writing

Bumpety-Bumpety-Bump!

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If you were given half an hour in a locked room with one person so that you could berate, lambast, harangue and generally verbally abuse the bounder, who would you choose? Personally, I’d go with Arthur Holly Compton.

But before we go any further, let me just say welcome to my 150th blog post and thank you all for taking the time to read my output on this here website. Thank you so very much.

Now, back to the erstwhile Arthur Compton. The reason I’d like half an hour to orally castigate the man is because it is he who invented the monstrosity that is the speed bump.

I’ll elucidate.

Ange and I have just spent four (mostly pleasant) nights cat sitting for our friends Debbie and Barry in their lovely West Yorkshire home. It was a thoroughly pleasant and relaxing time and it gave us both a bit of fur therapy with those two charming felines – Degan and Fizz, boy and girl respectively – in a rural setting by a babbling brook and surrounded by trees and fields. It would almost have been idyllic…

…if it hadn’t been for Arthur Compton and his vile invention.

You may have noticed me mentioning from time to time that I suffer from the condition known as fibromyalgia and the near constant pain my muscles are in. Well, speed bumps do not do it any favours whatsoever. Quite the opposite as it happens. And the road leading up to Debbie and Barry’s home is festooned with the bloody things!!!

They are horrible, amateurish, snotty little piles of tarmac that seemed to have been conceived by either the Marquis de Sade whilst having a bad day or an absolute, raving, psychotic maniac and whoever it was couldn’t simply create bumps, oh no, he had to make them as difficult to avoid as humanly possible. There are certain speed bumps that you will encounter, that with bit of careful driving you can negotiate around without too much shaking about, but these examples of man’s brutality to his fellow man are impossible to go around and so the driver and his unfortunate passengers have to have their fillings knocked loose every single time they go down that (otherwise delightful) road.

And there’s about ten of these abominations for good measure. I mean, well, if you’re going to make other people’s lives a misery then you really ought to make a damn good job of it – and they have.

My body feels as if all the component parts have been separated, shaken up in a bag, and then reattached in all the wrong places by a blind welder. Horrendous it is.

I’m sure that there are many amongst you who would argue that speed bumps are responsible for fewer road traffic accidents and that they help the police when in pursuit of escaping villainy. I don’t concur though, and I will tell you why.

The vast majority of drivers in the UK are sensible types who do not want to steal cars or acquire speeding fines or damage their vehicle in any way. They drive over speed bumps slowly and carefully. However, they’re not the ones we should worry about.

Career boy racers and other vehicular based criminals, when faced with being hotly pursued by the local constabulary, tend to go over speed bumps as if they weren’t actually there. Believe me, most speed bumps in the UK are not going to have a slowing down effect on those kinds of people. It just doesn’t happen. Think about it, if you’ve just stolen a car from someone’s drive and the boys in blue are on your tail, are you really going to slow down for a speed bump and let them catch up with you? Well, I wouldn’t, but then I’ve never stolen a car so I couldn’t say for certain.

So I have to ask the question, what actual purpose do they serve beyond sending all us motorists scurrying to the mechanic once a year to have our car suspensions repaired?

I mean potholes are one thing, that’s wear and tear on our increasingly busy roads. But to deliberately come up with an idea that basically punishes sensible road users for the criminal actions of the few seems almost maniacal to me.

We still enjoyed our time with the two adorable cats, who made such a fuss of us you’d have thought we were there all the time, and if it hadn’t been for those blasted speed bumps it could have been the perfect week. But those bumps were there and they were nasty, heinous, spiteful little beasts and I hated going over the damnable things every time we went out in the car.

So yes, I’d love to have the chance of telling Mr Compton what I think of his invention in explicit and graphic detail.

PS – Oh yes, before I forget, we also saw a badger on that road one night, which, whilst being an absolute treat, didn’t compensate for how my body was feeling at the time.

Autumnal Vibes

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If you were to ask me what my favourite season was I’d have to say the Spring. I just love it when the daffs come through and the lambs are gambolling in the fields and the canal is festooned with ducklings. I like the sunny days that are just warm enough before the onslaught of summer heatwaves and I love the way everywhere starts to turn green.

Yes, I love it.

A close runner up to Spring, though, is the Autumn and possibly because it is the complete antithesis of Spring. The natural world is slowing down and getting ready for a good rest. My wife loves the Autumn far more than the other three and I can definitely see where she’s coming from.

Despite all that wistful “seasons of mists and mellow fruitfulness” cobblers, Autumn is a time of great natural beauty and probably one of my most memorable childhood seasons. I grew up in the English countryside and believe me that out in the sticks Autumn is a whole different ball game.

It’s wonderful.

I remember speaking to a chap in a Bingley Chinese takeaway a few years back and he was bemoaning the way we treat Autumn. It’s almost as if we treat it as a quick stepping stone towards Christmas he argued. And I agreed with him. Christmas products have been in the shops for about a month now and to echo that man’s words – why can’t we have an Autumn anymore?

Let’s have some blackberry crumbles.

Let’s have muddy afternoon dog walks.

Let’s make sloe gin and rosehip syrup.

Let’s carve some pumpkins other than on Halloween, just for fun.

Let’s have proper neighbourly bonfire parties instead of the overpriced organised events.

Let’s have some full roast dinners and a couple of pints of heavy at the pub.

Let’s build hedgehog houses, bat and bird boxes, and insect hotels to help our struggling wildlife.

Let’s go and see the starling murmurations.

LET’S HAVE AN AUTUMN!!!

There, got that out of my system. You see, Autumn can and should be a great time, not a precursor to the December spend fest that Christmas has become.

I’m particularly looking forward to Autumn this year because it’s the season that the next Joe Wilkie novel will be set in and I’m hoping that Autumn itself will inspire me to do it justice. It has to be set in Autumn you see, without giving too much away. It wouldn’t work at any other time of the year. You’ll understand when you read it.

I’m currently two chapters into it and as we are away from Blessham hall next week (cat sitting for friends) I shall take my old laptop and work outside (weather permitting) in their back garden, which is surrounded by trees, a babbling brook, and visited by deer, rabbits, pheasants, and foxes. It should be an inspiring time I hope.

I’ve not had too much time lately to devote to the novel and have snatched a few hours here and there at it, but for October I’m going to go for it with gusto. I want it written quicker than BEASTIE which took about 10 months not including editing. Although obviously I DO NOT want to skimp on the quality of the writing. That’s a cast iron necessity and I would rather wrap my todger in streaky bacon and tease an XL Bully with it than compromise the quality of my work. And this will be the 6th in the Joe Wilkie Blessham series, can you believe it, and it’s as important now as it was when I wrote Ah Boy! to maintain standards. More so even.

Autumn is also the season that I married the woman I adore, my lovely Ange. Now that was a fabulous Autumn day. The Sun was bright, the sky was cobalt blue, and my bride looked utterly delectable. We will be celebrating our 8th (where has the time gone?) anniversary next month and a four-night stay in the Lake District is booked for it. But other than that, I want to plough as much time into G— (whoops, nearly gave the name away there) in October as possible.

Oh, and a quick update on the weight loss journey. Despite having had a somewhat drink fuelled Spanish sojourn recently, I have maintained the weight that I was before I went. Wahey!!!

Feeling The Burn

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You know that feeling when something happens to you but you can’t fathom out how it happened. Like unexplained bruises on your arms when you cannot for the life of you remember bumping into anything. The sort of things that just don’t make sense.

Well, I had something similar recently.

In case you were wondering I’ve been away for a couple of weeks in Spain and, whilst having a nice time there, I have to say it was bloody hot. Too hot for this overweight article at any rate. But the thing is that it was a freebie holiday, staying in Paul’s apartment, and I knew before the plane had even taken to the skies that it was going to be hot.

I had a plan though, a simple yet effective one. For the duration of the holiday I would become a vampire and keep out of the Sun as much as possible. Did I manage that? In a word – NO!

The first day went really well. I sat on the balcony during the day, enjoying the sunshine from the shade and drinking rioja. It was most pleasant. In the evening, after the worst of the heat, we went down to the sea front where I bought a stylish yet sensible hat, some mirror shades and had a couple of beers. Day one, therefore, successful.

It all went pear shaped on day two.

It was a cloudless sky that we awoke to on the Thursday and it was decided by the majority that a day by the pool would be a nice thing to do. I ummed and aahed about this but was assured by Becky that there was adequate shade and that I could stay well within the confines of it.

You can see where this is heading, can’t you?

To keep it brief, I stayed in the shade all day, venturing out only twice to nip to the toilet, and at the end of the day I was as red as baboon’s backside. Redder in fact!

Surely 30 seconds each way to the toilet and back twice wasn’t enough exposure to turn me into Stevenson Thermador!

Or is it?

I don’t know but I wouldn’t have thought so. Or did I hugely underestimate the old Currant Bun? Is that all it takes for me to burn these days? Because I cannot think how else it could have happened. I stayed under an umbrella virtually the whole time.

By early evening I positively reeked of after sun lotion (Nivea – only the best) and I looked awful because I even had the panda eyes from my sunglasses. How? Will someone pleased tell me how.

I slept abominably that night and spent Friday inside the apartment feeling sorry for myself, drinking only bottled water and shunning alcohol. It was bad gentle reader, real bad!

Thankfully it began to calm down by late Saturday and I was feeling a lot less self-conscious to the point where I felt able to go to a nice restaurant and enjoy a good meal. Incidentally, the gazpacho was to die for. Seriously. And the swordfish steak was an unadulterated joy to the tastebuds.

But I digress.

We’ve been home about 5 days now and I have to say that my exposed portions are not looking too bad at all. Dare I even suggest that they are a (somewhat wishy-washy looking) brown. But at the end of the day I have to ask myself the question – was it worth the pain, heat, dryness, and tightness that my body had to withstand just to be vaguely beige at the end of it? No, it most certainly was not.

So there you have it. My battle with the Spanish sunshine; which I lost heavily. But I’m still at a loss as to how a literal two-minute burst of exposure at thirty second intervals could inflict so much redness and discomfiture. It doesn’t make any sense to yours truly.

I mean, for one thing, it’s the very self-same Sun that we have here in Britain and I have gone whole summers in the UK without even a hint of pinkness to my expansive body. No, not even a light hue.

I was told before I went that it was a different kind of heat to what we get over here. Well, all I can say is – no truer words ever spoken.

Anyway, its done with now and I’m cracking on with the next novel. If only the bloody peeling and itching would stop now.

Finally, Some Good Health News!

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How’s everybody doing out there? Looking forward to the weekend I’ll bet. Me too, but I won’t be touching alcohol. No siree, not a drop of the stuff. You see, I’ve had two wonderful things happen to me this week and I don’t want to sabotage either of them.

Yesterday, I got my first Slimmer of the Month award at Slimming World. I’ve now lost a total of 12 pounds in weight and I’m starting to notice in both how better my clothes are fitting and also in my breathing, which is continually improving.

Before Slimming World I would run out of breath at merely the thought of climbing a flight of stairs. Indeed, I would shun any building that was not either a bungalow or didn’t have a lift – or at least an escalator! Getting dressed in the morning left me gasping and even the lightest of exercise would have me retching for air.

I would even get out of breath putting the kettle on – honestly!

In fact, my breathing was becoming such a problem that my GP thought it was heart related and put me on aspirin, gave me a GTN spray just in case, and made me an appointment at the cardiology department of our local hospital. I thought to myself, “Oo-err, perhaps its time to take decisive action on this.” And I did, I signed up for Slimming World and things are going great.

Now, about the other wonderful thing that happened; and it’s regarding that cardiology appointment.

On Tuesday morning, bright and early, my incredibly supportive wife, the ever and always lovely Ange, drove me over to the hospital where I underwent an echo stress test on my ticker.

In layman’s terms an echo stress test is where they use drugs (legal ones) to make the heart beat a lot faster so that they can take pictures of it under duress. To anyone who has never had one I can tell you that it’s not something I’d recommend because it’s an absolutely bloody terrifying experience. You can feel your own heart going like a road drill and the blood literally “thumps” in your ears; kind of like sticking your head in Lemmy’s bass bin, which I once did. Not pleasant at all.

But it didn’t last too long and it was then that the good news came. The doctor announced that there was no trace of angina and that apart from a little calcification around one of the valves my blood pump was in pretty good shape for a man of my overwhelming girth! I could scarcely believe it gentle reader. He told me that my heart was good for another 20 years if I lost a lot of weight and behaved myself in all things dietary.

I’ll be honest with you, the test did leave me completely exhausted and with the driest cotton mouth I can ever recall having, but that wore off and the weird thing is that I think the test has actually had a most beneficial effect on my heart. At one point during the test my bpm was 140 and my blood pressure was 215 over 98. That’s a tad high.

But I really do think it’s kind of given my heart a workout of sorts because I am noticing a definite change in how I feel overall. Its as if the blood is flowing more efficiently around my body. Truthfully, I’m not making that up. There’s a change.

So no, I won’t be drinking this weekend. I do not want to undo the good that I’ve achieved so far but instead need to build on it. Who knows, there may be other Slimmer of the Month awards down the line.

One last thought on alcohol actually. My brother-in-law, Malcolm, who is 80, came to see us last year and he told us that although he’d like a glass of Guinness he no longer has it simply because he can’t process it anymore. Now, I did have a bottle of the old vino last weekend and I have to tell you that whilst I didn’t have a hangover (because I never do) my body did feel somewhat gripey (is that an actual word?) I felt sluggish and rubbishy on the inside and I think I’m starting to get a bit like Malcolm – I can’t process the bloody stuff anymore.

In conclusion, I still live with physical and mental health challenges but shortness of breath is no longer one of them and I’m hoping that morbid obesity will soon become a part of my past and not a precursor to my future.

Have a great weekend x

In the Footsteps of Uncle Monty

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Apologies for the absence of a blog post last week but I was having a short break in Keswick and despite my good intentions of taking my laptop with me… I forgot it. Never mind though. It was a lovely week, although a trifle too hot, and the views from the cottage we were staying in were gorgeous. Plus, I had a smashing time on the trip boat on Derwent Water on the Thursday. Nice to feel the breeze in one’s hair.

But its back to business now and do you recall me telling you that I would give an update on my progress with Slimming World? You do? Great. Well, here it is.

Despite having an unhealthy quantity of choice food and wine on our mini-break I still managed to come in at two and a half pounds lighter than I was before we went. How, I do not know. Well, I kind of know. We got home on the Saturday morning and since then I have been almost zealous in my determination to drop some more weight.

And so, I’ve been eating tremendous amounts of fruit and salad, without a single drop of alcohol passing my misshapen lips, since then and it’s worked! I’ve now lost 10 ½ pounds in total and am noticing it in my clothing a lot more. It’s the best feeling ever, well, apart from you know what, and I’ve had people remarking on how much better I look already and, with that in mind, I am absolutely determined to press on and reach my one stone target by next Wednesday.

One other thing about our break that was dear to me was that we took a short trip down the A66 to Penrith for an hour or two. Why is Penrith so dear to me? You ask. In a nutshell – Withnail & I. One of the best and funniest films ever made, part of which is based in Penrith itself. So it was kind of a fan pilgrimage of sorts.

Penrith itself is nice enough without being remarkable but I was struck by how friendly and welcoming people were. There was a lovely bookshop, appropriately called Withnail Books, which sold second hand records in excellent condition at amazing prices. Heck! I’m almost tempted to go back there this week and fill my boots. In the end though I just bought two LPs – Bob Dylan and Boston. In truth I could easily have gone raving mad and bought half the records in the shop but common sense managed to raise its wise old head before that happened

If you haven’t seen Withnail & I then I urge you to do so at the earliest possible convenience. Every single line in that film is utterly quotable, my favourite one being when Uncle Monty, over the dining table (pictured), says – “Oh my boys, my boys, we are at the end of an age! We live in a land of weather forecasts and breakfasts that set in, shat on by Tories, shovelled up by Labour, and here we are, we three; perhaps the last island of beauty… in the world.”

There are dozens of others I could have used but that’s the best one in my opinion. But you do need to watch the whole film to grasp the meaning in the quote.

As for Penrith, yeah, nice enough place and we will definitely go back for another pilgrimage at some point. Just need to find out if there is a Slimming World group there so we can stay for a few days and be encouraged to not overindulge.

Nikolai, Where Have You Been All My Life?

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That’s an unusual title for a blog post isn’t it? It sounds like I’ve fallen in love with a man called Nikolai and, I suppose, in a way, I have. He’s great.

Permit me, if you will, to explain.

He’s my dentist.

So why do I love the fellow? Well, in a nutshell, he’s just about the best dentist I’ve ever had. I’m not sure of his origins but his accent is Slavic and to be honest with you, I don’t give a damn where he came from just as long as he keeps looking after my choppers the way he does.

The thing with Nikolai is that he doesn’t waste time. He cracks on and gets the job done with the minimum of fuss. He’s softly spoken and as gentle as a lamb and he’s got a sense of humour, which is something I have found lacking in previous dentists.

I required a filling recently and Nikolai performed it completely pain free. You know that sudden sharpness of the needle going into the gum? Yes? Well, I didn’t even feel that. Nothing. Not a single thing. And the whole shebang was over in a few minutes and I was out of there and back on my way before you could say the words, “Rinse and spit!”

I have had a few dentists in my time here on Earth and whilst, yes, some of them have been very good but none of them have been up to his standard. And, during my childhood, my mouth was set upon by some absolute monsters.

My very first dentist was a lady called Miss Campbell and I still have vivid nightmares about the woman. She was about four and a half feet high, well advanced in years, hunchbacked and stooped, and should have retired at least a decade before she did. She had clearly never heard of the concept of pain free dentistry and, being the official school dentist, she was allowed to practice oral terrorism on every child in the district.

She wasn’t an unkind lady though, not really, just crap at her job. I can still hear the screams of the other children as I sat trembling outside the “treatment” room waiting my turn. I was petrified, truly petrified. I would rather have jumped in front of the school bus than endure her horrific methods.

The worst thing that Miss Campbell did, however, wasn’t to me but to my brother. We both required “treatment” at the time and were hauled into Miss Campbell’s waiting room quivering with fear. I was selected to go first and, in spite of my high-pitched squeals of agony, Miss Campbell set about me with her trusty drill.

My brother, on the other hand, required gas for his “treatment.” Back in those days it was common enough for dentists to render their patient’s unconscious by means of a heavy, black, rubber mask being placed over the mouth and nose and a mixture of nitrous oxide and halothane being pumped into the mask and inhaled by the patient.

Standard practice in those days.

However…

Miss Campbell, who I mentioned earlier was way past retirement age, gave my brother too much of the gas mixture and there then followed a frenzied episode of general panic as she and her assistants endeavoured to revive him. I was terrified and I can’t even begin to imagine how my mother must have felt. It was horrible.

Thankfully, Ian eventually came round again and we left the dental surgery and had ice creams as a post torture treat. That was also common in those days.

Can you imagine that happening these days though?

If that happened now then the dentist would have been hauled through the courts, been put out of practice, and my family would be wealthy beyond our wildest dreams due to the huge settlement fee we would have received.

But this was 1972 and we just got over it.

We moved to a new area when I was eight and I thought I had left all my dental horrors and Miss Campbell behind me. How wrong I was.

The next dentist I had for the remainder of my school years was a lady, and I use the term “lady” loosely, called Mrs Rampton. There’s also a high security mental hospital in Nottinghamshire called Rampton and I have a firm and unshakable belief that that’s where the woman belonged.

I swear she was psychotic.

She seemed to delight in inflicting pain on children. Seriously, anyone walking past her surgery during school hours would have thought blue bloody murder was being committed in there. She would regularly perform dental surgery without any form of anaesthesia and would screech like a harpy at any child who dared to register even the smallest cry of discomfort.

But, Mrs Rampton had a husband – Mr Rampton. Mr Rampton was the antithesis of his wife. He was physically huge but as kind towards children as could be. He would talk to you through the whole process and would always give you a sticker for being so brave. How could the two be so different?

Sadly, I only saw Mr Rampton on a handful of occasions and most of my “treatments” were done by the Psycho Bitch from Hell instead.

No wonder then that once I reached the age (16) where my mother could no longer get me to go to the dentist, I simply didn’t go. I’d had enough of dentists to last me a lifetime and I sure as heck wasn’t going to put myself through that if I didn’t have to.

The downside to this was that my teeth, over time, fell into disrepair and I was forced to go and visit a dentist for some major dental work at the age of twenty-five. And it was ok. In the nine years between my final savaging at the hands of Mrs Rampton and the work I had had done in the early 90s was remarkably different. I finally felt that I could go back to having regular dental treatment.

Since then, I’ve had maybe four or five different dentists and they’ve all been really good, especially Mrs Jassat, but none of them can compare to my main man Nikolai. He’s the bees knees when it comes to my oral hygiene.

So I guess the moral of this story is, when you get a bloody good dentist hang onto them for dear life because the alternatives might not be so pleasant. And I’m hanging on to my Nikolai.

Treble Top

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I hate to say it as I thought it would never happen but I think I’m finally too old to rock ‘n’ roll. Well, maybe not too old per se but certainly too limited physically. That notwithstanding, I just turned 60 (treble top, get it?) years old on Monday and I was thrown the most wonderful party by those who love me.

Last Saturday a crowd of friends and family descended upon the Fisherman pub in Bingley to wish this greying and wrinkling fella a happy birthday and it was fabulous.

Before I go any further, I must thank some people, namely my wife Ange, daughter Becky and granddaughter Erin for all their hard work in preparing the party. It was meant to be a surprise but I found out about it and so was expecting it instead. What I wasn’t expecting was the outpouring of love and best wishes that I received on the night.

Erin had instructed the landlord of what kind of music I like and the soundtrack of the evening was heavily flavoured with classic hard rock by the likes of Black Sabbath, Queen and Led Zeppelin. What’s not to like about that? Nothing at all, and at one point I conducted a mass sing-along of Bohemian Rhapsody that was both funny and fantastic. But the problem now is that I’m paying for it physically (FMS flare up) ergo the first line of this blog post.

Then again, that’s what a whole lot of Guinness and a large JD gets you – carried away.

Still, it was a truly great night had by all. There were a lot of folks I hadn’t seen in a good long while and it was lovely to catch up with them. My three oldest Yorkshire friends Dave, Carl and Kenny were all there and it warmed my heart to see them. I need to keep in touch with them a lot more as they are worth the effort.

A lot of my fabulous in-laws from the legendary Landers Clan were there which is really rather touching that they all made the effort to come over from Merseyside to see little old me and help me celebrate; I must have made a good impression on them. Seriously, they’re all very supportive of me and my writing and I wouldn’t be without any of them. Thanks guys, I greatly appreciated you all being there.

The food on the night was a finger buffet but not your common or garden variety. It was a delicious selection of things with not a single vol-au-vent or sausage on a stick in sight. Or any fingers for that matter. And there was a cake (pictured) made by a friend of some friends (Debbie and Barry) that was decorated with iced versions of books and vinyl records. It was also rather sumptuous to eat and very moreish.

I think the party curtailed at about 1:30 in the morning but don’t quote me on that as my memory of it is unreliable.

So, 60 years, and right now I’m feeling every bloody one of them. Its ok though, the flare up will flare down after a while and besides, I damn well enjoyed myself no end so to hell with bloody FMS and thank you to all who took the time to turn up and make this old rocker go misty-eyed.

Thank you all from the bottom of my heart x

PS – There were cards and presents galore to the point I was feeling a bit emotionally overwhelmed. People are so thoughtful.

Strange Phenomena x 2

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So we’ve been on another little break, Ange and I, and have come home in a state of being blissfully relaxed. Four nights in a log cabin near the Yorkshire Coast with a wood fired hot tub, plenty of wine, and BBQ food. It was heavenly, it truly was. We saw all sorts of wildlife, which made Ange’s visit, and I didn’t need pain relief at any time which I always find with a hot tub. It soothes my muscles like nothing else can.

If only I could get one on the NHS…

Anyway, we’re back home now and it’s back to business, which for me is starting the next Joe Wilkie adventure. But, before I get on with that, I’d like to draw your attention to not one but two rather strange phenomena that happened on our mini break.

The first one was a meteorological phenomenon, which I’m sure any self-respecting weather man could explain away in a few words but to us it was so strange.

On the Saturday there had been a stiff breeze blowing all day. We didn’t mind it; quite welcomed it actually. It was coming in off the coast and so it was refreshing in the way that only coastal winds can be.

Then, around six o’clock in the evening, we had a short thunderstorm. Nothing too startling – the odd rumble of sound, occasional flash of sheet lighting and some rather large raindrops. We waited inside the cabin until it passed, which wasn’t long at all really.

When we came out, after it was all over, that’s when the phenomenon happened!

What had been a robustly windy day had, in fifteen minutes, turned into the stillest evening I can ever recall. There wasn’t even so much as a breath of wind. Nothing! Just total stillness. No movement in the trees, no birdsong. It was almost eerie in how it had transposed from a swift breeze to absolutely none at all. Very weird.

Like I say, I’m sure there’s a positively simple and normal explanation for it but what I can say is that it enabled us to have our first BBQ of the weekend. I mean; I’ve heard of the calm before the storm but not after one.

The second phenomenon was a rather more lavatorial one.

Now, at home, my aging bladder calls on me to go to the throne room at least once every hour. I accept it, as a man fast approaching sixty years of age, to come with the territory. In fact, I can’t even enter our kitchen for anything without a sudden urge to run to cludgie (as they say in Scotland) and relieve myself.

Too much information?

Sorry, but it’s necessary, as you will discover.

The strange thing over the hot tub weekend was that my trips to the loo were reduced to just about three times a day and I can’t think why. I was drinking wine and coffee and beer and lots of water (one needs to stay hydrated in a hot tub) and eating loads of fruit. And yet, only a few khazi calls. Now why is that?

I do have a couple of theories, the best of which being that in the hot tub you do actually sweat, believe it or not, and so I may have held onto a lot of fluid that way via water retention. Perhaps it was my body’s way of saying I needed to hang on to some of my water.

I don’t know, but what I do know is that the moment we arrived home my bladder was back to its old self and the hourly flushing fanfare recommenced.

It was bizarre. If anyone knows a reason for it then I’d like to hear it so please do drop a comment below.

Now then, Mr Wilkie is in all sorts of bother again so I’d better get back and see what he’s up to. Expect a progress report soon. Also, don’t forget to buy BEASTIE and leave me a review when you’ve read the marvellous thing.

When in France

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Just a quick one – Oooh, Matron!

If, by any chance, you’re wondering where I’ve been for the last month then I can now reveal to you that a fortnight of it was spent in the Dordogne region of France. A desperately needed holiday, or getaway, or whatever you want to call it. And it was utterly sublime.

I have returned feeling inspired, gentle reader. In fact, I was so inspired whilst I was in France that I wrote seven poems and even worked out the plot for the next Joe Wilkie novel. How about that then? You can’t accuse me of being completely idle, even though I also spent large swathes of time crashed out in a conservatory chair on the patio. Ahem!

I’ve published the poems on Substack this week and you can read these French fancies HERE.

The thing is, where we were staying was so eye-wateringly beautiful it would be a hard-hearted individual who wouldn’t feel inspired. I’d heard the Dordogne was nice but it’s so much more than merely nice. It’s truly bucolic in every sense of the word.

*Bucolic – an adjective that refers to the pleasant, peaceful aspects of the countryside, country life, or rustic landscapes. It is typically used to describe idyllic, natural, and charmingly simple settings, such as rolling green meadows, grazing animals, or quiet rural villages

That sums it up pretty well.

Naturally, being something of a gourmand, I sampled a great deal of wine and cheese on my hols and have returned five pounds heavier than when I left. Take that Ryanair!!!

I even had a go at pétanque which ended in dismal failure of course. My wretched arms and back simply weren’t up to it and to tell you the truth I’m glad because a couple of local children were taking me to the cleaners at it which was tres embarrassing. Fun whilst it lasted though.

So yes, I’ve come back feeling refreshed. We ate well, slept well, and lived well for twelve days in the French sunshine and I’m now about ready to take on that next novel.

*Talking of novels, can I just prompt anyone who has read Beastie to please leave me a review on Amazon, Goodreads or Facebook. Thank you.

My fear of flying came fully to the front before and during our holiday and it didn’t help that our outbound flight was at 06:00 in the morning. I even had a pint of lager in the airport bar to try and stem the nerves and the thought came to me that the last time I had a drink at that time of day was somewhere in my mid-twenties. And it didn’t really help anyway.

The only thing that made me feel better was the woman sat next to me who was even more terrified than I was. I thought she was going to burst into tears when we landed. I did work out a little system though to keep my mind occupied. I worked out how long the flight was in five-minute increments and then counted them off one by one as they passed and actually, that helped. Yes, I know I’m a big girl’s blouse but we all have a fear of something or other.

Anyway, needless to say we had a nice time and got safely back in one piece. I now need to lose my holiday weight, which I have already started doing, and get some writing done.

It’s always great to go on holiday (unless it’s Skegness) but it’s equally lovely to get home again and back to a bit of normality. Blimey, if I were still there stuffing all that camembert and red wine down my gullet I’d be enormous. Oh! How silly of me; I already am.

Business as usual now.

On The Road Again

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Just a quick one today folks.

Hope you’re all having a great Monday so far. I know, I know, it’s the worst day of the week but seriously I hope you’re all having the best one you possibly can. As for me, well, I’m not having such a great time today. I’ve had a screamingly violent headache for 4 whole days now and it’s starting to wear a bit thin.

I know what it is – too much screen time and a badly overdue eye test. I’m a fool to myself at times.

However, I am in something of a good mood because Ange and I are officially back on the road again. Yes, we have a new car and we love it.

We had to sell our old car, Zebedee (don’t ask) a 2010 Renault Scenic after it got to the stage where the cost of repairs far outweighed the value of the vehicle. Basically, we needed to spend over £800 to get it fixed and the value of the car was less than £300. Just good economic sense at the end of the day.

The saddest part is that we loved that car. It was an absolute trooper of a machine and having a 1900cc diesel engine it mocked even the steepest of hills. A handy thing when you live in the Yorkshire Dales. But in the end our heads had to rule our hearts and we sold her to We Buy Any Car and got a measly £278.01 for her. Where the penny came from I still haven’t worked out. It’s a strange thing isn’t it?

That was in late March and since then we’ve been reliant on taxis, public transport, and the kindness of others where our transportation requirements are concerned. Thank you to all those who helped us out during that difficult time – you know who you are.

Fast forward to last Tuesday and we took possession of our new ride and we’re delighted with it. It’s an MG ZS, 24 plate, 1500cc, in burnt orange, and it’s got more gadgets and gizmos than I have ever known on a vehicle in my life. I’m starting to get my head around some of it now though.

And yes, in case you’re wondering, that is a picture of said new car at the top of this post.

We all love it when we get a new car, come on now, you know you do, and we’re just the same. But it’s not just that new car feeling that we’ve got. On a personal level it is a great boon for yours truly. It’s got more head height and more leg room than old Zebedee plus the leather (heated) seats provide a level of driving comfort I’ve never known before. It’s like sitting in your favourite armchair as the world zips by. And speaking as someone who has a physical disability let me tell you that is the best part about it.

I’m also loving the reversing cameras. I’ve not had a car with it before and what a smashing thing it is. It makes parking almost effortless.

I’ve even gone and bought one of those hand-held vacuum cleaners that plugs into the charging port so that I can keep it as pristine as possible. Honestly, I’ve never been that precious about keeping a car clean. I suppose the reason for that may be that now Ange is officially retired we need a nice, clean motor and not a workhorse. Our other cars were used to carting about sacks of coal, Calor gas bottles, and all manner of things that we required during our time boating on the canal.

The MG though, I fully intend to maintain to a high standard. That means there will be no flaky pastry sausage rolls, sugary doughnuts, or MacDonalds eaten in it. Not that we eat those things now anyway but it’s the principle that counts.

So, just wanted to let you know what we’ve been up to. We’re mobile again and I have a four-day old headache that feels like an imp is behind my eyes and trying to kick them out of my head with steel toe-capped hob-nailed boots. Other than that its business as usual.

I’m hoping to make a start on the next thrilling Joe Wilkie adventure soon. Beastie hasn’t made the splash that I’d hoped for and if you recall I was thinking of jacking it all in at one point. But I’ve decided to press on and build up the Blessham canon as it were. So expect Joe Wilkie 6 some time next year. It’s going to be nuts – literally!

Sorry to crow a bit about the car but I can’t even begin to explain what a great blessing it has been.