Posted on by JonnyB

We go to the labour ward.

In the corridor on the way, there is a sign inviting people to volunteer for hospital radio. I have always wanted to be on the radio, emulating my heroes Peel and Lawley, but I don’t have time to look further just now.

Besides, hospital radio has its problems. It is all very well turning up with your cutting edge Cardiacs and Proclaimers stuff but much of it is taking requests from old people to play Phil Collins records. But the main problem is the restraints on what is or what is not appropriate on grounds of sensitivity. You are not allowed to play ‘Light My Fire’ for instance, in case you upset people in the burns unit. Or ‘Don’t go Breaking my Heart’ out of respect to the cardiology patients. Or anything by Gary Numan in case there is anybody who has lost an index finger in a synthesizer accident.

Normally I would just laugh and say something like ‘haha, it is political correctness gone mad,’ but in truth I am a bit stressed by our impending parenthood and do appreciate the hospital making an effort to be so sensitive to patients’ worries.

I settle the LTLP down in her maternity bed, and switch on the ‘Patientline’ bedside TV to relax us.


Posted on by JonnyB

Evening. Dark early. Silence inside and out. Nothing on the television.

The LTLP out. Sudoku complete. A rented house in my new village. Bored and lonely, I don’t seem to have ventured outdoors for several months. Waiting, waiting, waiting. The well of geographical isolation wrapping itself around me like a bespectacled accounts girl with low self-esteem who’s just heard the DJ announce the last record at the office party.

There is a knock at the door!!!

I sprint towards it eagerly, almost falling out of my slippers in anticipation at the prospect of a MYSTERY VISITOR.

“You fancy going down the pub?” asks Big A.

I almost fall at his feet with sobs of gratitude. But I think he will probably find this embarrassing, so I invite him in whilst I get my coat.

There is a knock at the door!!!

I shove Big A to one side in my haste. Throwing open the door reveals a couple of familiar faces.

“We just wondered how you were?” enquire Mr and Mrs Short Tony.

I maintain my composure, but my voice wobbles as I see my old friends on the doorstep. Exile from the village has been harder than I imagined. I explain that I am just about to go to the local pub with Big A. Mr and Mrs Short Tony look extremely enthusiastic. We set off for the local pub.

The local pub is closed.

We put a brave face on this. There is (oddly enough) an upmarket health and fitness club further on up the lane. Somebody suggests going to the bar there. This seems like a reasonable suggestion, and we head off in that direction. I am excited, as this is a new experience for me.

Despite the pumps on the bar, I am informed that they only serve canned beer. This seems ridiculous. I don’t know how they expect people to attend their health and fitness club if they do not serve a range of proper beers. I order a lager. Big A has a small lager as he has to drive back to the village. Mr and Mrs Short Tony have coffee as they also need to drive later.

We chat for a short while, and watch people engaged in various health and/or fitness practises.

“Well, I’d better be off,” says Big A, looking at his watch. “Do you want a lift back?”

I glance at Mr and Mrs Short Tony, who are finishing off their drinks.

“Thanks,” I reply.

“Are we meeting for a pint later on then?” asks Short Tony to Big A. “In the Village Pub?”

“Love to. Eightish?”

“See you in there.”

I pull on my coat and returned to a darkened house.

Posted on by JonnyB

My baby is late!!!

A clearly slothful and indolent infant. We sit in the lounge at Big A’s, discussing the situation. The whole thing is a bit inconvenient – I haven’t really been able to go to the Village Pub recently, and the LTLP is having difficulty doing simple things like the washing up, which is causing her terrible backache. It will be five or so months before we can get a dishwasher in order that she can have some help.

Narcoleptic Dave pipes up from the comfy chair. “Have you tried pineapple? That’s meant to work.”

I baulk at this. Pineapples are huge and have very sharp pointy leaves, and I am really not sure whether I could get one up there without causing injury. I take the small sip of wine that I am allowed and ask for more sensible suggestions.

All sorts of old wives tales are discussed, before the conversation comes round to the benefits of having it off. I am not particularly comfortable about discussing the topic with the neighbours, particularly as there are ladies present, so I change the subject.

Also it is very difficult to feel sexually attracted to somebody who has basically let their figure go to pot and who weighs about 183743 stone more than they used to.

That is what the LTLP claims anyway, and she is the boss.

I sigh and have another minuscule siplet of wine. The subject is changed. We decide to play ‘Risk’, but Narcoleptic Dave keeps falling asleep during key battles for Africa, so we scoot off early back to the cottage and the braindeadary of ‘Gems TV’.

Posted on by JonnyB

There is a tap on the window!!!

I am sitting in the driver’s seat, waiting for the LTLP to return. Outside, a blur of Christmas shoppers swarm round the town square car park. A face peers through at me from the cold. I am not expecting a window-bound tap followed by a face peering at me in the privacy of my own car, and it catches me a little by surprise.

It is a good job that I am not masturbating.

An old lady stands there, slightly dishevelled, mouthing words at me through the glass. I try to catch her drift, but my lip reading skills are not up to it. She tries again. I scrabble for the keys and switch the ignition on, in order to lower the window.

Kids these days do not realise how impressive that would have once been. It is a shame.

“De ya wanna boi sam o’moi lucky eather?” she asks (note that is in an Irish accent, not me spelling things wrong).

I am a bit thrown by this and ask her to repeat herself, which she does, adding the phrase “genuine Romany it is”.

I decline the lucky heather.

“Will ya hev yer fortune red then?”

I decline a fortune reading.

The old lady scowls at me and mutters something as she takes her leave. She approaches no more cars. I shake my head in some bewilderment. My plan earlier had been to get up, buy some vegetables and perhaps a hotdog, and go home for a lazy day.

Instead I have had a curse put on me, which was not an expected thing to happen in Fakenham town centre.