🦆
Every year since I don't know when*, I've climbed Moel Famau in North Wales on Christmas Eve. It's the closest thing I get to regular exercise. This year was my first time alone: Irish Mick was away, and Stense was poorly. How very sensible of them: I got soaked to the bone.
* Postscript: I looked it up. I've climbed Moel Famau on Christmas Eve every year since 1988.
Carolyn doesn't remember H E Todd coming to our school (but, as she so perceptively pointed out, I tend to remember that sort of thing, and she doesn't). She does, however, remember reading Bobby Brewster stories.
She managed to get hold of the mice she was after, but they can squeeze their way through the bars of their cage. Things like that tend to happen to Carolyn.
I'm at my parents' house for the evening. I just got off the phone to Jen. She had sardine sandwiches for tea. I pointed out that sardine sandwiches were a particular favourite of mine and Bobby Brewster's when I was a kid. “Bobby who?” asked Jen.
Bobby Brewster: the brain-child of the children's author, H E Todd. He (or, more formally, H.E.) visited our school when I was about six years old. He read from his Bobby Brewster books, which we then had the opportunity to buy. I bought Bobby Brewster Detective. I loved the book, but, unfortunately, they had run out of signed copies by the time I got to the front of the queue. So my teacher, Miss Jones (who wore a mini skirt), forged his autograph for me. Damned if I know what happened to it (the book, that is, not the mini skirt).
If anyone out there has a copy of Bobby Brewster Detective, I'd love to borrow it. [I bought a second-hand copy off Amazon in June 2015.]
Just a quickie:
Remember that letter I wrote to you on 8th September, 1998? Of course you do! It contained the following lengthy passage:
… The following evening, Michelle Pfeiffer phoned me up and asked me out! I said no, of course. “Michelle,” I said, “you're a lovely lass and everything, but you're just not my type”. Michelle said she was gutted. Then, not five minutes later, the phone rings again. It's Kim Basinger this time. You've guessed it - she wants to go out with me as well! Uncanny or what? She says something about wanting to show me her Golden Globes, but I haven't a clue what she's talking about. “Kim, what can I say? We have nothing in common. I'm sorry, but the answer's no.” Kim is distraught.
At first, I just pass it all off as a bit of a coincidence, but then I get to thinking: how come these two screen goddesses have even heard of me, let alone want to go out with me? I like to think of myself as a fairly quiet, anonymous chap, who maintains a low profile (if not a narrow one). Yes, I suppose there is my website, but that gives absolutely no personal details. So how come they know about me? Come to think of it, how do they even know my phone number? I'm ex-directory!
Then I started thinking some more. Who do I know with contacts in the world of entertainment, who might perhaps have tried to set me up with a silver screen babe? Irish Mick? Nope. Charlie? Nope. Penry, the mild-mannered janitor? Not even him. So who?
Ding!
It was you, wasn't it? You tried to set me up with Michelle and Kim. I know all about you and your so-called connections. What sort of chap do you take me for? I'm a one woman man, plain and simple. I've heard about the easy come, easy go, attitudes of you thespian types, but this is the first time I have experienced them first hand - and it's NOT my scene. I know you probably had my best interests at heart, and I appreciate the effort you made. Thanks, but I'm perfectly capable of sorting out my own love life, thank you very much - not that it needs sorting out; no, no problems whatsoever in that department, I'm pleased to say. [But, if you do happen to have a contact for Philippa Forrester out of Tomorrow's World, and you feel like putting in a good word…]
So guess who I found myself standing next to in the women's jumpers section of the Liverpool branch of Marks & Spencer yesterday? That's right, none other than the aforementioned Philippa Forrester.
I didn't introduce myself, even though she's still a complete fox.
I'm pissed. Will contact you soon.
Take care,
Ri xx
HLP! IVE GOT MU FCKING HEAD STUUCK INTH E FUXKNG SCANNER! ID NT FKNG BE,IENE IIT!
R: “Hello, Carolyn, where are you?”
C: “I'm on my way to buy some mice for the children for Christmas.”
R: “You should have told me. I could have caught you some. We've got dozens of them running round here.”
C: “No thanks, we need ours to have heads on them.”
Boston Globe: Carter accepts Nobel prize
I don't know what to say. This is a great and truly unexpected honour. I'd like to thank my parents, my agent, my speech ferapisht, my… oh, wrong Carter.
Sky News: Gillian Names the Day
X-Files star Gillian Anderson is getting hitched to her English boyfriend after a whirlwind five-week romance.
The troth is out there.
BBC: Vicar tells children Santa is dead
Youngsters at a Christmas carol service were devastated when the Reverend Lee Rayfield told them Santa Claus was dead. Even parents at the service in Maidenhead, Berkshire, were shocked to hear Mr Rayfield say it was scientifically impossible for Father Christmas to deliver so many presents so quickly.
Hmm, a scientifically impossible phenomenon… Sounds like a pretty good definition of a miracle to me, vicar. Tell me, are there any other miraculous people you don't think we should believe in?
For several months now, Jen and I have been plagued by mice (Muscus musculus). This evening, it started to get stupid. We were sitting in our living room, enjoying the end of a bottle of wine in front of a roaring fire, when a mouse walked into the room, sauntered over to the record collection, and sat down staring at us.
Of course, Jen, being Jen, was having none of this nonsense. So, while I retired discreetly upstairs, she took the coal shovel in her hand and stove the vile vermin's skull in.
That's my girl!