| The Warky Report: Bang, phizz, crackle, whee (H) 21:01 - Nov 6 with 1364 views | Warkystache |
Welcome to a decent recreation of the trenches in the Somme, courtesy of some major roadworks outside the house and the local kids enjoying fireworks night.
Here, at the east end of trench one, where the workers have downed tools for the weekend and the whole street smells sort of sewagey, here, where the digger sits unmanned aside for fluorescent jackets and the remnants of a modern-day picnic lay strewn around the cab floor (the nearest McDonalds is ten miles away over towards Harwich bypass, but clearly that's no stretch for the digger operator going by the amount of debris covered by golden arches), here, where the rain floods and seeps and trench foot is a possibility, here we stand and look. I used to take the piss out of Norfolk people standing looking at holes in the road. Now it's become a sport down in these parts.
It's hard to believe that people could be stupid enough to have fireworks in the wet, particularly as we're all experiencing imminent financial doom, but no, they persevered in true British phlegm. Paula had just come home when the first rumbles started. They sounded like raging bushfires somewhere close. Then the pops and bangs kicked in, and the sound of parents oohing, possibly in the hope that their kids would snatch eyes away from devices long enough to join in.
I mention this in a sort of killjoy way because we've just got a cat. Yes, in lieu of a child, which is still a bone of contention and something we start discussing amicably and then seem to argue vehemently about, we got a cat from the local cat rescue place. A ginger tom, ginger and white with a pink nose and a disconcertingly slow left eye, which means it takes whole seconds to look at you levelly, and rather resembles late comedian Marty Feldman as it does.
It's a sweet little thing though. It was called Minky, but we both didn't like the name, so we're calling it Mack after Kieran. It's a girl. Three years old. Been done. Also flea'd, wormed and flu'd. We bought some Frontline just in case. You never know with cats. It mainly eats, sleeps and dumps a lot. It did one tommy-logger in its tray that looked like Brian the snail from the Magic Roundabout. If he'd been dead for a while. I get to empty the tray. Paula's squeamish.
Things have been a bit rough and tight lately. Mrs Tel is unwell again and has been for tests. She complained about a pain in her lower back a while ago and it's not improved. She's henceforth driven Terry to distraction. He and I now meet up for drinks as often as we're both available, even after work. This has been mentioned by Paula in terms of disparagement and so we've started meeting somewhere neutral, as he doesn't like cats and I find the atmosphere at his place is, well, not openly hostile but certainly 'don't suffer fools'.
"She's sayin' iss jus' backache, like, but she knows it's more'n jus' that" he said as we greeted one another in the local. I'd said I'd be home by seven-thirty. It was now six-forty. The darkness seeped around the pub and the early Xmas lights were switched on by an unseen hand as we sat. He's sworn off the lager and has started drinking halves of Britvic orange and lemonade. He's driving himself as Mrs Tel can no longer bear to drive. Sometimes, like on Friday, I'll take my car and drink soft all night so he can have a proper drink. Taxis are a joke round our way at the moment (one's put his prices up nearly forty percent) so we're either driving ourselves or walking.
I'm also fearing for my job, although I've not told P this. She started at Maldon last week, but has now been asked to cover another store in Basildon so is travelling there every day at the moment, covering maternity leave. My employer is looking to downsize in marketing and financial services. We've currently got five teams of twelve staff across the UK who will be affected by this, and, although my immediate manager is confident they won't include us, I did overhear him calling his wife last week and the general tone sounded gloomier than he's admitted to me thus far. A worry.
We've taken my house off the market. We had three enquiries but no-one wanted to pay anything like the asking price and two admitted they were in big chains. It upset P more than me and I know she's been crying because she now really wants to go. We're getting married next year (or meant to be; just sometimes I still wonder...) and she wants everything sorted now. Her main hobby is house-hunting. We're inundated with texts from Estate Agents, everything from new builds in Colchester to £300k money-pits in places like Tollesbury, Aingers Green and Hadleigh. Now, of course, it's all stalled again.
We've given up smoking. Yes. Again. She's stopped vaping and smoking, a combination which her GP told her was affecting her general health. I've stopped smoking, went cold turkey and have been for a few weeks. My cough in the morning sounded nasty. Her mum started calling me Bob Fleming. It's a sort of bid to save more money and be healthier. It's made the morning walk easier, admittedly. I can now outpace all but the youngest dog walkers. I eat up the hills like Forrest Gump.
Tel's not discussing Christmas. They were going to Braintree, but Tony and Sandy are looking at renting a cottage in Devon for the festivities and so they may end up down in deepest Devon, having brisk walks and even brisker merriment. "Depends on the wife o'course" said Tel gloomily. He wanted a quiet Xmas at home, perhaps with us visiting for a few laughs but we're already booked with her mum on Christmas Day and my parents on Boxing Day, even though Paula isn't keen on either. Her mum on Christmas Day will be a trial. We did ask if she wanted to come to us, but no, we're round there, for dinner cooked by her latest carer and her other daughter, probably overcooked veg and dry turkey and Strictly on the box all afternoon. Still....its Christmas.
Life is performing these actions time after time
Until death makes our body smell worse than it does at present.
That was Larkin by the way. It sums up the mood in these parts. We're all just going through the motions at present. There's no little funny moments, no little lights in the depths that twinkle and sing, no new love ways to replace the ornery, expected, anticipated mutual and mechanical kiss, no continental drift away from the familiar. Tel is becoming as mired in the trough as me, like we're ankle deep in a vast bog and the effort of walking is all becoming too much. We don't mention it often, but we can see it in each other's eyes. It's a look of stoic acceptance in the face of demonstrative others.
Still, least the Town are still second. He's coming to the Cheltenham game next Saturday. At least, he thinks he might be. "Natch, could be goin' ter Braintree'n'all, depends o'course on 'ow she feels, like, but I 'ope...."
Me too, Terry. Me too.
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| The Warky Report: Bang, phizz, crackle, whee (H) on 23:27 - Nov 6 with 1174 views | J2BLUE |
Stop fighting it mate. It's clear what you want.
Book the wedding.
Then sit Paula down and tell her you're sorry but you're marrying Tel. |  |
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| The Warky Report: Bang, phizz, crackle, whee (H) on 23:45 - Nov 6 with 1147 views | BanksterDebtSlave |
The flippant part of me wants to say it's all down to that bloody Charlton result but this is the first report since Lincoln. Stick in their fella...hopefully some crisp Winter days will see you right. Funny time of year this at the best of times. |  |
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| The Warky Report: Bang, phizz, crackle, whee (H) on 23:55 - Nov 6 with 1131 views | witchdoctor |
| The Warky Report: Bang, phizz, crackle, whee (H) on 23:27 - Nov 6 by J2BLUE |
Stop fighting it mate. It's clear what you want.
Book the wedding.
Then sit Paula down and tell her you're sorry but you're marrying Tel. |
😂😂😂 |  | | |
| The Warky Report: Bang, phizz, crackle, whee (H) on 00:33 - Nov 7 with 1102 views | XYZ |
| The Warky Report: Bang, phizz, crackle, whee (H) on 23:27 - Nov 6 by J2BLUE |
Stop fighting it mate. It's clear what you want.
Book the wedding.
Then sit Paula down and tell her you're sorry but you're marrying Tel. |
You are maturing like a fine wine, young man. |  | | |
| The Warky Report: Bang, phizz, crackle, whee (H) on 13:43 - Nov 8 with 723 views | Kitman |
Bad news on the house sale front. End of year never the best time to sell a property and not helped by the lamentable rise in borrowing costs and all the other baggage the economy now has. A decent agent could probably get you a buyer at the right price early '23 but sorry, I don't know of any decent estate agents around your manor. |  |
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