has any time for are 'Sitting having a nice cup of coffee' and 'slamming a fist down on the nuclear button'. A tea towel left damp on a work surface is not a tea towel left damp on a work surface, but a crucial representative of a whole range of issues and concerns – some of which will possibly include England, something I said three years ago and my mother. I admire someone always committed to giving 100% like that; I respect that level of unjudgmental intensity. So, if at any point in the future a hooded figure is seen tipping Margret's drugged body over the side of a ferry, then that person will certainly not be me.
94
Before I leave our holiday completely behind, let me just mention one other thing. We set off to drive down to Swansea to get the ferry to Ireland in a car stuffed by Margret with pretty much every article of clothing our family owns. This is Margret's way: if I take the kids out to the park, I will take the kids; if Margret takes them, she will also take along four extra pairs of shoes, 'just in case'. (And while, during my trip, they will be careful, during hers they will fall knee-deep into a fetid duck pond six times.) Anyway, in the back seat, wedged in between all the garments, are First Born and Second Born. First Born is hunched over his Game Boy, his thumbs twitching, Second Born is peering excitedly out of the window. Margret reverses off our drive, goes to the end of the road, and turns left. Second Born, having held it in long enough to attain a new personal best, now says, 'Are we there yet?'
'No,' replies Margret. 'We have to drive for two and a half hours.'
'
Two and a half hours
?' Peter gasps, incredulous. 'What are we driving two and half hours for?'
'Knowing Mom,' First Born says, without looking up from his Game Boy, 'it'll be to visit a garden centre.'
Sometimes, ladies and gentlemen, there is simply no need for blood tests to know without
any doubt whatsoever
who a child's father is.
95
Right, I've returned from Sweden and, quite apart from everything else I have to do, I naturally have nearly a thousand emails to deal with – having indolently not dealt with any new ones that arrived while I was running around Stockholm and Gothenburg for four days. (My Swedish publishers were charming beyond words, incidentally, so I'd like you all to buy the Swedish version of TMGAIHAA – on view here . Even if, in fact, you don't speak Swedish.) The email backlog is my fault, clearly, but I do have to try to make some impression on it before I leave again. Not for Stockholm this time, but, even more excitingly, for Poole. I'll update you Mailing Listers with extra Swedish tales when I get the chance, obviously, but let me just quickly pop by to mention this:
On the day that I had to leave for Sweden, Margret drove me to the city centre so that I could catch my train. She pulled up outside the station, and I jumped out and snatched my bags off the back seat.
'Bring me back something,' she called through the open window of the car.
'Like what?' I replied.
'Something typically Swedish.'
'What on earth… I mean, Sweden's famous for three things: herrings, suicide and pornography. What do you expect me to buy for you, exactly?'
'Well, not the pornography…' She waved a hand dismissively. 'I prefer to watch that here, on my own, at the theatre.' With which, let us say, 'Somewhat Intriguing' statement, she slipped the car into gear and drove away. Leaving me standing there outside the railway station; with a bag in each hand and my head full of considerably more questions than answers.
Dear God, but the woman knows how to make an exit.
96
What's the most terrible sound in the world? The sound that crumples your soul, jerks fishhooks in your nerves and makes you want to curl up in some dark, distant corner with a coat pulled over your head. The banshee-like squeal of your tyres as you fight with an unresponsive wheel on the blur of a mountain road? The sudden creak of an
94
Before I leave our holiday completely behind, let me just mention one other thing. We set off to drive down to Swansea to get the ferry to Ireland in a car stuffed by Margret with pretty much every article of clothing our family owns. This is Margret's way: if I take the kids out to the park, I will take the kids; if Margret takes them, she will also take along four extra pairs of shoes, 'just in case'. (And while, during my trip, they will be careful, during hers they will fall knee-deep into a fetid duck pond six times.) Anyway, in the back seat, wedged in between all the garments, are First Born and Second Born. First Born is hunched over his Game Boy, his thumbs twitching, Second Born is peering excitedly out of the window. Margret reverses off our drive, goes to the end of the road, and turns left. Second Born, having held it in long enough to attain a new personal best, now says, 'Are we there yet?'
'No,' replies Margret. 'We have to drive for two and a half hours.'
'
Two and a half hours
?' Peter gasps, incredulous. 'What are we driving two and half hours for?'
'Knowing Mom,' First Born says, without looking up from his Game Boy, 'it'll be to visit a garden centre.'
Sometimes, ladies and gentlemen, there is simply no need for blood tests to know without
any doubt whatsoever
who a child's father is.
95
Right, I've returned from Sweden and, quite apart from everything else I have to do, I naturally have nearly a thousand emails to deal with – having indolently not dealt with any new ones that arrived while I was running around Stockholm and Gothenburg for four days. (My Swedish publishers were charming beyond words, incidentally, so I'd like you all to buy the Swedish version of TMGAIHAA – on view here . Even if, in fact, you don't speak Swedish.) The email backlog is my fault, clearly, but I do have to try to make some impression on it before I leave again. Not for Stockholm this time, but, even more excitingly, for Poole. I'll update you Mailing Listers with extra Swedish tales when I get the chance, obviously, but let me just quickly pop by to mention this:
On the day that I had to leave for Sweden, Margret drove me to the city centre so that I could catch my train. She pulled up outside the station, and I jumped out and snatched my bags off the back seat.
'Bring me back something,' she called through the open window of the car.
'Like what?' I replied.
'Something typically Swedish.'
'What on earth… I mean, Sweden's famous for three things: herrings, suicide and pornography. What do you expect me to buy for you, exactly?'
'Well, not the pornography…' She waved a hand dismissively. 'I prefer to watch that here, on my own, at the theatre.' With which, let us say, 'Somewhat Intriguing' statement, she slipped the car into gear and drove away. Leaving me standing there outside the railway station; with a bag in each hand and my head full of considerably more questions than answers.
Dear God, but the woman knows how to make an exit.
96
What's the most terrible sound in the world? The sound that crumples your soul, jerks fishhooks in your nerves and makes you want to curl up in some dark, distant corner with a coat pulled over your head. The banshee-like squeal of your tyres as you fight with an unresponsive wheel on the blur of a mountain road? The sudden creak of an
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