Posted on by JonnyB

“How are you, then?” I sympathetically enquire.

Short Tony is depressed about his upcoming 40th birthday. I can understand this; I will probably feel the same when I reach the same point in many years time. I explain this to Short Tony, but it does not cheer him.

“Plus I’ve lost my karaoke tape,” he adds.

I send one eyebrow ceilingwards, a more-than-usually puzzled look crossing my face.

“I had a few drinks last night, and decided to sing some karaoke,” he explains. “I’m surprised you didn’t hear me?”

I shake my head. I can hear nothing over the LTLP’s snoring. Meteorites could have devastated Earth for all I know.

“Anyway, I usually record myself, so I can listen in the car the next day. Except I couldn’t find the tape anywhere. Then I realised – when I traded in the old car I must have left it in the tape machine. So there’s a tape of me singing Meatloaf numbers on some garage forecourt in Norfolk somewhere.”

I look at him and shake my head sadly.

“You do realise,” I say slowly and kindly, “that there wasn’t a single word in that speech that reflected anything other than horribly badly on you?”

“I know,” he replies miserably.

Posted on by JonnyB

The notice is brief and to the point.

“Following advice from the Environmental Health Inspector,” it informs, “We will be cooking our yolks hard. If you would prefer a soft yolk please ask.”

There is a man whose job it is to advise roadside trailer cafes how to cook their yolks!!! But we do not have to take his advice. It must be frustrating for him, having all that responsibility but no real power.

I take my bacon and mushroom sandwich and drive off, bidding the ladies a cheerful ‘farewell’. Next time I will get something with a soft yolk, to stick it to the man. The frost sits crisp and heavy as I park up on the Common to devour my breakfast.

The view from here is magnificent. Norfolk is a bit Tamsin Greiggy as a place – it is not what you would call conventionally beautiful, but the more you explore her the more you are likely to find an interesting or unusual bit that is nourishing to the eye. A drop of grease falls into my lap, and I have one of my periodic post-flu coughing fits.

It is one of those views that makes one feel profound. “Please God,” I mutter to the roof of the car. “Make me well again. I’ll cut out all the swearing and the fornication.”

There are no cars or people for miles around; the view goes on forever.

“Most of the fornication,” I clarify.

I finish my sandwich with relish. It has not been a good week for food. Bernard Matthews faces a PR disaster here, with people discovering that his turkeys come from Suffolk after all. And now there is the hard yolk debacle. But there is not much a bacon and mushroom sandwich cannot make better.

Snow is forecast. But I have enough bottled gas, and several shot things in the freezer courtesy of Short Tony and Len the Fish, some of which are almost intact. I gun the car into life and head off unhurriedly back to the warmth of the Cottage.

Posted on by JonnyB

I am struck down with the flu.

This would be bad enough as it is. However a side-effect seems to be that I have totally and utterly lost my voice. I honestly thought complete laryngitis only happened to people in 1970s situation comedies, but here I am, totally without speech, croaking like a Suffolk turkey.

It happened just like that, a consequence of prolonged bouts of coughing. On Thursday I was crossly informing an important business contact that she would have to call me back as I’d just finished cooking my faggots; on Friday I had a voice but an achey and unauthoritative one; now I am as silent as Stephen Hawking in a power cut. It is immensely frustrating.

I popped round to Short Tony’s, but the conversation was unrewarding; I cannot even say things like ‘because I tell you to’ to the Baby, and I had to mime in the Village Shop.

The LTLP has flu as well, although she has not lost her voice as there is no God. It is all a bit of a worry when you have a little Baby to look after. Both of our families live outside Norfolk, in the sticks, so we do not have them to call on for support in such a time.

Of all the Baby-related things that I have had to consider (which nursery should she attend/what injections should she have/should I have her circumcised etc), the idea of moving house to be nearer family simply didn’t occur to me. It would be useful in many ways.

These are the feverish thoughts that race through the mind of a delirious sick person, as he lies on the couch in front of a non-working TV. I console myself that when I am better I will be able to pretend that they did not occur to me at all.

Posted on by JonnyB

There is still no TV!!!

I stare at the thing moodily. I get some sound on BBC1, and ITV gives you a wavy sort of drug-induced ITV behind the snow, but that’s it. No TV. There is no TV. TV there is none.

I clench my fists in frustration.

I do not even watch much TV. But in the TV-less situation it suddenly becomes the object of crazed desire. I want to watch Heartbeat!!! I need to see a plasticky-faced woman fronting a rigged quiz game!!! Tonight with Trevor McDonald!!! Trevor, I need you!!!

Not EastEnders, though.

A beep signifies a text message. It is Mrs Short Tony inviting us round to watch ‘Midsomer Murders’.

I do not need her pity-fucks.

The statistics are as follows. Of all aerial people in the vicinity, 25% are not answering their phones. Another 25% are answering their phones but telling you that there is no possibility of a mended aerial in the near future. A full 50% – yes 50% – have an answerphone message basically telling you to piss off and haven’t-you-heard-there-were-big-storms-the-other-week that broke lots of aerials and do not even bother trying to track me down because I am Not Interested, what do you think I am, a fucking aerial repair man?

I crack and telephone Rupert Murdoch. I do not get through but his people are helpful and will be arranging television for me as from next week.

That is it. I have sold out to an Evil Corporation.

Midsomer Murders is rubbish, even by the standards it sets for itself, which are rubbish standards from the University of Rubbish (formerly Rubbish Polytechnic). Mrs Big A arrives half way through, expecting Friday-night wine and lively conversation. She leaves ten minutes later.

“You’re all fucking sad,” she comments on her departure.