From Riches To Bags

“You see, I went out today for the first time in ages. I don’t get out much because I need a stick. Oh my, and when I got to the bank, I realised that I didn’t have a mask and I thought they wouldn’t let me in! And you know, when I got home, I realised the mask was hanging on my stick, where I leave it in case I forget to take one with me. What am I like?”

”You are like me, Madam. Can’t find my keys? Best check the fridge!”

”Oh you are such a kind man, delivering my groceries. I don’t know what I’d do without you. Here, have this little gift”

And with that, the elderly occupant of Lakeview Road handed me a book entitled “Fake News! Satan’s Influence”, and a leaflet for the “Three Angels Broadcasting Network”. I suspect I’m not supposed to accept gifts, even free religious ones. Still, rude to refuse innit. Hoping for an upgrade to a bottle of red next time.

Wait, what, what I hear you cry? What is this “grocery delivery” of which you talk? Well now, pull up a chair and let me tell you about our summer.

It all started with Girl Teenager’s (GT) mock A level grades, which were frankly amazing. So much so that she temporarily stopped buying things from the Cats Protection League to research potential University destinations. She knows which course she wants to do, but it was a question of where? And with predicted grades as good as these, astonishing words like “Cambridge” were being used. She definitely has her Mum’s brain. The nearest I got to Cambridge was the taking a detour on the A14 to avoid traffic. Anyway, I digress. All being well, GT will be off to a splendid university next year where she can indulge her love of posh, entitled plonkers (or, more likely, will learn the art of avoiding them) and continue her dive into Classic Civilisations. Good for her!

She will probably also continue with her new-found love of Dungeons and Dragons (D&D to those in the know). Stop it! I won’t hear a word said against it; I lost many hours in my teenage years happily immersed in the game. I mean it delayed all the normal things a teenage boy should be doing, but I didn’t understand that at the time. Why isn’t talking about your 11th level Magic User attractive to girls? Anyway, GT happened to let slip that she had identified a chap that lived in the 1700s, with the same surname as us, who had the wonderful first names of “Cockshutt Twistleton”. God he must have suffered at school/in the fields/down the Workhouse (depending in the economic status of his parents). She also imparted that the wonderful Cockshutt was now making a cameo appearance in her D&D campaign (along with his pet chicken, Shuttlecock, who lives under his hat). And this got me thinking (which we know is dangerous) …. Might we be related to Cockshutt? Or indeed to Sir Gilbert, the first Mayor of London? I had to find out.

And so it came to pass that a month of my life was lost to researching the family tree (all because of D&D. That bloody game should be banned). It’s been fascinating (the family tree that is), and whilst I’m disappointed that the records, as far as I can trace them using just a keyboard (on the Ancestry website) don‘t link us to either the mighty Cockshutt or the morally questionable Sir Gilbert, we do come from a line of painter-decorator-gardeners. Maybe there is some deeply buried genetic talent there somewhere after all. There was one interesting ancestor though; my 4th times Great Grandfather. I’m delighted to say that he was a wrong ‘un who was transported to Australia in 1842 for forgery, where he married a lovely lady who had been transported for Larceny. Bit of a shame as he left a wife and kids back in England, but hey. It’s a wonder really that the Aussies have turned out as well as they have given the start to their Modern Nation.

I should be grateful for any innate decorating talent though as Boy Teenager (BT) set himself to spend the summer learning the trade working around the house. Pops (his Grandad), who really can do all that shiz, gave BT boxes of tools and other DIY stuff to get him started. We decided to deal with the Man Cave first, because it has been destroyed by a combination of Dog (he sleeps in it) and Wife (she throws red wine around in it). Ordered in a new laminate floor, sorted out the paint and agreed to start on Monday. Hoorah! And then BT busted his finger….

BT spent most of the summer going out every other day with his mates. Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful! They were playing football, going to the Chicken Shop or Uncle Raj’s for sweets; normal stuff, but not BT’s normal. And he loved it. And so did we. At least until he decided that he would go in goal. And because his mate Robbie has a shot that can knock the walls down of an earthquake-proof building, and because he didn’t have any gloves, BT decided to put a pair of trainers on his hands for protection. Sort of ingenious. Also didn’t work. I received a text with a picture of a swollen finger with the words “I think it’s broken”. Which is how it came to be that we tested the strength of my painting/decorating/floor-laying genes rather than BT’s (answer: some limited ability).

Undeterred, and two weeks later, we were all set for building a workbench in the garage and putting up some tool racks. BT was out playing football again when a text came through.

”I‘ve hurt my knee really badly. Can just about walk”

He wasn’t kidding! He’d crashed into Robbie (he of the rocket-shot fame, and also a man-mountain) and twisted his knee horribly; probably did some ligament damage as it took three weeks to recover. The bench remains but-a-notion. So, once his knee was better, we agreed to have another go at the decorating. Which is when BT caught something very Covid-like; wiped him out for over a week. Hopefully bad things come in threes and his is now done with injuries and illness.

Footnote: as I type, the decorating is on hold again as BT has decided to give GCSE Maths and English a go (and possibly some others). Trying not to get too excited as this is a MAJOR step for him, sitting right at the heart of his anxiety. It’s amazing that he is even contemplating it! I could almost turn to religion if it boosted the chance of this happening (*checks Sky for the Three Angels Channel*).

I know …. You are wondering what all of this has to do with delivering parcels to old ladies? Well, because BT has improved so much we agreed that I could return to some sort of part-time work. The dog-walking idea, despite my Professional Qualification, is now dead (really don‘t fancy picking up other people’s fur-babies’ poo for a living). As is the potential Project Management job back at the old place (took three months for them to work out part-time wasn’t an option, which gave me three months of Thinking and concluding I simply don’t want that level of angst any more). And so there I was (on the golf-course), talking about my employment woes to The Doc, when he dropped in the idea of Amazon Flex deliveries. Which is basically self-employed, highly flexible, use your own car to deliver Amazon parcels or Morrisons groceries. Checked it out, signed up … been doing it for ten days. And know what? I enjoy it! And know what? I’ve just discovered that Amazon’s car insurance stops before you do, leaving you uninsured for your journey home post-delivery. And it will cost £300 a month to get cover. Know what? That’s the end of my Amazon Delivery career. Still the taste of the road is now strong, so I’m off to Sainsbo’s (and other Grocers) to see if they will give me a driver’s job. Fingers crossed.

Gin, so called because she feeds it to her pupils to keep them quiet, had a much needed, and very nice summer. Making the most of the lifting of lockdown restrictions, she and her sister (Piggy) flew to Aberdeen to stay with Aunty F for a few days. The usual hill walking and wine drinking took place, as did the consumption of the obligatory Haggis supper. I don’t know, these Scots have a genetic need to top-up on their traditional, deep-fried dinners (OK, I’m jealous. I love a haggis supper).

Summer was crowned though with a weekend away with Nana, Pops and Uncle Dickens. Delayed by a year, we were celebrating Nana’s 80th year in a lovely, ancient, but utterly mad water-mill in Kent. Much wine and laughter, capped by having to rescue the owner from the river. Said owner had lost track of his Spaniel, Monty, who had jumped into the old water-course. Thigh deep for a human, when Neil had realised where Monty was, he jumped in. Monty was saved, but Neil was stuck. Sheer sided banks about 8‘ high versus slightly plump, middle-aged (by which I mean older than me), posh wazzock in ill-fitting cords and loafers are not a combination for a successful river exit. And so it was that I, dressed in my finest going out-out jeans and shirt, helped Neil’s wife carry a ladder to rescue the saturated husband. Apparently he was eternally grateful. Didn’t offer us a discount on the stay though.

Our original plan had been to take Milo (our young Spaniel) with us on the birthday jaunt, but with what turned out to be great foresight, we concluded that bouncy dog with a love of water probably wouldn’t mix well with a water mill of unknown layout and lots of ….. water. So Milo was dispatched on his own holiday to Aunty Kylie’s, from where he returned happy but knackered. He also returned with two toys and a ball that didn’t belong to him. And a pair of Aunty Kylie’s tights. Think he would move in. Not so sure Aunty Kylie feels the same way.

And with that, summer has come to a close and the leaves are beginning to drop for Autumn. Usually we batten down the hatches and hunker our way though the colder, darker months of the year, but this year might just be different. We shall see.

Love and elbow-grease,

Mr H

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