Pesky children: day one

As regular readers may be aware, we're looking after my cousin Eleanor's son Sebastian this weekend whilst she sweats away her size 18 figure in the wilds of Wiltshire. Anyway, the day started well and he didn't spill too many of his coco pops on the floor, I then decided to strap him into his buggy and head for the shops, which was a huge mistake in retrospect. Strangely this child seems obsessed by buses, I can't fathom out why because personally I find them a disgusting, smelly and unreliable form of transport, but he seems to adore them - jumping up and down like a maniac when one appears on the horizon.

We called into Boots to replenish my supply of concealer when all hell broke loose - he started screaming and grabbing merchandise off of the shelves and hurling it to the ground. Obviously I was embarrased but when one tracksuit clad woman came up and shouted "I've got one like that too!" I was mortified and retreated from the shop.

This afternoon hasn't been much better, he's emptied all of his toys all over the floor and we're being forced to watch enless episodes of programmes such as 'Peppa Pig' and 'Balamory' over and over again.

Father's disappared, I haven't seen him for a couple of days now. I leave sandwiches, crisps and a thermos of tea for him three times a day in the shed and take away the empties. There's a huge amount of dirt around the area and a makeshift tarpaulin over a large lump - I can't think what he's up to?

Wilf's web wow

I logged on at work today and saw Wilf's face peering at me through the depths of our intranet. He hadn't pre-warned me but apparently he'd been chosen to write about a typical day at work, which he'd done with aplomb if you ask me. I found his detailed account of how he seemlessly manages to re-classify Government files, manage a small team, deal with the National Archives and still have time for a nice cup of tea was absoluely thrilling. The shots of him wearing his new fawn moleskin suit was quite attractive too if I may say so.

Father has decided to move into his shed as it's the only place in the house he feels welcome apparently. Therefore he's personalised it with old cushions, a wilton rug and some gardening chairs. I can't say that it looks very homely but I did hear the dulcet tones of Jethro Tull escaping from the rickety door earlier, so I suppose he must be happy.

Mother's just told me that we're to be lumbered with Cousin Eleanor's son Sebastian for the weekend, which isn't great news. Apparently Eleanor's spending a week at a 'fat ass boot camp' and the care of her child is to be shared amongst her close family. Her husband is coming along to ride a bike and shout words of encoragement to her as she tries to scale a small mountain whilst carrying a backpack full of bricks. Mind you, she is a bit of a lard bucket, I can honestly say that I've been a true size 12 for many years now, which is handy because I haven't needed to purchase a great number of new clothes and I can benefit from other's gluttony when I visit the local charity shops. Toodle pip!

The depression, despair and dismay tour

I met Wilf yesterday in central London to attend a walk he'd been recommended by one of his Scout Pack (he's Scoutmaster of the 2nd Gants Hill Branch) - the Depression, Despair and Dismay tour which runs in the empty City of London at the weekend at 2pm sharp. The tour guide, a diminutive scotsman, ironically named Scott Walker (his parents must have either had a canny sense of humour or incredible foresight - who knows?) Anyway, I digress, Scott's apparently an incredible storyteller as well as a former child actor who took his one man rendition of 'Oh What A Lovely War' to war torn Shropshire in the 1980s.

The walk lasted a whole two hours, which made it excellent value at £8 each. Beforehand Wilf managed to squash his egg and pickle sandwiches on the Central Line en route to London so we treated ourselves to a shared 'foot long' baguette from Subway, which we ate from each side, reminicent of the famous scene from Disney's 'Lady and the Tramp' (I'm not prepared to state who was the lady and who indeed was the tramp...)

Scott performed the walk with gusto and we were particularly frightened when he led us down a dark alley where a strange looking gentleman was reading by the light of a lamp in the shape of a skull. He entertained us with tales of bloodshed, deceit and murder in olde London. I particuarly loved his theories about the identity of Jack The Ripper, but Wilf argued against some of his hyphotheses stating that the particular suspects couldn't have possible perpetrated those heinous crimes. Sometimes Wilf is surprising: his sheer knowledge of serial killers is to be admired. After the walk several of the group asked for Scott's autograph and picture, both of which he refused unless they favourably reviewed the walk on TripAdvisor beforehand.

At 4:15pm Wilf and I went a local Wetherspoons for a drink and a bite to eat. We were enjoying our meals when we heard the braying tones of a group discussing the recent changes to the civil service pension scheme. They kept reiterating the point that the civil service didn't deserve such favourable terms but Wilf kept the peace until they started suggesting that 60% of public sector workers should lose their jobs, this is when he had his 'Incredible Hulk' moment and shouted at them that he'd accepted rubbish pay and a life of incredible tedium in return for comfortable conditions and favourable pension rights. He returned to our table red and shaking but he'd shown me the true measure of his passion and devotion and I liked it!

Wilf accompanied me to Charing Cross Station, we shared a chaste kiss and he invited me to his parents' adult baptisms which are taking place on Shoreham Nudist Beach in a fortnight's time. I enquired whether there was a minimum dress code but he assured me that my lycra mix tankini would prove suitable attire.

Emma's new man

Last night Emma invited me to her studio flat to discuss her latest boyfriend, Connor. They met whilst he was carrying out renovations in her office and according to her he's 33, separated from the mother of his twins, Ronnie and Reggie, and works as a jobbing carpenter. She appears smitten, which can only be a bad thing for her as Emma, unlike my good self, wears her heart on her sleeve.

She said that he was 'dreamy looking' and in possession of olive skin, green eyes and a muscular physique, unfortunately he was blessed with rather short legs so he's always grateful that she wears flat shoes whenever they're going somewhere. He refers to his ex, Donna-Marie as 'that cow', which doesn't bode well for Emma and Connor's future as he's clearly rather immature.

I'll be honest here: I've never really liked Emma's past boyfriends as they've always been...well....a little 'common' for my tastes. Take for example Stevie, he worked on a fish stall situated outside the Royal Dauphin pub in Colme Lacey (a dodgy area btw), despite the fact that he showered twice a day, Stevie always carried the aroma of Billingsgate around with him. When they split up (she dumped him because she found that he was slipping the barmaid more than just his electric eel) he posted her a putrid john dory, which just isn't on.

Oh well, two bottles of wine, a pizza and some garlic bread can cheer up the most fractious of evenings. Let's hope it lasts.

My lunch with Wilf

I woke up with a start at 6am this morning: I'd been having a strange dream which included my friend Wilf's double decker bus, a pack of ring doughnuts and some flypaper. Sometimes I think the hormones are doing funny things to my system so I suppose I'd better stop using Mother's old HRT patches....

Anyway, today was my monthly lunch date with Wilf, we went to St James's Park and sat under a shady tree. Wilf remarked that he'd once encountered a colleague called Colin whose main aim in life was to sit at the bottom of the slope in the summer and glance upwards in case he should see a flash of a woman's knickers. Apparently he used to keep a spreadsheet of his finds. Civil Servants are strange people at times.

Wilf invited me to the Civil Service Social Club's annual trip to Hastings which is due to take place in early August. He'd bought two tickets, one for him and the other for his mother, but she's recently developed an aversion to sitting on plush coach seats and as a result, can no longer get full use of her old person's Oyster card.

I must say that Wilf looked especially stylish today - he was wearing his beige suit with the trousers nattily pulled up high onto his slim waist. His hair was also especially thick and lushous, although I'm sure he had a number of bald patches a month ago. When I complemented him on it he said that it was all down to a product called 'Miracle Hair Crop' which his mother had bought via a shopping channel (apparently her allergies don't apply to TV remote controls or credit cards - meow!) After our alloted hour we returned to our respective offices where I'm currently wondering how to back record convert 1568 files...

Whitstable

It's a Sunday morning and rather overcast, so I'd thought I'd treat my reader(s) to an account of my recent trip to the seaside resort of Whitstable.

To those in the know, Whitstable was once a major Oyster port on the North Kent coast and until about 10 years ago or so, was a fairly quiet resort, faintly smelling of fiah, rancid chip fat and boasting a connection with Peter Cushing, a resident of the town in his later years. Unfortunately (or fortunately if you were a property owner...) the place became better known as 'Islington by the Sea', which meant that the moneyed classes snapped up property, opened up art galleries and generally gave the area a bohemian vibe.

My parents and I travelled there on market day (which is basically a rag bag of stalls selling old tat) and had to park a long way away and walk in. We perused the small shops which line Habour Street which sell 'expensive tat' (Mother's words, not mine) and I bought a book about dolphin song from the remaindered bookshop. We had a short visit to the museum, which houses the usual collection of maritime cornucopia such as the figurehead of a ship, some fishing nets and a picture of a giant squid.

To avoid the extortionate prices charged by the various tea shops and cafes, Mother had packed the Thermos flask, which is rather old and smells of old coffee and plastic, so we inched ourselves down onto the pebbly beach and enjoyed our refreshment.

I wonder what the Isle of Sheppey's like?

Caravan of Love?

One of my favourite songs is the Housemartins' 'Caravan of Love' but one of the least favourite holidays I've been on has been the past ten days worth of caravan dwelling. Mother thought that it would be a cheap and easy holiday to hire Mrs Hampstead-Hollingbourne's 3 berth carvan for this year's summer holiday so I, not having much else better to do, agreed. Now, I'm not sure if you've ever been to Seasalter on the Kent Coast, and if you haven't, don't bother, but sadly we did.

Mother was very excited to be staying some 9 miles along the coast from Reculver as she'd heard great things about Seasalte; sadly Mrs H-H's menopausal drugs must have kicked in when she bought the place, because it was truly vile. Seasalter lies on a swamp, populated mainly by sheep. The tide goes out, stays in for five minutes and then disappears for the next few hours or so. Mother was upset that she barely managed to get her new skirted swimsuit wet.

As for the carvan itself, well, it had seen better days. The fold down beds twanged when any weight was put on them, the cooker didn't work and the chemical toilet rumbled all night. There were also a bunch of hooligans staying next door who insisted on revving their motorbikes throughout the day.

Perhaps the highlight of the trip was journeying to neighbouring Whitstable, which I'll tell you more about in tomorrow's post.