Posted on by JonnyB

“Townie!!! Townie!!!”

I clearly remember mocking Martin the IT Consultant at the bar in the Village Pub. He had called out an emergency Boiler Repair Man whose expertise had identified that the oil tank was empty.

That was a couple of months back. I replayed the scene in my mind as I hammered the boiler furiously with my fists at four o’clock in the morning. Behind me, my father-in-law radiated unimpressedness.

I have always got on reasonably well with my father-in-law. Granted, he probably thinks that I am a bit of an idiot, and I have an inkling that recent events have confirmed his suspicions that I have had sexual intercourse with his daughter, but in general he’s a smashing chap who has never hit me with an axe.

I methodically worked my way round the boiler, looking for a secret switch marked ‘Turns on heat despite no oil’. I could not find one anywhere. You would think there would be a failsafe. It was clearly a heap of shit, and I told it so in my firmest voice. Behind me, my father in-law racked up the unimpressedness radiation.

“I’ll have to check the tank when it’s light,” I explained, reinforcing the fact that I was in charge of the situation.

The boiler looked on mockingly, as only an appliance can.

Short Tony arrived the next morning with portable electric heaters. He is a very helpful man, but could do with losing the smug expression.

Posted on by JonnyB

Oh – er – yes. Two years. Thanks for the reminder.

An excuse therefore not to write a ‘proper’ post then, cheers cheers. I probably said it all last year, to be honest, so you may as well check back there to see what I mean, then perhaps scroll up to the 28th of that month which is still the entry that I point people to when I want to describe my life.

Writing a Popular and Successful Internet Diary whilst caring for a new baby is a bit like sitting down to perform a piano recital having just overheard that there’s a bear loose in the auditorium: one is still desperately keen to delight and enrapture one’s audience, but little nagging worries tend to preclude total focus on the task at hand.

Thanks for all your comments, emails, odd little mentions on your own blogs etc. It’s all very much appreciated – truly so. If anybody would like to give me a Sunday newspaper column then contact me and I’ll put you in touch with my agent (nb ignore the stuff about the baby above, I promise I will concentrate on it 100% and I can send it via email in whatever font you want).

Posted on by JonnyB

We contract food poisoning.

Food poisoning is, I can say with utter certainty, the worst thing that there can possibly be, ever.

First there are the doubts about the lingering taste of the meal, followed by an awful dawning of impending horror akin to being sat next to the one remaining vacant seat in Economy and glimpsing Jeremy Clarkson approach from Business Class, studying his ticket with a puzzled and annoyed air.

The LTLP succumbed first. I cared for her with aplomb. Then I absent-mindedly ate the rest of what she’d had for dinner. This was possibly a mistake.

Fortunately my sister, RonnieB, was down for a relaxing weekend with us, and thus was able to gain a crash-course in child care. “Hold this,” I ordered, before handing her a baby and retreating to bed for three days.

The LTLP said that the fact that we were unable to care for our baby demonstrated that we were truly and acutely ill. The fact that the LTLP had shat in the bed eighteen hours previously, and we hadn’t had the strength of will to change the sheets or duvet was more of a firm indicator to me. Either way it wasn’t a very nice weekend and I’m glad it’s gone away.

One might say that one wouldn’t wish food poisoning on one’s worst enemy. This seems a bit foolish to me, as if one is to have worst enemies then one may as well wish bad things on to them. May you eat a dodgy pasty, Osama. That will show you.

Flowers.

Posted on by JonnyB

“I guess we’ll see you at Easter then,” says Keith.

Keith owns the holiday cottage next door. He is a terribly nice chap, and lets me park on his drive in return for doing his bin.

“Want me to do your bin?” I ask.

“Cheers. And do feel free to park on the drive.”

He wanders back down the path and I scuttle back indoors. Moments later, however, there is a knock at the door. A Keith-shaped silhouette looms up through the glass.

It is Keith, bearing a bunch of slightly bedraggled flowers.

“Er… I was just wondering,” he says, haltingly. “Would you like these as ‘congratulations’ on the baby thing?”

I look at them. This seems an unusual way to get flowers delivered. He notices my suspicious air and continues. “I got them for Julie. For Valentine’s Day. We’re not taking them with us, so they’ll only be chucked away otherwise.”

This seems fair enough. “Actually,” I reply, “that’s a bit of a stroke of luck – I could do with a decent bunch of flowers. I got the LTLP a single red rose on the 15th, as they were reduced in Tesco. But I forgot to take off the ‘reduced’ sticker.”

He hands the sad bouquet to me. A short moment passes between us as we stand there, complicit in the shame of our mutual pikeyness.

(NB I know that that is not a politically-correct term in the strict sense, and I do not wish to cause offence to anybody but it is the word that seems to most sum up the situation.)

He leaves, no doubt to steal some horses and drive down local property prices.

I retreat indoors to present my gift.