Tag Archives: Holidays/caravan

Once more the brain lets me down

Alternative ways to serve a burger

Are you getting bored with my brain? I certainly am.

Last weekend we went to visit Horace in Chorley – blooming miles away. We had to wait for Mavis to get home from school, at about 4.30pm, before we could set off, and we were all a bit behind with things as there was a plethora of jobs demanding attention during the day so we finally left home at 5,30pm. Almost immediately the sat-nav began warning of traffic and recalculating our route. The eta became later and later; it was just as well we had agreed to eat en route.

After an hour or two we pulled into a service area on the M1. McDonald’s only – not my favourite. I ordered a 1955 burger (my DOB so it seemed appropriate) and Whizz queued while Mavis and I collected napkins, straws, salt, pepper, ketchup and powdered sweetener from the condiment point.

We found a reasonably clear table and when Whizz arrived I was feeling fairly enthusiastic about my meal due to the lateness of the hour.

‘Pass the salt, please.’ Whizz sprinkled it liberally onto his potato wedges.

I grabbed another packet and shared it between potato wedges and burger before taking a bite.

‘Have these wedges got barbecue flavouring on them?’

‘No, I don’t thinks so.’ Whizz tried another, ‘No, mine are plain.’

Mavis ‘chipped’ in ‘Perhaps you’ve put sugar on them. Ha ha!’

She was joking but unsurprisingly, she was right!

The first Outing in the Caravan

Getting the caravan out, although we thought it would be easier than getting it in, was no different. Neighbours were recruited, and after much shouting the caravan emerged on a Thursday afternoon and was steered onto the drive of a very obliging neighbour, ready for a quick getaway on Friday evening.

Whizz and I, Mavis (sans friend) and the two dogs, along with games, food, equipment and no awning (we still haven’t bought one) set off to a rather unpreposessing sounding site not too far away. It was in a junction between a busy road and a railway line, and we chose it for it’s proximity and dog friendly publicity material, the idea being to have a dry run before committing to a longer break. When we arrived, happily, it turned out to be like Telly Tubby land: bunnies, herons, wild flowers and fishing lakes surrounded us. The bunnies were a mixed blessing as I will reveal. Continue reading The first Outing in the Caravan

Horace’s 18th

I’m just getting over the weekend. Horace was 18 on Friday and requested a family dinner party. How lovely, you might say, she wants to spend her special time with her nearest and dearest. Yes, lovely, until you realise that there were a planned 22 diners. Actually, thanks to the rather feeble constitution of my cousins, there were a slightly more manageable 17 of us.

Among the guests was Queasy, and I have been prevailed upon to change her, and Horace’s names. Horace, is no longer horace-ontal. Not only that but her bedroom, as previously described in words and pictures, is now tidy, and has been for at least two weeks. Queasy, as far as I’m aware, hasn’t over indulged in alcohol lately, or perhaps she’s just more able to cope with it so I have to think of two new names.

Queasy will, from now on, be known as Wipm. This is not a reflection on her sexual inclinations but more her spelling ability which became evident on a caravan holiday this summer.

Horace’s name is a bit more tricky as she has ceased to be “The Teenager” and become, very suddenly, “The Young Woman”. I can’t think of anything witty to call her so for the time being she will be Verti (cal at last).

Catering for 17 at dinner is challenging for a peri-menopausal person of dubious mental powers and gave me the opportunity to add a couple of sort-of-spoonerisms to my collection. On one occasion I mentioned to Whiz that I needed to “earing-ise my organs” and on another made reference to that much travelled comedian “Rif Grease Jones” he will be a close relative of ex-page-3-girl Lucinda Lardy mentioned in a previous article. This all gave rise to much mickey taking by all, including myself but I do find it a bit baffling that a once articulate person can be induced through an imbalance of hormones to talk complete b!!!!cks.

I have recently been prescribed by the doctor with oestrogen patches and I�’mm holding out great hope that I will shortly be miraculously restored to my previous cerebral glory. Trouble is I can’t peel the back off ’em, partly because I can’t see. The joys of middle age eh? The instructions say that I should stick a patch to some part of my anatomy below the waist. I don’t think they mean on my ankle. I am not supposed to keep sticking it in the same place so I have an assortment of little round pink marks all over my ample hips and buttocks, and the bottom sheet of our bed is sporting an extremely sticky circle where a patch decided to change allegiance; Whiz keeps complaining that he sticks to it, hopefully he won’t get a high pitched voice. I should change the sheet but can’t as every other article of bedding is in the laundry following the recent ingress, congress and egress of 18th birthday guests.

Any way, we had an excellent party, the food was all hot and the drink flowed, unlike the chocolate fountains which sort of glooped. Other guests comprised my well known brother, the playwrite, Simon Mendes da Costa and my recently famous sister, the new voice of the speaking clock, Sara Mendes da Costa. These were hosted by their completely unknown older and much fatter sister, the as yet unpublished, married author. I wonder, should I call myself Mendes da Costa?