Posted on by JonnyB

It seems unlikely that we will come to an agreement.

“We are not,” she states with an admittedly factual basis, “living in the nineteen-seventies.”

This is true, I have to concede. However I have never bought a carpet before. And I cannot seem to rid my mind of the desire that I had when I was about seven years old to have a thick, thick, shaggy carpet – one which you have to hack your way through like Livingstone (Dr) in the jungle.

“What about these?” she demands, gesticulating at some bits of carpet that look exactly like the previous bits of carpet she showed me. Apparently the carpets that are fashionable at the moment are thin and tastefully beige, looking and feeling like by-products from the factory that makes Tesco ‘Value’ sackcloth – ‘suitable for all your Puritan needs’.

“They’re just so… well that is to say… they’re all right but.” I try to articulate my argument convincingly. “They’re not something that would be really cosy to roll around on the floor on.” I make a mental note to get on the PC when we get home to update the Wikipedia entry for the word ‘lame’.

“You are XX years old!!!” she storms. (NB she did not say ‘XX’, she said the number of my age, which I do not reveal for confidentiality reasons, plus it is irrelevant to this story and would just distract you from the point of it by sending you off onto a tangent). “You don’t play with trains any more. It is not the nineteen-seventies. We are NOT having anything like that.”

We look at some more beige, harsh, scratchy looking carpets. I decide to tackle her on her own ground and attempt a more adult argument.

“I am only thinking of your knees,” I offer.

She gives me a withering look.

“Can I help you at all?” asks a slimy assistant.

We wave away the slimy assistant and move on to the next aisle of thin beige scratchiness.

Posted on by JonnyB

We sit together on the sofa, eating peanuts.

I put a handful into my mouth. She puts a handful into her mouth.

I put a handful into my mouth.

Even though it is switched off, we are still somehow glued to the blank black screen of the television. The light reflects on to it from the open kitchen door. She puts another handful of peanuts into her mouth.

“There must be millions of peanut trees in the world,” I reflect. “How many peanuts do you get from a peanut tree?”

“Loads,” she replies, shovelling another load of peanuts into her mouth.

I put a handful into my mouth. Time passes. I read the wrapper, for light entertainment.

“Allergy advice: contains nuts,” I point out. How amusing! Because, you see, they are nuts!

She puts a handful into her mouth.

“If you look at the ingredients,” I say, “it is only 95% nuts. The rest is oil and salt.” I put a handful into my mouth.

She puts a handful into her mouth.

“You said that the last time we ate peanuts,” she remarks. “Your peanut conversation is getting boring.”

“Oh.”

I put a handful into my mouth.

Posted on by JonnyB

I receive some anonymous beef!!!

I sign the slip for the Citilink delivery man, who disappears off in his van. Not expecting a big parcel, I carry it inside with some eagerness.

It seems to be a perfectly normal parcel – an expanded polystyrene box held together by plastic bands. I snip these to see what is within.

Beef stares back at me.

I am a little taken aback by this. I eye the beef suspiciously, then double-check the name on the package. It is definitely for me.

I search in vain for some sender’s details. There are none. Whoever has been sending beef through the post wants to make damn sure they remain anonymous. They are cowards.

There is a small card tucked in to the packaging. Inside are two words only, written in meticulous capital letters, in jet black ink: “HAPPY BIRTHDAY.” The implication is that this sentence has been left sinisterly unfinished, with a missing “IT WILL BE YOUR LAST”, “NOW WATCH OUT OR YOU WILL END UP LIKE THIS BEEF”, or “WE WILL GET YOU FOR YOUR CRIMES. LOVE, THE COWS.”

At a bit of a loss, I eventually remove the beef from its packaging. Unnerved, I decide to confine it securely in the freezer. I check it a few hours later. It is still there.

Posted on by JonnyB

I confront the Methodical Builder!!!

“So,” I begin, in my best this-is-going-to-be-an-important-sentence way. “Are we still definitely on course for June?”

“Ah?”

“June. We will still be finished at the end of June.”

“July. End July.”

“July.”

“Ah, well. There’s just been a bit of slippage, but July definitely.”

“So we’re back by two months now.”

“June to July? One month.”

“It was May originally.”

“No, June. Always June.”

“You said six months.”

“Yes – six months. June.”

“December, January, February, March, April, May.” I count the months out on my finger, like a child, reciting each month out clearly and precisely.

“Ah, anyway – end July. End July will be fine.”

“It’s just that I need to tell Narcoleptic Dave when he can have his house back. I need to do that. And also they have forgotten what I look like in the Village Pub. And it would be quite nice if you could repair Short Tony’s garden as well. So July. Definitely July.”

“July. Yes. Tell your landlord July.”

Twenty minutes later I am standing in what remains of my back garden, happily surveying the hive of activity as the ‘lads’ beaver away. There are people on the roof, in the cottage, outside mixing cement.

“It’s great seeing so many people working away,” I remark to the Methodical Builder.

“Yes, well we shall have to press on if we are going to get it finished by July.”