I can't get no sleep...

The wind is howling outside, bin lids banging away, all manner of disconcerting noises filling the night. If like me you struggle to get your forty weeks at the best of times let alone when climate chaos is waging war on your ears, then read this....

(I actually composed most of this whilst babysitting - maybe I should do it more often! Especially if paid in caffeine and Percy pigs)




INSOMNIA


Twelve sheep, thirteen sheep, fourteen sheep, fifteen sheep, sixteen blasted sheep.
Shouldn't have left that work half done. Should have kept going whilst I was on a roll. Probably take twice as long now. Did I change that formula before I sent the email to accounts? Won't look good if I sent the wrong spreadsheet. Need to make the right impression on that new manager. You don't get a second chance to make a first impression and it would be just typical if I'd sent her the bollocks version.

Roll over, quick scratch. Twenty one sheep, twenty two sheep, twenty three sheep.
I should have just deleted the old file, then there would have been no doubt at all. So much to get done tomorrow, got that deadline coming up, and need to finish that presentation. God I could really do with getting to sleep right now, need to be on form. Baaaaa! So bloody tired yet so wired at the same time. I blame technology. Staring at a blasted screen all day long, computer at work, tv, iPad. Always switched on, always connected, no wonder its hard to switch off. That and the caffeine of course.

Thirty sheep, thirty one sheep, thirty two stinky sheep and a fluffy little lamb.
What to have for tea tomorrow night? Can't remember the date on that chicken, sure hope its jnoout of date already, don't want to be wasting anything but you don't really want to be eating out of date chicken, do you. Think it might have been the eighth, or maybe the ninth? What day is it today?

Sixty sheep, seventy sheep, eighty sheep. Why sheep rather than any other animal? Pigs say, or cows. Llamas even. You never hear of counting llamas, do you. One llama, two llama, three llama four. What is the plural of llama anyway? Is is llamas, llama, llamae even? Must remember to look that up in the morning. Funny creatures, llamas. Dopey faces with big, big teeth. Not scary teeth mind, not like a werewolf or a vampire or anything. Just big dirty gnashers in need of some goodental work. Werewolves, now they're a really funny creature. All that howling at the moon, barking mad I say. Hmmm, wonder who would win in a battle between a zombie and a werewolf? Zombies are lacking in brain power but then again maybe that's what gives them their strength. No valuable time spent thinking about, well, thinking anything. Just pure action, mindless instinct driven action. Must eat, must eat, must eat... NO! Stop it! Must sleep! Must sleep! Must sleep!

A stretch, an itch, roll over again.

Can hear noises from next door, a creaking floorboard, hushed voices, squeaking bedsprings. They're very private people, the family next door. Don't know much about them, don't even know the names of them other than Mr Kovak, and I'm not even sure if that's his first name or surname. It sounds as if someone is tapping rhythmically on the wall, slow at first then progressively faster. Bury head under pillow, try not to think about how long it’s been since this here bed has entertained any visitors. I wonder where he is now, what he's doing, who he's with. Wonder if he's thinking of me. Wonder if he knows how much I think of him.

Things next door seem to have gone quiet now. Probably fast asleep already, the jammy things. It's alright for some. Some just slip straight under the covers then, bang, out like a light for the next seven, eight, nine hours. None of this trying to visualise farm animals jumping over stiles or prancing through fields. No exes swimming round their heads, ex boyfriend's in sheep's clothing, incessantly bleating. No excel formulas dancing behind eyes screwed shut; VLOOKUP, SUMIF, IFISERROR. If mind less thoughts equals sleep and sleep equals greater than the product of all thoughts, then, well, what the hell am I doing? The sheep might not have been achieving much but surely milling over possibly impossible algebra is even worse. Deep breaths, turn, flip the pillow and rest head on the cool side.





Start again with the sheep, one, two, three, four. One hundred, one hundred and one, one hundred and two. There are sheep everywhere now, white sheep, black sheep, some even the colour of candyfloss. I'm a shepherdess, in a field, barefoot for some reason, bit weird given how much I love my shoes, but never mind. I'm tending to the flock, not entirely sure what this entails other than floating around in a long dress holding one of those long walking stick things with a curved handle, a crook, that's the word. All is good in my pastoral paradise, the sun is shining, little lambs are playing around my ankles. I could almost curl up under the shade of this lovely big tree and have a sleep, a little rest, well deserved I'm sure. Ah, at long last, bliss.

I'm just beginning to drift off when all of a sudden there's chaos in the flock. What the?! We're surrounded by large dogs with coal black eyes; but wait, these aren't ordinary dogs or foxes or anything I've ever seen before, they're - oh shit! Werewolves! I hit them with the big stick thing and as they start retreating I feel a real sense of achievement until I realise that it's not me that scared them away, but the army of crazed zombies heading towards us. I try to bat them away but it's no good, the sheep have all fled and its just me now, the tasty pig in the middle. My questionable stick handling skills keep them back for a while but then, inevitably, I'm overpowered. The zombie that leans towards me, teeth bared, looks strangely familiar, although I can't at first figure out why. Then I realise that behind the blood and glazed expression lie the distorted but just about recognisable features of the new finance manager, Toni. She clobbers me around the head with her calculator whilst licking her lips hungrily. Never realised she was that way inclined.

As darkness descends the last thing I recall is thinking how this all serves me right for not checking my work more thoroughly. If only.....

Beep beep, beep beep, beep beep

6.30am already? But I've not even...

Oh.

My rest may not have been peaceful, but, hey, could it be worse. At least it didn't REALLY end in pieces.....

Beyond

A poem written tonight whilst waiting to go to the bramley firework display...



Beyond

Bursts of colour dancing across night sky,
Flicks of paint
A smoky canvas, studded with lights
That burn defiantly through the years.
Young and old they gaze with joy
At the gunpowder kaleidoscope web
Seared in the mind
Long after it fades.
Some look up and question
What lies beyond
This world we know
Of tangible things, and intangible dreams
Home and fears and spinning hoops
Bitter lemons, candy floss
Joy and pain, love and loss
The endless ticking of the clock.
My eyes look only forward
Seeing not the sparks and whirls
But your pale face, illuminated,
Frozen with wonder,
Your warm breath traced
On the autumn air.
Mittens and hat and that
Old ragged bear
Clasped securely under your arm
And I wish I could live this night
through your eyes
To look and see beyond
the stars, past today
For certain, and for sure
Through a less battle scarred lens
To know, to feel
The possibility of something more.

Love Hurts (especially at Halloween)

As I write this the randomly creeping floorboards in my house are making my chest pound more than usual, no doubt because my mind has been contemplating all things spooky tonight in anticipation of tomorrow. What better theme for a writing meet on 31st October than Halloween? Well that would be far too straight forward for the Leeds Savages, so instead we went for the potentially related, but also far broader, 'Love Hurts'.

My main effort has definitely jumped on the seasonal wagon; hope you enjoy it....


'Love Hurts'


Last night I met a vampire,
He said his name was Fred,
He declared that I made his heart race,
I said 'how does that work when you're dead?'
He asked me if I'd join him
And bed down in his lair,
I replied 'But you live in a grave, mate!'
He cried 'But the last one didn't care!'
'Well let me take you out somewhere nice to eat,
Just nowhere with garlic or stakes;
Otherwise time and venue are of your choosing my dear,
As long as we're home before the day breaks.'
Other girls may have fallen for his charm,
But I'm really not that kind,
I'm not wooed by such textbook seductions
And I don't believe that love is blind.
Whilst he failed in his effort to commit a crime of passion,
His cape was so 1880 it was a crime against fashion
I rolled my eyes at the cliched old charmer's show
And replied 'Fangs for the offer, but I'm afraid it's a no.
Then I turned on my heels and said 'Your place or mine?'
To the far edgier offspring of Frankenstein



Although the piece above is the most fun and enjoyable thing that I've written this fortnight, I did also attempt another poem on the same theme with an effort to steer away from the standard rhyming conventions that I enjoy but which aren't always everyone's cup of tea.... This is the result as it currently stands; not 100% happy with this but here goes...


Friday Night

Strike once, strike twice, strike flame springs to life
Light bursts, flickers, dances
Across magnolia walls
One by one the candles lit
Paint romance by numbers, picture perfect
Proud magazine spread seduction
Turn on the soft music, arrange the gas station roses
Already beginning to wilt
A spritz of scent
Pillows plumped, chalices filled
I sit back and wait for you
On best crystal glass, fingers tap
Mark each second's passing
Minutes slowly tick by til the cup runs dry
Another hour, slower still; and the second heads the same way
I embrace familiar numbness, wax drips a scar on the floor
As they begin to burn out one by one
And when the music stops and
The last dance has clearly passed
I blow the night away; nothing left but smoke
And the darkness to which I retire
Who knows how long passes before I feel your warmth
Finally pressed, familiar but cold, to my side
And as your arm wraps round me, I am cut by the words I hear
'You could have made more effort my dear'

NOVIOMAGUS REGINORUM

The most recent Leeds Savages writing session had the rather improbable topic of 'Chichester Fortescue'...!  Wikipedia informed me that the Right Honorable Mr Fortescue was actually a 19th century politician, but this didn't exact inspire me, so I instead wrote a short poem which is arguably 50% on topic given that it's based on growing up in Chichester.

Unfortunately tonsil troubles meant that I didn't get to hear any of my fellow Savages efforts to tackle the topic, but am hoping that some might have found their way onto the forum at www.leedssavage.com  as it never fails to amaze me how such a broad range of works springs out of each topic. There are some truly talented people in the group (definitely not including myself in this category - would instead define myself as 'rusty!') so it's definitely worth checking out the website. You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll add it to your favourites....

Now, on to the rhyming.....!

NOVIOMAGUS REGINORUM

 

We often felt this was no place to be young

A haven for the blue rinsed but no hotbed of fun

We didn’t care for the long dead Romans

Their renowned walls and their feted gates

All we longed for was a bit of excitement

To travel on roads which were far less straight.

 

Not a second glance as we danced past the Arundel tomb

Upon which Larkin mused about love

To the choir stalls where we’d gossip and scheme

With little thought for the big man above.

 

Outside we’d congregate around the Cross

Where for 500 years our forebears had been meeting

Little did we appreciate the yet unrevealed truth

That the freedom of youth would be fleeting.

 

We’d bemoan the fact that there was nowhere to go

Unless tearooms and charity shops were your style

The nearest nightclub was a tipsy bus ride away

The nearest multiplex many a mile.

 

Most of us never grew into the ill-fitting

blazers bought to serve 5 years of school

Hitched our skirts bum-cheek high in an attempt to project

The slightest semblance of cool.

 

And most of our days were idyllic

Though at the time we hadn’t a clue

How precious were happiness, health, the freedom to build

The very foundations of You.

 

Until dark times taught us that the cards we are dealt

Are not always the ones we’d choose

Reality sets in and childhood is cast

Away like yesterday’s news;

In that time, in that place, in the history we made

We learned that life is built from light and shade.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Being not at all cool at least a decade ago....

 

Mr Power

This is a short piece I wrote a couple of months back for a writers group session on the topic of 'Mr Power' - a 'bedtime story' of sorts......

Mr Power

By the time Marian belatedly sidled on the bandwagon it seemed like the world and his wife had been swept off their feet by the enigmatic Mr Power. Even Doris at the WI, who had celebrated her 90^th birthday some years ago, was a card carrying advocate of his work. “You really must read it, my dear. Turns out that even this old dog isn’t beyond learning a few new tricks; whoever would have thought it?” Doris turned her gaze lovingly towards the side of the room where her fourth husband was loudly snoring; his nose hairs fluttering with each shallow breath like grass blowing in the wind

“Honestly; you wouldn’t believe how things are for me and Ernie in the bedroom these days; I only wish that that Mr Power had been around 70 years ago!”

Marian raised an eyebrow but kept her scepticism to herself. She’d learned by now that there was no point in so much as challenging the converted; better to let them evangelise away whilst diverting her thoughts to something else; say the latest plot twist in her favourite Scandinavian crime drama or what she needed to pick up in this week’s big shop. As a small trail of drool crept down Ernie’s chin and pooled in his jowls; Marian wondered exactly how much benefit he could really be obtaining from Mr Power’s teaching.

For months it had seemed as if she couldn’t turn on the TV or open a newspaper or magazine without that blasted book being mentioned. She’d always like to think herself something of an intellectual; certainly not the kind of person who was swept up by popular culture. Her daughter Penelope had on multiple occasions accused her of being a snob, but Marian herself hated that word, preferring the altogether more genteel ‘discerning’.  In her experience if something was wholeheartedly embraced by the masses that wasn’t generally an indication of merit; more a suggestion that it was pitched at a level suitable for those with the most rudimentary level of education.

The main point she had grasped around the phenomenon was that although readers were encouraged to rhapsodise to their family and friends about how great the book was, it was strictly forbidden to speak of the nature of Mr Power’s philosophy or methods. There were a few key expressions that she’d heard time and time again, but little beyond what sounded like new age mumbo jumbo. Nonetheless as she went about her day to day business she found herself studying the expressions and body language of everyone in sight; trying to figure out who had ‘harnessed the power of their Sacred Spaces’. Julie in the Post Office certainly had, a well thumbed copy permanently sat on the counter so that she could ingest snippets in between dishing out pensions and renewing tax discs. Marian had only gone into the branch to buy a book of stamps, but it was a good fifteen minutes before she re-emerged into the sunlight after making the schoolboy error of asking Julie if she was enjoying the book. “Granted it’s dark;” Julie had whispered after ten minutes of effectively saying yes in as many different ways as possible; “but don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.  I didn’t think it was for me but I was so wrong. I didn’t feel comfortable with all that ‘restraint’ business at first; and as for the blindfolds; well I’d only come across them at kids’ parties before. But once you’ve experienced that kind of pleasure, believe me you won’t be able to go back to your old ways.”

On the day on which the headlines proclaimed that Mr Power’s Bedroom Secrets was now the highest selling paperback of all time; Marian decided that she’d been biting the bullet for long enough. Even though she knew that she could obtain a copy for half the price in the supermarket; she made her way to the only local independent bookshop that had managed to weather both the recession and the exponential growth of certain internet retailers. She slowly browsed the store, marvelling in the fact that this small room contained more books than she would ever be able to read in her lifetime. It was a shame that most of these works would never reach a wide audience; alas these days it seemed that the majority of people preferred to pick up their reading material in the same basket as bananas and loo rolls. It wouldn’t be so bad if the mass merchants were peddling literary masterpieces; but a textbook for optimal bedroom performance becoming the nation’s favourite talking point? So much for traditional British reserve.

Eventually her path reached a small crowd of customers and in the middle of them a table piled high with the volume that was currently outselling everything else in the entire shop added together. Fingering the cover of the infamous tome she felt in spite of herself a frisson of excitement. She doubted that the eponymous Mr Power had been christened with that moniker; however the unmistakable red and yellow cover probably wouldn’t make the same impact if it were to bear the name of Smith, Jones or Brown.

“Go on, buy it;” urged a bearded man of undeterminable age, who seemed to take the very fact that she was holding the book as reason enough to lay his clammy hand on her arm. “It’ll change your life, honestly it will. Since I opened that book I’ve never looked back; my partner even says it’s taken 20 years off me! And it’s not just for the bedroom either; we’ve been at it in the sitting room, on a flight to Alicante; why, I’ve even given it a go in the office!”

Marian snatched her arm away. The man had exceptionally hairy arms that reminded her of a baboon; she wondered whether his partner actually liked the fact that he looked like he belonged in a zoo, or whether he had some other qualities which compensated for it. His endorsement was almost enough to make her flee the shop empty handed, but with the memory of her daughter’s words echoing around her mind – “Don’t be a snob, mother” she reluctantly walked to the sales counter and handed over her £8.99.

That night Marian retired early; carrying her brown paper shopping bag upstairs whilst her husband watched Match of the Day. She slipped into her best silk nightie and dimmed the lights, plumping up the pillows before slipping under the polyester duvet. Time to see what all the fuss was about.

“This book will teach you to harness the power of your most sacred space. Through a combination of techniques you will achieve the status of master practitioner and your bedroom will become a temple devoted to the most precious activity we can experience both as individuals or within a couple; pure, uninterrupted sleep.”

Sleep? SLEEP? Marian laughed out loud. She’d been hoping for athletics beneath the sheets, a few ideas to spice things up after a lifetime of the monotony of monogamy. She felt like she’d been had, conned, but she could hardly demand her money back for lack of sauce.

“John, are you coming up?” she shouted. “Fancy a cuddle?”

“Just watching the last match, love;” came the reply from downstairs. “I’ll be up in five.”

Five minutes turned to fifteen but John was sure that Marian wouldn’t mind; she could sit there in bed with a book for hours; reading had always been her favourite pastime.

“Alright love?” he called out as he checked the doors and turned off the sockets; but there was no response. Upon entering the bedroom he found Marian laid on her back with her eyes closed and a blissful smile on her face; and at her side was a copy of that book that everyone seemed to be reading these days. He carefully picked it up, trying his hardest not to disturb her, as Marian was a light sleeper at the best of times and it was most unusual her to drift off without tossing and turning for hours. He climbed in beside her and flicked off the light; a smile on his face. Cuddles could wait; after twenty years of marriage to a fidgety insomniac, sleep, blessed uninterrupted sleep, was the best bedroom activity in his book.   

 

'Call my Bluff'

The theme of this week's writing group was 'Bluff'. Unfortunately I won't be attending the actual meeting due to the ravages of what seems to be the world's most persistent cold, however I did manage to put together a quick little poem on the topic...

CALL MY BLUFF

When I told you that I didn’t care
I was really just calling your bluff
You should know by now what we guys are like
When it comes to love and all that stuff
Sometimes it seems like a weakness
To admit to falling so hard
For once that truth has been laid bare
You’ve dealt your final card
Far better to act a bit nonchalant
Far wiser to play it cool
Follow your head instead of your heart
And you’ll never be anyone’s fool
So that’s why I pretended not to notice
When you flicked your hair in that way
Why I tried not to rise to the challenge of
Those seductive games you’d play
When you suggested we talk about ‘feelings’
I’d rather stick on Match of the Day
Preferred to focus on 22 men in short shorts
Than face up to what you might have to say
When you questioned where I thought we were going
My shrugs didn’t give the slightest clue
That inside I was screaming, you need not question at all
That I’d go to the ends of the earth for you
So it’s no surprise that you tired of the silent approach
Weren't won over by my master plan
But I’ll never forget those last words as you walked out the door
Be less of a bloke - and more of a man
Now I wait in the hope that one day I'll find
That you were really just pretending
Tell me two can play the bluffing game
And raise me a happy ending

Whodunnit?!

The theme of this weeks creative writing group was 'Whodunnit'; here's my effort at a short story on the topic....


A crime had been committed in Broadley Avenue last night, of that there was no doubt. What was in dispute amongst the residents was the exact nature of the said offence.

“Disturbance of the peace” proclaimed Audrey Daley from the throne of her mobility scooter. “The amount of banging and clattering that was going on in the street; my poor Roger didn’t sleep a wink.”

A small mutt gazed dolefully out of the basket, whimpering as if on cue.

“There, there Roger” said Audrey’s neighbour Eric Jones. Although Eric personally couldn’t stand dogs he’d always held something of a soft spot for the redoubtable Mrs Daley, and it was with this in mind that he forced himself to stroke the hairy beast.

“There was certainly some kind of affray;” Mr Jones declared to many nods of agreement from the crowd that was continuing to mass on the meticulously tended lawn of number 23. “Raised voices, foul language, certainly nothing I would repeat in the company of ladies. The kind of behaviour you might expect in the estates, perhaps, but certainly not what we’re used to round here.”

“I didn’t hear anything” said Patricia Fleming; “But I can tell you for a fact that there was some kind of pervert on the prowl last night. Why, I had my best undergarments hanging out to dry and when I went to fetch them in after watching the end of my soaps they’d disappeared from sight! The dirty scoundrel hadn’t touched Albert’s Y-fronts; they were only interested in my flowery bloomers!”

The thought of a pervert in their midst sent the ladies of Broadley Avenue into a chattering frenzy.

“Certainly sounds like a most unsavoury character;” proclaimed the most recent new addition to the avenue. Jacqui was a bottle blonde whose addiction to injecting botulism into her face and weakness for toyboys several decades her junior did little to mask the fact that youth was long behind her. She languidly swept her peroxide fringe out of eyes whilst pouting at Bill; something of a silver fox and although several decades older than her usual prey the only man on the street that she considered worthy of her well honed flirting skills. “And I thought this was such a lovely safe neighbourhood....”

Bill forced out a small smile, not having the heart to tell Jacqui that her talents were wasted on him. Pedro the postman had been providing Bill with a very efficient early morning service for a number of years, although they’d both cursed the day that they scrapped the second post.

“Not just an unsavoury character, Jacqueline, but an outright criminal!” butted in busybody and resident of thirty years Wendy Walker. “The most terrible damage was inflicted on my hedges last night. You all know how much time and effort I put into trimming my ornamental bush; it’s not for nothing that I won the Winfordshire Topiary Championships in 1989, 1994 and, on appeal, 1997. What kind of man would do such a thing?”

“Who’s to say that it’s definitely a man though?” pondered Bill. “It could be a woman...”

“A lady knicker pincher? Pretty unlikely I would say;” argued Patricia. “Oh, the very thought of some stranger getting his filthy hands on my drawers; it’s enough to make me shudder.”

“The thought of her drawers makes me shudder too;” whispered the long suffering Albert to his neighbour and drinking companion of many years Eric. “But not in a good way. Whoever it is that’s been on the rampage, they’re welcome to her extra extra large smalls.”

Tony and Albert’s mirth was met with disapproving stares from the assembled ladies. “Not sure what you’re laughing about;” said Wendy sternly. “This is a very serious matter.”

“AGGGGGHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

A wail came from five doors down. With the maximum speed possible on Zimmer frames, mobility scooters and dodgy hips, the group made towards its source.

Penny, the owner of number 11, was stood on her drive in front of a large red stain.

“I just came outside to see what was going on and; and; and this!”

“Is that?”

“It looks like...”

“Blood?”

“Blood!”

Screams and gasps filled the street. “I’m calling the police!” exclaimed Wendy, fumbling in her handbag to try to find the mobile phone that her daughter had passed on to her but she never actually bothered to turn on.

“Wait a second;” said Bill; pressing a single finger to his lips. “Can you hear something?”

Ignoring him, the women kept on shrieking.

Eschewing Bill’s polite style Albert bellowed; “Look, for one godforsaken second can you ladies just shut up?!”

In an instant, silence fell on the street. A good ten seconds must have passed before Jacqui whispered “I can’t hear anything?”. The rest of the group were in the process of opening their mouths in a chorus of agreement when a loud sneeze came from inside the garage.

“He’s in there! The pervert’s in there!” Patricia cried.

“The dog disturber!”

“The noisy hoodlum!”

“The bush saboteur!”

“The murderer!” Penny shrieked hysterically.

Wendy pressed her mouth to the garage door. “The police are on their way; there’s no point in trying to escape” she shouted, although in reality she had still failed to locate her phone, and was beginning to question whether it was even in her cavernous bag at all.

“Right, let’s find out exactly who we’re dealing with;” declared Eric. “Put your hands up, whoever you are, we’re going in!”

The women gasped as the men edged forward. Eric turned the handle of the door then pushed it open with a single determined shove. Audrey, Wendy and Patricia covered their eyes, afraid of what they might see, and even Roger, who certainly would never have made a guard dog, buried his head.

Jacqui leaned forward with morbid curiosity whilst Penny peeked through her fingers, fearful of what dreadful act had been committed on her property.

“Derek?! Derek!” repeated Penny. “What are you doing here? I thought you were still working down in Banbury?! You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards!”

“Happy anniversary, love;” said Penny’s husband, stepping out of the garage sheepishly, a pale red liquid trickling between his legs. Draped from the ceiling was some DIY bunting made from some flowery material that was suspiciously familiar to Patricia; and the bucket normally used to wash the car housed a particularly feeble attempt at a flower arrangement which creatively combined some of Penny’s own begonias with the phallic horn of Wendy’s unicorn hedge. “I came back a night early to try to surprise you, but whilst I was trying to set things up I managed to get myself locked in!”

“Derek Fish, you’ve always been a tight bastard but this truly takes the biscuit!” Penny exclaimed.

“Oooh, language;” injected Eric. “Clearly runs in the family.”

“Too bloody right it does;” Derek replied; “and I was certainly cursing last at 4 o clock this morning when I tripped over that bleeding ugly garden gnome you insist on keeping guard outside your house, Eric. I’d parked round the bloody corner so Penny didn’t realise that I was home; didn’t realise that the 1 minute walk from Chapel Drive would be so fraught with danger, did I?. And the air certainly turned fifty shades of blue again when I was trying to string up this bollocking bunting that our Penny’s so fond of and managed to knock a whole crate of Mateus Rose on the floor. It’s your favourite too, isn’t it Pen?”

Blushing redder than her usual tipple of choice, Penny gave the slightest of nods.

“Well, get on your way, the lot of you, get back to your Daily Mail’s. There’s nothing more to see here;” Derek said with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“And having heard all your accusations” – he looked from face to face before landing on his wife – “I might as well prove them true. After what I’ve bleeding put meself through last night I could really MURDER a beer.”