Ian Duncan Smith in his speech to the Tory Party conference: ‘Don’t underestimate the determination of a quiet man.’
No, definitely not. Nor his lack of charisma and hair.
Saturday, October 12
Change of plan – we met Sarah and Mike at their new place. Or Kidsville, as Jules has started calling it. Mike has worked out a plan of campaign – some of the jobs contracted out, some in (mainly him/occasionally Sarah at weekends, but also some help from the in-laws and Cory, if we can fit it in). And he wanted me to walk round with him and confirm that it was viable; or otherwise suggest alternatives.
The first two-pronged attack consists of double-glazing all round (quote obtained, agreed, work to start in two weeks) and redecorating the main rooms. We agreed to start with a stripping party. To get rid of all the floral wallpaper, that is. Mike will supply booze and food, the ladies (in between stripping) will cook enough hot dogs and burgers to supply America for a week, and about 15-20 of us (family, friends, work colleagues) will blitz the living and dining rooms and two bedrooms, plus anything else floral if there is time. Date to be decided, depending on when most people are available.
And Sam smiled and smiled. Must be a good plan.
Then my grandson and I watched out first football match together – Slovenia v England (2004 European Championship qualifiers have started already, five minutes after end of World Cup). All right, he slept through most of it, but he agreed with me that to come back from 1-0 down to win 1-2 showed some grit that was sadly missed against Brazil.
Sunday, October 13
Jules and I have come to a decision during the past week or so – Arnie can have his £10K as a gift. Which means, of course, I shall have to write £10K cheques for the other sibs. But we can afford it, so I rang him up this morning to deliver the good news. He sounded pleased, but not that pleased. I wonder why.
We popped over to our old/Cory’s new place mid-afternoon. They’ve got a long way to go but it’s already taking on Chrissy’s stamp. We just hope they haven’t rushed into all this too soon.
10.35pm.
Oh, my God – there’s been a bombing on Bali; about 180 feared dead. We could have been there. We froze when we heard the news (half an hour ago). Well, a cold shiver went through us. Has our luck changed, or what!?
I don’t think either of us will get much sleep tonight.
Monday, October 14
The new partnership officially started today; Sally started her new job. Her task for the next few weeks, until we can move into Ironmonger Street, is to acquire all the new equipment we need, at the best possible price, arrange its installation, arrange for our press to be moved (no minor job), for the best possible price, and co-ordinate it all so we can open by early December.
I arrived at work still in sombre mood after watching the pictures from Bali on the early news. But life in Oxfordshire has to go on. I spent the morning with Sally, going through the nitty-gritty of the move (impressing on her that she would be spending her own money as well as mine and Ronnie’s), while Ronnie ploughed on with his Christmas orders.
Jules came in at lunchtime specifically to meet Sally, whom she liked immediately, and then to take me to lunch and to the carpet shop (she wants all the swirly bits out by Christmas).
The first thing she said over a righteous vegetable lasagne was: ‘They’ll be married within the year.’
It took me a second or two to work it out, but I said anyway, ‘Er … John Major and Edwina Curry?’
‘Don’t be daft. You know we always used to joke about Ronnie marrying Sarah … well he’s found his replacement Sarah. You were right – she’s just like her.’
‘A bit like her, I said. Similar hair, similar build, that’s all.’
‘Same coy glint in her eye. Same sort of attitude. Same – niceness.’
‘Niceness? Nice word.’
‘You know what I mean. It’s fate.’
‘Yes, my sweet.’
NOTES
More moving stories and pictures from Bali. Just innocent kids in a nightclub. Having a bit of fun. Then boom – gone. What sort of warped mind can justify that?
Al-Qaeda are the main suspects. There’s a surprise.
Tuesday, October 15
Spent the morning helping Ronnie; part of the afternoon going through the intricacies of the press with Sally. She loves it. She may after all be an old-fashioned ‘smell that ink!’ type of girl.
Jules is right: she is very like Sarah in her ways. Don’t know if she’s right about their relationship, though. Ronnie’s still very tied up with Mia and her problems. Besides, I doubt whether he’ll want to commit himself again so soon after the agonies he’s gone through with Mia.
Wednesday, October 16
Helped Ronnie again morning. Then took the afternoon off and played golf with FR! First game for ages; first weekday game for an aeon. We both felt as if we were playing truant! Leisurely pint and cigar afterwards.
The worst part of the day, annoyingly the bit I had really been looking forward to, was watching England play like dummies against Macedonia. We could only manage a 2-2 draw at home, and Seaman got caught out again by another freak goal. Poor lad. Only one I felt any sympathy for.
NOTES
Alain Baxter has been cleared of deliberately taking drugs, but he hasn’t had his skiing medal reinstated. Harsh lesson, boy, but that’s life.
Thursday, October 17
I have just listened to two more of those one-sided conversations with Jules; this time her unseen respondent was her little sister, being initially uncharacteristically bold and forthright. Not to mention unkind. But, characteristically, her timing was impeccably out of kilter.
I can’t remember too many of Jules’ responses because I was too surprised by the unmistakable gist coming through the ether. As Jules soon confirmed afterwards, Jennifer wanted us to know that Arnie was a pig who didn’t deserve a penny. She claimed she had heard him say he couldn’t afford to pay back our £10K, and anyway had no intention of doing so. Jules asked her to hang on for a moment.
‘Did you post those cheques?’ she asked me.
‘Not till today,’ I replied. ‘I didn’t think there was any hurry.’
Jules took up the phone again and explained we had decided to convert the loan to a gift. And Jenny – and the others – would also be getting another £10K. The cheque was winging its way to her as they spoke.
There was a mutual silence, and then I heard a wail on the other end of the phone. I even caught the yelled, tear-stained, snot-entangled words that eventually followed: ‘The bastard called me a perverted dyke!’
Jules told her to put the phone down, have a stiff drink and calm herself, and she’d phone Jennifer back in ten minutes. She did, and discovered that all of this had happened after Dad’s funeral, when most people had left, and Jenny and her friend Naomi were helping Mags to clear up. Arnie, who had been drinking whisky as though prohibition was about to be imposed, but apparently with little effect, had eventually succumbed to the powerful concoction of buckets of alcohol laced with grief and lashed out at the nearest target.
He had made a ‘sort of apology’ two days later, no doubt prompted by Mags, and they had agreed not to mention it again. But this morning Naomi had rung to say goodbye – she was leaving the area.
Jules and I believe Jennifer. She may have been hurt but she wouldn’t have invented the stuff about Arnie and the loan; not Jennifer. It’s done now, though. We will just have to accept that Arnie was grief-raddled. And while we learn to accept it, we will keep our own counsel.
But we still don’t know if Jenny’s a dyke!
Friday, October 18
Took the day off. And why not? The recipients of £10K all phoned to say thanks, and this prompted me to do my duty, too. I phoned Dorothy Butler to enquire after Eric. He was home but progressing very slowly; she would have put me on to him but he was having a nap and she didn’t like to wake him. It didn’t sound good.
Email from FR:
What do you call a gathering of witches in a hot-tub? A self-cleaning coven …
NOTES
Apparently the LCFC situation isn’t as clear-cut as the papers originally made out. The players are deferring part of their wages to help the club through the crisis. Well done, boys! Sorry I doubted you.
Sunday, October 20
I was ‘allowed’ to play golf (Chris L played like a dream, I had a nightmare, and it cost me £3.50), even though we were having the full gathering for Sunday lunch; minus Mia, which was probably just as well. It was really Jules’s ‘welcome to the family’ gesture for Sally, so she must have been confident in her ability to deliver on time, or have been reassured by Sarah and Chrissy’s joint assertion that they would both be sous-chefs for the day. And then there was the news that, despite, or possibly because of, Chrissy’s mum’s culinary talents, Chrissy was a dab-hand with roast poultry. So a small turkey it was – and the mood was such that it could have been Christmas.
And as last Christmas, the turkey was only half an hour late (2.30p.m.), and there was a reasonable excuse for its tardiness. Chrissy took the blame for insisting it ‘rested’ for an extra 10 minutes, and besides, Sarah had to change Sam, but we chaps knew this was all just a ‘girls-solidarity’ ploy cooked up by the chefs.
Sally slotted in like she had been in the team for ages. And Jules did her darnedest not to matchmake. ‘Don’t need to,’ she whispered when I raised an eyebrow or two at one of her none-too-subtle remarks.
A great day. Our extended family is a real joy. Well, the Oxfordshire bit. It seems Leicester’s jinxed at the moment.
They had all gone when I dropped three stacked dinner plates on the tiled kitchen floor, smashing half our best Denby set. Jules was not amused. Nor was I – I didn’t even feel them go.
What I can feel suddenly is pain in every joint of my hands and feet.
Monday, October 21
10pm.
Rang Doc Macca. She assured me she had contacted the hospital to make an appointment for me; it was simply that the NHS was still chasing its tail, but she would make enquiries to make sure I was on the list.
My SLF had been pretty painful when I awoke, and it felt as if I had cramp in my feet. But my stretching/wiggling exercises had things back to something approaching normality by the time I made the call.
I went into work some time after ten. My two partners were on top of things (and Sally was bubbling over with our Sunday gathering) so I came home after lunch, settled in my study, and started writing; leaving Jules weeding, to be followed, she said, by reading.
‘Mad Dogs And Roy Keane’ has metamorphosed into something slightly different from my original idea. I shall probably need a new title. I was at it until Jules called me for dinner at about 7pm. I now have two-and-a-half very good chapters; possibly the best stuff I have ever written.
Diary, you may have to take a back seat for a while.
NOTES
Biggest news of the day (yet to make the papers): FR phoned an old journo mate on The News Of The Screws, who revealed that the so-called sex-crazed celeb in the alleged Ulrika Jonsson scandal is John Leslie! That nice lad from Blue Peter!
Ronnie and Sally refused to believe it; Jules found it hard to believe but knows FR’s contacts are usually spot-on.
Tuesday, October 22
10pm.
Work morning; writing afternoon. Good.
NOTES
The patron saint of Leicester – Gary Lineker – is putting together a consortium to buy LCFC from the administrators. If it comes off he’ll be deified. It looks like anyone with a wodge of cash to spare is welcome to join.
I am tempted. Seriously. I am tempted. The club has meant a lot to me over the years. But I am fortunate in not being a die-hard Foxes fanatic, because bankrolling a football club is God’s way of telling you you’ve got too much money.
Besides, I’d hate to see Jules put away for attempted murder.
Wednesday, October 23
Work morning, lunch ECO with Cory (Chrissy was ‘up North’ looking at some Jags), writing afternoon. If I can’t sell Mad Dogs, there is no God. Strange – I thought I knew that anyway.
NOTES
Education Secretary Estelle Morris resigned after failing her Government exams. She admitted she wasn’t up to the job! Well done, girl. You get top marks from me.
If every politician who wasn‘t up to the job admitted it … Gordon Brown would be running the country on his own.
Thursday, October 24
Both my elbows were aching when I awoke this morning, which was a bit disconcerting, but I think it was only temporary, and unconnected with my SLF (perhaps I slept awkwardly, or something). They were very SLF first thing, and quite painful, but this afternoon’s writing (computer) and this evening’s (ballpoint) seem to have had no adverse effect.
NOTES
So now the whole world knows that John Leslie, that nice lad from Blue Peter, can make a sex scandal from sticky-backed antics and unwanted urges. Allegedly, as they say in all the best comedy quiz shows.
Ronnie and Sally were very impressed that I – and FR, of course – were privy to this information before the rest of the nation. Excluding those who know a national journalist.
Chechen rebels – some of them women – have stormed a Moscow theatre and are holding the entire audience hostage.
Friday, October 25
Sad day. Eric Butler died yesterday. Another heart attack and he was gone, according to that fount of all knowledge, Pricey. He rang me at work mid-morning. I stopped what I was doing and wrote a longish letter of condolence to Dorothy. A eulogy almost. Well, Eric was a good man, and I judged that was what Dorothy needed for comfort.
Instead of going to the pub with Ronnie and Sally, as I had originally planned, I got in the Peugeot and drove to Dorothy’s to deliver the letter. The front curtains were drawn, and there were three cars outside, but I didn’t think it appropriate to gatecrash what looked like a family gathering. So I just popped the letter through the box.
I went home, told Jules, and we spent a very quiet afternoon and evening. She pottered; I wrote. I wrote some very moving stuff; says so as shouldn’t. Shame there had to be a death to bring this out of me.
Sunday, October 27
Golfers, mad? Who said that?
All week weather forecasters had been predicting a storm of near-Michael Fish proportions for today, but after a few phone calls during the week we had agreed to meet up anyway at our usual time, just in case Oxfordshire got off lightly, but if it was a tree-shaker we could just have an amiable coffee and then go home.
Well, come 8am, the course was open, a few pairs were out, and we convinced ourselves that we had played in similar conditions before. I think we should have twigged that we hadn’t played in anything quite that bad when on the first tee Dave’s ball wouldn’t stay on the peg; and when he eventually played it from the ground the ball spent the second part of its flight coming back towards us. We completed the hole, anyway, and a seven was the best score, which was also a bit of a clue. On the par-three second, six was the best score. But as we battled on to the next tee we thought for a minute that the storm was easing slightly. By the time we were on the tee it was raging. Trees were creaking ominously, it was almost impossible to stand up. We struggled back to the clubhouse for that amiable coffee; perked up by a drop of whisky.
Jules and I spent the afternoon refining our ideas for the pool – left abandoned, it seemed, many months ago. We had a bit of a spat, but a good-tempered one, deciding how big the pool should be, but eventually agreed on two possible ideas. Basically a lap pool, but with a shallow but bigger circular area at one end for our grandchildren. I did a couple of rough sketches, and then we looked up some pool companies on tinternet. Didn’t realise there were so many so close.
> MLTJ. Nearly had to fake it! Hung in there and just made it in the end.
NOTES
The TV bulletin was a litany of bad news. Hope Dorothy wasn’t watching.
Russian troops ended the theatre siege by pumping in a sleeping gas – and somewhere in the region of 120 hostages died, from the effects of the gas.
Richard Harris died. Peacefully, thankfully. (Who will play Dumbeldore now!?)
And six people died in the Great Storm, including one woman in Oxford. I wonder if the other three golfers felt as bad – guilty perhaps – as I did on hearing that news. We must have been bloody stupid. In the end, we were bloody lucky.
Monday, October 28
As David Brent would say, The Office was an oasis in a sea of darkness. Jules and I laughed like demented hyenas at the brilliant Comic Relief jokes and Brent’s impromptu dance.
Tuesday, October 29
I thought life was back on an even keel after a placid, quite busy day at the office yesterday. I should have known better. Life is never that simple.
Bob Eckman came in ten minutes after we had opened. Had I heard about Eric? he wanted to know. As sad as he was at the news, Bob had an extra reason for being depressed. He had three unpaid invoices piled up at Butler & Stone. Eric had been about to sort out the first two when he had his first heart attack; now Bob was owed another £1,500 for October. It was money he needed, to pay his employee, to keep his own cash-flow going. Bob didn’t want my direct intervention again – I had done more than my bit for him – but he wanted my advice on how best to approach Dermot Stone.
The Trouble With Money (The diary of a Lottery winner) Page 18