Post XLVI

Don’t Make Me Choose Between Maltesers and Freedom

Imagine the sight. The doors on your car won’t lock from the outside, so what do you do about locking it? You’ve taken it to the garage and they had no immediate solutions. You then discover something rather strange – the boot/trunk door does lock from the outside. You can imagine, then, my hysterical laughter at the site of a relative having to get in and out of his car this way. I’m shocked he hasn’t been arrested because from where I was standing, it looked as if he was trying to break into it. Oh man, that image, that most glorious of sights – now imprinted on my hemispheres for the rest of my life – was most radical.

It was Easter this week, in case you didn’t know. I spent my time engorging oneself on a myriad of chocolate. I was told as a kid that the Easter Bunny delivered the chocolate to my door. But I haven’t heard about this Easter Bunny since about the age of ten. I don’t know what happened to it. Maybe Elmer J. Fudd shot the wrong rabbit.

I had an egg. A chocolate egg. I haven’t turned into a chicken. Yet. Might happen. I got back from a rather beautiful church service at the rather beautiful St. Mary’s Cathedral, and dad told me that my brother had visited with an egg for me. Again, chocolate. A few hours went by and then came the aforementioned myriad of chocolate that would make Willy Wonka look like a light confectionery stall salesman.

I was in my room when I heard a little voice from outside my door. It was coming from the direction of the stairs. Over and over again, a voice saying my name. Over and over again. It got louder as I heard the pitter-patter of footsteps approaching my door. My breaths were spry. My heart’s beats were epic. There was an ethereal air of panic. I thought I knew who it was. I uttered their name in classic horror movie style, a faint whisper whilst staring at my bedroom door. ‘Jesus?’ I said. What? It was Easter.

It was actually a baby relative. He brought gifts of chocolate, which was nice. And he gave me a hug. Only two years old. Lovely cherry to add to my cake topping. I spent the rest of the afternoon playing with him on the stairs. And running around after him. And trying to stop him going in mum and dad’s wardrobe. He thought it was a door to another room. I wondered if he’s ever been read The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe, but obviously, he’s far too young to have been read that book. Lucky bugger.

Not everyone in this house was as happy as Gary this week. Mum got dad a chocolate bottle. He was so happy with it. I mean, he was delighted. Chocolate bottle, bottle of scotch and a football match on the telly. It must run in the family. I mean, that’s also my idea of a good night in. Perhaps with some caviar. I don’t buy caviar, however. Everyone in the north has some allocated time with the same lump of caviar. Not to eat, though. You see, we don’t have a lot up here thanks to a government that denies we exist, but that denial doesn’t stop us pretending to be posh and rich. We all pooled in together some money to buy some caviar, and, now and again, we share it around to see what it’s like to have it all. In a purely ironic fashion, of course.

Unfortunately, dad’s rather delightful night in was ruined by that rain that I keep harking on about. Strangely, though, that freezing rain doesn’t stop chocolate melting. Dad’s chocolate bottle is now one huge chocolate lump. But he’s determined to eat it, as you’d expect from one of us. Northerners have had much taken from us in recent years, but there are some things that’ll never be taken from us: said chocolate, our proud history, our togetherness, our friendliness, our hippy love-ins and our plentiful water supply. And the most beautiful countryside and scenery on Earth. And, come to think of it, attractiveness. I mean, we really are absolutely gorgeous.

The weeklong chocolate happy hour, however, wasn’t the highlight of my week.

No, that honour went to counting vouchers. Yes, vouchers. That was really fun. I mean, so incredibly fun. Fun needed to be redefined for just how fun that was. Never in my 21 years has an activity been more enjoyed than that. That was, simply put, the epitome of my entire life. I suppose I shouldn’t moan. I mean, it was all for a good cause. Although I would have rather just given the charity the sodding forty quid.

‘I don’t know which is more discouraging, literature or chickens’, said the late, great American writer E. B. White.

Peace Out :|:

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