Posted on by JonnyB

I become a single parent.

In many ways is a shame that society has such double standards. It looks upon fathers who bring up their children alone as sort of loveable floppy-haired Hugh-Grant type chaps, making time in their busy schedule for outings to the cinema, football etc., whilst being endearingly shambolic at changing nappies, shopping for baby clothes and forgetting important school events (but turning up in the nick of time, just when the kid is starting to cry with disappointment).

Whereas single mothers are seen as little more than feckless public sector funded common prostitutes, wheeling their prams around council estates in between getting ASBOs and watching the Jeremy Kyle show.

I do not necessarily endorse this view. It is just the way it is. Some things will never change.

What is important is that people avoid saying things that might reinforce negative stereotypes.

Anyway, so the LTLP has decided to work abroad for a bit.

She claims that she will be back on Wednesday morning, but then she said she’d take up my cricket trousers and that was two years ago, so I see no reason why she should be trusted this time. Even as I write this she is probably waltzing into a new life like selfish feminist icon Shirley Valentine with some foreign man who does not wash enough. It is a tragedy, as there is a baby involved, but I have moved the kettle to where I originally wanted it and bought some things in Tesco that I am Not Normally Allowed, so perhaps it is for the best after all. I wish her well for the future.

Mrs Short Tony has been cooking me my tea; it is reassuring to know that there are still women in the world with a sense of responsibility.

I will attempt to keep my private secret diary updated as I settle in to my new routine. It will be difficult, as I am extremely busy with my responsibilities, but I see no reason why the LTLP should spoil your enjoyment of the internet, as well as my entire life and that of an innocent babe.

The baby lolls in her chair, a dummy in her mouth. I settle down to watch the Brazil/Argentina match.

Posted on by JonnyB

A car pulls up outside the Village Pub.

“Isn’t that…?” wonders Short Tony, a look of recognition alighting on his face.

Being a person with a leading web log, I am well up on the modern media. “It is the man from ‘Vicar of Dibley’ who goes ‘no no no no yes,’” I confirm.

“It is!”

A celebrity!!! Visiting our humble Village Pub!!! The news spreads. A frisson runs through the bar. (I actually have no idea what a frisson is aside from the fact that one usually appears at times like this – I imagine it is small and scuttles, like a weasel). As the door opens, everybody adopts a forced nonchalance so as not to make our guest feel awkward. Some people have such a forced nonchalance that they rush up to him, presumably to ask if he is the man that goes ‘no no no no yes’ from ‘Vicar of Dibley’, just to make sure.

It seems unnecessary. I know there are people (like Michael Jackson the King of Pop) who have changed their face to look like other people (Liz Taylor), but I think it would be an unusual fetish indeed to repeatedly visit shady plastic surgeons in order to gradually reshape your features so that you look exactly like the man who goes ‘no no no no yes’ from ‘Vicar of Dibley’.

It is ascertained that he is indeed the man that goes ‘no no no no yes’ from ‘Vicar of Dibley’ and not an impostor. He stands, waylaid, at the door to the main bar.

“I’d really like to talk to him,” I whisper. “Just to check an anecdote. An old friend of mine always told this story that he was on jury service with him, and the other eleven elected him foreman just so that when the judge asked if…”

“Another pint?” interjects the Chipper Barman.

“Definitely,” I reply. In a low voice: “Do you see who that is?”

“It’s the bloke from the Vicar of Dibley. Who goes ‘no no no yes’. He was in here earlier.”

“Oh,” I say, a bit disappointed.

“I’ve got my camera phone,” whispers Short Tony. “Do you think I could get a picture without anybody noticing?”

We experiment with different techniques, pretending to take a picture of me but holding the phone the wrong way round, taking a photo of the big mirror at the end of the bar, etc. But we can’t get the angle. Short Tony puts his camera away in disappointment and frustration. The man who goes ‘no no no no yes’ from ‘Vicar of Dibley’ finally frees himself, and wanders through to the back of the Pub towards the restaurant.

Mrs Short Tony arrives in the bar, fresh from the Chinese Pub, our takeaway waiting in the car.

“But there’s a celebrity in here!” I protest.

“Who?”

Short Tony narrows his eyes and lowers his voice. “It’s… Cruise,” he hisses.

Mrs Short Tony is momentarily flustered and bewildered.

“Not really,” he reveals. “It is the bloke from ‘Vicar of Dibley’ who goes ‘no no no no yes.’”

“Come on home then. The food’s getting cold.”

Posted on by JonnyB

“I’ve got a good idea for that doorway,” I muse.

The LTLP scrutinises me, adopting the expression that she uses to wither the ground elder. “I can already tell,” she drawls, “that this is going to be the most ridiculous thing that you’ve ever suggested in your life.”

I am stung by her barbed comment. “That’s a bit unfair,” I protest.

“Go on then. Tell me your good idea.”

The doorway into our bedroom is square and chunky, and only around five foot tall. In fact it’s less a doorway than an opening. It aspires to doorway status.

“I was thinking about the fact that I haven’t got a Scooby Doo bookcase any more,” I explain. (I used to have a bookcase that opened out on hinges to reveal a secret room beyond, like in the Scooby Doo cartoons. It was the best thing ever.) “So I was thinking…”

“Yes…?”

“Well, if I got some wardrobe doors, I could sort of build a wardrobe-looking thing in the doorway. But it wouldn’t really be a wardrobe. It would be our bedroom. So to get into our bedroom you would walk through the wardrobe.”

She gives a sharp intake of breath.

“Like in Narnia,” I add, by way of explanation.

“Then,” I continue, “when people came to stay and we showed them round, we could pretend that it is just a wardrobe. And when we went to bed they would think ‘why are they climbing into the wardrobe?’ and we would say ‘aha!’ and they would be amazed and astonished when they discovered there was a whole room beyond.”

“Like in Narnia,” I add, to fill the endless silence that follows.

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Stealthily I let myself in to Short Tony’s house.

As they are on holiday, it is my job to feed the rabbits, pick up the post, check for intruders etc. I have my own key and the run of the house!!! But I am trustworthy and do not abuse this privilege.

The kitchen has flooded!!!

It is a flood not just of biblical proportions, but of biblical proportions if you are thinking of a really big bible, say one in hardback with illustrations of the miracles, exoduses etc and perhaps large print for the bad eyesight people. I splotch across the tiles, very concerned.

Water is dripping through a light fitting in the ceiling.

This seems bad. I am not a qualified electrician, but I know that putting water with electricity makes it explode. I wonder what to do.

By rights, I should switch the electricity off. However this is not as simple as it sounds. For a start I would have to empty the freezer. Short Tony is going on a goose shoot next month, and my plan was to buy lots of cheap fish fingers in order to fill up his freezer so that when he got home with his haul, he would have nowhere to put it. He would then be forced to offer me a goose or, better still, geese. This would impress my mum and dad no end, whopping out a goose (or geese) for Christmas dinner.

Considering this, I decide that he will be unlikely to offer me a goose/geese if I allow this to override my electrical caution and his house subsequently burns down. At a later date I will have to think up some way of dropping hints that it would be good to have one if he has a spare.

I reach a compromise and switch the light off. For safety reasons I then tape a bit of paper across the switch and write ‘DO NOT TURN ON’ in large letters, adding as an afterthought ‘By Order, New Orleans Police Department’. I then pull out my cell phone to call Short Tony.

Trying very hard to draw a balance between factual reportage and not being too alarming, I detail the situation. What I actually hear my mouth saying, however, is something like: “Your house is flooded and it’s all really shit!!!” Short Tony, however, is relatively unperturbed.

“Don’t worry. We’re actually on our way home now. We’ll be there very shortly.”

This is unexpected. It is a good job that I have not dressed in Mrs Short Tony’s clothes. I splotch upstairs to find the cause of the cataclysm. It is a small leaky tap, which I de-leak.

It feels good, being able to be a good neighbour. I do some token mopping up. The rabbit food is unaffected; I take supper to its recipients.