Wednesday, April 19, 2006


This last weekend was pure Paul Young. Wherever I laid my hat was home, starting with Southwold, a fashionable seaside concoction of industrious old and second-home new. Back on the M25 I moved onto elegantly wasted Hastings, dole capital of the south. My travels, punctuated with warm welcomes, fluffy duvets and good scoff, finished with a visit to my 6ft 6" godson. Foolishly I gave him some birthday money. He went straight out and blew it on puff, coming back red-eyed to declare 'maximum love'. His mother was not happy. I mention his height to set him apart from my five other godsons, one who's dwarfish, one ginger, one rounded, one foolishly idealistic, and one whose pragmatism will stifle his creativity if he doesn't lighten up. They cover the spectrum. My two goddaughters are, thankfully, fairly commonplace in their presentation. But I digress. Returning after a jolly lunch on Monday, I attacked my front bush with large shears:-) This brought on a hayfever attack of such violence that my false teeth fell out - see pic. I took early retirement as I had a date with Christy Moore at the Barbican and wanted the wheezing to have stopped by then. Suddenly the phone rang. It was a very dear mate. Her old man had sacked her. She was distraught. Out went Christie, in came R with a little wheelie suitcase and tincture of Jacob's Creek. For 48 hours we traversed the male psyche. Then she went home and he apologised. I don't believe women will ever understand men. They're so simple, we keep deconstructing them believing there's got to be more there. Then we forget how to reset the pieces and lose what little we had. Discuss. My girls returned from skiing looking like sunburned racoons and truly pleased to see their burly mother. It's mutual:-) The house is full of energy again. Though I could live without the eldest playing reveille on the trumpet.

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