Tel's on holiday in Greece with his in-laws. Mykonos. They all left from Stansted on Tuesday last week. Business class, so he got more legroom and better seats and stuff. Hardly seemed worth it for a four-hour flight. Still. Their money, I suppose.
I'm looking after his house, although I've been there exactly twice so far, once on Wednesday evening to check everything and water a few plants, and yesterday to chuck out milk and bread which was slowly decaying. And to do his bins ready for Monday collection. Not that he had much to put out. So I took the opportunity and took mine over to fill it a bit more. Mine aren't due for another week or so. The car smells all vegetative as a result.
Curiosity has long been my curse in life and it got the better of me on Wednesday. I had a quick nose around. He'll never know. He doesn't come on here at all, and even if he did, I've covered my tracks well enough that I could be anyone and, more importantly, talking about anyone.
I ignored the wardrobes. They'd taken a load of clothes with them anyway as they're gone for two weeks and the remaining contents weren't illuminating. He didn't have a secret stash of Seventies/Eighties porn mags and the odd items left; shell-suits, old gnarly pairs of Converse sat gathering dust, the odd broken belt, weren't of much interest. I didn't wear a pair of Mrs Tel's knickers on my head as I looked. I'm many things, but not a pervert.
Their photo cupboard was of massive interest though. I moved a few albums and boxes out to view them, carefully noting where they went back so I could replace them without either of the Terries wondering why they'd changed position in the meantime. Not that they probably would, but you never know. I've seen the film Misery enough times to know people can be strange in these ways.
The photos were mainly of the Kodak Instamatic type; grainy colours from the late Seventies and early Eighties, with unknown (and presumably dead) folk dressed in grey lounge suits with huge knotted ties at some sort of celebration. There was nothing on the box to say what celebration, until I rooted a bit deeper and found it was Mrs Tel's 21st, made obvious by the 'Happy 21st' sliver banner on a table, her posed with what I assume was family members, holding a glass of something to the camera. Her feather cut hair proclaimed the age, as did her dress, which was slit to the knee, showing fishnets.
Tel appeared, wearing a Mister Byrite shiny suit and sporting what could be described as the start of a mullet. In one, he was pictured with his arm round Mrs Tel, kind of easy-ish. You could imagine them dancing to a bit of Barbara Streisand, him kneading her arse with his right hand in a long, slow circular motion. In another, his Dad (who I'd previously seen pictures of) with her Mum (again, seen before so recognised) engaging in a sort of formal tea-dance, although God knows what music they played for that. She'd had her hair done in sort of rinsed curls. His bald spot caught the disco lights.
It went on and on, clearly half-cut folk grinning and mugging for the camera, blokes with handlebar moustaches and Kevin Keegan perms, women in pastel pinks and blues, hair kept on head by massive hair clips. The older generation in their Sunday best, up feeding from the buffet, paper plates filled with cocktail sausages and vol-au-vents and chicken legs. The blokes holding pints of Double Diamond or IPA. Their suit trousers sagging badly at the arse.
I didn't go right through the photos. There were a lot of black and white ones of his dad or her dad, younger and virile-looking. I put them all back as I found them, feeling guilty at the sheer impertinence of it, violating their memories like that. But that was all I saw. They'll probably show me those photos when they remember to at a future gathering. I must remember to act surprised.
Quick call from Terry yesterday. They've tried water parachuting and he got sun burnt on Thursday. They've eaten kebabs and fish and tried retsina. Perhaps it is back to the Eighties after all? Oh and he forgot his other pair of sunglasses. If I find 'em, could I put 'em back in the kitchen draw. It's the cheap pair he wears for sunbathing. He's bought another cheap pair out there. Weathers been good so far. Bye. Bye Tel. For another week. He's back next Friday.
Little snapshot of my own, only this one doesn't contain Farahs, tashes or chicken legs. See you all soon!
Warky - June 2025 |  |
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