| The Warky Report: Fleetwood Town (H) 13:31 - Dec 4 with 1257 views | Warkystache |
It may be chilly but the temperature at home has livened up a bit.
I had a heart-to-heart with Paula last week. It needed to happen. We were both having difficulties, as you probably know from my recent reports on here. Anyway, the pub seemed the best option; neutral territory, sells stuff to help you get over any lingering bad news and that. Not the local, oh no. I'd learnt my lesson. No way was I letting the old bloke up at the bar nursing his mug of IPA have a good listen to our pre-marital woes and tiffs. It'd be back to Tel like a line of lit petroleum.
So we chose that type that you take elderly relatives to when you have to watch them chew leathery beef with their dentures and moan that it's not real custard. You know the type; Chintz table coverings (Wax paper as well in case of spillages), the sort of carpet that looked naff in the Seventies, horse brasses on exposed fake beams, the menu has pictures of the food as a sort of guide in case you've not bought your readers, they only do three beers on draught, Fosters or Ruddles or Guinness, which they start pouring the first three inches of and then leave, possibly to have a fag out the back or stop the sprouts from burning or to bring the J cloths in case someone had another accident involving the gravy.
In this case, my pint was starting to warm and coagulate when the barmaid finally returned. She had the blowsy, dyed-blonde and throaty cackle of a Londoner, forced to endure the aged in a pub she'd probably owned since her husband snuffed it from a clutcher ten years after they moved from Ilford. Her staff consisted of a mute young girl and a bloke who chewed gum as he waited tables.
Paula had a white wine spritzer (she drove as she came home later than me so her's was the first car available on the drive). A white wine spritzer for those to whom such a drink can only be imagined is the house Liebfraumilch topped up with three quick squirts from the lemonade pump. She quite enjoyed it.
We started on the usual banalities, then I mentioned being sad that she seemed unhappy lately (note to the single blokes on here: turning the blame on her is a good trick for getting these things going; had I said how unhappy I was, she'd probably have packed and been gone by the time they'd finished pouring my Guinness). She sniffed and then her eyes filled with wet and I became spirited in my caring reaction, all the time internally fist-pumping and saying 'yes!'. Here it comes, I thought.
But it didn't. She turned the attack, saying through tears that she thought I was bored with her, that I wanted out. I didn't expect this, so stammered my renunciation and she drove home her attack by saying I didn't want the same things, a child, a new house we could share and build up ourselves, a chance to move away from the shadow of my ex-wife and Blake and her mother and start again somewhere fresh. And by the time I'd sipped and made faces at my pint and half was burbling in my guts somewhere, she said she felt that we'd grown apart a bit and needed to get back to our former relationship. And I found myself agreeing with her! It was like witchcraft.
That's what's happening right now. A truce. I attempt to be kinder and less melancholic, whilst she gets her mojo back. We're looking at houses again online. She found what she called 'a beauty' in Aldham near Colchester. Also we've looked at Tollesbury, Danbury, Goldhanger and Maldon. We couldn't really afford the Goldhanger one though, even with another mortgage which seemed pointless. Still, she's happier.
Tel on the other hand, well.....The other bungalow lasted as long on the market as a snowflake in June. They still haven't sold or even entertained an offer on theirs as yet. I worked late on Friday so couldn't make the game and settled for listening to the build-up as I reached the outskirts of the A14 at Kettering and suddenly BBC Radio Suffolk woke up. I reached Ipswich at 7.20pm and nearly turned off at the sloping junction into Whitton to park the car somewhere in London Road and sprint (well...jog) the journey to the SBR, perhaps stopping to chuck a creased fiver at one of the hot dog vans on the way. But I didn't. I went home. It was wet and cold and I needed a good drink.
I met Terry last night and we went for a curry. Paula and I did the last of the Christmas shopping yesterday in Woodbridge, she in her warm coat and tawny bobble hat, me in my puffed jacket and DM boots. Stopped for a coffee, she had a hot chocolate with marshmallows and laughed at my jokes and touched my arm a lot. Yep, we're onto that.
Tel was in a bad mood, which for him means he's funnier than usual. None of that 'feelin' sorry for meself' malarkey, no, this was full-on bad mood interspersed with some of the funniest one liners you'll hear this side of a Peter Kay concert in Manchester. "Thass Jingle Bells played on a bleedin' sittar" he said indignantly as we sat at the table. It wasn't; it borrowed three notes of the jolly Xmas carol at most, but he was convinced. Then, when the poppadoms came, he coveted the mango chutney and the onions, leaving me with the thin runny mint yoghurt stuff or the dark, bitter, slightly faecal lime chutney they produce, which has all the taste and texture of a toilet cake, only with a bit of cardamom pod in it. I turned the metal server to the good bits and he got a face like a slapped arse. "Oi, aint done wiv them yet. Christ, anyone'd fink we were in some bleedin' jumble sale wiv old girls ruckin' over the last bit of velour".
I asked about the house. He frowned through a mouthful of Chicken Tikka. "Gorn all quiet that" he muttered. Then he said "The last lot what came ter view went after ten minits. Ten bleedin' minits! Course she blamed me, said I shouldn't 'ave gone fer a dump quarter of an 'our before they came, but fer gawd's sake, s'my 'ouse innit? Anyway they didn't go near the barfroom in the end so they couldn't 'ave smelt anyfing. Apart from her bleedin' Molten Brown candles she keeps lighting to 'Liff the mood'. Liff the mood alright, makes us smell like stoodent rooms after a night on the ole wacky backy. She's got one called 'Midnight memories", smells exactly like we've 'ad the 'ouse sprayed with Jeyes. Puts 'em off, I reckon. Prob'ly go away wonderin' if we've got drain problems".
We ate the Lamb Vindaloo and the tandoori lamb chops and the rices in comparative silence. No Christmas parties were happening, which was fortunate. We're avoiding the place for the next few weeks as one of the waiters told us, proudly, that they had four big parties booked for next Saturday and the one after that. Tel grimaced. We'll probably have a Thai next week.
We left the restaurant in the taxi we ordered and went to the pub for a late nightcap, Tel telling me about Braintree and the vagaries of Tony and Sandy. I gather they're not keen on Terry and Mrs Tel moving so close. Apparently Tony tried to talk him out of keeping the house on the market 'fer now, reckons we'll make more in the summer when the 'olidays start again". Tel himself is ambivalent. I think he secretly wants to stay here. He'll never agree with that though. It's Mrs Tel who's doing all the running, and I'm not sure why. It can't be because she wants to be nearer her brother, at least not all of it. I mentioned this to him and he shot me a keen sideways glance as we drank. "Nah, yer right, there is summink else but I can't tell ya at the mo" Then he relapsed into his usual bonhomie and we got drunk and then had to wait for another cab as we forgot to order one back.
So that's everything, apart from the actual footy which I missed. Good game to miss, a 1-1 draw with Fleetwood, who Tel said he thought would go down this season. He's coming next Saturday by the way. He agreed. They're not doing Braintree for a few weekends, although Mrs Tel is driving down there during the week as she and Sandy have arranged a trip to London for shopping and afternoon tea at The Landmark on Wednesday. "That'll cost a packet" said Tel dismissively. But I think he secretly approved. It shows Mrs Tel is on the mend. I wondered if she'd wear her usual punk T-shirt and leather jacket and Levi's, but apparently not, she's got a dress from somewhere expensive in Freeport.
Back to normal then, eh?
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| The Warky Report: Fleetwood Town (H) on 14:10 - Dec 4 with 1185 views | Guthrum |
Blimey, you can get Radio Suffolk as far west as Kettering? Always used to fade out for me a few miles beyond Brampton Hut. |  |
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| The Warky Report: Fleetwood Town (H) on 16:55 - Dec 4 with 1062 views | 66notout |
| The Warky Report: Fleetwood Town (H) on 14:10 - Dec 4 by Guthrum |
Blimey, you can get Radio Suffolk as far west as Kettering? Always used to fade out for me a few miles beyond Brampton Hut. |
Thank you, as always, for the update. I never watch soaps but I’m beginning to understand why others do. |  | | |
| The Warky Report: Fleetwood Town (H) on 17:09 - Dec 4 with 1047 views | BanksterDebtSlave |
"It'd be back to Tel like a line of lit petroleum."
Luvverly.
Hope the reset works out xx |  |
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| The Warky Report: Fleetwood Town (H) on 17:35 - Dec 4 with 1019 views | HatStand |
Thank you | |
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