Occasional Letters & Memoirs (C) Donald Bullock.

From Donald.
18-01-10

I was referring today, to my 25 year old daughter, to a new service call I got, some years ago, to a detached house in a rural area. When I got there I was surprised to find that unlike any of the other places I'd passed, it was an ancient wooden bungalow, covered in matt and flaking green paint. I knocked on the door and I heard a man's voice say "Answer the door!" The lady of the house speedily did so and gave me a polite smile. I saw that she was old and thin, and dressed in long and dull clothes. She led me into the front room where the master of the house was sat in an old grandfather chair. He too was very thin, and, like the lady there, he was ancient.
I made a bit of light conversation as I fixed the set, and speedily found that the chap was Welsh, humourless and flinty. An ultra-religious chapel pair, I guessed. As I worked he stayed put, issuing commands to the lady. 'Put the light on for the
gentleman!' 'Open the curtains fully so he can see!' She speedily
obeyed at once, without a word.
I remarked that he certainly lived in a rural spot, and he replied 'Nothing like our home in Wales, at the top of a moun-tain. We didn't even 'ave a proper road to the 'ouse!'
When I'd fixed the set he commanded the lady to fetch his purse from a drawer. The purse was in his hand within 5 seconds. He paid me, and I left. As I passed through the door the lady followed me, pulled the door close behind her, grabbed my coat lapel and stared into my eyes. 'I'm not his wife!' she said, hoarsely and quietly. 'I'm his daughter!'
I found myself saying 'Oh - er - Right!' Er... Right!' Then I
walked briskly down the path. She was still there as I closed the gate.
As I drove home I wondered what it was all about. Perhaps I wasn't quite as worldly then as I might have been...

Don.

Hi Trevor,

Paul has been on to me asking, possibly on your behalf, where my scribbling has got to. He's right. Dunno if he told you, but our young, and only, daughter (after five boys) is to soon marry her Spanish fellah. Jeannette - Greeneyes - plans to hold a pre-wedding get-together here, and she wants everything RIGHT for it. This has occupied me a great deal. My first mistake with Jeannette was allowing her to chronicle my 'do-it-yourself' abilities - if abilities they be - and she expects me to turn my hand not just to anything, but to everything. How so many things should happen to just one fellah beats me.

I am now nudging eighty, and I can truthfully say that I have never found the time to be bored. I suppose the nearest I get to it is when I'm waiting for somebody to shut up so that I can speak. I am busier now that I ever was when I was working as a full-time engineer - in fact, when I consider how vast 'The Chestnuts' was in our former Church Road home, I simply can't see how I found the time to completely renovate the place as well as bring up the boys - and the girl - and to earn enough to run the whole lot round for thirty years. I sure have packed a lot of living into my life, and when I hear current whiners demanding more and more time-killing facilities from their councils it makes me sick.

I found time a fortnight ago to trip down a step in our pathway and over a 2" pipe I'd just fitted to channel our waste pool water away. Jeannette is of course telling everybody all about it, always preceding her spiel with the claim that I don't look at the floor when I trot about. She's right, and I have the most bump-free head in town. However, I broke my left thumb in the exercise and it gave me gyp. I also skinned my left knee and elbow and poked a huge bruise on my hip. It quite spoilt my appearance in my khaki shorts. Fortunately I can't spare the time to heal slowly, so I heal quickly. I fed the last of the scabs to Jeannette's little rat-faced dog Pixie - or is it Pukie? - a couple of days ago and now my thumb hardly bothers me, but the dog does.

I suppose that if you are hard up, and if you think that your readers might stand it, you might offer them this little whine of mine. Some might see how I suffer and send me some drink. My favourite is Bell's. Apart from this - what would you like me to write about?

By the way, did any of your readers take The Beano in its early
(1937) days? Any that did might remember the silly questions that ran along the top of the left hand pages, and their answers, running along the top of the right pages. One I can recall is 'What's worse than a centipede with corns?' Those who glanced right found the
answer: 'A giraffe with a sore throat'.

All of my jokes have stood the test of time.

Don