We have a phrase here in Yorkshire: ‘I could murder a cuppa tea’. As a county of tea drinkers, it’s perfectly usual to us. In fact, it has exploded into common usage throughout our nation. It means ‘damn the consequences’. But think about it. It is so very strange. How can one murder liquid? How can it die? In fact, if you love and desire it so much, why would you want to murder it? Sure, there’s the argument that I actually means ‘I could murder for a cup of tea’, but surely, going to jail for life over a cup of tea is pointless. I mean, come on people. Okay, you get endless cups of tea in jail. And for free. Actually, it’s starting to make sense. What the phrase may be saying is ‘my love of tea is so great that I’m willing to murder to go to jail for endless cups of free tea’.
Away from tea, I have a tip for those longing for a solution to the conundrum of how to survive a zombie apocalypse: find the nearest indoor children’s play area. Seriously. It’s a fortress. Honestly, the second they find one in The Walking Dead, that’s when the show should end. I’m covered in more bruises and scrapes than one should care to imagine trying to get around that place. I’m surprised I didn’t decapitate myself. I seriously doubt a zombie would get in. Just a thought I had.
To get there was a challenge. Firstly, it was four leagues away. Secondly, the barmy weather of late is getting so crazy it makes the MTV Awards look worth it. Thirdly, to get there, you have to go through Stockton, which is only a place you should ever visit if you’ve lost the will to live.
The journey started with a pitter-patter of rain on the car roof. The skies were dark. The rain intensified. It started to bombard the car like watery balls of fury. The sky. I’ve genuinely never seen it that dark at half ten in the morning. It was black. So very dark indeed. On the horizon there was, from my perspective, a tiny gap between the blackness of the sky and the rich greenness of the ground. In that gap was a pale apricot sky, filled with swirls of light and God only knows what else. It was hauntingly beautiful. The wind picked up as all the sky vanished beneath a blanket of white as three-inch wide hailstones flooded the air. Thunder rumbled and lightning repeatedly flashed in the sky. The roads were flooded. It lasted the best part of 20 minutes, before the sun rose from behind the terror. Finally. Just as we arrived at the giant indoor play area. Then it started again and we got drenched. The phrase Sod’s Law came to mind.
I got another drenching the following day when I headed into town. Shopping for dad’s 61st birthday on Sunday. And then cake shopping which resulted in the purchase of the largest muffin you’ve ever seen in your life. I’m really looking forward to the day. What I’m most looking forward to is Sunday lunch at The Lingfield. That’s how we celebrate birthdays in Yorkshire. At the pub. Indoors of course. I don’t fancy hailstones in my pork roast.
Birthdays are funny things. Well, not really, but I needed to started this paragraph somehow. Will blathering suffice? Good. Birthdays are a wonderfully weird mix of the heartache of life and the joy of getting old. My birthday is coming soon, but I’ve never really celebrated it. ‘Yea! I’ve managed to stay alive for another year!’ On the other hand, judging by my incredibly accident-prone life, it’s a miracle I am still alive. Maybe that is a good enough reason to warrant at least a pat on the back. I think.
“A friend never defends a husband who gets his wife an electric skillet for her birthday”, said the American humourist Erma Bombeck (1927-1996).
Peace Out :|:
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