The Tales We Keep Telling, 10: Injecting in the Kitchen

Another funny story from my last but one house. It was certainly full of characters, including at one point, a naked butler. He was not the naked butler for the house, for which I'm grateful, but did work as one in his spare time to earn some extra cash. He was also a bodybuilder, and had the most boring diet I've ever seen, consisting of rice, chicken, Bird's Eye frozen mixed vegetables, and Herinz barbecue sauce. It seemed to work for him, but I can't imagine eating the same thing that often.

He lived in the house around the same time as my now ex-landlord who, towards the end of my stay there, moved back into the house with his girlfriend. (He then sold the house, which is why I left.) I wandered downstairs into the kitchen (that's always where funny things happen), and encountered him and his girlfriend, with him injecting something into her stomach.

I can say with some certainty that I'd never seen someone doing this before outside of a medical context. I eventually plucked up the courage to ask: "Um.... what are you doing?"

"You know we're going on holiday soon?"

"Yeeeesss?"

"Well, this stuff helps you tan, we got it off the Internet. Do you want to try it?"

"Thanks but I think I'll stick with my existing skin colour."

Funnily enough, it did work, at least for his girlfriend, who turned a shade of light brown. He turned a weird shade of orange brown that no human being of any ethnic origin naturally displays. (I suspect he may have taken more than the recommended amount.)

Funny fact; my ex-landlord was a police sergeant.

The Tales We Keep Telling, 9: The Police in My Living Room

Yes, it's another tale of house-sharing. I actually have two stories that fit under this heading. One I don't tell for comic effect, since it was about something illegal (not done by me, I hasten to add), and is responsible for me knowing from first-hand experience that when the police raid your house, they really do bang on the door at 7am.

This dates from when I lived in the West End in a giant house with badly-designed walls. One of my housemates was a trainee policewoman, and responsible for me being a strong contender to win any competition about the biggest surprise you've ever got when you woke up. One Saturday morning, as I staggered down the stairs at my usual pre-coffee dopey amble, I suddenly realised my kitchen and living room were filled with about 15 policemen and women. (This is something of a surprise when you're wearing your elderly pyjamas and dressing gown.)

It turned out they'd had a social the night before for people on the police training course, and all of them had stayed over night at my house. In the living room.

I can only assume they must have slept stacked on top of each other.

Dry January

13 days dry, which is not in the same league as running a triathlon. Sort of the opposite. I don't exert myself to walk to the fridge and open another beer. Yummy, refreshing, Banana Bread Beer (dammit).

I have found that the most common response when people learn you are doing this is "Oh, that wouldn't make much difference to me - I hardly drink". Which is great, and I'm happy I know so many sensible drinkers (although funnily enough, they never seem keen to take up my offer "Well, why don't you do it then - it won't be tricky for you!")

I do wonder if one day I'll come across someone who just replies "Nah, couldn't do it - I like drinking too much".

If You Start The Year By Jumping In The North Sea...

The team of happy divers wades out

 

... it can only improve from that point onwards.

Actually that's not quite true, since I prefer to do my New Year's Day sea swim wearing just about every single piece of neoprene I own. Myself and my buddies headed out over the St Mary's Island Causeway, to admiring gasps (or possibly gasps of disbelief that anyone is that mad) from onlookers. The tide was up to our calves, but this is not a problem when you have 8mm of neoprene on your legs and some sturdy diving boots.

I waved cheerfully to my mother, who hopefully was not having a minor panic attack at seeing one of her offspring jumping blithely into the waves, and jumped in after everyone else.

St Mary's Island swims are usually called "rough water swims", for the simple reason that the object of the dive is to jump off the side of the island, and swim round to the point where the waves break, and splash around in them until you get tired of having seawater up your sinuses, and head back for a coffee and a fresh doughnut from the van in the car park. (Another reason St Mary's is such a popular site for divers.)

There were no seals, but there were plenty of waves. We jumped around in the waves, struck silly poses on rocks (and were promptly knocked off them into the sea), and performed the diving exit technique known as "Undignified Scramble" to get out. Wading back over the thigh-high water on the causeway, I waved to my (possibly relieved) mother, and made the universal hand signal for "Have you got the Thermos?"