Mr Popular

Clive Dunn as Grandad

Hola. Hope you are well.

After banging on about wanting to work 4 days a week and how having Fridays off will free me up to do other things, I ended up spending most of this Friday just gone in bed with a hangover. What a wassock!

The reason I had the hangover had nothing to do with my inability to say no to that extra pint but due to the fact I have moved to London. Because what seems to happen when you live in London, is that whenever someone you know ventures to London they contact you for a meet up. This is what happened when a poet friend of mine was visiting. The odd thing about this meet up, is that I’ve known this person for a number of years and we’ve never just met up for a drink despite both of us previously living in the same city, Manchester. But now I’ve moved  over a 150 miles away, we now think it’s a good time to meet up.

I must add that I did have a good time and it’s also interesting what you find out about a person, when you sit down and chat with them for a few hours (and there’s drink involved). For example, I had no idea he was a grandad. You’d think I would know something as major as that about someone I’ve known for a few years, but no. The scariest thing about him being a grandad, is he’s only 7 years older than me and I’m nowhere near being a grandad, although I am constantly collecting stories to tell my grandchildren.

In other matters. I’ve been thinking recently, that with me currently working in a specialist school and ‘Her With One Permanent Job’ working for a charity, we appear to be one of those ‘right on’ couples. But then when you add the fact that we go on jogs together, have poet friends (me more than her) and both have poncey names (Julian and ‘Her With One Permanent Job’), we start to sound like twats. If I were reading about a couple like us in a Sunday supplement, probably in the Observer, I would take an instant dislike to them. In our defence, we are not as twattish as we sound. I might get that phrase tattooed on me as a romantic gesture, but only in Henna, and only when we go to India to discover the ‘real us’. Before you ask, we have no plans to head to India.

On last week’s blog post, I mentioned how when I went swimming with the school children and left the cubicle in just my trunks the female teacher said, “Arghh” I actually meant to write, “Aww”. Although a woman screaming, “Arghh” when you are in just your trunks would make the top 3 of things you don’t want to hear when you are semi-naked, along with laughter and pity.

And Finally… we have 14 fish fingers left.

Til next week, stay safe! 

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