In Vino Veritas

It’s possible that H, R and P see me in a different light these days. I see them regularly, of course, and try to ensure that I’m involved in the things they do.

But, inevitably, I have more time to myself now. So I get involved in other things. Like the local Rotary Club (don’t ask).

It has meant making new acquaintances (often several decades older than me) and making new promises. Like promising to be at the meeting that Roger was going to be inaugurated as the next president.

I phoned him whilst R was in her violin lesson and P was waiting to go in for hers. I was still in my suit and hadn‘t had time to change.

‘I’ll do my best to be there Thursday night,’ I said, P listening in. ‘It’s an important meeting for you seeing as you’ve taken over as president.’

P’s brow furrowed and a look of incredulity spread over her face.

‘Bye then, look forward to it Roger,’ I said and hung up.

‘Has he taken over as president?’ said P.

‘Who?’ I asked

‘Roger,’ she replied.

‘Yes, as from last week,’ I told her.

‘What’s happened to Barack Obama then?’

Security staff at airports weald enormous power. It’s no use trying to outfox them. Just comply.

I’m becoming a regular user of one particular airport and over the past few months have had a few things confiscated. They’re building up quite a collection of my stuff now.

Last time it was pease pudding. Yes. Pease pudding that I’d bought for Chief Nurse. It was sealed in an airtight container but nevertheless constituted a significant threat for it to be taken from me. Maybe the chap in question was having boiled ham for his tea.

Somehow he managed to miss the lemon cake and corned beef pie that I cunningly concealed under a t-shirt. Maybe I should lodge a complaint that he’s not doing his job properly.

But I realize that complaining will get me no where except a request to drop my trousers and bend over. Instead, I’ve come up with a plan.

I’ve heard that they’re going to be testing a device that can detect suspicious substances and liquids. Next time, I’m going to pee in a bottle and put it in my hand luggage.

Then, when I go through, they can really take the piss.

Colin at work loves The Wire. He’s the only one who watches it but we all have the feeling that we’ve watched it too. Several times. Apparently it was the 58th consecutive episode last night. Or something.

I haven’t seen him for a couple of weeks and on my way out of the office I asked how things were going.

‘Great actually!’ he said

‘Good. Have you been away?’ I enquired.

‘Been to Brighton actually. Had a great time!’

‘You must have some catching up to do!’ I immediately realised that this was a silly thing to say. I was now going to have to endure a conversation about his favourite subject.

‘Oh no. I’ve managed to watch it. Have you ever seen it?’

‘No Colin. I haven’t,’ I said looking round for something to lean against, resigned to the fact that I would be here for at least quarter of an hour.

‘In fact, I’ve got a funny story about The Wire actually. Do you know Sister Sledge? You know ‘We are fam–i-lee…’ he asked.

‘Yee-ee-s…..’

‘Well I met the band in a laundrette in Brighton’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. They were washing their clothes’

‘That’s a relief,’ I said. ‘But what’s this got to do with The Wire?’

‘Hang on and I’ll tell you!’

‘Sorry.’ I was saying sorry!

‘She came in for a service wash and gave some tickets to the staff’

‘That was nice’

‘I got speaking to the guitarist. I noticed his American accent. He was in there doing his washing as well’

‘What did you say to him?’

‘I asked him where he was from. Well actually I asked if he knew where Baltimore was’

‘And did he?’

‘Yes! He said he lived in Philadelphia which is about a 3 hour drive away!’

‘Why did you ask him where Baltimore was?’

‘Because that’s where The Wire is set!’

‘Oh!’ It was sort of becoming clear now. Sort of. ‘Then what did you say?’

‘Well I asked if him if he’d ever seen it, of course!’

‘And has he?’

‘No’.

Not every one has, Colin.

The Chief Psychiatrist loves his garden. And, I must admit, so do I.

It has taken a lot of loving care and attention but it’s worth it - especially at this time of year when it is full of colour.

It’s his pride and joy. I haven’t yet inherited his green fingers but I took great pleasure in walking round it with H, R and P. There was a particular flower that was clambering up some trellis, bursting forth through the green foliage. My knowledge of plants doesn’t extend far so all I could really say was ‘Ooh, look at that nice blue one.’

Which is just as well I suppose.

I nearly spilt my cornflakes when he pointed out the same plant to me at breakfast and asked me if I liked his Morning Glory.

Betty lives two doors down and for an 80 something is more energetic than most.

I found myself accompanying her down town today. We took the shortcut down a country lane then across a field.

In the distance, coming towards us, was a middle aged couple. Suddenly, I started to panic.

‘I bet they think I’m about to mug her or something,’ I worried.

Betty clearly knew them because she waved at them.

‘Oh no!’ I thought. ‘Now they think she’s waving for help!’

As they got closer I made sure that I was speaking to Betty in the most polite manner possible and ended every sentence with her name. I didn’t want the couple getting the wrong impression or, even worse, calling the police.

You’ll be pleased to know that my strategy worked although I think I overdid it a little when I bowed after opening the five bar iron gate for them all.

I look forward to my weekly trips to The Menagerie. Well, it’s not actually the menagerie I look forward to – it’s seeing H, R and P. They’ve always got so much to tell me and inevitably they all try to do it at once. I’m thinking of investing in a Dictaphone so I can record what they say and play it back later ( I might have to think that through properly first).

This week, as I got through the door the first discernible word I heard was ‘Squirrel!’

‘Squirrel?! What? Huh?’ I said desperately trying not to believe they now had a squirrel as a pet (since I last wrote they have acquired another ‘dog’ but I shall write about it – sorry, him – another time).

‘Next door have got a squirrel!’ P said.

And now they’ll want one too no doubt, I thought.

‘Next door have got a squirrel in their roof!’ H clarified.

Things were beginning to make sense. A squirrel had chewed a whole in the eaves of the house next door and was now nesting in their roofspace. I have to confess that the first thought I had was ‘At least I don’t have to shell out for a new roof and pest control’.

Then something occurred to me.

The girls’ Uncle has been staying at The Menagerie for free for the last few weeks. I don’t mind, of course, but I have yet to install self-mowing grass for his pleasure if you get my drift.

He’s struggling for work at the moment but he’s a roofer by trade. Ideal then that a job should come up next door! Surely he can’t argue about that not being local.

And if I can capture the rogue squirrel maybe I can let it loose on other roofs in the street to keep Uncle in regular work.

At The Priory, Friday and Saturday nights invariably involve wine tasting sessions. What started as a ruse to squeeze a glass of wine or two out of the Chief Psychiatrist has now become a weekly ritual.

We take great pleasure in setting everything up – from lovingly washing and drying the wine glasses to carefully decanting the wine. More often than not, different types of cheese and pate are involved too.

But now we’ve reached new heights. We’ve devised a scoring system (it’s still in a prototype version so I can’t divulge it yet). I’ve printed off some scoring sheets and hope to transfer everything to a spreadsheet. I never knew a single bottle of wine could give so much pleasure.

In fact, Chief Psychiatrist and I plan to write a book about our experiences and publish it later this year.

We’ve not thought of a name for it yet although the Chief Nurse has suggested ‘The Plonkers’ Guide to Plonk’.

I think she’s trying to tell us something.

Even though I’m living at The Priory I am still fairly self sufficient. I cook for myself most nights (although I allow Chief Nurse to do the Sunday Roast, of course). It’s a habit I can’t get out of I suppose.

The only difference these days is that the ingredients are all ready for me when I get in, courtesy of Chief Nurse.

I arrived home tonight and sauntered through to the kitchen to see what was in store.

Chief Nurse was there, filling up the kettle at the sink (a seemingly automatic response when someone comes in through the front door).

‘I thought you could do yourself a stir fry,’ she said nodding over to the ingredients by the stove.

‘Great, thanks!’ I said. ‘Chicken or beef?’

‘Neither. Pork sausages’.

It was different but I’m beginning to like her ideas.

Like the time she suggested we have brussel sprouts with mussels.

During our journeys to the train station the Chief Psychiatrist and I listen to local radio. It beats listening to the doom and gloom on Radio 4 at the moment (besides the presenters never seem to ask the questions you want to ask) and there’s often useful gardening tips or cooking tips. I would never have thought to plant my summer fruiting raspberry canes.

But I have to say that it came as a bit of a surprise when the host said, ‘And now we’re going to be discussing what turns a woman on……’

Chief Psychiatrist and I glanced at each other.

‘Got a pen?’ I asked, as I simultaneously searched in the glove box and turned the radio up.

We listened intently as the discussion began. One of the presenters, a female, started off the discussion.

‘Well, number one on my list is laughter,’ she said.

Chief Psychiatrist and I nodded in agreement.

‘Second on my list,’ she continued, ‘is intelligence.’

We nodded again.

‘But I think having big muscles and the ability to kiss tenderly are most important,’ she concluded.

We both sighed.

We were doing well up until that point.

I returned to The Menagerie for a couple of days this week. As I made my way there on Tuesday (Shrove Tuesday!) I suddenly realised it was Pancake Day as well.

I just had to remember to get some ingredients and the only way I could was to keep muttering ‘pancakes, pancakes’ as I travelled my journey.

At the local shop I was confronted by all the usual ingredients in a special display entitled ‘Don’t Forget Pancake Day’.

‘Yes ok don’t rub it in,’ I thought to myself.

I filled the shopping basket with pancake mix, golden syrup, nutella, lemon juice and sugar. Peanut butter and picalilli briefly entered my mind but I thought better of it.

When I arrived at The Menagerie I was greeted by a chorus of excited children.

‘Dad! You remembered!’ they shouted excitedly.

‘How could I forget?’ I replied with a twinkle in my eye.

So we made pancakes. And a lot of mess. But it was fun. R even invented pancake dumplings – they have exactly the same ingredients as pancakes but involve the cack handed use of a spatula. Tasty though – once you could stop them sticking to your teeth.

We even had fun seeing who was best at flipping them over. Overall, it was brilliant fun.

Well it was until H said, ‘Dad, we think you’re the world’s greatest tosser.'