"'Ad the frupenny bits all the second week" said Tel, filtered through a mouthful of bacon roll. Welcome back. Sorry for the hiatus.
Tel's been back a week and a half. We had the Forest game before, but I missed that. Girlfriends sort of take priority, especially ones who normally work on a Saturday and then 'surprise' you by announcing they've got a free weekend. It wasn't particularly diplomatic to be saying "well, that's great love, and when I come back from watching Ipswich play Forest half cut, we'll go and have a curry and a few down the local before Match of the Day". And so I ended up in Holt.
Anyway, back to Tel. He came home on Thursday week ago, dodgy guts, late taxi from Stansted ("we never bleedin' tipped the cow son eiver, kept us waitin' forty minutes then charged me ninety notes. Ah'll get Tone ter do it next time; 'e owes us one") and bags laden with cheap booze and jeans for Mrs Tel. He gave Mickey and Kaylee a hundred quid tip each and a bottle of Malibu each for caretaking the shop, then kept moaning about not finding things and the shortage of milk and crisps (they forgot to do the order on the Tuesday).
His guts have been the biggest issue, certainly in the shop where I noticed a big can of Febreze was placed on the table near the lav, presumably by one of the girls. It certainly smelt like the inside of a packet of dry roast peanuts last Saturday. "Dodgy bit'o' fish" he muttered, kneading his bowels with a cupped palm. We didn't go for a curry last Friday. Must be bad.
Spain sounded just tolerable. The lack of sun was bemoaned ("greyer than a turkey'n'tinsel coach trip) and Mrs Tel's profligacy with shopping, and the need to ditch some of her swimwear to fit it in the suitcase, was blamed for the strain in his shoulders taking the cases back to the airport. They ate out most nights, which meant he ate the aforementioned dodgy fish and then couldn't find the Alka Seltzer. It was a tetchy Tel that greeted me on the Saturday, apologising with a mutter for the lack of milk, yelling at Mickey to close the back door as the fag smoke drifted in like dry ice at a Genesis concert.
Then his guts just became a backround noise, and we were nearly back to normality. "Fought I'd crimped one off in the bed larse night, I was fartin' so much" admitted Tel, taking another bite of his bacon roll and chewing with gusto. "Bloody foreign food's never agreed wiv me. I told 'er I fancied steak, but oh no, you've 'ad steak all week Terry, 'ave a bit'o'fish ternight instead. So I goes'n''as the John Dory'n'iss all bones and tastes funny, and wake up in the night sweating like a fat bird in a disco, 'n she says woss that smell Terry, you farted you dirty git? An' I 'ad. Coun't 'elp it. An' then there was me, on the bog all night, an' 'er moanin' on about the smell and tryin' ter cover it up wiv a few squirts of 'er Anaze Anaze stuff. Never again. Thass the larse time I'm 'aving the bleedin' fish".
He sipped his tea (the cafe round the corner, £1.25. "One twenny five for a cuppa? Bleedin' disgrace. Thass yer Brexit for yer. They'll be chargin' for breavin' next") and did the football bet, moaning about the international break and his ignorance of Leagues one and two. We lost anyway. He thought Scotland would beat Kazakhstan.
Mickey didn't tell him about the lost key. It turned up again, and he wasn't in the mood. He's OK now. Guts back to their normal capacity, lager drinking resumed, milk ordered and delivered, crisps no longer at crisis point. Hull on Saturday. I'll be there. She's working. No 'nice' little trips to North Norfolk to have expensive lunches in Byfords, or trawling the quaint but expensive food and drink bits in Bakers and Larners, or oohing at little stone cottages in Estate Agents windows. It's half cut Saturday. With a win. That'd be nice. |  |
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