Sissy

Right then, I’m not too sure how to go about this one but I feel I need to do it. My sense of decency insists on it. But before you accuse me of anything, please read it properly and see that it’s coming from a place of concern, not condemnation.

So here I go!

I’m on a short break in Skipton at the moment with my lovely lady wife and we’re staying on our daughter’s boyfriend’s beautiful canal boat. His name is Paul, by the way, and he’s a top-drawer bloke who we like tremendously. Being experienced boaters of old, Ange and I are used to the problems and foibles of boating life. One of the main problems facing canal boaters is the onboard toilet; vis-à-vis they do tend to fill up rather quickly as they are either the cassette variety, which need to be emptied by hand every four to five days, or the pump out type that rely on a septic storage tank that requires pumping out at a boatyard when full.

Paul’s boat is the latter and so we decided that, as its not actually our boat, we would only use the loo for number 1’s. For number 2’s we would use the public conveniences in the car park opposite where we are moored. They aren’t the best toilets in Skipton but they aren’t the worst either – that particular honour goes to the utterly horrendous CRT loos by the canal; lets just say you do need to be pretty bloody desperate to use them. But the car park ones are just the right side of ok.

But only just…

By the closest of margins…

Actually, now I think about it, they are quite awful.

There! I’ve set the scene nicely haven’t I?

So it was with a little trepidation, on Monday morning, that I made my shambling, shuffling way to the car park toilet as fast as my trembling and aching legs could carry me. I wasn’t exactly touching cloth but there was a genuine and definite feeling of necessity for the journey; if you know what I mean. Suffice to say I made it there in time.

There are two cubicles in the Coach Street car park toilets and seeing as the right hand one was in use I had no choice but to take the left. I closed and locked the door and within a matter of a few seconds was in position as it were.

And that’s when I saw it!

I looked at the back of the cubicle door and saw that it was adorned with graffiti of a somewhat thought-provoking if slightly off-putting nature.

There it was in inch high black letters, the words – SISSY IN PINK PANTIES WANTS COCKS TO SUCK!!!

There was an accompanying phone number but I won’t print it here.

Now, let me set the record straight. I am not in any way homophobic. I am not any kind of phobic towards anyone regardless of race, religion or sexual orientation. I accept everyone on merit and I have many gay and lesbian friends whose friendship I value and I would never allow anyone to verbally abuse them because of their sexuality.

However…

There was a sudden revulsion that rose up in me at that glowing piece of literary genius on the back of that door. I didn’t want to be in a toilet that was being used for such purposes. And believe me, if the words had been written by a member of the fairer sex I would have felt exactly the same.

I think what actually made me feel that way was the fact that it was a grotty, smelly and largely unpleasant public convenience and the thought that anyone should want to engage in any kind of sexual activity in such a noxious location turned my very stomach.

Because, and here’s the clincher, whoever Sissy was, his intellectual outpouring wasn’t actually the worst thing written on the back of the door. It just stood out the most being in such big letters. There were much, much worse messages and the urge to get back to the boat and have a scalding hot shower was strong in this one.

There is no way on this Earth that I am going to reprint those awful scrawls here and I am neither a prude nor easily shocked or offended. Yes, that’s how bad they were. I soon realised that Sissy, whoever he was, was not the real problem here.

The reality that we are living in such a sexually depraved society that men (or women) are happy to perform fellatio, or anything else that comes to mind, in such a disgusting, germ and disease ridden environment was enough to make my gorge rise and I if I hadn’t already begun to have a bowel movement I would have left immediately and tried my luck elsewhere.

The question I have, I suppose, is that in this age of internet communication that we find ourselves living in, is there not a better way for people to a) contact one another with their desires and b) find somewhere more appropriate to perform them?

Listen, as far as Sissy is concerned, he can spend the rest of his life sucking whatever and whoever he wants wherever he wants to and I’ll be as happy as Larry for him but I hope for his sake (and all those other toilet authors) that he takes serious precautions because if that’s the way he conducts his sex life he’s asking for a whole host of extremely unpleasant and potentially life-threatening illnesses to come his way and not necessarily sexually transmitted ones.

Part of me felt sorry for Sissy. He’s clearly a very lonely person and not in any kind of stable relationship with a significant other. Homosexuality and single sex marriage are now perfectly legal in the UK and have been for some time now. Surely there’s no longer any need for people like Sissy to skulk around in the car park bogs hoping for a blow job. It’s not the 19^th or 20^th century anymore. Gay men meeting in public lavatories is nothing new of course, it’s been happening for a long time. I just feel that it’s something that should be consigned to the history books as there really is no need for it anymore and I think that had a large part to play in how I was feeling. It seemed like an archaic throwback to a less tolerant time when homosexuality was viewed with fear or ridicule by those who knew little about it.

And so, no matter how close I am to soiling myself in the future, I won’t be using Coach Street toilets again in a hurry. I’d hate to intrude on someone’s intimacy of either a hetero or homosexual nature.

And in case you’re wondering (ya weirdo ye), I went to the disabled one in Morrisons on Tuesday.

And, there was no graffiti!

Two Funerals

Now before you start to think that this is going to be a morbid post purely from the title then let me reassure you that it most certainly is not. Whilst it is true that I have attended two funerals within the space of six days, I’m not going to dwell on the mourning side of them but rather the celebration of two lives and what I’ve learned about myself from them.

The first funeral, last Thursday, was my own mother’s. I could tell you the tale of how it just shouldn’t have happened and that Melton Mowbray hospital let her and us down with their negligence but I don’t want to do that (they did though) but that wouldn’t be my style. No, I’d much rather tell you how beautiful her send-off was.

We followed her wishes to the letter and whilst it was in the vein of a traditional funeral with church service, hymns and prayers it was also a time for my brother and I to inject a little light humour into it with our eulogy. Mum would have liked that. She enjoyed a good laugh. And I think what I took away from it was to treasure the small things in life. It isn’t always about the big things. Oh sure, we all remember those great, expensive foreign holidays or meeting the rich and famous or being at a certain major event; those are all good memories.

But reading through the eulogy (wot I wrote) brought back so many memories of times that still bring a huge smile to my face. For example, as kids we were taken to Mablethorpe for a week for our annual Summer holiday until I was 10 and we ventured as far as Cornwall. I have much better and fonder memories of those times than I have of say, going to Benidorm with the lads when I was 18. Much of that trip is a hazy San Miguel induced blur.

We thought we were going somewhere exotic where we would sip Sangria on the beach and that there would be dusky, hot-blooded, passionate Spanish women throwing themselves at our sun-bronzed bodies and that the air would be thick with the heady scent of oleander. The reality was a beach that was too hot to walk on, dingey nightclubs selling insipid lager and pretty much nothing else and a sewage system that left a permanent mephitis hanging in the air. We weren’t even bronzed. None of us dared take our T shirts off for longer than a few minutes at a time but then maybe we shouldn’t have gone in August.

And as for the ladies. Most of them were called either Tracy or Cassandra, came from the North-East of England and were all even drunker than we were. Although some of them did throw themselves at us but not in a hot-blooded tempestuous way. More like an ashtray breath, falling over, spewing in the street kind of way. Not the holiday we had in mind when we booked it and if truth be told I’d much rather forget it all together.

But those childhood days of playing on the Lincolnshire sands with bucket and spade are memories I will always treasure.

And there were other times too that came out of that eulogy. Not great, Earth-shattering life events but simple family moments that actually brought a good few chuckles from those in the church with us. And so, in that sense, it truly was a celebration of life. Not just my mum’s but my whole family. And that taught me something. I’m going to cherish every moment I spend with those I love – my beautiful, wise and funny wife Ange, my step-daughter Becky with her lust for life, my granddaughter Erin who makes me feel like the luckiest man on Earth, my wider family (both my own and my in-laws) and of course all the excellent friends that we have around us. I want to commit to memory all the funny little things people have said and the laughter we share over the years.

Sounds mawkish?

Probably, but so what? It’s better than filling your head with pornography or horror movies or soap operas or anything with Jimmy Carr in. It’s probably true that there are people in this world that remember Scott and Charlene’s wedding in Neighbours better than their own.

So that’s what I took away from Mum’s funeral.

The second one was just a few days ago, and it was the funeral of Judith; an old friend and colleague of Ange’s. Judith was a great character. A very glamorous lady (even in her later years) with an intelligence to match and a deep-rooted love of English history. Throughout her life Judith travelled extensively and lived in New Zealand for a time. She loved vibrant colours, animals of all shapes and sizes (especially cats) and indeed was in love with life itself.

And her family were adored by her and she by them.

I didn’t know Judith as much as I would have liked to have done but it was her joy of being alive that spoke to me the most about her at the funeral, which was perhaps one of the most light-hearted and joyful of such occasions that I have ever known. Part of the wake was spent by people sharing their memories of Judith and the sense of love in the room for her was palpable.

And do you know what? That is exactly how I want people to be at my funeral. I want to be someone who is missed. That may sound selfish but that’s the overwhelming thing that came out of Judith’s funeral. This woman had lived her life in such a way that she really has left a gaping hole in the lives of all who knew her.

So I’m going to try and live like that. Oh yes, I know I’m a larger than life, constantly joking, generous, kind-hearted man and I do have a great many people that will miss me when I’m gone. But from what I learned at Judith’s funeral I want to be more than that. I want to be a force of nature to people and treat everyone the way that I would want to be treated by them.

In a nutshell, I’m going to try harder.

So two funerals. I cried at my mum’s because of who it was that I’d lost but I’ll always remember that there were a lot of folks there for a 92-year-old’s funeral and they all had a laugh on the day.

I smiled during Judith’s funeral, just with the simple pleasure of hearing about a life well lived and that will remain with me always.

There you are you see. I said it wasn’t going to be morbid and it wasn’t.

P.S – If you’re wondering about the Jimmy Carr bit, I just think the man is a colossal, monstrously offensive bell-end with less talent than a handkerchief full of phlegm and shouldn’t be allowed to show his smug, gurning face on the television..

RISE and Whine

Don’t worry, that’s not a typo. It’s definitely RISE and Whine, not rise and wine. No, things aren’t quite that desperate yet. The RISE part (all capitalised you will note) was the opening ceremony of the Bradford UK City of Culture Year and the whine bit is what I have been dong ever since.

If you want to know what I thought of RISE then you can read my review on Substack – Click Here

If you want to know what I’m whining about then stay tuned.

And it’s just a very short one today.

The RISE event itself was ok, just, but like I say, read the review, the problem was that it was outside in the perishing cold and I was on my feet for a lengthy spell of time. Neither of those two scenarios are at all in any way good for fibromyalgia; as the rest of the week has borne testimony to.

RISE was on Saturday night and I woke up on Sunday morning wondering where the gorilla had gone. By which I mean the gorilla who had been throwing my unconscious body against the bedroom walls for eight hours non-stop. It must have been a fully grown silverback gorilla because I can’t think of any other animal (maybe a male orangutan) that would have the upper body strength to do such a thing to a man of my bulging ampleness.

That was the only explanation for the screeching pain that came to mind when I woke up.

Of course, as my bleary and bloodshot eyes began to focus once more, I realised that there hadn’t really been a gorilla. I mean, how could there have been? Unless it had its own set of keys…

*note to self – check with building manager re: the possibility of gorillas having keys.

No, reality soon dawned on me that I was feeling thus because I had stood in a minus degree temperature on a rock-hard pavement for approximately two and a half bloody hours. During which time I was treated to seriously awful techno music, a mediocre show and had inhaled about twenty-five different odours of various fast food establishments. I swear you could taste listeria in the air.

Everything hurts like blazes and the TENS machine has had to work overtime ever since. Tramadol tablets have been pouring down my yearning throat like Zulus charging at Rourke’s Drift and my carefully managed supply of diazepam is now fast dwindling in a most alarming fashion. And I really try to go steady with that stuff!

So yes, I am whining quite a lot after RISE. But hey, at least I can say I was there!

Whoop-de-do!

Hope to bring you a more positive blog post next week x

New Year, New Whatever…

Happy New Year one and all!

Can it really be a full year ago since the blog post – Good Intentions? It blooming well is you know. So here’s a quick review of the good intentions and what I achieved (and didn’t) in 2024.

Well, on a personal level I managed to lose the pitiful amount of 8 pounds in weight. Piss poor even if I do say so myself. At one point I’d actually lost over a whole stone but then Christmas came along and buggered all that up. So I’m more or less back to the beginning with that.

I have almost stuck to one of my goals that I set myself of going outside every day and getting some fresh air, rather than moping in the flat on bad days. And I came so close to achieving a full 366 days but for one when I was enjoying time with some visiting friends so much that I actually forgot to go out. I could kick myself for that one.

But in other ways I have been better. For instance, dry January ran into dry February, dry March and almost dry April. I broke my duck on April 28^th whilst out for a meal with the family and sank two pints of delicious, cold Guinness. And I’m trying it again this year. Going dry for a month I mean, not drinking two pints of Guinness, although I probably will drink a lot more than two pints of it before the year is out.

I’ve taken much better care of myself in many ways but my health has deteriorated with the arrival of cervical spondylosis, which is quite literally a pain in the neck. Fibromyalgia has run rampant like wildfire through my entire body and I had a cist the size of Bournemouth on my back at one point that required some pretty intense meds to shift.

So health wise it’s not been too great.

As for the old writing lark, well, that’s been an odd one. This is the first year that I haven’t published a book since 2019, when the wonderful Ah Boy! made its debut. Mind you, I did publish a weekly serialisation of a novel called Take a Hike that I wrote almost twenty years ago, which wasn’t very good to be honest, and doesn’t actually count as canon even though it does reference Ingleby but is set mainly in Whitby and therefore is something of an anomaly. It’s a bit like when Sean Connery made Never Say Never Again. Yes, it kind of was a Bond film with many of the usual elements in it but it just wasn’t officially part of the series. That’s how I look at Take a Hike.

This ‘ere blog has suffered a bit; I have to hold my hands up and admit to that. You see I got distracted by the glamorous lure of Substack. I envisaged that when I started posting in May of last year that I would be in three or four figures of subscribers by now.

That hasn’t been the case.

I’m still in the low double figures.

Then, on October the 18^th, my mum was hospitalised after a fall at home. The next two and half months saw Ange and I travel almost 3500 miles up and down the motorway to go and visit her every Friday to Monday. We slept on an air bed on my mum’s living room floor and I’ll leave you to guess how that has affected me physically.

And I’ll let you in to a little secret…

At one point I nearly quit!

I did. I nearly quit writing altogether. I just didn’t have the heart for it anymore. The horrible truth about being an independent author is that it’s frightfully hard to get people to take a chance on you. You see, if my name were David Walliams or Richard Osman or even Jamie Oliver (shudder) then publishers would be fighting each other to get a six-book contract into my sweaty little palms. But I’m not a celebrity, I’m a nobody, and nobody wants to read a nobody. If that makes sense?

But, I didn’t quit. Thanks to good advice from close family and true friends and the wonderful support of my amazing wife I feel a renewed determination at the start of this year. For one thing, Ange has retired now and I have to re-double my efforts at selling my books. Blessham Hall doesn’t get many tourists you see, and what with all the renovations to the front terrace and the owls nesting in the west wing, I really need to get myself paid for what I do.

Anyway, here’s the thing. I’m not setting myself any goals or resolutions for this year. I’m going to write when I write and not stress out on the days when I don’t. I’ve got plans for an anthology of my non-novel writing and I do hope to get the next Archie and Aggie Stone novel finished. It would be nice to start on the next Blessham book as well, which has a storyline I’m really excited about.

But if it don’t happen it won’t happen, and I need to keep a philosophical outlook.

I’d like to be sat here in 365 days’ time and tell you that I’m many stones lighter and several jeans sizes thinner but I’ll be happy with whatever I lose and if I can answer the front door without getting out of breath and breaking into a sweat by then, then I shall feel like a winner.

2025 – Bring It On!

Dear Santa

Can’t be mid December already can it? Seems like only yesterday that I wrote my annual Christmas diatribe for the blog 2023. Oh well, never mind, I’ve got this year’s ready to go, right here.

The thinking behind this one is the fact that I simply cannot stand the awful commercialism that now blights this time of year. To me, Christmas has been tarnished by the over-infatuation with the man in red.

Christmas was never about toys and over-indulgence back in the day and a large part of me wishes that that were the case now. So here, unexpurgated, is my own personal letter to the imaginary person that we lie to children about every year.

Enjoy…

Dear Santa

This year I have been a very good boy. I have been to church, given to charity, helped my friends, family and neighbours and done a fair bit of voluntary work as well. So I think I should therefore be on the NICE LIST this year.

Ok, yes, there might have been the odd occasion where I have thought ill of others who have behaved badly or sworn like a docker at a fellow motorist who clearly doesn’t know his highway code from his arsehole but apart from that, yes, I’ve been a good little boy.

So I was hoping for something really cool in my stocking this year, even though I don’t possess a chimney in my flat for you to come down. And I’m not entirely sure the building manager would appreciate eight or nine fully grown reindeer and a giant sled groaning with toys on the roof but I’ll have a quiet word with her and see what can be done.

If you recall Santa, you haven’t bought me a single thing since I was about ten years old. Not that I’m complaining or anything. I mean, who am I to complain? Friends and family members have filled in nicely ever since so it’s not like I’ve missed out or anything.

Actually, now I come to think of it, you’re a bit of a monumental let down, aren’t you? Promising this and that to kiddies so long as they behave themselves all year. For goodness sake man were you never a child yourself? I suppose that you were never naughty, were you? Oh no, not good old Father Christmas or Kris Kringle or whatever the hell else you go by.

Actually, do you know what, it’s time for a bit of a truth bomb my fat friend.

You’re a dirty old deviant really.

I mean, what kind of pervert spends all year spying on little children to monitor their behaviour and then checking a sordid little list twice. And that’s before all the trespassing you do every 24^th of December.

Ask yourself now, what would you do if you caught somebody sneaking down your chimney in the dead of night? Huh? You’d chase the blighter back up with the poker that’s what! And don’t give me all that “Oh the little ones leave mince pies and sherry out for me.” You bloated oaf. We all know that if you consumed that much alcohol and pastry in one night you would probably shit yourself to death on Christmas morning when you arrive back at the North Pole or Lapland or wherever it is you inhabit.

Mind you, I suppose it’s not all your fault. You are nothing more than a product of human gullibility after all.

Ever since Coca Cola changed your outfit from a distinguished long green gown to a natty racing red two-piece with matching hat and white fur trim, you’ve convinced us all that we need to blow as much money as possible on food and gifts every year so that we can all have a “magical” time.

Balls!

Do you suppose the kiddies in Gaza and Ukraine and Yemen are having a magical time? What are you giving all them this year? Kevlar vests and battle helmets? You echoing great lump of stale pudding. You’re full of shite Mr Claus, that’s what you are.

And what of the children who go to school in the new year and when their friends tell them they had a new X-Box have to remind themselves that they got a cheap action figure from B&M. And that’s some of the lucky ones. Oh yes, you whiskery old git, I’ve seen all those charity adverts on TV. All those boys and girls going without whilst you ponce about the globe on your poxy sledge!

Good God man have you no shame nor moral compass? No conscience?

And because of your nasty, negative, crappy little list, all of those that go without will then assume they are bad children who don’t deserve anything. How the hell do you sleep at night? I know I couldn’t. And if being dependent on good behaviour is the measure with which you determine who gets and who does not then I say, SOD YOU, YOU FAT, RED-NOSED, OPINIONATED, JUDGEMENTAL OLD FART!!!

Ooh, I am feeling vexed now. You do bugger all for 364 days except sit in judgement of the most vulnerable and innocent in our society. What kind of existence is that? You sad, sad man.

And the pressure, the sheer overwhelming pressure for parents to live up to your expectations so that they end up in debt every stinking year! And they spend all year telling their youngsters not to talk to strange men and then one day a year they say it’s ok to let some bearded old sherry-filled hermit into their bedroom.

Double-standards in the highest and a pack of lies to boot!

Look, I don’t want to put a downer on Christmas. So please stay the bloody hell away from me and my family and I’ll say no more other than I hope the reindeer go on strike and you spend Christmas taking a good, long, hard look at yourself.

Between you and the advertising executives you’ve sucked all of the joy out of Christmas and replaced it with materialism. It used to be about peace and goodwill to all men; now it’s about “what am I going to get? Me, me, me!”

Bloody hell we may as well ditch the whole Christmas thing and call it Winterfest or Santa Day or International Bank Account Emptying Season, because that’s what it’s become and that’s all down to you and your mates in marketing.

So I’ll finish, if I may, with these few well-chosen words from Daffy Duck – You’re despicable!

Yours truthfully,

Alan Stevenson (You know where I live)

PS – Here’s my Christmas wish. I wish your underpants “magically” turn into holly mid-flight somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean.

Could You Write That Down Please Doctor?

So I had a doctors appointment two weeks ago and I’d like to tell you about it in my own inimitable way.

For some time now I’ve been having excruciating pains in my left arm. Pain that I can only adequately describe as toothache of the muscles. Imagine the worst dental pain you’ve ever experienced and now transfer the thought of that pain into your arm. Yeah, that’s how it’s been.

Foolishly, being a perfect fool of course, I ignored it.

I figured that maybe it was just a trapped nerve somewhere and that it would come loose eventually through steady and continued use of painkillers and my TENS machine.

Berk extraordinaire!!!

The pain always begins in my left shoulder and then radiates down the tricep muscle before taking a detour into my lower forearm and finally landing in my thumb and forefinger. And when it strikes (several times a day) the result is always the same. Blistering agony, pins and needles from hades and the feeling as if I want the damn thing amputated.

My lovely wife insisted that I go to the doctor and get it checked out once and for all. I imagined still that it was nought more than a trapped nerve and that maybe by some kind of massage or manipulation I would be set free from said pain.

Au contraire mon ami.

After a pretty extensive examination the doctor pronounced his diagnosis. I have cervical spondylosis.

I asked him to repeat that as I don’t have a cervix and I thought that surely it must be something only a woman could suffer from. I was always useless at biology. He repeated it and I was still none the wiser even when he explained what the cervical was.

This left only one option open to me…

“Could you write that down pleased doctor?” I asked.

He did and I sat and stared at the piece of headed surgery paper that he had handed me. There it was in black and white, and also in rather neat handwriting for a doctor – Cervical Spondylosis.

No, I hadn’t heard of it before either but that’s what I have. It’s a fairly common condition brought on by aging, so it seems, although I can’t help think that all those years of headbanging to heavy metal in my formative years couldn’t have helped much either. Well it can’t have done could it?

Anyway, it is this condition, oddly enough, that is causing the arm pain and I have had my dosage of amitriptyline (I think that’s how you spell it) increased by 100%. This means of course, as I take it at night, that I’m neither use nor ornament in the mornings and getting out of bed seems like a chore

Yesterday I began my first course of physiotherapy where I was given a couple of exercises to do and I left the surgery in far more pain than when I’d entered it, which seems a bit counter-productive when you think about it. No pain, no gain I guess.

So that’s where I am right now. There are far worse things in life than cervical spondylosis so I’m not going to wail and moan about it, especially as my younger self’s penchant for throwing my head about to Judas Priest is probably a contributary factor, but instead I’m just going to live with it.

Well what else can you do?

The State of Play

I’m not really sure where to begin with this…

Apologies first I guess, for taking so long to do a blog post from the last one five weeks ago. I did have something pithy, witty and moderately scathing lined up for Halloween but I suppose that will have to wait until next year. But anyway, sincere apologies for taking so long.

Look, it’s been a bloody tough year here at Blessham Hall. One of the toughest in fact, and the last month or so have been extremely challenging. I’d love to report that the challenge has been getting the new novel featuring Archie and Aggie Stone finished but that would be an out and out lie. The challenge has been one on more personal terms.

On Friday 18^th October we received a phone call from my sister-in-law to say that my 92-year-old mother had fallen and broken her hip. Naturally this immediately caused a ton of worry and anxiety for us all and ever since then Ange and I have been travelling the 300-mile round trip to Leicester and back every Friday to Monday to see her and relieve the burden on the rest of the family.

In between I have managed to do a speaking engagement at the local library and a couple of Substack posts but that’s about it. The combination of motorway tailbacks, airbed sleeping, car parking in the middle of Leicester and hospital visits where my mum is talking on a constant loop due to dementia have been very telling on me both physically and mentally.

I’m exhausted.

I even drove home the other week with my TENS machine attached to my aching arms. That’s how bad it is. Trying to change gear around all those wires!

My wife, the lovely Ange, has been an absolute Trojan throughout all of this I have to say. She has supported me better than anyone else could ever have done. I’m so thankful for her.

Love you Ange xxx

But the truth of the matter is that because of all the aforementioned I’m in horrible pain all the time and permanently fatigued. And I mean badly fatigued as well. Not just a little bit tired and in need of a nap; no, I mean I’ve about as much energy in me as…

as…

I don’t even know how to finish that sentence, that’s how low on energy I am.

The other thing is that even despite the lack of energy and physical pain I just can’t seem to find time to write. It’s as if I can’t get any traction going with the laptop. I mentioned the next novel earlier and I have to be honest with you and say that’s it not going to be published this year. In fact, this will be the first year that I have gone without publishing a book since I began my independently-published journey in 2019 with Ah Boy.

And that actually makes me really sad when I think about it.

Of course, I am aware that prior to the current situation I have been labouring long and hard on my Substack output which has in turn made me neglect my first love of novel writing. It’s a lot easier to do a Substack post than it is to churn out an 85,000-word book.

But even Substack is beginning to suffer now and I find myself desperately trying to play catch-up every week. FFS!!! I can’t keep apologising! But that’s what I do.

And I do love writing. I can’t describe to you the immeasurable pleasure that I derive from it. I’m not saying I’m a great writer and I’m not even saying I’m a good one. What I’m saying is that I bloody well love doing it and I just can’t get any done at the moment.

If it sounds like I’m blaming my mum then that’s not the case. I don’t. It’s awful and heart-breaking seeing her the way she is. I’m just trying to convey the effect her accident and the rest of this stinker of a year has had on me; that’s all.

I wanted to put you all in the picture, especially in view of the fact that I’ve had quite an influx of new subscribers lately and I hate to disappoint people. My only excuse, if there is one, is that I do suffer horrendously from fibromyalgia and I do have other health issues as well. I’m just not as resilient as I used to be.

I mean, heck, when I was a younger man you should have seen me go. I was a live-wire of energy, always doing something, even after a hard day’s work. How I long for just a fraction of what I had back then energy wise. These days I’m more like an old worn-out leisure battery. Yes you can charge me up but I’ll run out of charge in no time at all.

Aah bloody hell, I don’t even know where I’m going with this now. It started out as a brief explanation of where I am and it’s turned into some kind of lecture on the physical history of Alan Stevenson.

Sorry folks.

The good news is that my mum has been moved to a lovely rehab hospital now close to where she lives and is getting a lot more visitors and so the pressure on the family is a lot less. So much so that Ange and I have this weekend off from travelling and the airbed. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s a good quality airbed and we’re extremely grateful for the loan of it from our neighbours – Josie and Glyn; its just not the same as one’s own mattress.

So the immediate future looks a bit better shall we say.

That’s all for now as I can feel the fatigue setting in again but I will try and post again next week. I need a bit of a lie down and then I’m going to try and get Substack back up and running and then tomorrow, hopefully, do a bit more towards the next novel.

Here’s hoping at least.

Love you all.

Al x

Death by Teapot

I’ve been reading quite a few murder mystery novels these last couple of years and have been toying with the idea of doing one myself. Plus, I am a mega-fan of all things Sherlockian.

So this week I thought to myself, why not? Not a whole novel, not yet, but a short story perhaps. And that’s what I’ve done. I’ve written a comic murder mystery short. The thing is, I haven’t revealed the name of the culprit. That’s for you to work out.

So here, without any further ado, I give you…

Death by Teapot

“Final item on the agenda,” said the vicar, “acquisition of a new teapot for the Ladies Luncheon Club.

“Yes, and not before time.” Snapped Mrs Baggley. “The old one has a crack in it and it’s only a matter of time before the thing starts to leak and then where shall we be?”

“Without a teapot.” Said Mrs Windebank, who had a rare talent for stating the utterly obvious.

“Precisely!” Said Mrs Baggley, the most forthright member and chairwoman of the PCC.

“Well I don’t foresee any problems there,” said the vicar with a reassuring smile, “surely there’s enough money from last month’s jumble sale.”

“Have you seen the price of teapots these days vicar?” Mrs Baggley snapped.

“In truth Mrs Baggley, I have not, but it can’t be much more than say ten to fifteen pounds, surely.” He replied.

“Hah!” Mrs Baggley almost spat the word out.

“More than that?” Asked the vicar.

“Oh much more than that!” Mrs Baggley spoke as if she was addressing an errant small child. “A teapot large enough to adequately cater for the luncheon club will cost well in excess of thirty pounds at least. Possibly even forty.”

“Forty pounds for a teapot?” The vicar sounded incredulous.

“Erm… we would like a nice one vicar.” Said Mrs Dunwoody, a timid lady but still always one to speak up, nonetheless. “I’ve seen a nice earthenware one in the shops.

“Yes of course, but even –” began the vicar but Mrs Baggley stopped him short.

“The luncheon club has a reputation to uphold vicar.” She barked. “We can’t have just any old teapot.”

“I realise that Mrs Baggley but funds are in short supply you know.” He said.

“Worrabart t’ jumble sale then?” Said Mrs Wenlock without looking up from her crochet. Mrs Wenlock was a bluff northern lady who liked a nice cup of tea from a proper teapot.

“How much did it raise last time?” Said Mrs Windebank.

“Fourteen pounds and fifty-two pence.” Said Mrs Dunwoody in a quiet voice.

“How come?” Asked the vicar.

“Well, there weren’t too many people there.” Simpered Mrs Dunwoody.

“I know. But every item was fifty pence,” said the vicar, “where did the two come from?”

“I found it on t’ floor outside.” Said Mrs Wenlock, still intensely working on her crochet.

“Ah well, every little helps.” The vicar smiled.

“I dunna think tuppence is goin’ t’ ‘elp much.” Mrs Wenlock’s fingers continued their crocheting without her breaking her gaze.

“Precisely so!” Said Mrs Baggley. “So where is the money coming from then?”

“We could hold a raffle.” Said Mrs Windebank.

“That’s one possibility.” Said the vicar.

“A raffle? A raffle?” Said Mrs Baggley. “In the house of God? That would be a grievous sin vicar, as you yourself should know.”

“I think in the circumstances we could persuade ourselves to let it slide on this occasion.” The vicar sounded nervous but then Mrs Baggley made everybody she came into contact with nervous.

“The congregation won’t stand for it.” Said Mrs Baggley.

The vicar looked at the four women sat around the table. He was in the presence of half of the weekly congregation as it were. The others were old Mrs Bates who was well into her nineties, Eric Stamford who played the organ (badly) and was as devout a man as possible who had served the church faithfully since his youth, Stan Pickles who always brought his Jack Russell, Missy, to the service and often let it bark during the hymns, another old lady of questionable fragrance who refused to give her name to anyone and only came in on a Sunday morning for a warm and then there was himself. That was it. The congregation of St Winifred’s in the Wold. A raffle would hardly cause too much consternation amongst them.

“No, it’ll have to be something else.” Continued Mrs Baggley.

“Very well, what about cakes?” Said the vicar.

“Cakes?” Said Mrs Baggley with more than a hint of suspicion in her voice.

“We could sell cakes.” Said the vicar.

“Ooh lovely.” Chimed Mrs Windebank and Mrs Dunwoody at the same time.

“I love baking.” Said Mrs Windebank. “Arnold always says my Victoria sponge is to die for.”

“And my scones are the talk of the Womens institute.” Said Mrs Dunwoody.

“Yes, for all the wrong reasons.” Huffed Mrs Baggley.

“What on Earth do you mean by that?” The hurt was plain to hear in Mrs Dunwoody’s voice.

“Your scones are more like rock cakes.” Said Mrs Baggley. “I nearly lost a tooth on one of them at the fete.”

“They are not.” Mrs Dunwoody tried to defend her scones but the vicar raised a placating hand.

“This is not the time nor the place to discuss an individual’s baking ability.” He said. “We’re here to discuss buying a new teapot.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my scones.” Said Mrs Dunwoody, meaning to say it under her breath but it came out audibly. No-one noticed the tear in her eye.

“Huh!” Was all Mrs Baggley had to say to that.

“Ladies please, can we focus on the matter in hand.” Pleaded the vicar. “Vis-a-vis the new teapot for the luncheon club.”

“Vizzy what?” Said Mrs Wenlock looking up from her crochet for the first time.

“Vis-a-vis.” Said the vicar. “It means with regard to.”

“Thank you vicar but we don’t need a lesson in Spanish.” Mrs Baggley spoke pointedly.

“Erm… it’s French actually.” Said the vicar.

“Even worse.” Snapped Mrs Baggley. “Blummin’ Froggies. Don’t talk to me about them. Where were they during the war? Hiding behind their baguettes, that’s where! Bunch of cowards the lot of them.”

“Actually,” said Mrs Windebank folding her arms, “my grandfather was French and fought in the resistance. He was awarded for bravery.”

“Huh! What with? A string of onions?” Mrs Baggley cackled at her own joke. No-one else did.

“I’ll have you know Dora Baggley that my grandfather was—” began Mrs Windebank.

“PLEASE!” The vicar felt the need to raise his voice. “This is getting us nowhere and I have my sermon for tomorrow morning to write.”

“Well I hope it’s a lot better than last weeks.” Huffed Mrs Baggley.

“What do you mean by that?” Said the vicar.

“All that nonsense about the wise and foolish virgins.” Said Mrs Baggley raising herself up in her chair. “Talking about virgins on a Sunday morning. That isn’t right.”

“It’s from the Gospel of Matthew if you recall Mrs Baggley.” The vicar said in a somewhat self-righteous tone.

“Well, I didn’t like it, that’s all.” Said Mrs Baggley.

“I rather enjoyed it Vicar.” Said Mrs Wenlock focussing on her crochet once more.

“You would!” Said Mrs Baggley who was now atop a very high horse of her own making. “Anything to do with the S word!”

“The S word?” Said the vicar.

“You know perfectly well what I mean.” Said Mrs Baggley.

“I’m not sure I do.” Said the vicar.

“Then let me spell it out: S – E – X!” Said Mrs Baggley.

“The parable of the ten virgins isn’t about sex.” Said the vicar supressing the urge to smile at such a ridiculous notion. “It’s a story about being always ready for our Lord’s return.”

“’Old on a minute,” said Mrs Wenlock, finally putting her crochet down, “are you sayin’ that I’m sex mad Dora?”

“Ladies please!” Said the vicar but he was ignored.

“You always have been Lily Wenlock. Every week at the luncheon club you constantly talk about that Daniel O’Donnell.” Said Mrs Baggley.

“I like ‘is singin’.” Said Mrs Wenlock.

“And the rest.” Said Mrs Baggley. “Two weeks ago I heard you telling poor old Mrs Bates about how you thought he had the loveliest smile and you wished he’d give you one. Deny that if you can!”

“That dunna make me sex mad though, does it?” Mrs Wenlock was filled with indignation.

“I hardly think that this is the time for us to talk about Daniel O—” said the vicar before being rudely interrupted.

“Wanting someone to give you one does!” Said Mrs Baggley.

“I meant one of ‘is smiles ya dizzy old mare.” Said Mrs Wenlock.

“Don’t you call me names Lily Wenlock or I shall take steps.” Said Mrs Baggley sounding utterly affronted.

“I wish you would take blummin’ steps an’ clear off somewhere else.” Said Mrs Wenlock.

“Well that’s a fine thing to come out with I must say.” Said Mrs Baggley, her face going a strange shade of tartan.

“Did you hear that Vicar?” Mrs Baggley pushed her chair back and stood up. “I’m not staying to be insulted. Either she goes or I do.”

“LADIES, PLEASE STOP THIS!!!” The vicar raised his voice louder than any of the ladies could ever recall. “How did we get from wanting to purchase a new teapot for the luncheon club to arguing about cakes and the French and… and the S word?”

All the ladies looked shamefaced and each to a woman stared downwards.

“Now let’s all show a little decorum and get back to the matter in hand, please.” The vicar was vexed and they knew it.

“Sorry vicar.” Said Mrs Windebank.

“Sorry vicar.” Said Mrs Dunwoody.

“Aye, an’ I’m sorry too vicar.” Said Mrs Wenlock.

They all turned their gaze onto Mrs Baggley who sat stern faced with her arms tightly folded across her bosom.

“Anything you’d like to say Mrs Baggley?” Said the vicar.

There was a silence that lasted about eight seconds but felt to the vicar more like eight minutes.

“So where’s the money coming from for this teapot then?” Said Mrs Baggley at last.

“The vicar mentioned a cake sale, I believe.” Smiled Mrs Windebank.

“That’s right.” Said the vicar. “Surely we can raise forty pounds selling cakes. We could get a stall on the market on a Tuesday; the council won’t charge us for it, and we could all take turns in manning the stall.”

“Sounds like a wonderful idea.” Said Mrs Dunwoody.

“Well I’m up for it.” Said Mrs Windebank.

“Count me in vicar.” Said Mrs Wenlock. “I’ll knock up a fruitcake an’ an apple pie or two.”

There was another silence that was eventually broken by the vicar.

“And yourself Mrs Baggley?” He said.

“Only of I can have full say on what cakes we sell and for how much.” Said Mrs Baggley, after what felt like an eternity.

“Why should you decide?” Said Mrs Dunwoody.

“I’m the chair of the PCC.” Said Mrs Baggley in a most matter-of-fact way.

“That’s no reason why you should—” Mrs Windebank began but her voice was suddenly interrupted by the sound of the organ outside the vestry.

“Ah,” said the vicar, “It’s Eric, he always practices at eleven on a Saturday morning, he’s just tuning up.

“Well we can’t sit here and have a discussion with that racket.” Said Mrs Baggley.

“We have over-run the meeting time.” Said the vicar. “All those in favour of a cake sale raise your right hand.”

Three hands shot up straight away, Mrs Baggley’s hand was slowly raised.

“It’s agreed then.” Said the vicar. “We’ll discuss the ins and outs of the sale at the next meeting.”

“And what are we going to do before then vicar?” Said Mrs Baggley, her voice rich with sarcasm.

“How do you mean?” Said the vicar.

The sound of Eric tuning up had ended. Soon he would be hammering stoically away at the keys with tomorrow’s hymn list in front of him.

“The next meeting is in a months’ time.” Said Mrs Baggley. “What if the crack in the teapot gets worse by then and the useless thing breaks? Someone could get scolded. Think about that, eh? What if that happens. I don’t know about you but I don’t want that on my conscience.”

“Oh for Heaven’s sake!” Said Mrs Windebank suddenly expostulated whilst standing up and clenching her fists. “I’ll buy the bloody teapot myself!”

“Ooh, I never heard such language in church in all my life.” Said Mrs Baggley but before she could say anymore Mrs Windebank hurried out of the room with a tearful apology.

“I think we should all go home now and calm down.” Said the vicar.

“Well I, for one, am not using that dangerous teapot anymore.” Said Mrs Baggley. “And you can put that in the minutes for all I care.” And with that she jabbed a finger towards Mrs Dunwoody who had been taking the minutes right up until the teapot debacle.

“It’s rude to point.” Said Mrs Dunwoody. “My mother always told me to never—” Began Mrs Dunwoody.

“Your mother spent most of her time in the Dog and Duck so what did she know about manners?” Mrs Bagley cackled.

“I don’t think there was any call for that.” Said the vicar.

“And I’m not wasting anymore of my Saturday in here.” Said Mrs Baggley. “Good day Vicar, see you in the morning. I’ve a good mind to report you to the bishop for letting this meeting get out of hand.”

The three remaining members of the PCC watched her go, Mrs Dunwoody brushing a tear off her flushed cheek.

“Full o’ ‘ot air is that one, dunna you worry Vicar.” Said Mrs Wenlock with a reassuring smile.

“My mother was no drunk.” Sniffed Mrs Dunwoody.

“It’s alright lass.” Said Mrs Wenlock. “Dunna cry. Dora Baggley ‘as allus ‘ad a big mouth on her.”

“I think perhaps we should all go home now and try and forget about this whole teapot business.” Said the vicar.

“I shouldna worry abart t’ teapot Vicar,” said Mrs Wenlock. “If Emily Windebank sez she’s going t’ buy one then rest assured she’ll be as good as ‘er word.”

“Well she will be reimbursed for every penny.” Said the vicar. “Even if I have to give it her myself. Now, I’m going to say a prayer and close the meeting.”

The vicar offered up a short prayer asking for peace between the PCC members and forgiveness for one and all. He finished the prayer with a request for the new teapot to be suitable to everyone and for the matter to be put to rest.

The two ladies both said “Amen” and got to their feet and made towards the door.

“She wants blummin’ sortin’ out does that Dora Baggley. For two pins I’d swing forrer meself.” Said Mrs Wenlock to Mrs Dunwoody.

“She’s so cruel,” replied Mrs Dunwoody, “I think I actually hate her. It’s a horrible thing to admit but I sometimes wish she were dead even.”

The door closed behind them and the vicar exhaled a long, drawn-out sigh.

After closing his eyes for half a minute he got up and walked to the door himself and into the church. Eric was now attempting to tackle Nearer My God to Thee with only limited success. Eric had recently had a new hearing aid but unfortunately had no ear for a tune and as many wrong notes as right ones always emanated from the organ.

The vicar smiled as Eric’s fingers continued to torture the hymn. At least Eric was doing his best. He always put the good of the church above everything else. A lovely, kind and gentle man but a poor organist, but God please bless the dear fellow for trying.

He smiled to himself again and set off to the vicarage to write his sermon.

Dora Baggley’s body was found on the path leading to the church door the following morning. She had gone to unlock the building at eight o’clock sharp as always but, unbeknownst to her, had been followed. She was face down on the ground in her Sunday best.

When the police arrived they found that Mrs Baggley had been killed by a violent blow to the head and that scattered around her body were many broken pieces of a large and heavy earthenware teapot, which, it seemed, had been the instrument of her untimely demise. The spout of the teapot was snagged in Mrs Baggley’s wiry, grey hair.

After investigating, the police arrested the wrong person.

But can you tell whodunnit?

The clues are there.

Answers in the comments please.

Granny Vs “The Experts”

It seems that every time I go on social media or Youtube or even merely surf the web for various products these days, I am inundated with adverts from so-called “experts” on how to lose weight and keep fit.

There’s dozens, possibly hundreds, of them. And every single time I go onto the internet there they are.

One expert after another espousing on how their way is the best to get fit, lose pounds and have a healthier gut. There’s Slimming World, Weightwatchers, V-Shred, Chair Yoga, Dr Grundy, Intermittent fasting, Dr Drew, ZOE, NOOM (which is actually quite good) and a whole host of others too numerous to mention.

And here’s the thing…

They can’t all be right, can they? Surely not?

I mean, for one thing they all contradict one another. One will tell you to avoid carbs like the plague whilst another will warn against the folly of doing so. One will tell you not to do intense exercise whilst another will promote physical activity. One will have Davina McCall grimacing away on it and another won’t make you scream “Oh God! Not her again!!!”

I saw one recently that said don’t eat apples or tomatoes. Two foods that I particularly enjoy and are surely beneficial to my health; and I adore tomatoes like no other food on Earth. Apparently, instead of eating Gala apples I should be eating crab apples. Really? Listen, I’m not suggesting you’re talking a load of shit there but that’s what I’ll be producing if I start eating crab apples.

All these experts claim to have tried and trusted methods to help you lose that gut and feel the best that you ever have.

Well, I know another person who lived a healthy life…

My Granny; and I’ll tell you how she did it.

My Granny didn’t follow fad diets or undertake any exercise classes or listen to advice from Tom, Dick and Harry about what she should or shouldn’t be eating.

She ate white bread (unsliced from the local baker) and brisket of beef with all the fat on it. She loved fried breakfasts, apple pies with custard and enjoyed a glass of beer now and then. She had a spoonful of sugar in her tea and regularly bought herself a bag of tuffies (that’s what they call sweets in Derbyshire) and if truth be known she had something of a sweet tooth overall.

That, by today’s standards, all sounds very unhealthy. However, what she also did was to eat plenty of fresh fruit and vegetables with every meal. She wasn’t the best cook in the world but she knew the value of eating those foods.

And I’ll tell you what else she did – she walked!

And I mean everywhere because she never learned to drive.

There were no such things as supermarkets in the little town where she lived but there were greengrocers, butchers, bakers and corner shops and several times a week she would make her way down the hill, across the common, into town and then repeat the journey home with a heavy bag of shopping; bearing in mind she was quite diminutive in stature.

And when she wasn’t doing that she was walking her Jack Russell, Patch, all over the place.

In short, she kept highly active at all times.

That’s what she did all her life and I can say with all honesty that apart from toothache, on one occasion, I can’t remember her having a days’ illness in her life. She lived to be 93 years old and right up to the end her mind was as sharp as a scalpel.

Look, it’s not for me to say what you should or shouldn’t do to get in shape. But likewise, I don’t think all those internet experts are going to help you too much either. Plus you have to pay for what they’re offering.

What I will do, perhaps, is suggest that you take a tip from Granny. Enjoy the foods you do like, but eat a ton of greens alongside and then get those pins working as much as possible.

And the best thing is, with the Granny technique you don’t need yet another app cluttering up your phone!

Win-Win!

Derbyshire Days

It won’t have escaped your notice that there was no blog post from yours truly last week and whilst this may seem slipshod, believe me I have a ripping good reason.

Derbyshire to be precise.

Following what can only be described as a torrid time recently my good lady wife and I headed for the hills in need of a break and some peace and calm. And we found it in the High Peak.

So get yourself comfortable for a few minutes while I tell you all about it…

Ange and I were feeling very world weary after what can only be described as “a bastard of a time.” We’ve had illnesses, bereavements, worries and woes and it was definitely time for a holiday of some sort.

We like AirB&B and so we sought one out that was reasonably priced, wasn’t too far to travel to and would afford us the aforementioned peace and calm. We chose Curlew Lodge at Sitch Farm in the High Peak of Derbyshire, a few miles south of Glossop.

And we’re damn glad that we did. It was wonderful. Absolutely wonderful in fact. A delightful little lodge set in the most beautiful scenery you could imagine and completely hidden away from the hustle and bustle of life.

Perfect! Just what we needed.

Our accommodation was compact yet still spacious enough; even for my massive bulk. It was spotlessly clean, smelled beautifully of reed diffusers and was full of so many nice little extra “touches” that it made it feel almost luxurious.

All for sixty quid a night!!!

We didn’t find one single fault with the place. Not that we were actively looking for one but you know what I mean. There were zero downsides to the lodge.

Four nights we stayed – Monday to Friday, and we made it a mix of exploring and relaxing. My legs will only allow us to do small amounts of exploring but I’m a past-master at the old relaxing.

So we arrived on Monday afternoon to be met with by a rather shouty German Shepherd. A dog I mean; there wasn’t some guy in a Tirolean hat and lederhosen loudly mouthing off at us. But this dog was letting the whole world and it’s owners know that we had arrived. The big fella was just doing his job.

And if truth be known, as well as a clean lodge this was an incredibly clean farmyard. The whole place screamed neatness, in a good way. We then met Julia, our host, who couldn’t have been more helpful if she’d transformed herself into a High Peak guidebook. Her local knowledge was excellent.

We spent the rest of Monday doing some of that relaxing I mentioned and yes, wine and G&T’s were opened and consumed. We were on holiday after all and the weather (so shite all Summer) was quite glorious. We felt both blessed and spoilt at the same time.

I was so relaxed, in fact, that I didn’t even have the energy to turn the telly on and watch the BBC2 quiz shows. Instead we told Alexa to play some Jethro Tull and just crashed out and enjoyed the music and the ambience.

The next day we headed for the town of Buxton. The weather was again stupendous and it was a pleasure to drive over the dales to that bucolic little spa town. We paid for six hours of parking with the view that we were going to take our time. To be honest my legs weren’t feeling great and therefore necessitated that I go as slowly as possible.

Actually, it was so nice to merely amble about the place. It’s a gorgeous town is Buxton and there’s so much to see. We did a bit of shop browsing and I bought some records before heading to the park to eat the lunchtime samosas we had acquired from a market stall. They were as delicious as samosas can get and as we sat on the park bench under the shade of the trees Ange threw a little of the crust of one of her samosas to a plump little pigeon who was clearly no stranger to being fed by tourists…

Within moments we were surrounded by avian beings of all shapes and sizes. There were ducks, Canada geese, crows, jackdaws and a host of even more pigeons. For a brief moment or two it felt distinctly Hitchcockian as these feathered friends all competed for our samosa crusts.

However, they were the politest park birds I have ever come across and they all acknowledged that the food was gone and slowly moved away in a most dignified fashion.

We moved away too and took a slow stroll to the pavilion where I had the most delicious pint of local porter and we sat in the sunshine for a bit whilst we had our drinks to top up the old vitamin D.

There were quite a lot of folks milling about for a Tuesday, which was nice to see. It seems to me that Buxton is doing well; thriving even.

We visited the Crescent and stopped at St Ann’s Well where I filled my own bottle of Buxton mineral water for £2.50 for 250ml. A bit steep for water but it was straight from the source. After a latte we made our way back through town at a snails pace, stopping for ice creams and a bit more shopping.

Look, when I say shopping, I don’t mean that we dragged ourselves round M&S and Fat Face and all those other high street regulars. Ange and I don’t do that kind of thing. No, we like charity shops and all those quirky little places that sell incense and hippie-ish things. We go into dusty old antique emporiums, second-hand bookshops and absolutely anywhere that sells vinyl. That’s the kind of shopping we do.

We arrived back at the car at half past four after a splendid day and despite having another 90 minutes on the parking ticket I was pretty much done in by now. The car itself was like stepping into a pottery kiln and we opened all four windows for a while before setting off on the scenic journey back to the lodge, stopping at the Lantern Pike pub for some “light refreshments” on the way. Smashing little place is the Lantern Pike. A proper old local village pub.

By the time Wednesday rolled around I was in quite intense pain and so we decided that a full day of rest was the order fo the day. And that’s precisely what we did. Yet again we were treated to the most magnificent weather of the week so far and so we sat outside on the decking all day with a beverage or three and just inhaled the pure, clean Derbyshire air.

We read a lot too. I began to re-read Vole and make little highlighter marks here and there where it needs cleaning up a bit. I don’t count it as work because it was so enjoyable and it reinforced my view of the book as a great piece of comic writing. I really enjoyed myself actually.

We ate too much during the day; of course we did, we were on holiday, but we did have a healthy evening meal – salmon for Ange, steak for me, broccoli and baby potatoes. Washed down with a very decent little cabernet sauvignon.

Spent another evening engaged in the fine art of listening to music and watching the little robotic lawnmower going erratically about its business in the paddock next to us. I don’t know why but every time I saw that funny little machine I laughed. If it had gone up and down in straight lines it wouldn’t have been so amusing but the fact that it went in every possible direction apart from straight lines made it hilarious. My sense of humour I suppose.

Thursday arrived and we were nearing the end of our short stay. We vowed to make the most of it and headed south to the Matlock area. That’s an area I know very well from childhood. My dad was from Belper and my mum is from Wirksworth so I spent a lot of my youth roaming that neck of the woods.

Our first stop was the village of Cromford. The village itself is not spectacular. It’s pretty enough and there are some great walks around the place but I wanted to go there for one reason and one reason only – Scarthin Books.

Without the merest shadow of a doubt Scarthin is the best bookshop in the known universe. Yes, even better than Thraags World of Books on Planet Skryk. Oops, I’ve said too much. Seriously though, it is a marvel of a bookshop.

The phrase Aladdin’s Cave doesn’t do it justice. The place is a veritable temple to literature both new and second-hand. The smell is enough to make any bibliophile wet themselves with glee and its almost as if you don’t know where to look. There’s just so much choice which at first seems random but you soon realise that it’s all actually very cleverly worked out.

It also boasts a small yet superb little café. We each had a bowl of green vegetable soup for lunch and I swear I could feel it doing me good even as it was going down my gullet! I felt most virtuous with myself at that point. Another time I’d have plumped for a less healthy option but that soup was incredibly flavoursome. I think it had mint in it as well.

And yes, I did buy some books.

After that we drove back up to Matlock and spent an hour or two roaming the town. I was struggling by now and desperate for a sit down. So after buying a very cute little antique kitchen cupboard from a shop called Junk and Gems (or something like that) we made for the park and had ice cream and a well-earned rest.

We left Matlock at four thirty and headed back North. We were booked in for a meal at the Lantern Pike at six and we made it with twenty minutes to spare. Not that we needed to worry about being a few minutes late if we had have been, they are so chilled out there that it wouldn’t have even been a point of contention.

Had a lovely meal. I can still taste the lamb shank with mint gravy and creamy mash in my dreams and the three pints of Guinness that I rinsed it all away with were pure excellence in a glass. If you’re ever in that area then you would be doing yourself a big favour by visiting the Lantern Pike. Not only is the food superb it is also very reasonably priced plus the staff and locals are so friendly.

Friday morning came, as it tends to do, and our little break came to an end. However we determined to make the most of the journey home and so we bid a fond farewell to Curlew Lodge and after having driven through some clouds (literally) we stopped for lunch in Holmfirth.

We dined in Sid’s Café, which of course was made famous in the long-running sitcom – Last of the Summer Wine. I was pleasantly surprised to see that the place hasn’t actually changed all that much since the programme began in the 1970s. The only major difference was all the “souvenirs” for sale. Mind you, I did buy a tin of toffee for my mum.

The journey back home was slow due to horrendous roadworks in Halifax. I don’t know what Halifax has done to deserve such ill treatment but it must have been something bad. However, it didn’t spoil things and we carried the memories of the last few days with us.

So home again and feeling very relaxed, thank you very much.

Ok, so we didn’t visit any famous landmarks like the Pyramids of Giza or the Taj Mahal and we didn’t get an all-over golden tan from lying on a sun-drenched tropical beach nor did we swim with dolphins, scuba dive with turtles or get off our tits on duty free or make berks of ourselves in a karaoke bar. We just had a quiet little time in North Derbyshire and we felt all the better for it. It had been our kind of holiday.

And now…

Now we’re already planning the next one!