It had landed on the doormat a couple of days before, along with the garish leaflets inviting me to get a 40% discount from my local pizza house, or demanding that I replace my unhygienic eight-year old mattress for something that will improve my posture and reduce the number of visits to the toilet (presumably only when in bed, rather than throughout the day).

But it was none of these that left the envelope unopened. It was the handwritten note which read “Hi Dave, just a polite reminder to pay for the window cleaning done on Monday.”

Now I pride myself on the fact that I support local tradesmen and pay on delivery. I was horrified and immediately rushed to my computer to check my bank account to confirm that I had, indeed, paid my window cleaning bill. Bristling with indignation, I immediately got on the phone to ‘Stuart Windows’ as he appears on my mobile and he defused my irritation in seconds.

“Hi Dave, I was just dialling out your number. The missus, silly cow, gave me the wrong Dave to chase up for money. I know you pay me before I’ve got off your driveway usually.”

Suddenly, we were back into the old routine talking football and how you can’t get the staff these days and by the time we ended the call, I ignored the rest of the mail and rushed off to work.

So, it was two days before I realised that there was a proper letter hidden amongst the junk mail.

The envelope was clearly not your standard Basildon Bond but a weighty luxury cream material. In the top left-hand corner of the envelope was a gold motif of two interlinked letters C, one reversed, embossed into the paper.

I double-checked that this letter was addressed to me, my thought being that my wife had put in a complaint to Coco Chanel about changing the recipe for her favourite body lotion, again!

But no, this was definitely intended for me. Obviously, some other promotion designed to get me to part with my hard-earned cash. Some boiler-room scam based in a Far East country of indeterminate origin.

I opened the envelope without expectation and read slowly:

By Order of His Majesty King Charles III and Her Majesty Queen Camilla

You are cordially invited to The Coronation to take place at Westminster Abbey on

Saturday 6^th May 2023 at 11.00am

Please accept by return to receive instructions with regard to dress code and etiquette.

Note: This invitation is not transferrable and is for the recipient only

Clearly, this was a wind-up right? Nigel doing one of his photoshoppy things! But when I messaged him, he seemed as confused as myself.

Maybe it was real? Maybe it was an acknowledgement of my years of service to the old and decrepit of Essex? Or my years of supporting Sport for All? Or just because they needed someone there with less hair than HRH?

When confusion hit, I did what I always do – I made myself a cup of coffee and had a jam donut. It helps to focus the mind.  

I weighed up the pros and cons.

The pros – definitely something to tell my kids and grandkids. Being part of history in the making. A chance to rub shoulders with the great and the good from around the world (well, I could certainly rub shoulders with Rishi; he and I are the same stature). And I bet the Vol au Vents are pretty special.

On the downside, am I going to get into my made-to-measure suit now I’m a stone and a half heavier? How do I get there? Train, car, cab? It’s all going to cost money. And what if, like everywhere I go, the champagne and wine is free, but I have to pay for a soft drink or a cup of coffee.

It took a lot of soul searching, but, eventually, I was able to pen my response.

Dear King Charges III,

Thank you so much for the kind invitation to your Coronation. I very much appreciate the offer, but regretfully I must decline for the following reasons:

1. I did not receive an invitation to the wedding (either of them!) when my diary was relatively free. This could have been an oversight the first time around, but the second time. Too big a coincidence, I suggest.
2. I have a prior engagement as children’s entertainer at the fourth birthday party of a lad called Archie Sussex. Four is an impressionable age and rejection could scar him for life, and he will have enough challenges going forward.
3. I also have a subsequent engagement. West Ham v Manchester Utd. Now that could be history in the making and, frankly, Charles, my team need me! They did not leave me high and dry, only calling me when Harry Stiles and Ed Sheeran couldn’t make it.

I’m sure that you will still have a good time and I hope that this doesn’t mean that you will not be inviting me to any future weddings you may have planned. And I am always available for kids parties etc.

Your obedient servant

I am sure that I have made the right decision – particularly if we stuff Man Utd.

The Lockdown Clock, Tick-Tock, Tick-Tock,

Time Elapse, Life Collapse,

The Lockdown Clock, Tick-Tock, Tick-Tock.

Working from home? You’re having a laugh!

Nothing’s changed for your other half.

Sucking on a Bic in your PJ shorts

Looking out the window deep in thought.

Take a look at the Lockdown Clock.

“Where are you Sue? Did you make a brew?

Can I have a Hobnob? That’s just the job!”

The Lockdown Clock, Tick-Tock, Tick-Tock,

Time Elapse, Life Collapse,

The Lockdown Clock, Tick-Tock, Tick-Tock.

Got a birthday coming up, how can that be?

Only last month I was 63!

I’ve totally missed out on New Year’s Eve,

A year of my life I can never retrieve.

The Lockdown Clock, Tick-Tock, Tick-Tock,

Time Elapse, Life Collapse,

The Lockdown Clock, Tick-Tock, Tick-Tock.

DIY for a no-skill guy

Never mind, gotta give it a try.

Painting the wall, like a colour-blind fool.

Playing Scrabble and Give us a Clue,

Just trying to find stuff to do,

Brain fade, emotional rage, energy levels down in the grave.

The Lockdown Clock, Tick-Tock, Tick-Tock,

Time Elapse, Life Collapse,

The Lockdown Clock, Tick-Tock, Tick-Tock.

We’re fighting back across the nation

Pinning our faith on inoculation,

Any day we’ll beat the bug

When we get protection from the Covid drug.

Then open up the pub and bar,

Take to the road in the old jam-jar.

Take in a show, if I’ve got the dough,

Meet the In-Laws and hear them moan,

See the kids and catch a game.

Soon enough things will be the same.

But then, The Lockdown Clock, Tick-Tock……..

Callum -Good afternoon, this is Callum Johnson reporting to you from a field near Wastwater in to Lake District and I am delighted to be interviewing Buzz, a mature Common Buzzard whose home is in the trees surrounded by the Parkgate Tarn on one side and Scafell Pike on the other. Welcome Buzz, I know this must be a unique experience for you, being interviewed on TV like this?

Buzz – Oh no Callum, I have made a number of appearances on your TV. I have been in Springwatch with Michaela Strachan and the lovely Chris Packham – he has such gorgeous hair I would give my tail feathers for that crowning glory! And I did The Generation Game with Anthea Redfern and the legendary Bruce Forsyth. At the risk of repeating myself, what a lovely head of hair!

Callum – I think you will find that Bruce Forsyth wore a wig.

Buzz – A wig?

Callum – A hairpiece, some false hair.

Buzz – Is that a thing? Do they do false feathers as well? I could do with a bit of a touch up, myself, I’m shedding feathers from my crown. Sometimes I look like I have been dragged through a hedge backwards. Some days it’s because I HAVE been dragged through a hedge backwards if I’m honest. The phrase ‘bitten off more than I can chew’ was invented for us buzzards.

Callum – What did you do on the Generation Game?

Buzz – I’m embarrassed to admit that I pretended to be a Falcon where members of the public tried to lure me to their gauntlet with a dead rat. They thought that, if anything went wrong, I was likely to inflict less damage to the contestants than a real falcon. But it hasn’t always been cultural stuff like that. I was also in Robins Nest that popular sit-com from the 1970’s with Richard O’Sullivan. He was a sweet, sweet man and I loved his shaggy locks. Wild, untamed and yet manly. It’s a look that I try to adopt myself, if I’m honest, Callum. A bit like your own if I may say so! Gorgeous. Could I run my talons through them, maybe after the interview?

Callum – Maybe Buzz. But before we get to that let’s talk about the main reason we want to chat today. I understand that you have invented a new hunting technique. Tell us about this.

Buzz – Well, it’s like this Callum. I was perched high in my favourite tree a few weeks ago when I noticed the farmer sitting out in the field with his shotgun resting on his knees. To be honest with you he looked a bit of a mess. Farmer Mike is not what I would call a hunk, Callum but he usually tries to make the best of himself; always wears pressed overalls and always makes sure his hair is immaculate. I think that’s so important in a man, don’t you Callum? Turns out that he had been up all night trying to catch the mole that has been ruining his fields and lawns with his constant digging. So, he’s been awake all night watching for moles, which is ironic really because a flock of buzzards is called ‘a wake’. And a group of moles, though you don’t them together very often, is called ‘a labour’. I guess you could say that Farmer Mike stayed awake to spot a labour of moles! Get it? Sorry, Callum, just my little joke!  Back to the point. I felt really sorry for Mike, letting himself go like that! I like my Mike crisp and clean and coiffured. I had a word with him and said that, as a Buzzard, I could capture the mole for him really easy. He reckoned that if I could then, between us, we could earn a fortune and become famous! Frankly, the money does not interest, but I love being on the Telly, so we went into business together.

Callum – How do you do it, Buzz?

Buzz – Well, it’s quite easy for me, you see. I just sit in my tree and wait for the earth to move as the mole is getting to the top of his tunnel then I swoop down, grab him with my talons and just yank him out and take him off for lunch – that’s my lunch of course.

Callum – Wow! That must take some skilful flying, Buzz.

Buzz – Us Buzzards are like Harrier Jump Jets. We can soar really high, hover just above the ground if necessary and use our reverse- flap stroke to land on a pinhead if needed. We are built for this kind of work.

Callum – Thank you so much Buzz and good luck with your new project. Now it’s back to the studio.

Buzz – Thank you, Callum.

Callum – One question I forgot to ask – don’t you get fed up to the back of your beak, eating mole all the time?

Buzz – We are off air now, right? I will let you into a little secret. I think I can trust you Callum. Anyone with a lovely head of hair like yours can be trusted, I know. Here’s the thing, Cally. As you can probably tell, I’m more of a lover and not a fighter. If I wore them, I would be the girl with the comfortable shoes, if you get my drift? So, here’s what I did – I organised a committee meeting with the moles in the area – which is another of my little jokes because a group of vultures is a committee. Sorry, I just can’t help myself sometimes. I put it to the moles that if they gave me a wave, I would swoop in, looking ferocious and hard, scoop them up and move them onto the next farm where they could start tunnelling afresh. Mike would think I was a dynamite mole-catcher and would tell all his neighbours. When they started getting mole hills, he would hire me out to the next farm, and I would do the same again! We reckon there are enough farms in the area to take us about three years before we get back to Mike’s Farm. It’s fame for me and fortune for Mike – we are such a good team he might even let me use some of his hair products once in a while. All these aeronautics makes a real mess of my plumage, you know. And how you present yourself is so important, don’t you think??

Dear Angharad-Bronwyn,

I just thought I would drop you a line to thank you for the experience of a lifetime that Trevor and I had in your bijou pod in the depths of the beautiful Wales countryside.

I’m sitting on our patio back in Essex, enjoying a glass (or three – naughty I know!) of Sauvignon Blanc – which reminds me, thanks so much for the welcoming bottle of Lambrini that you left for us. Where did you find such a dinky bottle? I think they would be great as a starter drink for the grandchildren.

Speaking of the grandchildren, it was them that encouraged us to consider glamping. To be fair, when we mentioned it to the kids, they thought we were mental at our age. ‘Go for comfort!’ they said but the grandkids said it would be an adventure and something to tick off the bucket list. To be fair, a weekend at the Ritz was what was on my list, but Trev said, ‘We’ll show them we’re not past it!’ so we booked up a glamping tent for one week and your pod for the next.

The bell tent we had for the first week was enormous with a four-poster bed, and luxury memory foam mattress as its central feature, plus a wood burning stove and a comfy settee made for two. There were fairy lights strung around the bedhead giving it a magical charm in the evening. But was it really ‘slumming it’ we asked ourselves? The answer came in the numerous nocturnal visits Trev needs to make each night. You see the toilet and shower block was 200 yards across the field. Not too onerous a task in the middle of a summers night until you count the number of zips involved – zipping up his trousers, unzipping the tent, rezipping the tent, unzipping the tent, rezipping the tent, unzipping the trousers, not to mention dropping the trousers along with its hefty belt onto the floor. He sounded like a swarm of angry bees being finally beaten to death! The toilet and shower were exclusive to us and just like home.

So, we were really looking forward to enjoying the beauty of Wales and communing with nature more fully than the sissy glamping experience. To be fair, we missed your lane the first time; the bushes on either side are really dense and the lane is very narrow. You had kindly warned us that the driveway was quite steep but there was an area of hard standing at the top that we could park on.

I think it was ingenious of you to use clinker from the slag heaps of the abandoned coalmines to create your driveway and hardstanding for the pod! Trev was a bit worried that the drive was loose and feared that gravity and rain would soon move it into the lane below. And when you said ‘steep’ what you really meant was ‘REALLY STEEP’.

Trev used to watch Grandstand on a Saturday afternoon and he loved that thing that Murray Walker commentated on where couples drove mini cars up a dirt track with mud and bullets flying in all directions? Remember Murray saying ‘George has drilled holes in his windscreen so that he can get better visibility’ as poor George careered into a tree? Hilarious!

Your driveway wasn’t like that of course – no trees! We decided that we would reverse up and that I would guide Trev back to the flat area at the top. At one point he only had three wheels on terra firma – I didn’t even know that he knew how to drive like that. With the car at that angle I was sure my vertigo would kick in bigtime! Three attempts and we sort of abandoned the motor half on and half off the flat area.

We looked at our home for the next week. It looked really homely, perched on the top of the slagheap, but, I have to confess that this was the point at which we had our first fall out, Angharad-Bronwyn, as we argued about whether Trevor, with his false knee and hip or me with my arthritic wrists should carry our luggage up the rope ladder to the balcony outside the pod.

Trevor projected his alpha male image and climbed the swaying ladder with our Samsonite roped to his back. I knew he could do it. I had no doubt, but I was not ready for him vomiting when he got to the top. Not sure if it was the exertion, altitude sickness or a dodgy prawn at lunch? He soon recovered albeit still looking a bit green as he winched me up to the balcony.

I couldn’t wait to see inside, Angharad-Bronwyn, you know what us girls are like. I think this second bottle of Sauvignon is going to my head, cos I’ve just had a thought – I bet your parents were Scrabble players. A triple word score of your name must be worth ninety points or more! Lovely name. Mind you and so is your husband’s name, Geraint! Pity we never met him! You used to send the ten-year-old twins up to the pod with any messages. Trev said he thought Geraint was probably a paraplegic or just has no head for heights. He can be so cruel, Trevor.

The pod, inside, is beautiful. Like the upside-down hull of a boat with a home built inside of it. The sloping roof and walls caught us out a few times. I laughed when Trev banged his head putting on the kettle and he roared when I head-butted the wall as I sat down on the wooden bench that served as our seating area. Trevor couldn’t wait to put on the TV but was a bit disappointed that he could only get the Shopping Channel selling a rowing machine to build up your core strength. ‘I think I’ve proved my core strength is ok on that rope ladder’ he complained. Word of advice, Angharad-Bronwyn. The TV is fixed to the wall, but the wall mount is not mobile so the only place you can watch the telly is by leaning over the sink. It got Trev washing up quite a lot, but the lack of oven or hob meant that we didn’t do much cooking and he only had a couple of cups to do at any time – not even enough to cover the adverts. Get one of those brackets that you can pull out and swivel, love.

I looked at the bathroom first, as the bed was ‘just there’. Sink, toilet and shower cubicle all present and correct. The mirror was on the back of the door behind the sink, so Trev had fun shaving with his back to the sink so he could see his face. I made the joke that, at his age, he should remember where everything is on his face, but he didn’t see the joke. Another tip, love. As there is no natural light in the bathroom a bulb in the only light fitting is an asset. No, I’ll go further – it’s almost essential.

 The shower was a hoot! At home, sometimes when Trev feels a little, shall I say, touchy-feely, he will creep into the shower cubicle while I’m washing my hair and surprise me with his loofah! We have such fun. Our shower at home is comfortable for the two of us but we were not expecting anything of that size in the pod. We were not disappointed!

If shower cubicles are measured in dress sizes, I would guess yours is about a Size 8. Unfortunately, I think I’m probably a comfortable Size 16 and poor old Trev is probably a Size 20. This only caused a problem if one of us dropped the shampoo bottle as there was not enough room to bend over and pick it up. Trev tried it and headbutted the taps! We laughed! We got around to washing our top half and letting gravity take care of the bottom half. Not sure where that scores on the hygiene scale? Lucky my Mum didn’t come on the holiday with us, she’s a Size 28 – even the ladder would have been a challenge and she would have had to shower in quarters: front top, front bottom, back top and back bottom! Trevor wonders whether that’s why you removed the bulb from the bathroom; to cover people’s embarrassment?

This wine is starting to make me feel really chilled, Angharad-Bronwyn, can I just call you A-B from here on? I just Googled the name Angharad. Did you know it means ‘Shameless’? Do you think your parents knew something?

The maximum use of all available space in the pod was clearly demonstrated with the bed. It fitted flush between the bathroom wall and the outer wall, which bowed inwards so we tossed a coin to see who would be banging their head all night. I lost!

Trev checked the bedsprings (he’s very sensitive to such things since he had his hip replacement surgery – it’s very sensitive to hard surfaces. He was pleased to discover that the bed was just a piece of hardboard slung across two supports. He reckoned that it would perform like Rolf Harris’ wobble board but without the sound, hopefully. He was a bit surprised at the biscuit sized mattress. Reminded him of the mattresses he had when he was doing six months in Pentonville. He was innocent by the way – the other guy ran into the hammer.

We looked at the various options available for getting into bed. As there were no sides it had to be from the bottom of the bed. We considered doing a flying leap towards the top of the bed, but we were not sure if the wobble board would survive impact. If my wrists were sound, I could have crawled up on my hands and knees. If Trev’s knees were his own, he could have done the same. In the end we crawled up on our bellies like a pair of SAS snipers. I wish I’d brought my camouflage onesie with me – it would have looked hysterical!

When we finally laid down, we noticed, for the first time, that there were no curtains at the window. We looked out and in the dark all we could see was that very thick bush that obscured a view of the beautiful Welsh countryside. This was not entirely accurate as we discovered the next morning. We slept fitfully and Trev had to ‘play soldiers’ several times during the night, so we slept late in the morning until the sun cascaded through the un-curtained window. Trev took a peek out and we realised we could see you, A-B, sunbathing on the lounger situated in your garden behind our pod. I looked up your other name, ‘Bronwyn’. Did you know that it means ‘Fair Breasted’? Trev said you won’t live up to that name if you keep sunbathing topless in front of our window. I found it a bit uncomfortable, A-B, but Trev was more concerned about whether you could see his meat-and-two-veg while he was sleeping. I was worried too that you might think I’d only married him for his money, if you know what I mean?

We were sorry we only stayed two nights. If I’m honest, Trev wanted to leave that first morning but we needed to go out and buy some rope so we could winch down the Samsonite case and having been down the ladder once and back up it, we had to get our energy back for the drive home.

Wow, A-B, we certainly have some stories the tell the grandkids about our adventures, but we may need to save them for a year or so to avoid the kids saying ‘Told You So’ in that patronising way they have!

Thank you for letting us enjoy your pod, which, for the right person, must be a wonderful experience. But that right person has to be a Size 6 gymnast or contortionist, I reckon.

I think your parents knew a thing or two when they named you!

He Ho!

Yours inebriately……. Inebriate….. Pissed

Angie

Travelling around at about half pace
Getting tired before the race
Work is always just half done
And getting there just ain't much fun
I try so hard to keep my smile
To always go that extra mile
But I'm losing faith and losing hope
For how long more am I able to cope?
A change of balance is what I need
And more enjoyment on which to feed
It's in my power to change the game
And if I don't I stay the same
To live my life as I want it to be
All the focus must come from me.

I have never been seen as a DIY specialist. Indeed, plenty of people find the very suggestion quite hilarious. The truth is that, like most blokes, I have had to turn my hand to a car repair, or some home decorating when it was necessary. I’ve even been known to do a bit of rewiring in days gone by without doing damage to myself or those around me. I won’t pretend that I enjoy DIY. I find it frustrating when I get partway through the job and realise that I need a particular tool that not only do I not have but nor do the local B & Q, Wicks, Jewson, Travis Perkins or any other supplier within a twenty-mile radius.

It’s either the missing tool or the instructions that I am following meticulously bear no relationship to the job in front of me. My fuse is very short on such occasions and the air rapidly turns an unpleasant shade of azure. But needs must sometimes.

As I progressed in my career and my earnings started to rise, I soon came upon another problem: I was losing more income taking time off work to do the jobs I didn’t really like than it would cost me to buy in some expertise.

And then I got to thinking.

What would Chris Evans do?

The answer was simple: work at the job that I enjoy and get really well paid for and pay someone else to do the stuff I find frustrating and unrewarding. Since that ‘lightbulb moment’ I haven’t looked back – well maybe just that one time!

We were expecting our lifelong friends to visit us for the weekend and, as you do, my wife decided that the light fitting in the guest bedroom should be upgraded. Late on Friday afternoon she presented me with said light fitting and asked me to put it up. How tough could it be – especially with my trusty camera phone to take pictures of the current fitting (which was working perfectly well) in situ.

All went well until I turned back on the power. Bang!! Everything tripped out. I checked my installation against the photo and, seeing nothing wrong, I tried again. Same again! At six-thirty in the evening, in gathering dusk and with an hour before our guests arrived, I was left with no alternative but to call out an emergency electrician. A tattooed and musclebound ex-boxer arrived within 20 minutes and looked at me with a smirk on his face.

‘How many times did you blow the circuit then?’ he chortled.

‘Only the once,’ I lied, ‘then I decided that life was too short…’

Having the advantage of experience, and not being held back by colour blindness, he had the job done inside 10 minutes and walked away £60 the richer.

A few weeks ago, I took my grandchildren into my home office to find some scrap paper for them to play with.

‘What’s that big machine in the corner, Grandpa?’ asked Darcy.

I proudly explained that it was a photocopier with a sorter.

‘What, like a printer or a scanner?’ she enquired, using her 21^st Century knowledge to explain my 1980’s pride and joy.

‘Well, sort of. But you can copy anything – like a photograph for instance.’

‘Like a scanner, then?’

‘Well yes but you can do much more.’

‘Like what?’

‘Well, when we had one in our office, people would sit on it, pull their trousers down and take a photocopy of their bum and then pin it on the office wall.’

‘Did you ever do that, Grandpa?’

‘No of course not! Well, maybe once after the Christmas Office Party, but I was very young!’

‘Cool! How come they don’t use them now? They are quaint and my mates would be well amazed to see this kind of old-fashioned stuff. And what’s this do?’ asks Darcy, pointing to my now defunct fax machine.

‘Oh, this would send a message from one office to another.’

‘And it would come up on their screen?’

‘No, it would come out as a piece of paper.’

‘What? It produced paper, this fax machine?’ incredulity in her voice.

‘Well, not exactly.’

And then I got to thinking.

What would Chris Evans do?

That’s when I came up with the idea: Fax Fest. A family festival of music and machines, mid-twentieth century office equipment like photocopiers, cathode tube computers, punch-tape machines, even Xerox machines.

The juices flowed as I thought of the kind of music that would enhance Fax Fest.

We would definitely need Florence and the Machine to top the bill, and Rage Against the Machine. I like the Wurzels and maybe The Undertones or Lick the Tins. And of course, it would not be complete without Sharleen Spiteri and Seasick Steve on stage.

My Nan used to have a wealth of terms to describe ‘the Human Condition’.

Some days she said she just felt ‘anyhow’ and others she thought that the world was ‘arse up’ards’.

She knew that you could not bring you’re ‘A’ Game to every single day and I began to believe her.

And then I got to thinking.

What would Chris Evans Do?

So, the next time I woke up feeling ‘anyhow’ I set about sorting out my sock drawer and reorganising my wardrobe.

Firstly, I rolled my socks up into neat pairs and laid them in a colours sequence running from left to right – light socks to the left going through the shades to the darkest on the right. A feeling of happiness was starting to settle over me, but this was nothing in comparison to the feelings I got when I moved to the wardrobe.

I started looking at my array of 25 shirts and made some hard decisions about how often I actually wore some of these garments. Soon I had culled 10 shirts, some much loved friends, because, in truth, they had not fitted around my stomach for many years.

Then I started to sort, again light to the left going to the dark on the right. But I was getting even more sophisticated with my sorting. Short-sleeved to the left, long-sleeves and then double-cuffs on the right – each group cascading in its own rainbow spectrum.

Now I was ready for the day.

I was finding the daily grind of office politics was beginning to take its toll and my patience was wearing very thin. I was thinking ‘get a life!’ every time I was asked to referee a dispute over the ginger nut biscuits (who bought the last one and does that give them the right to eat the last one?). I took to staying in my office, head down, just to avoid getting sucked in.

And then I got to thinking.

What would Chris Evans do?

 The next day I surprised my colleagues by bringing into the office a fully mature pig. I roped off an area in my office and placed my new workmate in his own boxing ring.

I changed my attitude to personal isolation and wandered the offices almost seeking out disputes between workers, and it didn’t take me long to find one.

‘Dave, you’ve been here a long time. Can you sort out a dispute for us? My department, Office Requisitions, buys all the stuff we need to run the office, right? So that obviously includes the purchase of envelopes, right?’

I agreed.

‘But we are not responsible for buying the stamps – that’s the job of the Postal Room, surely?’

‘Hang on, Paul,’ intervened the Head of Outward Physical Communications, ‘first we haven’t been called the Postal Room since 2010 and second your envelopes are useless without stamps so it’s obviously your responsible to make the envelopes fit for purpose!’

‘Not at all, Mike, how are we, in Office Requisitions to know how many stamps you use?’

‘Same way as you know how many envelopes we need – WE TELL YOU!’

I stepped into the skirmish with alacrity, ‘I have this new resource in my office to resolve such disputes. Both of you come to my office in 5 minutes.’

‘OK’ said Paul, ‘should we bring anything with us?’

‘Only a sponge and some soap.’ I replied.

I strode away, not looking over my shoulder but smiled as I could only imagine the expression on Mike and Paul’s faces.

Ten minutes later Mike and Paul entered my office – Mike clasping a sponge and Paul carrying a bucket full of soapy water.

‘Thanks guys, pop them down by the ring.’

They walked hesitantly towards the pig, restrained only by a makeshift rope ring, placed down their items before scurrying back to the comfort of two chairs by my desk.

 ‘You’re probably wondering about the pig?’ I asked rhetorically, ‘well, I’ve just finished reading a book recommended by Chris Evans called ‘Pig Wrestling’ which is all about how to reframe a problem to resolve it and avoid confrontation. I won’t go into it in detail but here’s the bottom line – one of you has to wash the pig and one of you has to buy the stamps. Now which way is it to be?’

Within a minute Mike and Paul left my office, all conflict resolved. Thanks Chris, my only worry is that we might end up with twice as many stamps as we need!

Over the years, my wife had wanted to move – not that our current home did not fit us like a comfortable old shoe, just that she did not want it to be our ‘final home’.

I felt more relaxed in that house than any of the other dozen that we had lived in in our lives, but I could appreciate the sentiment. We watched all those TV programmes about escaping to the country, finding our place in the sun – we had even spent a few seconds thinking about a life Down Under. The challenge was how could we move from our ideal home and guarantee that we would be moving to something equally ideal, just somewhere else.

And then I got to thinking.

What would Chris Evans do?

The colossus of British broadcasting had spent a number of years building up a reputation and a huge following based upon familiar sounds, a familiar format and familiar voices. Then he decided to give all this up and chase a new challenge.

We would take a leaf out of his book!

We had a detached house; we would buy a new detached house. We had three bedrooms; we would buy a three-bedroom house. We had a conservatory; we would buy a house with a conservatory. We had a south-facing garden; we would acquire a south-facing garden. We would take all our old furniture and curtains with us. Why, we would even take all our white goods with us!

Furthermore, we would be sure to find this new house in a leafy avenue just like the old one.

And so it worked out. Within a few days it looked, felt and smelled just like our old place.

But, as Chris will tell you, it is always important to chase a new challenge!

I have always had an interest in men’s fashion – no honestly! I know that the results may not evidence this interest, but it is there, nonetheless.

And I’ve always thought that the male sex has it so much easier than the female when it comes to formal dress – we just put on our evening dress suit, straighten up our bow ties and polish our black shoes and we are good to go. Women must decide on trouser, skirt or dress, long or short, low-cut or to-the-neck and that’s even before they consider what colour to wear.

Some men have it down to a fine art. Mark Zuckerberg and Simon Cowell dress in in the same clothes every day, T-shirt and jeans. They claim it saves them time and energy every day in the decision process that the rest of us go through leaving time for important stuff.

My wisdom today involves the recent male fashion which I believe is known as ‘drop crotch’ trousers.

‘Drop Crotch’ sounds a lot like a condition your doctor might diagnose – “Well, Mr Llama, I’ve examined your groin area and I think that you have a case of the ‘drop crotch’. It’s not contagious and it is reversible. I recommend that you wear your wife’s thong for a couple of weeks and all will be well!”

Was it M C Hammer who started the fashion? Many a ‘yoof’ can be seen in the High Street with their jeans waistband just above their pubes and the crotch of their trousers so low that it causes them to waddle like a penguin.

Today I saw the ‘drop crotch’ to beat them all. This young guy was walking down the street wearing a pair of ‘drop crotch’ JOGGING BOTTOMS.

The clue is in the title. Jogging bottoms are made to jog in. Drop crotch strides impede any ability to walk let alone jog and running? Just forget it!

So, my advice to this particular fashionista is “Make your mind up! Are you jogging or are you waddling? Which ever it is wear clothing that is fit for purpose.”

The irony is that we men have track suits for running in, ‘penguin suits’ for formal dinners, but if we want to waddle like a penguin we go for the Hammer Trousers, the drop crotch jeans.

_

A five-year-old’s explanation of the Brexit Debate:

“When we were babies, we were joined on to Europe and there was no Channel Tunnel. I don’t even think there was the Dartford Crossing.
We liked it because we could just drive to our holidays in France. Soon we got upset that too many people were driving to England from France – I don’t think they were all French because Karim came to our school and he’s from Syria which is a long way from France.
So, we built the English Channel to keep them out, but they told us that we had to build a tunnel to let them all in. My Dad calls them “Bloody Meerkats, telling us what to do from their icing towers!”
One day the Prime Minister was fed up with his friend, I think he’s called Jacob, or Boris, always telling him not to be told what to do by a bunch of bullies.
“But there are more of them than just me” he said but Jacob told him to walk away, which is what our teacher tells us to do when we get bullied at school.
The Prime Minister, David Campbell, said “I’ve got a better idea! I will get everyone from England to help me tell them to ‘get lost’ so he called the Reverend Rendum who told him only some people wanted him to tell them to get lost. The others still liked having holidays in Europe.
“I’ll show you!” he said and the Reverend Rendum came back and said he’d asked everyone, but the answer was complicated. My Dad says if it had been a football match the score would be 4-3 to the ones who want to leave.
So, the Conversative football team changed their goalie – FOR A GIRL!
She went and cried to a man in France called Donald Trump (but not the Donald Trump with candyfloss for hair) and said that she didn’t want to leave really so he said, “Don’t worry I know a way that will make you stay.”
I think he said we could stay and still drive his BMW when we wanted to if we paid for it, but we wouldn’t be allowed to decide what colour it was going to be. Dad says we won’t be able to go to war with them because we won’t be able to afford it. I don’t think we will be going to war. I hope not because a lot of people and horses get hurt in a war.
Anyway, David Campbell had no idea when he spoke to Reverend Rendum that Ireland had a soft border, which is like a border collie I think but Donald Trunk won’t let them keep it, so it needs to find another home, and no-one wants it. It’s probably old and smells like our dog, Scamp, which we had put down at the vet.
I don’t know what’s going to happen. Someone wants a replay, but Dad says you only do that when it’s a draw, like 4-4. Someone else wants to forget it all and stay like we are, and my Dad says, “Stuff ‘em, don’t let them go telling us what to do! If they are bullies, we should leave them to it and go and play somewhere else!”
I think the Reverend Rendum should say sorry for making it so hard for Mrs. May that it has made her cry and I think I should ask my teacher, Mrs. Humdinger, what we should do to stop being sad about Brexit and just have fun.

Those of you who know me well will confirm that I am by no means a tub-thumper, I do not get fricasseed at every opportunity, and the last time I got pyjamaed I was still in short trousers. So, it was with great curiosity that I observed the antics of the drinkers at yesterday’s gig. My observation centred on one particular party-goer who I will call Desperate Dan.

Stage One – Stone-Cold Sober
Now Desperate Dan was a big lad with hands the size of coal shovels. The first time I spotted him he was strolling across the field with six pints of lager, three in each hand and a cigarette in his mouth with ever-extending ash on the end of it. He never once glanced at his precious cargo of the amber nectar, busy as he was looking out for the most voluptuous or least clad lady along his route. Sure-footed Dan did not miss a beat, nor spill a single drop.

Stage Two – Agitated but in Control
Several trips to the bar later, I spotted Dan again. He still had a cigarette in his mouth, but it now appeared to be rising and falling in time with his every breath.
His load had reduced to a mere three pints and he was staring fixedly at them as if they were a quiescent wild animal that could rise up and grab his throat at any moment. He walked faster than before, his eyes never moving from the three glasses in his hand and fellow concert goers had to move out of his way to avoid any collision.

Stage Three – Inebriated
My final sighting of Desperate Dan came late in the evening. Drink had had a physical affect on him as well as adding to his paranoia.
He now only trusted himself with the one pint, but this no longer seemed to offer any kind of threat to Dan – it was now the path which seemed to be providing cause for concern. He glanced from side to side along the route seeking out potential booby traps along the way.
Physically, he now quite clearly had one leg shorter than the other. His right leg remained fully formed but he was taking longer strides with this leg to compensate for his foreshortened left leg. Indeed, the left leg appeared to be trying to ride an imaginary cycle.
The result was that Dan would perform an almost perfect ‘Ministry of Silly Walks’ on one side whilst dipping down sharply on his bent ‘cycling’ leg. The drama of this style filled him with horror because it was clearly the pathway that was doing all of this to him.
The ebb and flow of his gait meant that by the time he got back to his pals two thirds of his pint had been spilled and he looked incredulously at the glass for some minutes before downing what was left of his pint, turning on his heals and heading back down the same treacherous path to get his due rewards.

As I sat and enjoyed my lime and soda I could only give my thanks to Desperate Dan for an insightful evenings observation.