In Vino Veritas

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.'

I’m in a routine now.

Every week day, I get up at the same time, I get to work at the same time, I leave work at the same time, get picked up at the same time and arrive at The Priory at the same time.

But sometimes I don’t. It’s not my fault you understand but the nature of public transport.

And that’s where mobile phones come in handy. They’re almost an extension of our anatomy and I wonder how we survived before they were invented. Honestly, I tried to resist getting one years ago but now even I try to get the latest release on the market.

To H, R and P, mobile phones are second nature but I’ll admit that I’m proud of the fact that I can text nearly as quickly as they do (but I do like to use full punctuation!).

Even the Chief Psychiatrist has a mobile phone. When I say ‘mobile’ it’s really better described as ‘portable’ – in the same way a brick is portable. He’s never really used it but now brings it with him on his way to pick me up from the station – ‘just in case.’

I have called him on it once or twice before but I’ve never known him use it for texting.

So I thought I’d try him out.

The trains were running late so instead of phoning him I fired off a text letting him know about the delays. After a couple of stops I sent another one to update him.

I was half expecting him to ring me but instead I received a reply to my text!

at the statio

Not a bad effort. I replied back congratulating him on sending a text.

‘You managed to work it out then!’ I replied.

Beep, beep. Another text from him!

at the statio

‘Well, sort of.’ I thumbed back.

When I walked up to his car there he was, in the driving seat, tongue in the corner of his mouth in concentration, clutching his mobile in one hand and prodding his phone with the forefinger of his other hand.

He hardly noticed me get in.

I’ve been gradually moving my stuff from The Menagerie to The Priory over the last few weeks. When H, R and P are in bed, I pack another box of stuff. Oddly, it’s quite a cathartic experience – I’ve come across old books I’d forgotten I had, old CDs and even some old notebooks (I’ve had the notebook habit for longer than I thought).

This week I came across an old wine diary I used to keep. I can’t remember where I’d got the diary (emblazoned ‘What Wine Was That?’!) but I used to write notes in it after ‘sampling’ wines. I can’t believe I used to take it so seriously!

Anyway, as I packed it away in the box, it led to me hatching a cunning plan……

‘I could show this to the Chief Psychiatrist and maybe it might persuade him to open some of those bottles in the rack in my room,’ I thought.

Back at The Priory I was unpacking my box.

‘This might interest you,’ I said to the Chief Psychiatrist, trying to be as nonchalant as possible.

I pulled out the wine diary and laid it on the table. He picked it up and started flicking through it.

‘Hmm. A 1997 Zinfandel. Bouquet – bubblegum. Bubblegum? How can wine have a bubblegum bouquet!’ he exclaimed.

‘It’s what I smelt at the time….,’ I offered. ‘The first smell that came to me….’ I’m sure that I’d read somewhere that you described the first thing that came into your head.

He continued flicking through the book. ‘There are some nice wines here,’ he said, starting to sound interested in my wine tasting adventures.

Any minute now.

‘I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you go up to your room and bring down a bottle of that claret you’ve had your eye on? We can start keeping our own record of the wines we drink’ he said.

We’ve completed 6 new entries already.

I ended up going to the party. As I’ve mentioned, it was a James Bond theme. I didn’t have time to organise and outfit so I went as myself.

‘It’s Oddjob!’ chorused the assembled guests as I walked into the venue.

I glanced behind me. No-one.

Unperturbed, I carried onto to the bar and ordered a drink. It was free after all (come on, why else would I be there?).

It didn’t take long before I was renewing some old acquaintances and even making some new ones. I got on like a house on fire with Dr No – although I still haven’t worked out if I knew him. Or her, come to think of it.

I had been hoping to meet Pussy Galore but by 8pm I was gone – because I had to meet the Chief Psychiatrist who was picking me up.

As promised, he was there at the time and place he said he would be. By 930pm I was back at The Priory and by 10pm I was in bed with a nice cup of tea – with milk, two sugars, nicely stirred.

I must be getting old.

Being at The Priory means I have less opportunity to socialise (not that I did much before) because I have to rely on the Chief Psychiatrist for a lift home.

It’s only fair that I keep him informed of any plans that I have; last minute arrangements tend to throw his whole world into disarray.

‘I’ve been invited to a Chamber’s party tomorrow night……..’ I tried to say as nonchalantly as possible in the car on the way to work.

Silence.

‘Yes, it should be quite a good do. It’s a James Bond theme apparently….,’ I continued, trying to generate a bit of interest and, ultimately, determine whether there was a lift home on the cards.

Silence again. I didn’t want to ask outright as it didn’t seem polite so I left it there and didn’t mention it anymore.

At work, I got a couple of calls asking if I was going.

‘It’s a bit late notice,’ I said. ‘It’d be difficult getting home.’

‘Don’t be silly, you can kip at mine!’ came the immediate reply. But I knew what that meant. A long train journey or cab ride to an unfamiliar destination whilst completely off my trolley and then trying to get to The Priory on Saturday.

Which would mean asking for a lift from the Chief Psychiatrist.

‘Thanks for the offer but I think I’ll take a raincheck. I’ll come to the next one though,’ I said, trying not to sound forlorn.

Next morning, the Chief Psychiatrist dropped me at the station as usual.

‘What time do you want picking up tonight?’ he asked, as I was getting out of the car.

‘Eh?’ I responded.

‘Aren’t you going out?’ he said.

‘Yes…but….I thought….’ I hesitated.

‘Well, you only have to ask me if you ever want picking up anywhere’

I went to The Menagerie this week and saw H, R and P for the first time in a few days. Silly, I know, but I was excited!

I was expecting a rapturous welcome and but came across indifference instead. Of course, it wasn’t right to show any disappointment because they’re children after all. In some ways I was glad that they’re getting used to the new arrangements and feel comfortable with them.

I sat on the sofa in the living room trying to engage them in conversation. H was doing her homework. R and P were bouncing around playing on the Wii.

‘Everything ok at school?’ I enquired.

‘Yes, Dad’ they said in unison.

‘All the animals ok?’

‘Yes, Dad.’ Their disinterest started to bug me a little, I must confess.

‘Come on!’ I enthused. ‘I haven’t seen you for nearly a week!’

‘But we see you most nights, Dad,’ said H.

‘What do you mean?’

Then it dawned on me. They had created a version of me on the Wii – even down to the glasses and strawberry blonde (some say, ginger) hair.

It was spookily accurate.

It was shit at tennis as well.