Ted aren’t in – probably on the first of their twice-daily visits to Waitrose. Dad is at home, but says he hasn’t got time to talk to me, because he’s about to leave on a trip: he’s going away for a few days to Cousin Mike’s.
I thought Cousin Mike was dead, but Dad assures me he’s alive and well, and living near Heathrow with his second wife.
‘I’m at the age when family becomes more important,’ he says, when I ask why he’s suddenly taking an interest in second cousins, once removed – if not departed. Then I ask for Mike’s phone number and he gives it to me, though he says he thinks they’ll be ‘out and about’ for most of the weekend.
The duty calls have taken a fraction of the time they usually take, and now the rest of the day is stretching unappealingly ahead – so I ring Dinah, just for a chat.
‘Dad’s gone to visit Cousin Mike,’ I say.
‘Thought he was dead,’ says Dinah. ‘We went to his funeral. Remember?’
‘That’s what I thought too, but Dad says that was Cousin Fred.’
‘Christ,’ says Dinah. ‘We have far too many bloody relatives, living or dead. Why’s Dad suddenly decided to visit him?’
‘He says family’s becoming more important to him,’ I say.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ says Dinah. ‘Give me Mike’s phone number and hurry up.’
Dinah is so bossy sometimes – but I don’t have to do as she says, do I? Not without question, anyway.
‘Why?’ I say, mainly because that’s the best I can do.
‘Well, Dad’s obviously up to something,’ she says. ‘God, you’re dim, given what you do for a living. No wonder the country’s in such a mess.’
I give her Mike’s number, but I don’t want to know what’s going to happen next. Why are women automatically suspicious of men? Is it because we’re genetically paranoid, or is it actually because of the stuff they get up to, if left unsupervised?
When I finally crack and ask him about his trip, Max makes his inability to recall the name of his hotel, for the whole of the twenty-four hours that he was staying in it, sound perfectly understandable. It was booked for him; the company guide had all the details; they were driven there from the airport by coach; and it was dark by the time that they arrived. Then he couldn’t read the name from the hotel signage or stationery because it was in a completely over-the-top Gothic script. Or so he says.
When I still look a little dubious, he gets cross and falls back on that positively antique old chestnut: ‘If you don’t trust me after all these years, then what the hell is the bloody point?’
The ‘after all these years’ bit is the point, but I’m now so confused that I drop the subject. I almost wish there had been a surgery today. I know exactly what to do to help constituents with their problems.
SUNDAY, 27 JUNE
Max still isn’t talking to me after the ‘after all these years’ conversation, so I spend the day helping Connie with some job applications. She’s decided she’d be better off in a call centre job, as she wouldn’t be able to tell whether people had thin hair and poking-out ears over the phone.
I can’t believe the hourly rate that some of them pay – it’s almost as much as Max gets, since the two pay cuts he’s had to accept during the last year; and yet he is twice Connie’s age, if not more. I sometimes wonder if we wouldn’t be better off if we separated, especially as all my single parent friends manage a holiday at least once a year. I have no idea how they do it.
Talking of single parents, Dinah phones in the evening – to discuss the one she and I are lucky enough to share. ‘Dad was up to something, the bastard,’ she says.
‘Why?’ I say. ‘How d’you know?’
‘I phoned him on his mobile at lunchtime – pretended I’d just remembered it was Father’s Day – but he sounded a bit flustered, and didn’t try to guilt-trip me. At all .’
‘Unusual, I grant you, but what’s your
I thought Cousin Mike was dead, but Dad assures me he’s alive and well, and living near Heathrow with his second wife.
‘I’m at the age when family becomes more important,’ he says, when I ask why he’s suddenly taking an interest in second cousins, once removed – if not departed. Then I ask for Mike’s phone number and he gives it to me, though he says he thinks they’ll be ‘out and about’ for most of the weekend.
The duty calls have taken a fraction of the time they usually take, and now the rest of the day is stretching unappealingly ahead – so I ring Dinah, just for a chat.
‘Dad’s gone to visit Cousin Mike,’ I say.
‘Thought he was dead,’ says Dinah. ‘We went to his funeral. Remember?’
‘That’s what I thought too, but Dad says that was Cousin Fred.’
‘Christ,’ says Dinah. ‘We have far too many bloody relatives, living or dead. Why’s Dad suddenly decided to visit him?’
‘He says family’s becoming more important to him,’ I say.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ says Dinah. ‘Give me Mike’s phone number and hurry up.’
Dinah is so bossy sometimes – but I don’t have to do as she says, do I? Not without question, anyway.
‘Why?’ I say, mainly because that’s the best I can do.
‘Well, Dad’s obviously up to something,’ she says. ‘God, you’re dim, given what you do for a living. No wonder the country’s in such a mess.’
I give her Mike’s number, but I don’t want to know what’s going to happen next. Why are women automatically suspicious of men? Is it because we’re genetically paranoid, or is it actually because of the stuff they get up to, if left unsupervised?
When I finally crack and ask him about his trip, Max makes his inability to recall the name of his hotel, for the whole of the twenty-four hours that he was staying in it, sound perfectly understandable. It was booked for him; the company guide had all the details; they were driven there from the airport by coach; and it was dark by the time that they arrived. Then he couldn’t read the name from the hotel signage or stationery because it was in a completely over-the-top Gothic script. Or so he says.
When I still look a little dubious, he gets cross and falls back on that positively antique old chestnut: ‘If you don’t trust me after all these years, then what the hell is the bloody point?’
The ‘after all these years’ bit is the point, but I’m now so confused that I drop the subject. I almost wish there had been a surgery today. I know exactly what to do to help constituents with their problems.
SUNDAY, 27 JUNE
Max still isn’t talking to me after the ‘after all these years’ conversation, so I spend the day helping Connie with some job applications. She’s decided she’d be better off in a call centre job, as she wouldn’t be able to tell whether people had thin hair and poking-out ears over the phone.
I can’t believe the hourly rate that some of them pay – it’s almost as much as Max gets, since the two pay cuts he’s had to accept during the last year; and yet he is twice Connie’s age, if not more. I sometimes wonder if we wouldn’t be better off if we separated, especially as all my single parent friends manage a holiday at least once a year. I have no idea how they do it.
Talking of single parents, Dinah phones in the evening – to discuss the one she and I are lucky enough to share. ‘Dad was up to something, the bastard,’ she says.
‘Why?’ I say. ‘How d’you know?’
‘I phoned him on his mobile at lunchtime – pretended I’d just remembered it was Father’s Day – but he sounded a bit flustered, and didn’t try to guilt-trip me. At all .’
‘Unusual, I grant you, but what’s your
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