In Vino Veritas

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.

I always knew that the theory of relativity had something to do with distance and time. I think I've got it now.

It goes something like this; the further you are away from someone the quicker time passes. Or is it the other way round?

Anyhow, I’ve watched H, R and P grow up from the moment they were born and it’s only when I look at photographs of them when they were babies do I realise how much they’ve changed.

You don’t notice any changes at the time because you see them every day. And can’t necessarily understand when someone says ‘Oooh, hasn’t she grown up?’

But now I’m at The Priory I’m beginning to understand. I had a conversation with R yesterday that brought it home.

We were talking about what she’d like to be when she grows up. Her latest ambition is that she wants to be a film director. No wait, an author. Make that a professional violinist.

I told her that whatever she chooses she should live her dreams (as long as she becomes famous and earns loads of money, obviously).

‘I can’t do them all, Dad,’ she said.

‘Yes, you can R!’ I replied.

‘Well, maybe I could play violin as a weekend job.’

That's my girl.

I think it must be in my genes. I love playing silly games with H, R and P whenever I get the chance.

Even when I call them at The Menagerie I can’t resist the temptation.

‘Hello Dad,’ said P when she picked up my call.

‘You ok?’ I said.

‘Yes,’ came the reply.

‘Do you want to play the Yes/No game quickly?’ I asked eagerly.

‘Yes!’

‘Ah ha! Got you!’ I said triumphantly.

‘Dad! Start again,’ said P.

‘Ok. Do you want to play the Yes/No game?’ I repeated.

‘No,’ she responded.

‘Ah ha! Got you again!’ I triumphed.

Silence for 10 seconds. ‘Do you want to speak to H or R?’

I’m sure she thinks I’m calling from a lunatic asylum rather than The Priory. But I think I get it from the Chief Psychiatrist because he likes to play silly games too.

He drives me to the train station most mornings and, at this time of year, it’s dark when we leave. As we're driving the country roads, he loves to play ‘See how many cars we can spot with only one headlight working'.

It’s great fun I can tell you. He refers to them like they’re one-eyed wild animals that have escaped from the surrounding fields.

‘There’s one! There’s another one! There’s loads of them!’

We saw 8 this morning.

Nine if you include the one he saw in his rear view mirror.

‘Fancy a few beers, Bruv?’

‘Have you got an Escape Plan?’ I replied.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, the Chief Psychiatrist will want to know where we’re going,’ I said.

‘Don’t be silly. Come on. Let’s go.’

And with a quick ‘see you later’ we were out of the door.

‘That was easy,’ I thought to myself as we made our way to the local. Maybe it’s paranoia. Maybe it’s, despite being in my early 40s, I will always think ‘it’s their house, so it’s their rules’.

I ended up having a great evening. In fact, I was enjoying myself so much that by 10-30pm Bruv announced that he’d had enough.

‘I’m off home. You coming?’ he said as he was putting his coat on.

‘I’m going to stay for a couple more as it goes,’ I replied finishing off my pint.

I’m glad I did because I got chatting to the locals and had a great time. It was gone midnight when I finally left the pub.

I walked – zigzagged – home in the chilly night air. I hadn’t done this for over 20 years and I felt oddly contented.

I arrived at The Priory and let my self in just as Chief Nurse was coming down the stairs. Without saying a word she went to the kitchen and poured me a glass of water.

From upstairs, the Chief Psychiatrist called out.

‘What time is it?’

‘It’s 42 o’clock!’ I called back.

Bad move.

There are obvious advantages to living back at ‘home’ with your parents. Shirts magically iron themselves and you get cups of tea as you’ve always liked them. And there’s a constant supply of Hobnobs.

But sometimes it feels like I’m in rehab. (I do have withdrawal symptoms but they’re for H, R and P – which, incidentally, are three consonants in the right order in the word ‘therapy’).

Whereas before I’d pour a glass of wine without so much as looking at the label there is now an almost nightly ritual (torture?) as I wait to see if the Chief Psychiatrist – sorry, my Dad - is going to open a bottle.

If he decides he is, he returns from his well stocked wine rack in the garage and then treats me to a brief history of the wine, the expected bouquet and whether the year was a particularly good one. Well, when I say brief…….

The added torture is that there is another well stocked rack of ‘special’ wines in a cupboard in the room I’m in. I try not to look at it (It’s 5 x 5, French wines on the top row, New World in the middle 3 and Italian on the bottom. I have my eye on a 1979 Barolo).

I know I sound ungrateful. But my Dad (and Mum) would laugh if they read this – probably safe in the knowledge that they were right all along.

But I have escaped on occasions.

Like the other night when I went down the pub with ‘Bruv’………..

It was the first day back at work and the first opportunity I had to wish my work colleagues a Happy New Year.

‘Have a good one Colin?’

‘Not really. My mum nearly died on Christmas Day.’

Naturally, I was gobsmacked. You could even say my flabber was gasted.

‘I’m really sorry to hear that, Colin. What happened?’

He then proceeded to tell me how his Mum is not a well person. She has suffered two heart attacks and received treatment for cancer. On Christmas Day she ‘came over all funny’ and Colin got worried.

‘My God, Colin. Is she ok?’

‘She's fine. She’s only got a cough now.'

I still haven’t worked out if he’s pleased to be back at work.