the property from hell, Cherry Ditchling, b) the delightful but mad pensioner, Minnie Drinkwater, and c) Estate Agency not being remotely connected with anything I ever really wanted to do.
Thus Mondays, particularly, throw most sharply into relief the huge gulf that exists between Charlie Simpson, intrepid sort of explorer-mountaineer / geology enthusiast / right-on anthropological and Everest expert etc., and Charlie Simpson, Willie Jones Jackson (Independent Estate Agents) negotiator.
Thus it is that my first utterance on returning from work is a heartfelt ‘sod that,’ albeit in mime.
Among my Father’s many and varied parts, lies an incongruous fondness for syrupy sentiment. Thus a side effect of his residence has been the arrival of a small clutch of little heart warming books about the place, which he seems to consult on a regular basis, in an attempt, I presume, to lend thoughtful profundity to his daily routine. Opening the one on the hall table tonight at random, I was, I noted, instructed to be especially kind and courteous to older people. Hmmm. The word Sod seems understatement indeed.
Why, oh why, oh why did I do it? My brother, God bless him, has about eight million bedrooms. And a Jacuzzi bath. And a hectare. And a shed. And a Mediterranean style verandah-type thingy. And an antipodean address. And patience. So why? Why? Someone tell me, before I burst with the pressure of the terrible injustice I have done to myself.
My home was once an unpretentious but cosy Georgian semi; not a palace, but certainly a comfortable refuge, a place that was me , that I could bring people to. But no longer. Not now my father has filled it with strange and terrible smells. Today’s is reminiscent of the bat cage at Bristol Zoo. And this is simply an overlay. Beneath it, the date chutney poo smell still lingers, competing with the stale-vomit quince-relish stench. I live now, like that fictional nursery rhyme woman, in one enormous Branston pickle jar. Or was it vinegar bottle? Whatever. Every room seems to sag under a fog of malevolent molecules. Every piece of clothing is infused with noxious fumes. No wonder we need windows with one hundred percent air containment integrity. Or people would talk, no question.
My father is driving me mad mad mad.
‘You’re driving me mad, Dad.’
There. I’ve said it. He smiles indulgently as I throw down my handbag and keys.
‘Tsh! Good day, dear?’
Dreadful. Depressing. Unproductive. Sad.
‘All right. I’ve had better. What are you making?’
He herds a heap of pips and slime a little further away down the worktop and returns to stirring the vat of bilge he has on the go.
‘Jam,’ he says, smiling happily, clinking sterilised coffee jars. ‘It’s my own adaptation. Windfall Surprise!’
Sounds gross.
‘Sounds entertaining.’ I say, scanning the debris for clues. ‘This wasp an escapee?’
‘Tsh! Don’t be daft, dear.’
My kitchen has become a malodorous hobbit hole. ‘I need a drink.’
‘Tsh! Before dinner, Charlotte?’
Oh, Christ. ‘Before dinner, yes . I generally do.’
I bang around stroppily, lobbing pots at the sink as I go. ‘Like one?’
He shakes his head. ‘Shepherd’s pie’s bubbling up nicely. There. Get yourself sorted. I plan to be straining at seven-o-five.’
I return to the hallway and kick off my shoes.
‘By the way,’ he calls out. ‘Your friend Rosemary telephoned. Says they’re in now, but in chaos, and she’ll try to call later. I told her to make sure it’s not after eight thirty. There’s a preserves programme - Bottle it! - on BBC2.’
I return to the kitchen and open the wine. Which is already three days into changing to vinegar, but my taste buds have now lost the power to tell.
So this is my lot for the foreseeable future. I am missing my son, I am missing my space, and my best friend is now two hundred miles away. In exchange for these losses, what compensations do I have? A father who inflames me, a man
Thus Mondays, particularly, throw most sharply into relief the huge gulf that exists between Charlie Simpson, intrepid sort of explorer-mountaineer / geology enthusiast / right-on anthropological and Everest expert etc., and Charlie Simpson, Willie Jones Jackson (Independent Estate Agents) negotiator.
Thus it is that my first utterance on returning from work is a heartfelt ‘sod that,’ albeit in mime.
Among my Father’s many and varied parts, lies an incongruous fondness for syrupy sentiment. Thus a side effect of his residence has been the arrival of a small clutch of little heart warming books about the place, which he seems to consult on a regular basis, in an attempt, I presume, to lend thoughtful profundity to his daily routine. Opening the one on the hall table tonight at random, I was, I noted, instructed to be especially kind and courteous to older people. Hmmm. The word Sod seems understatement indeed.
Why, oh why, oh why did I do it? My brother, God bless him, has about eight million bedrooms. And a Jacuzzi bath. And a hectare. And a shed. And a Mediterranean style verandah-type thingy. And an antipodean address. And patience. So why? Why? Someone tell me, before I burst with the pressure of the terrible injustice I have done to myself.
My home was once an unpretentious but cosy Georgian semi; not a palace, but certainly a comfortable refuge, a place that was me , that I could bring people to. But no longer. Not now my father has filled it with strange and terrible smells. Today’s is reminiscent of the bat cage at Bristol Zoo. And this is simply an overlay. Beneath it, the date chutney poo smell still lingers, competing with the stale-vomit quince-relish stench. I live now, like that fictional nursery rhyme woman, in one enormous Branston pickle jar. Or was it vinegar bottle? Whatever. Every room seems to sag under a fog of malevolent molecules. Every piece of clothing is infused with noxious fumes. No wonder we need windows with one hundred percent air containment integrity. Or people would talk, no question.
My father is driving me mad mad mad.
‘You’re driving me mad, Dad.’
There. I’ve said it. He smiles indulgently as I throw down my handbag and keys.
‘Tsh! Good day, dear?’
Dreadful. Depressing. Unproductive. Sad.
‘All right. I’ve had better. What are you making?’
He herds a heap of pips and slime a little further away down the worktop and returns to stirring the vat of bilge he has on the go.
‘Jam,’ he says, smiling happily, clinking sterilised coffee jars. ‘It’s my own adaptation. Windfall Surprise!’
Sounds gross.
‘Sounds entertaining.’ I say, scanning the debris for clues. ‘This wasp an escapee?’
‘Tsh! Don’t be daft, dear.’
My kitchen has become a malodorous hobbit hole. ‘I need a drink.’
‘Tsh! Before dinner, Charlotte?’
Oh, Christ. ‘Before dinner, yes . I generally do.’
I bang around stroppily, lobbing pots at the sink as I go. ‘Like one?’
He shakes his head. ‘Shepherd’s pie’s bubbling up nicely. There. Get yourself sorted. I plan to be straining at seven-o-five.’
I return to the hallway and kick off my shoes.
‘By the way,’ he calls out. ‘Your friend Rosemary telephoned. Says they’re in now, but in chaos, and she’ll try to call later. I told her to make sure it’s not after eight thirty. There’s a preserves programme - Bottle it! - on BBC2.’
I return to the kitchen and open the wine. Which is already three days into changing to vinegar, but my taste buds have now lost the power to tell.
So this is my lot for the foreseeable future. I am missing my son, I am missing my space, and my best friend is now two hundred miles away. In exchange for these losses, what compensations do I have? A father who inflames me, a man
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