!! There are so few new lightbulb jokes. I check all sorts of combinations of the words on Google to ensure that nobody has written my joke before, and I discover that is totally original and funny!!! It is a slight twist on the traditional lightbulb joke angle, it is politically hard-hitting and contains universal truth. Hahahaha!!! I rock!!!

Anybody who has ever tried to write any form of comedy will tell you that the next stage is a waft of depression as you try and try and try to find some way of working your new joke into the fabric of life; be it casual conversation or an entry in an internet private secret diary. You rack your brains. You examine every situation from every angle. You try everything. It is frustrating.

I am still worrying away at this when I arrive to pick the Toddler up from her nursery.

“It’s a dad! A dad!” There is a cry from inside. It is two of the fit nursery assistants who are struggling with something and need my help. One looks over at me and asks – not one word of a lie:

“We can’t reach. Can you help us change this lightbulb?”

I am gobsmacked by this. I look at them, look at the light fitting, look at the lightbulb. There is some comedy god looking down on me. Not only will I get to tell my joke in the most natural and casual way possible thus making the fit nursery assistants collapse with fits of laughter and think ‘omg omg he has a sense of humour as well AND he can provide for me by being taller and changing the lightbulb’, but I will then be able to report the incident to the readers of my private secret diary as an amusing story AND shoehorn in the joke. I take the lightbulb from her gentle hand.

The lightbulb slides easily into its cavity whilst the girls watch on. I wait for my moment; the optimum time to tell my new joke. When you have unbelievable fortune, sometimes you can get carried away and blow it by ruining the timing. I push hard and twist in the bayonet. They clap, in a girly way.

I open my mouth. There is a knock on the glass door. Another parent turns up.

“How many…”

“Mummymummymummymummymummy!!!!!!!!!!!!”

All hell breaks loose as a small child hurtles in to the foyer and grabs the centre for attention. I try to continue: “neo…” but the moment is lost. Booooooooo – I will never get a chance like this again to tell my funny new joke. I collect the Toddler grumpily and drive home, looking for dark buildings.