by Louth Nick
“But darling, I’ve booked a taxi so we can doze in the car.”
“That’ll cost at least £80! I mean what is the point of booking a cheap flight….”
“Bernard, why are you just so horrible? I try to do something nice, something romantic and thoughtful, and all you can do is complain about the price. Sometime I think I shouldn’t have married you at all. Perhaps when you took me down the aisle in 1967 I should have said ‘I don’t’ and instead sent you back to that squat creature Amelia Wrigley. And for all my efforts, this is the thanks I get...”
At this point the tell-tale sign of waterworks began.
“I mean everything to you comes down to money, money, money. You just don’t care about the things I do.”
“That is really not true. I do appreciate your efforts.”
“No you don’t!” Eunice turned her back, a gesture that I think she learned from the cat. “And, I hadn’t even told you the biggest treat.”
“Really?”
“There’s an enormous model railway exhibition on in Paris this weekend. And I’ve got us both a ticket for Saturday.”
Oh God. Now I really do feel awful.
Friday 15th September: Queuing for the Stelios
Paris, here we go. Alarm set at 1.30am. Of course, couldn’t sleep anyway, worrying whether the taxi driver was going to oversleep and we’d miss the flight. Fortunately, he was on time. Still, a round £100 fare including tip brings this little jaunt up to the price of fractional jet ownership.
Things got worse. Deprived of two bottles of water at security and then had to pay £1.20 each to replace them in duty free. What a rip-off! Eunice lost a large jar of Clarins face cream and a lipstick to the same officious security berk which will undoubtedly set her back much more. Yes, we forgot, but how ridiculous all this security is. I mean, if the next bunch of Al Qaeda wannabees in Dagenham or Dudley are discovered to have pencilled on the back of a gas bill a plan to carry explosives sewn into their underwear, we will then undoubtedly have to board aircraft knickerless. Then M&S really would be in trouble.
Never mind that it’s the middle of the night, Eunice can still window shop for England. Lost track of her by Claire’s Accessories and she finally pops up by Gifts4All. All this means we are last on the plane with only odd seats left. I’m at the back next to the loo, which cabin crew are overheard referring to as ‘the Stelios’.
Bumpy on approach to landing. Cockney wench in adjacent aisle seat spills bottle of duty free perfume, which she rightly calls a disaster because it’s ‘a stale odour’. She then compounds her error by treading heavily on my foot in her rush to the Stelios.
Arrive at hotel at 9.45am, almost hallucinating through lack of sleep. However, we are told our room still occupied until midday and will not be ready until 4pm. While our four poster is otherwise occupied, we are reduced to making a corral of Eunice’s suitcases in the lounge and snoozing through CNN business bulletins. Am chased through fitful dreams by the chairman of the Federal Reserve who insists he has mislaid his long bond.
Saturday 16th September: Homage to catatonia
Awoke in the four-poster refreshed after a long sleep, to find Eunice still rasping her way through the nasal version of the Marseillaise. Blissful night untroubled by hippopotamus manoeuvres, helped perhaps by giant late-night Courvoisiers consumed in a little bar around the corner. Splendid time at the model railway exhibition. Fantastic double O gauge displays, which have given me a lot of ideas for the layout at home. Picked up a bargain level crossing and signal box set. Eunice behaved admirably considering she must have been bored witless. Still feeling very guilty about my initial criticism of the trip. I have to confess I’m enjoying myself, despite the proximity of a) lots of French people. b) beaucoups de merde de chien.
Elevenses: Wander into gorgeous patisserie that is like heaven on earth, with the smell of warm bread and window displays of home-made chocolates and bon-bons. While Eunice had a café noir I devoured a paddling-pool-sized café au lait, a pain au chocolat and a marvellously squishy custard tart. Not a word of reproach was issued. What is she up to?
2pm: Department store shopping. Eunice now in full flight. Meanwhile I had my own problem. All I did was ask: “Où est la toilette?” This middle-aged female shop assistant, lifted her librarian glasses and screwed up her face as if I’d asked for the giraffe embalming department. She then turned to an assistant and repeated what I’d said syllable by syllable. Huge gallic shrugs were exchanged, then they turned to me and each offered a volley of rapid French. Defeated by this linguistic stonewalling I finally lapsed into English.
“Ah,” she said. “You are English. ‘Où est la toilette!’ But of course. Let me tell you.” After exchanging a guffaw with her colleague, she then proceeded to give me in machine gun speed French, with copious hand movements, directions which when followed as best I could manage led me to a dimly-lit and deserted loading bay, adorned with skips. In the corner was a bucket, which had already been inaugurated. Alright, then, when in France….
Sunday 17th September: French resistance
Last night was Eunice’s pièce de résistance. The restaurant she had booked proved its authenticity by its obscure location, the Proustian length of its menus and the lack of English either written or spoken. While I studied the three leather-bound volumes, she surreptitiously looked up the descriptions in her pocket Collins.
“Oh, that’s calf brains. Yuck. No, what about this one?” She pointed to another line. “Confit de gésier.”
“That’s duck jam isn’t it?”
“No. Duck is canard. Oh. It says gizzards. Gizzard jam. Oh, I don’t know if I fancy that.”
Forty-five minutes later we had chosen, having picked our way around the three quarters of the offerings based on offal. How odd, when you charge enough to get the best ingredients, that you mainly rely on the slaughterhouse sweepings? Nevertheless, starters were superb and it was only my under-done steak that proved the bone of contention. After it had travelled back to the kitchen and then returned, the waiter had something to say to Eunice.
“Bernard, he says the chef won’t cook your steak any more. He says he refuses to ruin it.
“But look at it. This isn’t medium rare, it’s running with blood! This is a restaurant, not a hyena den in the Serengeti.”
The wine, however, was superb and my mood recovered after rounding off the meal with a wonderfully-caramelised crème brûlée. Only then over Cointreau did Eunice come round to the real subject that was bothering her, and the real reason for the trip.
“Bernard, I am quite concerned about our marriage.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, since you retired you have hidden yourself away. We hardly ever do anything together and our love life is a sham. You spend all your waking hours hunched over that computer screen, checking share prices and just getting angrier and angrier. Why don’t you just give it up? We can manage on what we have, you know.”
“But we can’t, certainly not while having trips like this. We should have paid off the mortgage by now, but we just added the cost of the conservatory to it. I know the MoD pension is very good, but I didn’t get high enough amongst the pen pushers to make us really comfortable. I mean if you look at Peter and Geraldine Edgington…”
“That’s the problem isn’t it? You want to be as well off as Peter. I don’t think we ever can be, and we shouldn’t try. The important thing is that we have each other, and our health.”
Oh Lord, here we go. Looks like a major assault on the biscuit front. But no I was wrong.
“You see, Bernard, I don’t ever catch you looking at me like you used to. Not with lust or passion or even love. And I have to say I miss it.”
Lost for what to say I put my hand on hers.
“You do love me, don’t you Bernard?”
“Oh, Eunice, words cannot begin to describe…”
“That, Bernard is because you never let them have the practice. You used to send
me poetry, do you remember? Now the nearest I get is a scrawled note saying you are off to Kwik Save or the Share Club. Why don’t you write me a love letter? It doesn’t have to be anything too elaborate, just a couple of pages.”
Oh God. I thought I’d finished with having to write out lines after I left St Crispin’s.
Monday 18th September: Shop now, calculator
Waiting for flight at Charles de Gaulle airport. Eunice is trying to calculate the cost of her shopping with some currency converting gadget she’s just bought.
Tap, tap, tap, tap. “Oh, that’s good. You know, Bernard, that silk scarf only cost £1.40.”
“I doubt it.”
“I think I’ll get a couple more, one for Jem and one for Geraldine.”
“I should double check that before you race off to buy a dozen more.”
“You know the brandy at the bar last night? That was €3.60, wasn’t it? Tell me, what is €3.60?” tap, tap, tap. “£4.80. Is that right.”
“No, that’s definitely wrong. A euro’s about 65p, so multiply 3.60 by 65p for pounds,” I said.
Tap, tap, tap. “What, £234? That’s wrong for a start. You have to divide by 65, surely? That would make the number smaller.” Tap, tap, tap, tap. “Oh. £0.05. That doesn’t seem right either.”
“No, Eunice, listen. Multiply 3.60 by 0.65, which is 65 pence in terms of pounds. Come on, give me that.” Tap, tap, tap. “See, £2.34. The brandy cost £2.34.”
“I have to tell you, Bernard, life was a lot simpler before the euro. When it was francs all you had to do was multiply by ten and you knew what the cost in pounds was.”
Wednesday 20th September: Plaudits for Bernard
Share club at Ring o’Bells. Everyone pleased with Rank purchase which now over 235p, 21p more than we paid. Actually, not everybody. Bar manager Dave Dugdale is furious that the office computer now on the blink. Chantelle, who gave us permission to use it to make the buy has been given her first verbal warning, read straight out of the Punch Taverns disciplinary bible.
Investing-wise, things on the up. Tanfield is already 10 per cent ahead of my 31p buy, and even Qinetiq is heading back up towards purchase price. Portfolio now back to within £1,000 of where it started the year.
Saturday 23rd September: Saturday night dive
Drove round to Isleworth to see Dot as planned, though due to awful M25 traffic didn’t get there until 9pm. Parking was awful, and had to abandon the Volvo in a rather insalubrious street a few hundred yards away. Prowling gangs of hooded youths round about.
“You looking at me, man?” One yelled. I wasn’t, I really wasn’t. Approaching Mum’s house, heard a crash of glass. A minute later her door burst open and a tall, dark figure sprinted out. I was just ten feet away.
Sometimes, Bernard, action is required without fear or forethought. Tossing aside my half eaten Bounty, I hurled myself into the fray.
Chapter Thirty-Four: Citizen’s Arrest
Sunday 24th September: Concussion discussion
The six hours I spent at hospital earlier today gave me a chance to piece together what happened last night. When I threw myself at the intruder escaping from Dot’s house, I new my chances of success were small. However I did bring him down, a tangle of dreadlocks and curses, with a sickening crash on the pavement. In the mêlée I was overmatched by this large, tough and younger opponent. Forced up on my knees, panting and with one arm forced agonisingly up my back, I looked up just in time to see Mum bring a rolling pin crashing down on my ear. “Ooh, just got him a good ‘un, Clive!”
“It isn’t dis one, ’twas someone else Mrs Jones,” I heard a Caribbean voice say. “Dis one’s a do-gooder.”
“Oh my word it’s Bernard,” she gasped, looking down at the blood pouring from my head. Too winded and woozy to speak, I let the story settle in gradually. Clive had driven round to help Dot reset her official password to something she could remember, using his laptop. While he was doing so, someone broke into his car to steal his sat-nav console. He heard the noise, saw the culprit out of the window, and running out got apprehended by me. Apologies were extended all round. Clive, who is actually a qualified nurse and midwife, bandaged my ear.
Best of all, Dot’s shares are all still there in the account.
Elevenses: Cup of vile ‘machine’ tea while waiting for the doctor to see me. Now I know what MRSA stands for: mechanically regurgitated solution of arsenic. No wonder so many NHS patients succumb.
Monday 2nd October: Poker in the eye
Astounding news that Congress has passed law outlawing online gambling by attaching it to a bill related to port security, and without a separate vote. What a way to run a country! Phoned Harry Staines, who is both a long-time poker player and a shareholder in PartyGaming and his reaction was unprintable. Having no involved shares, my own feelings are of the purest schadenfreude. How wicked I have become, to enjoy diminishing underperformance in this way.
Thursday 5th October: Spirent torments
I feel like crying. I bought Spirent in March 2004 for 82p, held them for two and a half money-losing years, finally giving up and getting out at 31p in August for a £4,500 loss. Then, all-of-a sudden this cripple doesn’t just thrown down its crutches and walk, it bloody flies! First bid rumours, then improved trading and now finally today, a £50m return of capital, which has put another 4p on the shares to 58p. Why couldn’t they just do me the favour of going bankrupt after I’d sold them? After all, we’re supposed to cut losses, aren’t we? I only ever seem to sell at the very bottom.
Elevenses: A brace of chocolate Penguins.
Eunice has announced that I need new clothes. “It’s really about time for you to spend a little, Bernard.”
“Seeing as you spend a lot, I’m economising.”
“But look at that cardigan. It’s tatty and I’m fed up patching the sleeves. Those baggy corduroys have to go too. Even your shoes, which you used to polish regularly, are now dull and down at heel. Really, you used to look so distinguished when you used to go in to the MoD. Now you’re more…well, extinguished.”
“I’ll buy some this week,” I say, and turn back to Railway Modeller.
“Bernard, we shall buy some. If I let you do it on your own, you’ll only end up at Peacocks or T.K. Maxx.”
Close of play: BAE now within a whisker of 400p, having edged up and up for weeks. Dot has finally agreed to let me use that laptop that Clive left for her to sell some of the shares, so long as I get her that mobility vehicle she covets. So now I’ve sold 1,000 at 393p and had the cash transferred to her bank. Not really sure how many I should sell to spread the risk of her being a one-stock wonder.
Wednesday 11th October: Excessively possessive
Share club at Ring o’Bells. Martin Gale still whining on about iSoft, but no-one else is listening. From the look on his face, he must have lost a fortune. Besides we’ve got no money, even if we did rate it as a bargain. Fortune Oil (Martin’s own recommendation) had gradually slid in line with oil prices, while BHP, though altogether a more solid and broadly-spread pick is depressed by oil. Rank is our only winner. Early days, but everyone agreed we must learn what we did right and emulate it with other picks.
Elevenses: Chantelle has been put on kitchen duties as part of her punishment for letting the share club abuse the office PC so I make the mistake of buying the £6.99 special, “lamb henry, chip’s (sic) and pea’s (sic)”. So far, so vernacular, but there’s a long pink hair in the mint source (sic). Frankly, I think our favourite goth should stick to investing, she’s much better at it.
Chapter Thirty-Five: Rich Man, Poor Man
Friday 13th October: A taxing conversation
A day for superstitious investors to avoid. However, it’s the day when I broke even over 2006. Admittedly, the FTSE100 is nine per cent ahead, but I’d rather have underperformance than negative performance.
Elevenses: Evidence of border incursion into Lemon Curdistan. An orange has appeared on the desk, plus a J-cloth and
can of polish. Fortunately, the Hornby drawer remains secure.
8pm: Phoned Peter Edgington about Dot’s one-stock portfolio. Though I don’t reveal the exact size, he’s horrified it’s all in one asset, yet alone one share. “How old is your mother?” he asks.
When I tell him 90, he says: “Well, traditionally the age is the percentage which should be in gilts. Frankly, I’d go three ways with an equal split 30:30:30 between gilts, cash and property. She’ll need the income if she goes into a care home.”
“That’s all very well, Peter, but what about CGT? If she sells more than about ten grand’s worth she’s on for a hiding.”
“True, but there’s indexation allowance from 1982 to 1998 and taper relief after that. You’ll need advice, of course, and she’ll still get a mighty bill. Methuselah wouldn’t live long enough to earn out each year’s CGT allowance.”
“I don’t know, Peter. If she sells 90 per cent, the tax bill’s certain to be over £150,000.”
“Maybe,” Peter says. “But just consider what a BAE profit-warning would do. Better to sell half now, and take her tax on the chin rather than risk the lot. She also needs to start gifting straight away, perhaps via a trust, or you’ll all get clobbered on IHT.”
But gifting, as I tell him, is where she resolutely refuses to cooperate.
Saturday 14th October: Full messy jacket
The day I’d dreaded. Eunice dragged me up to Oxford Street for a bigger refit than the Ark Royal. Marched me into Selfridges, had assistants scurrying this way and that for jackets and shirts. Waved her gold card around as if she was Imelda Marcos, overlooking the fact that it is always me that picks up the bill. The anticipated fight soon came.