“It’s never too late to have a happy childhood.”
Tom Robbins, Still Life with Woodpecker
Many years ago a group of people decided I would not get away with a carefree existence; they chose me as a Godfather. I have never been sure what this meant and tried my best to skirt the implied responsibilities.
Last weekend came another test of my commitment; young Harry’s parents were off, off and away and he was duly dropped on my doorstep last Friday night, docile as could be.
“Keep ‘im warm! Get that heating on you tight git!” bade his Mum a fond farewell as she sped away to suckle on the Prosecco teat. Fortunately, I had taken several sedatives at The Scruffy, threw a bit of pizza at him and that seemed to do the trick.
The following morning I woke to a house so warm Eon must have suspected another Bradford cannabis farm. I was due a visit from X-Factor, my singing builder, back to complete a few tasks only an idiot – me – would have considered minor.
I have to say I’d missed my Saturdays in hard labour camp, despite his excruciating singing and constant demands for coffee, perhaps testimony to the world’s biggest bladder.
There was no need to wake young Harry – the singing soon did that – but I have to say it has quietened down the noisy mutt across the wall; maybe I should stream some recordings?
Coffee was done – X-Factor runs on caffeine – so we set about relocating a giant slab in front of the new doors, a mere couple of metres. Easy you might think? The slab is the width of a double door, four feet deep and four inches thick to boot.
My pre-conceived notion that we would simply lift and wiggle was utter fantasy; more reasons why I was never a builder. The solution lay many thousands of years ago.
By inserting a shovel under one end and levering the other, a few inches at a time, we discovered a labour-saving method that must have been used building The Pyramids. Each few inches we wiggled brought excited giggles as the giant slab gave in to our every desire.
By now my charge had risen from one horizontal state merely to transfer to another. Once fed, relieved that we would not be enforcing child labour, he was dismissed back to the greenhouse.
Our triumph brought forward more singing, I even thought of a few slave songs.
“Dis stone, dis stone ain’t no match for Massa an me, dis stone…get de coffee on….yes Massa!”
When we finally arrived at the new resting place it was time to celebrate. Somehow we had a pile of sand and rubble; why did that not go back where it came from I wondered? No matter it was off to seek a builder’s lunch from Mrs Days.
She was in sprightly mode, not yet ready for a Zimmer frame and expertly emptied my pockets for a baked potato (white collar), pie & peas (blue) and biscuits (lazy teenager).
I managed to endure another few hours of tunes but soon our work was done. I felt like wailing Roy Orbison’s It’s Over but it was time to raise the dead and venture out for food; my charge needed feeding, his Mum having left him with two bags of chocolate buttons.
Aldi called before a few hours at The Scruffy for more sedatives. On the way back we spotted Our Jackie, power waddling up the High Street to The Scruffy, wheezing like an old walrus.
I offered her a friendly toot of the horn which, unintentionally, became a shrill double blast.
It was as if she had been shot in each leg as she wobbled first one way, then the next, swaying like a drunk break-dancing. Maybe we should have stopped as I thought I had induced a heart attack but we could barely see for laughing.
Harry was in danger of needing nappies again as we sped off wondering who would serve us; would Michael the landlord have to get off his arse? When we arrived at The Scruffy I made sure I had my beer in hand before a full confession.
“You bloody sod!!!” she boomed almost clearing the pub “I ‘ad to go change when I got ‘ere!”
Harry clutched his Fanta nervously as we sought permission to take seats in Nob Ed Korna.
The Nob Eds had just finished their Weight Watchers meeting and were now conducting scientific research which I urged Harry to observe for his GCSEs.
Professor Fat Lad had organised a blind taste test – try this at home folks – with three soft drink: coke, ginger ale and lemonade. Could we distinguish between the three? Three not so wise monkeys – Fat Lad, Greenfingers and Happy Days – took the test.
The guinea pigs covered their eyes and took careful sips; the results were incredible. Nobody got all three right; I failed miserably too. Fat Lad recommended we start on the lagers but Michael saw through that one.
Soon our fun was coming to an end, his education courtesy of the Nob Eds curtailed as we wandered home with Wicked Tuna and Gold Rush to entertain us. The house was aglow but there was no sight of the police helicopter; we would sleep well even if the polar bears might not.
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