Captain Birdseye

“Aarrggghhh! Aarrgghhhh! Aaarrggghhh!”

The cries of the new chef who has just rubbed his face after chopping a fresh, birds-eye chilli.

“My face is on fire! Aaarrgghhh! What the $@&% do I do? What Do I £%$%^$£@&$£$ do?”

The answer of course is simple: wash your hands as soon as you’ve finished chopping. Or better still, wear disposable gloves and chuck them away. But BT (Boy Teenager), Coulsdon’s answer to a young Gordon Ramsey (he was certainly swearing like an angry Michelin starred chef) wasn’t really listening as he bounced around the kitchen yelling.

“I’m taking a break until my face recovers”, declared Captain Birdseye. And with that, he disappeared off with his phone for an indeterminate period, leaving me (his Sous Chef) in the kitchen chopping other ingredients for his Vietnamese lemongrass and chilli wings and ribs.

It’s brilliant though isn’t it, BT suddenly deciding he wants to cook. It came to be because he had become bored with the limited menu of meals that he will eat that comes out of the kitchen from Gin (so called because she is 90% of the clear spirit and 10% angry Scottish woman) and me, and in early March I greeted his “Is there nothing else?”, with a “Mate, why don’t you cook?”. And much to my delight and amazement, he reached for the cook-books and made a list of dishes he wanted to try. I profess though that picking two dishes that had octopus as the main ingredient was a tad adventurous for a lad that won’t eat even so much as a prawn, but hey, who is moaning about that?

This development came on the back of GT (girl teenager, now an official adult), also having decided to cook once or twice a week in preparation for her impending time away at University. As I chopped lemongrass I was pondering on my place being supplanted in the kitchen, which has figured so prominently since I left full time work.

Suddenly there were fresh cries, much louder and more urgent.

“Aaaaaaarrrgggghhhh! Oh my @$£^ God! Aarrghhhh! Help. HELP!”

It was BT again. He barrelled into the kitchen clutching his goolies. “My nob is on fire! Aaaarrrrrggghhhhh!”. By now he was bouncing off the walls. Being the helpful sort, through the tears of laughter, I managed to splutter “You didn’t wash your hands did you? And you went for a wee didn’t you?“. Somehow between burning his face off and sitting looking at his phone for 10 minutes, he had forgotten to wash his hands. He had also ignored my advice not to go to the loo until his hands had been scrubbed (you only make that mistake once in life). And so here he was, laughing and yelling and holding on to his Red Hot Poker. BT thinks he has ADHD because his attention jumps from one thing to the next quite quickly and forgets things. I’m starting to think he might be right.

It’s been an interesting year so far for BT. After the drunkenness of new year’s eve (he has subsequently told us that he was convinced that he was a Wizard. Every time he moved his arm, there was a tinkling sound. He even told his mates at the time, who sadly were too pissed to corroborate his newly found skill. Subsequently, our very own Harry Potter realised that the house had a Ring doorbell with a motion sensor and that his magic powers might not be so magic after all) and wrestles, with GCSE studies (now permanently on hold), his horizons have been widening quite a bit. Some of this may be related to a friend that he has made in Vietnam, who he chats with most days (and who is at an International school and likely to end up studying in America). Whether it’s her outlook on life that is making him think of travel (he wants to spend a year or two travelling around the globe), or that he is now 16 and maturing rapidly (or both), who knows? It‘s a Very Good Thing whatever the cause.

It might also be because he has subscribed to the Disney+ channel. The first film that BT watched with his new subscription was Ratatouille, a favourite of his as a little’un. This gave him the idea that we should go to Paris for his 16th birthday (I bet! Some birthday present!). Coincidentally, we had some expiring EasyJet vouchers, and so the request became a reality, and off we popped for 3 days. When I say "we", I mean me, Gin, BT and his mate Rhino, who went in GT’s stead. GT decided not to go, seeing an opportunity to have her mates round for 3 days of boozing whilst we were away. Going by some residual carrot chunks lying vaguely in the direction of the upstairs loo, it would appear that is exactly what happened. We all loved the city, especially at night. It is utterly beautiful. Not even an accidental short-cut through up Rue de Crack at 10pm on our way up to Sacre Coer in Montmatre (for the view - wonderful view of the whole city) spoiled it. And much to our amazement, given that 4 years ago his anxiety was so strong that he couldn’t face so much as going out into our back garden, he wanted to explore Paris with Rhino alone (not with us because we are “boring”). And so they did. On electric bikes (Paris is awash with separated cycle lanes. Utterly necessary given the style of driving; Honk, go, worry about the dents later). Gin and I kept tabs on their whereabouts using the “Find My iPhone“ app, watching it like Mr and Mrs Tension from Fear Street, Nerveshire. As we sat in a Bistro, nursing a beer (you have to nurse drinks in Paris; at £8-£9 a pint, there’s no other option. Paris is The Most Expensive place I’ve been. No, second most. Capri in Italy holds that record …. a tenner for a lemonade), we could see them touring the sights; Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame, the Louvre and along the banks of the Seine. I can think of worst places to be exploring by electric bike.

It was great to be able to fly again too. Gin and I both felt a deep sadness at not being able to use the EU passport queue (there was no queue, unlike for the “All other nationalities” channel), but it is what it is. Naturally it was the return to the UK where there was a problem. We used the automated passport barrier route, which worked (after a bit of fiddling) for 3 of us, but not the 4th. Poor BT couldn’t get through. Whilst Gin and I were getting into a dudge imagining that he might end up in a Rwandan detention centre, he had gone to find help and was on his way through the old manual route, calm as you like.

And so our Paris trip was done. It flew by, leaving us with lovely memories (the food, the sights, the lads laughing, seeing out friends Rob and B-B). And the Covid. Yup, poor Gin has taken to her bed as I type, coughing like a chain-smoking, emphysema patient. Naturally, this has made its presence known at Easter when Gin's family and Aunties are due around for dinner. Gah.

We might well have said “no“ to BT’s Paris request had we realised what an expensive this year this would turn into. It started in January. Gin and I were watching TV, she in her usual place with her back to the window. It was a cold, windy night, and the curtains were being blown about.

“Have you left the window on the latch again?”, she enquired. A foolish enquiry of Mr Energy-Saving. No lightbulb is safe if left switched on when he is about.

“No, it’s the window. it doesn’t fit properly”

“Well I’m getting a stiff neck. I’m sick of it! This whole house is falling apart. We either need to knock it down, sell it or do it up!”

Which is how it came to be that I was escorting an estate agent around the gaff. A chap by the name of Hedley. The good news: since we bought the place 18 years ago it has more than doubled in value. The not so good news: everywhere (apart from the Man Cave) needs redecorating, the floor covering upstairs need replacing, the windows are knackered and all of the glass in the kitchen (which is only 9 years old) needs to be replaced (it was fitted incredibly badly by a cowboy outfit from up North which has gone bust). Shit. The kitchen Conservatory (also 9 years old) is rotting, despite being properly maintained, and is suspected to be made from softwood not hard. That also has to be replaced. Double shit.

I was all for knocking it all down (selling it to a Property Developer) and buggering off with the 1.3 times market value that they usually pay, but that route is closed to us as our plot is a funny shape and a developer wouldn’t be able to get a bigger building on it.

We have no choice but to spend a bloody fortune to make it all Very Splendid. And once it is Very Splendid, we will most likely stay here for another 10 years to enjoy its Splendidness.

The Gods clearly agree with us. GT and I were standing in the kitchen when there was a sudden bang that sounded just like a gun-shot. Yes we aren’t far from The Cronx (Croydon), but even that isn’t known for it‘s gun crime. We searched cupboards and looked in other rooms trying to figure out what had gone bang. And then I found it. One of the large, overhead panes of glass (in 14 metre long light-well thing that runs the length of the kitchen) had fractured. Just as this happened, the quote arrived from windows man, Colin; the windows for the house (the old bit) are less than I feared, but the kitchen .... gawd! Still, it's got to be done (how long will the shattered one hold together?), so I accepted on the spot. It was week later when Colin was carrying out a detailed survey that he pointed out that there are two tiny impact holes in the fractured window. Something had fallen out of the heavens almost exactly at the time the quote for the replacement glass had arrived. It was a sign. Either that or Colin owns a catapult.

Talking of things falling from Heaven, I'm continuing to trundle along in the grocery delivery job, and on one particular delivery late one evening, I was sent into a small cul-de-sac to deliver 6 crates of food and drink. As I got out the van, I could hear loud gospel music playing. So loud it was that I checked on Google Maps where the nearest congregational church was. Nada. I dragged the crates to the front door, the music getting louder as I drew closer to the house. It was coming from an upstairs room. The front door was opened by a chap who appeared to be in his late 30's. He proceeded to scurry backwards and forwards between the front door and the kitchen, taking a handful of groceries with him each time. As he completed the final transfer and closed his front door, the music suddenly stopped and the window was thrown open. A little old lady stuck her head out of the window and uttered the words "I got a return".

Utterly perplexed as to how her (I assume) son had managed to get anything up to her in the second since the front door was closed, I said "Errr, OK"

"I'm going to throw it to you", she said.

Wait what? I can't catch! It could be a bottle or something! This is a Bad Idea. As the words formed to say "Don't do it!", she luzzed the return item out of the window, slammed it closed and whacked her music up once more. "Hallelulagh! Praise the Lord!"

I retrieved a box from the floor (I told you I can't catch), at which point the front door opened.

"She's got a return" said the fella.

"I know! She's chucked it at me!"

It's was a box of lego.

I hadn't delivered a box of lego.

"I didn't deliver this to you did I"

"Well it came from Asdsainsbos"

"Sadly I can't turn a box of lego into money as it's not in my power to do so. You'll have to keep it and phone the store. When did you get it?"

"About 3 months ago"

Good luck with that mate; a dented (because it fell from a great height) and opened box of lego, purchased ages ago which your Mum thinks she can get her money back on. Even her heavenly friends with their special powers might struggle with that one.

Hold on, I can hear coughing and spluttering from upstairs. I guess I'd better don me protective clothing and go check on Little Miss Wheezy.

Stay well and safe chums.

Love and elbow-grease,

Mr H

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