Tuesday, April 10, 2007

Another Bank Holiday bites the dust

IN the good old days, this Chap used to indulge himself thoroughly at Easter. I would either take the barky over to Normandy raid the wine shops, eat oysters, langoustines and scallops and go out for sumptuous 8 course dinners, then toot our way home to stay awake in the wee hours of the darker watches.
This had the advantages of cocking a snook at the Douaniers, enjoying the thrill of the vintner (seriously) sending our their delivery boy in stripey shirt, beret and sack-barrow of our wine to our pontoon and load the swag on the boat for us.

Or I used to go out to some den of iniquity in London, listen to loud repetitive music while frying my brains on a vast amount of Gin, Absinthe and assorted recreational pharmaceuticals. The extra long weekend meant we could go out on Friday night to some exclusive place, return at 6 am, chase the buzz until we passed out at lunchtime Saturday but - and this is the best bit -we would then get up at 7am on Sunday and stride of to some of the old archway clubs south of the river for Sunday after parties where would get ourselves into a very sorry state with a bunch of other people in a very sorry state. Stagger home at about 3 in the afternoon, drink champers, then go to bed at a christian hour refreshed for another bank holiday Monday to go and count parakeets in the park.

Oh, how times have changed. I mused on this point on Saturday night.
Chumrade came round Sat pm for Barbie and Pimms. Chumrade with whom most of the above escapades were set about with great alacrity.
We sipped our Pimms in the dying sunshine and reviewed Easter so far.
I had been doing my decking, borders and been to the tip twice.
He had stained his shed and made some rather fine Chili and Tomato jam.

We reached the same conclusion, at the same time.

We have both become our Dads.

This we had to rectify and recitfy immediately.

Drank Pimms. Opened a bottle of Burgundy and in a fit of wanton destruction, not only burned the left over wood from my tree felling, but - and this was the most sweetly cathartic - the nasty cane garden furniture the Ex Miss Chap left behind when she did a 'Lando'.
My Chimanea fair glowed red hot!

We stopped short of urinating out our territories, but I cannot testify about the Howler Monkey impersonations.

Celebrated by flying all day on Monday. Strafed half of Cambridgeshire and almost had missile-lock on another glider who nearly barged me out of a thermal at 1800 feet (Too close - had to go to guns, bastard)

Word to the wise - all it takes is a big toy to bring out the boy in a grown man. No matter how cool, suave or sophisticated we appear - it just takes the right motivation. Same thing happened with my father. Sober, respectable semi retired businessman - reduced to sandpit fun when he hired a mini JCB to sort his garden out.

An incentive to get the front lawn done.


Kate said...

Heh. I went home to watch the 'rents doing 'rent-type stuff, thus conveniently avoiding all the 'rent-type stuff that needs doing around my place.

Nicodemus said...

The perils of being fully enfranchised in the property owning democracy is that one is obliged to see to it that the bloody thing doesn't fall down. My dire fiscal circumstances and the fact that I blow all my spare cash on fine wines and aviation spirit mean that I cannot afford to employ the usual retinue to resolve this for me. I am reduced to near penury and the infamy of only one tailor's bill to pay.

Isn't 'rent' a euphemisism in certain circles? I will have to consult my more theatrical associates to confirm that.

Kate said...

Yeah I own one of them house type thingies too. I just have to make sure it's in good enough nick to keep the rain off the cat, though; I've given up on anything more ambitious.

Nicodemus said...

Splendid. The ideal status is somewhere between Moroccan bordello and one of the more salubrious Canton opium dens. I salute you. Are you sure you haven't started to embrace chappism?

Kate said...

I'd love to think my place resembles a Moroccan bordello. Unfortunately the house in The Young Ones is more like it ...