Posted on by JonnyB

The rain starts falling as I leave the cottage, empty boxes in hand. Trudging to the car, I spot my new neighbour over the road.

“Are you sure you are not a bit early?” I ask.

“Not a bit of it,” enthuses Short Andy. “You can never be too early.”

I gaze doubtfully at the two large festive characters that perch askew atop his garage. Three-dimensional and dazzlingly illuminated, one is a recognisable Santa Claus figure, the other being some Christmassy person of indeterminate origin. They buffet around in the rainy squall.

We exchange some damp neighbourly pleasantries before I get into the car. The rain stops immediately. He places a ladder up against his wall, in order to try to fix things down more effectively. I drive off to pick up some more worldly goods.

On my return the indeterminate figure is upright, its hand still raised in a cheery wave to the neighbourhood children. But Santa has plunged forth, leaning at a seventy-degree angle off the edge of the building. What’s more, its right arm has launched itself forwards like Superman attempting to take off or, at a stretch, a very elderly and bearded Alan Shearer celebrating a goal by dressing up in red and running around on a garage roof in a gale.

I step out of the car. The rain switches on again immediately. This has been happening for several days.

I give the tarmac a hard stare, examining it for pressure pads.

Posted on by JonnyB

“…which is the piece of skin between the vagina and the bumhole.”

Once more I shift awkwardly in my seat. I checked my watch surreptitiously but the hands appear to be moving backwards. The midwife charges on regardless.

I am not even sure whether ‘bumhole’ is a generally accepted official anatomical term. As far as I am concerned, the only context in which the word ‘bumhole’ should really be used is something like: ‘yah boo, it is a good job that it is the end of playtime otherwise I shall beat you up because you have a face like a bumhole’. I start to worry that she is not qualified and just pretending to be a midwife.

“So you’ll be there on the bed, probably on all fours…”

I fix my attention to a speck on the opposite wall. It is amazing how interesting a speck can be relative to some alternatives. I speculate on its origin. It could be dust-based, or a flick of paint from the recent decoration.

If you hold your eyes on it for long enough it appears to dance about. This is presumably an optical illusion. Although it could be a genuine dancing speck. I make a mental note to check it out at a later date. It could be worth lots of money given the right management advice.

“So do you have any particular wishes, Jonny?”

“You what?”

She appears to have asked me a question. I think hard. What I would really really like to do is to stop talking about epidurals and deliveries and bumholes and perhaps have a nice cup of tea and discuss rabbits or mice or washing machines or any other of my normal conversational things.

“Well really I think how I feel is that I think I am quite happy with whatever she decides,” I say assertively. I feel a glare on the side of my head.

Our hour is almost up, and it is time for me to get ready for bowls. I leave them talking about electronic pain relief systems and slip quietly out the door.

Posted on by JonnyB

“Accept it,” says the LTLP. “At some point, you are going to have to do some washing up.”

Her empty threats do not scare me. I sip from my plastic cup, defiantly.

We are cosy in our new little cottage. It has comfy rooms, a nice narrow staircase, working central heating and a general aura of homeliness. But there is no space in the kitchen for a dishwasher. We are having to wash everything manually with washing up liquid and a bowl, like they do in the third world.

“Mrs Short Tony said we could use their dishwasher,” I explain. “Once we get a reasonable pile of stuff I’ll box it up and drive over there.”

Fortunately we have not yet managed to procure a cooker. It is all very well having hot food etc., but it tends to stick to the plates a bit more and require saucepans, and it is the time of year when it is nice to have salads. Having central heating is still a wondrous new novelty for me, and I am sure that I can re-heat frozen things on the radiators if needs be.

“I’ll have my cheesecake now,” she orders.

I fetch her dinner, thoughtfully. As regular readers know, I do try my best to be what the style commentators call ‘a new man’ by cooking, ironing, organising cleaners etc., but when it comes to washing up, I’d rather dress up as a woman and attend a ‘Mike and the Mechanics’ gig with Jack Straw. It is something to do with the dirty greasy water that repels me.

“Here you go,” I offer. “Can I have the plate after you?”

The plan is that we shall be living here for six months. I have bought some Fairy liquid but do not wish to get further than half way down the bottle.

Posted on by JonnyB

“I’ve backed the Land Rover right up,” says Short Tony, as I stand in the old kitchen, my bent finger covering my mouth in that particular way that has been scientifically proven to help you think. I decide that if I stare at the washing machine for long enough then it will become a bit lighter.

I have already expertly unplumbed it, removing the hot and cold water inlets and unscrewing the waste pipe from the sink outlet. I make a mental note to seal up the subsequent gap in the pipework and not to forget, which would be foolish and potentially wet. Fortunately I have an excellent memory and never forget anything ever.

We lift the washing machine.

I don’t know why some people are good at lifting things and some people aren’t. It must be a technique thing. It cannot be anything to do with strength. We stagger around the kitchen in the general direction of the door. I have my hands underneath it and am stooped like a fairytale character to compensate for the three-foot difference in height (estimate) between me and Short Tony.

By the time we reach the Land Rover we have given up all pretence of being careful with the appliance, and sort of hurl the thing in the back. I do some exercises to try to return my arms to their previous length.

“Ready to go?” asks Short Tony. I am as ready as I will ever be. Normally I approach a journey in his Land Rover with the same sort of confidence as I’d book up a scenic light aircraft trip with, say, Buddy Holly and Richard Reid the Shoe Bomber. But I am comforted by the thought that if the worst does happen and we break down miles from anywhere then at least I will be able to have clean clothes.

We set off at a steady 32 mph. In the event the engine only stops working once and we reach our destination without incident, if you don’t classify alarming rattly and bangy noises from both engine and domestic appliance as ‘incident’.

We lift the washing machine.

My new cottage is on a bit of a hill, and the extra altitude makes everything appear even heavier. Zigzagging up the path, we sort of fall in to the front room, bashing it against the doorframe as we attempt to manoeuvre it around. Of course the new kitchen is the furthest room away, and access is via a convenient step, but sweating and swearing we get it there in the end, and I do some lightning plumbing and electrical connection.

The washing machine does not work.

This is disappointing.

We methodically instigate a troubleshooting procedure – trying a different socket, checking the plug, changing the fuse etc. An hour later, this has all gone out of the window, and we are shouting and swearing at the machine whilst punching and kicking it. At this point it decides to work after all, which is wonderful, but the waste pipe is not connected up and it starts pumping dirty water into the kitchen cupboard.

Deciding that this would be best cleared up at a later date, I thank Short Tony for his help. At times like these it is good to have neighbours who one can rely on.

We return to the old cottage without event. Absentmindedly, I empty the washing-up bowl down the sink.