“Chicken gizzards?”

Posted on by JonnyB

There is a pause.

“They’re very popular in Norwich,” offers the Duck Lady hopefully.

I pass on the opportunity. I don’t think anybody could call me greatly squeamish in the matter of what I put in my mouth, but I can’t imagine that the LTLP would thank me for this particular purchase. I settle for a boring old duck; the Baby and I move on to the next stall.

There is the sound of a commotion!!!

It takes me a minute to ascertain what is going on. Politicians are pouring into the town square, like daleks springing a trap. They wear suits and brandish big rosettes. Not just politicians. Cliched politicians.

I gaze around, wildly, clutching my Baby to my bosom. She has got over teething, temperatures, nappy rash, vomiting, pneumonia, licking the toilet and having her fingers shut in the door – I am damned if I will allow her to be traumatised for life by some kissing politician. Especially one with a moustache, who is hastening in our direction.

I get on with our local MP reasonably well, or have done in the times we’ve met anyway. He seems to be harmless enough and not want to cause trouble by actually doing anything, which is all one can ask for in a politician. Granted, if he thought a photographer from the local paper would be there then he’d be happy to attend the opening of a new browser window, but it keeps him out of trouble and that is important in this day and age. These politicians are different. They are scuttling around the market, attempting to engage with people.

Hurrying across the street, I resolve to pretend to be a non-voting Estonian illegal immigrant should we be cornered. The worst that can happen is that I get deported or sold into illegal sex slavery, and at least I will get to see a bit of the world and get lots of shags. I tell the Baby to say nothing if approached.

Posted on by JonnyB

“So what are the rules again?” I ask.

It transpires that I am the only person in the entire world who has not played table football before, ever. I grip my grippy things tentatively as the ball goes into play.

“So…” I continue.

“Gooooaaaaalllll!!!” Big A has launched a punt from one of his back metal men (defender?), which has shot through all my metal men and gone in my goal. “Then I move one of my counters across like this,” he explains helpfully.

We have invited ourselves round to Martin the IT Consultant’s house to watch the big match. Martin’s popularity is soaring since it was discovered that he had both Sky TV and a big table football table, whereas we only have pikey free TV and a shove ha’penny board (and Big A does not even have one of those).

“Right – let’s try again,” says Martin, who is my partner in this doubles game. He puts the ball into play.

“Goooooooaaaallll!!!” This time it appears to be Big A’s goalkeeper who has fired something unstoppable the length of the table. He moves another counter. The problem appears to be my left hand, which I do not normally really use for much and which is struggling limply with both the force and dexterity required to make a model footballer stop a ping pong ball. And my right hand.

“Have you met the New People yet?” asks Big A in passing.

“Well there were vans there at 10.53,” I report, “and I walked past there again at about four minutes past three. But I haven’t actually seen anybody yet.”

“Goooaaaaaalllll!!!”

“But they have a nice car; it’s bla…”

“Goooaaaalllllll!!!”

I am suspicious that Big A does not go to work all day, as he claims, but in fact sits at home all day practising on a private secret table football table that he keeps hidden from the Village. I know that not being able to play table football very well does not make me literally gay (there are other factors involved), but I feel that I return to the television for the second half having acquired diminished manliness.

Much later, having drunk lots of red wine, we are walking home past the New People’s house.

“Do you think we should pop in and introduce ourselves?” I ask.

“Better not.”

Posted on by JonnyB

I am made unemployed!!!

I read the email in annoyance. I have been sacked by email!!! This is not a good start to the day, plus there is no bread with which to make toast. My life is falling apart.

It was always going to be a tall order, maintaining the odd bit of worky work whilst looking after a psychotic and sabotaging Baby. I give her a hard ‘this is your fault’ stare, but she is busy tearing up the paper cases that the LTLP uses to make fairy cakes. That is typical. Suddenly I am one of Maggie’s millions and nobody cares about me.

In a way, I feel that my new oneintenness might be a bit empowering. In fact it is a bit like being at a crossroads in life. You can either turn left, or you can turn right, or you can go straight on (being careful to give way to traffic coming from the left or right (unless you are on the major road and have priority)). But if you dither at the junction the cars behind you will start hooting, and perhaps a van driver will get out and come and hit you in the face.

So I have decided to be positive, and look upon this as an opportunity. I am determined not to use my newly-enforced leisure time to just do more fucking about on the Internet and stuff. For a start, I can go out and buy some bread. And then I will think of Something to Do.

Posted on by JonnyB

I arrived out of breath from hurrying up the hill.

“The LTLP’s not well,” I explained. “She was fine, then had a really funny turn and felt all faint and had to lie down in the dark. You couldn’t pop in on her, could you?”

“I suppose so,” replied Mrs Short Tony, who had her coat on to walk back home.

“That’s great. She could probably do with a bit of company.” I turned to the Well-Spoken Barman and ordered a pint. The bar was packed on Saturday night but I found a slot between Eddie and Short Tony and we discussed the bowls situation.

This year my loyalties are being shared between two clubs which, given my bowls ability, is a bit like two underground cocaine and S&M parlours competing to secure the services of Sister Wendy Beckett.

The ‘I’ll only play if you’re really really really really short’ conversation that I’d had with Nigel from the Friday night league had turned into a request for ten pounds for my subscription by the time that particular match had ended. And on Sunday morning we were due a try-out for the Village team itself – a club with the twin advantages of a) being just a very very short walk away and b) having a bar.

There are a few people who I don’t know in the Village team, and whilst they all seem extremely nice and pleasant people, we agreed that it was very important to give a good first impression, and perhaps not arrive with a stinking hangover, bleary-eyed and reeking of stale beer.

I always try not to be too predictable when I write this thing, so I think I’ll probably just tail off there. It was terribly nice weather at the weekend, wasn’t it?