Category: Extracts

Twice the man

Turning sixty felt like as good time as any to cast an eye back over my life; to review my successes and failures (sorry, learning experiences), my triumphs and defeats and take stock of where I am and how I got here. Such reflection quickly led to one stark and unavoidable conclusion: namely, that I am, and always have been, a bit of a plonker.

Such a revelation will come as no surprise to you, of course. What might shock you, though, is that, until now, I didn’t realise it. “What? He didn’t know he was a plonker? What a plonker.”

My saving grace, I think, has been my semi-posh accent. It means that people tend to think I’m clever, when, in fact, I’m not. Whenever my intelligence has been put to the test I’ve been shown to be as thick as two short bricks.

People also assume, because I speak proper, that I’m being ironic and self-deprecating. When I tell them, truthfully, that I’m intellectually challenged, for example, they laugh and think “how droll, what a clever chap”. It’s ingrained in our national psyche to assume someone with a public school voice means the opposite of what he or she is saying.

Even my wife, an undeniably intelligent woman, fell for my accent and decided it signified good enough stock to breed from.  This was a huge stroke of luck for me as I’ve been able to ride on the coat-tails of her success. 

You might ask why don’t I change. Sadly, like a leopard and his spots, I fear I’m stuck with my plonks. But you never know, self-awareness can be the first step and maybe, one day, I’ll surprise you all.

June 2022

How much?

‘How much is it worth?’

‘It’s invaluable.’

The Post Office clerk frowned. ‘What’s its price?’

‘It’s priceless.’

The clerk looked unconvinced. He lifted the brown package from the scale. ‘What is it?’

‘A work of art.’

The clerk turned the package in his hands. ‘It feels like a book to me.’ 

‘It’s a masterpiece.’

‘Really?’ Conscious of the lengthening queue of increasingly impatient customers, the clerk tried a different line of questioning, ‘how much did it cost you?’

‘Three year’s hard endeavour, a lifetime of thwarted dreams, countless false starts and numerous rejections.’

‘Look Sir, I need a value for insurance purposes. The cost of the insurance is proportionate to the value of the item. If you want me to record it as invaluable, then it will cost you hundreds, if not thousands, of pounds to send.’

‘Ah, okay. £8.99.’

‘Thank you, Sir. If you don’t mind saying, that sounds like a bargain. For a work of art.’

‘I couldn’t have put it better myself.’

February 2022

Lesson learnt

I had a good learning experience last week. Good as in the learning, not the experience; the  experience was traumatic.

I learnt it’s inadvisable to go out on a bike in a major storm. I was travelling at some speed when a gust of wind blew me off the road. For a fleeting moment I was like Chitty Chitty Bang Bang before being smashed into a concrete bollard. If an Act of God, it was a pretty vengeful one.

I was battered and bruised; the bike even more so (£200+ repairs). To look on the bright side, the way I was lifted like a feather suggests my weight loss programme might be working.

February 2022

A pickle

I like to write self-deprecating essays based on personal experience. My wife, however, doesn’t want to feature in these pieces.

 ‘You shouldn’t have married a writer,’ I say. 

‘I didn’t,’ she replies, ‘I married a lowly advertising executive.’

‘Well, you’re married to one now.’ I puff my chest out.

My wife raises a sceptical eyebrow. Despite all my endeavours, my wife still thinks of me as the guy who puts out the rubbish on Wednesday mornings.

Those of you acquainted with my wife will know that it would be a brave man who goes against her wishes. But to acquiesce would hobble my creativity. To write her out of my life would be to present myself as a saddo recluse. She’s often the only person I interact with for days. I would have nothing to write about other than the dog, the cat and my inner thoughts. (And you wouldn’t want to be subjected to those.)

The solution, possibly, is for me to invent a fictional wife. But I could run into trouble with this too. Imagine, for example, if I wrote that my wife has taken on work as an actress in blue movies to help pay for our energy bills. My real wife would go ballistic and tell me I couldn’t possibly write such a thing. I’ll explain that I’m writing about my fictional wife, not my real wife. ‘No one will know that,’ she will say in the kind of tone that leaves no doubt that I am about to spend the evening on the naughty step. ‘They’ll think I’ve become a porn star.’ 

‘They won’t.’

‘What are you saying? That I couldn’t be a porn star?’ Whether or not my wife could make it as a porn star is a conversation to be avoided. It could only end badly.

So, as you can see, there’s no good option. If I go against my wife and write about her, there’ll be hell to pay. If I invent a fictional wife, there’ll also be hell to pay. If I don’t mention her, I’ll have nothing to write about. (And there’ll probably still be hell to pay for presenting myself as unmarried and available.)

Quite a pickle.

November 2021