Walking In The Footsteps Of Our Father: Dispatches From The Homeland

In 1974 my dad left Sri Lanka for England. It was supposed to be a short stay, a temporary arrangement for university education. He would then return home and embrace a dutiful Hindu path. Only it didn’t turn out that way. 43 years on and my dad remains in Blighty’s shores. The life that was mapped out for him never materialised. To cite the Robert Frost poem, he took The Road Not Taken.

Being one of seven siblings and the eldest, it was expected that my dad would marry within his community. In doing so he would serve as a totemic model to his siblings. Therefore, his decision to marry my mum, an English girl, came with huge ideological challenges. A Hindu is meant to put deference above all else. Is it respectful, my dad thought, to put love before religion? In finding love outside of his culture, he feared hurting the culture he loved.

Although my dad’s choice of partner denies him the moniker ‘dutiful Hindu,’ in regards to his position as husband, father and friend he has been completely dutiful. Following the customs of religion is important, but consciously living and leading a life of sacrifice is, I would argue, much more important. If my dad’s choice of bride was selfish, then so be it – the rest of his life has been defined by selflessness, so surely a little aberration can be forgiven.

This year my dad took the decision to retire from work. For a man that has made a life out of earning a living it's of some significance. To mark the event, my brother and I booked for the three of us to go to Sri Lanka. Dad’s previous trips home have been clouded by the spectre of war; the recent ease in tensions would allow us to see the beauty of the country without the blight of military check-points. It was always his dream to show us the place of his birth and with our calendars in alignment, we were able to make the journey; a journey I call: Walking In The Footsteps Of Our Father: Dispatches From The Homeland.

Walking In The Footsteps  Of Our Father

Monday 10^th April

Dad and I journey on the train from St Albans and meet my brother at Gatwick airport. Stopping for coffee, my brother had us pose for a selfie. Normally, I’m dead against selfies, perceiving them to be emblematic of a tech-obsessed world, more interested in self than others. On this occasion though, I thought, ‘This picture has all the ingredients to generate views. It has the sentiment of family. It also features a senior citizen. The aah! Factor is high on this one.’ I spent the whole time in Departures asking my brother how many 'likes' it had.

On the plane I watched the classic double bill of Captain Fantastic and Moana. My brother recommended the former, arguing that it was Little Miss Sunshine without the schmaltz. He was right. As an educationalist (I prefer this term to teacher, as it makes me sound more learned) I found it particularly interesting, looking as it does at the debate between home school and government education, making valid cases for both. It also features the immortal line, “Let’s honour mum’s life by flushing her down the toilet.” Moana is great too. The Polynesian location is animated beautifully, and Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson is hilarious as Maui.

Arriving in Sri Lanka I expected to be receive a hero’s welcome. After all, the country had been waiting for me to visit for 31 years, so I couldn’t even begin to imagine the anticipation when news outlets broke the homecoming story. Unfortunately, my dad must have phoned ahead and asked for a low-key reception – probably highlighting how my role as a public servant makes me embarrassed by undue attention – consequently, we were ushered, without fanfare, through passport control into the arms of our excited family.

This did not materialise.

Tuesday 11^th April

Heading through the streets of Colombo was something of a blur. I was exhausted from watching Disney animations, simply unused to seeing things in 3D. But what jumped out at me were the trees. Beautiful palm trees stretched the highway, a visible sign that I was elsewhere, far from home. The only other thing I remember about the journey was the modes of transport. Few cars were in attendance. Most of the vehicles that littered the streets were tuk-tuks, glorified Go-Karts that dart deviantly through Columbo’s lane markings.

Arriving at our Air B&B we settled down for an impossible lunch made by our aunt and got some shut eye. In the evening we made the bold decision to hire a tuk-tuk through the city’s rush hour. To say I was afraid would be an understatement. In getting a mortgage with The Girl we made the sensible decision to take out life insurance. In taking that rickshaw I was convinced it wouldn’t be long before I made The Girl rich. Unfortunately for The Girl’s bank balance I survived and was thus able to enjoy the home cooking of my other aunt.

Tuk-tuk.

Wednesday 12^th April

We woke up very early to make the long journey to Jaffna, the northern city where my dad was born. For the trip we decided to hire a driver, feeling this would reduce our journey times. Rajun picked us up, along with our aunt and uncle, at 5 o’clock in the morning. As a general rule I don’t wake up before milkmen, but I thought I would make an exception for my dad’s homecoming. On the way we stopped in Anuradhapuru, a city that is as hard to sound as it’s to spell. The city used to be home to Sri Lanka’s royal family thousands of years ago; today it’s something of a Buddhist stronghold, harbouring the oldest fig tree in existence. A tree that was said to be planted in 288 BC, which therefore makes it older than Jesus and Batman’s Adam West combined.

The sacred tree.

After feigning interest in the tree, we made our way to Jaffna. Sadly, Jaffna has been badly affected by the troubles in Sri Lanka. The civil war began in 1983 with the Tamil Tigers seeking self-determination away from Sinhalese control. You see Sri Lanka has two languages, two people: Tamils, mainly based in the North, and Sinhalese, who are rooted in the centre and south. As a British colony, Sri Lankan Tamils found favour for accepting the poor pay and working conditions the Sinhala refused. When Sri Lanka gained independence, the balance shifted the other way. My dad tells me of how as a Tamil you needed a higher pass mark to get into university; how Tamil wasn’t recognised as a national language and how rights eroded. There are, however, Tamils who believed the Tigers went too far in seeking self-rule, intimidating not only Sinhalese people but Tamils too. With Jaffna a centre of conflict, people fled their homes – including many of my family members. Having a look at Google Maps before we left, my dad was relieved to see much of his area still standing, aware that many other parts weren’t so lucky.

Arriving late into Jaffna, I’m pleased to say I immediately created an international incident. The approaching weekend was Sri Lankan New Year, a celebratory weekend of prayer and festivities. On the floor of the hotel foyer, spelt out in dyed rice, were the words ‘Happy New Year.’ Unaware of this, I stepped back and put my foot through it. The hotel manager looked at me as I had kicked a baby. I feared immediate deportation. Luckily, my embarrassed apology acted as the British Embassy, and all was forgiven.

I didn't trust this man to come to my diplomatic rescue.

Late in the evening we had a meal by the pool where we witnessed an unseemly argument between hotel guests. All eyes were taken off the food as became absorbed in the bare-chested showdown between pool attendees. It was like the scene in Women In Love, only this was Men At War. After lots of shouting the men were eventually separated. Watching a fight made me feel right at home and made me appreciate that colour, language and religion may separate us, but fundamentally we’re all people that love a scrap. 

Thursday 13^th April

Being in Jaffna was a humbling experience for my brother and me. We are so cosseted in England; conflict is a disagreement over what film to watch, not a foot soldier at your door. We were lucky enough to go to the temple my dad once worshipped in; there a priest performed puja blessing our arrival. From there we went to the home my dad grew up in. Fortunately, it is now home to a hospitable family, who showed real kindness into letting us in, thereby allowing my dad to guide us around. The back garden was alien to us, accommodating as it did a bath, well and outhouse. We’ve always heard stories about my dad’s childhood, but the fact we’re now able to give definition to those outlines is something very special indeed.

My dad and sister outside their old home.

In the evening we made our way down to the hotel bar to be told that no alcohol could be served because of Sri Lankan new year. My dad devised a cunning plan, requesting drinks be brought to our room, thereby negating the ‘no drinks in public rule.’ So there we sat, four men (including Rajun) in a small room, drinking bottles of beer before our night out. With one sip of the bottle my 64 year old father had transformed into a college room-mate. Fortunately, we didn’t discuss girls, daytime TV and cannabis legislation, but I enjoyed the poetry of the situation all the same.

Friday 14^th April

We woke up early to make our way to Dambulla. On the way we stopped in Habarana where we ate and then joined a driver for safari. Standing on the back of a jeep, I initially felt like a soldier patrolling an occupied war zone; this macho reverie was soon broken, however, when my hat nearly blew off and I cried, ‘Whoops a daisy!’ The safari around the national park allowed my dad to snap some rare birds. My brother and me weren’t really too bothered about these feathered friends, believing that when it comes to nature enthusiasm correlates to size. Size came moments later when we saw a herd of elephants chilling about the watering hole. One elephant was so unfazed by our jeep that he came within touching distance. Usually I’m nonplussed by nature: Attenborough for me isn’t an immortal deity, simply a man with a voice I could lay on; but seeing elephants in their natural habitat was an awesome experience.

Elephants near water.

After safari we arrived at the Kandalama. Much of our trip was booked on a reasonable budget. Our accommodation was either Air B&B or affordable hotels. The Kandalama was our glorious splurge. It is the finest hotel I’ve ever stayed in, maybe the finest one I will ever stay in. Perched on the hills, amidst the forest, built into rock caves, the location is a work of architectural wonder. With the forest in sight, moving between the floors felt a little like tree climbing- all without the fear of falling. My brother was happy because it had Wi-Fi too. I was also happy about this, but the reputation I’ve cultivated as a bookish technophobe meant I could not say this aloud. Looking out to paradise, I concealed my phone within my book and caught up on the football results - I've never known bliss like it.

Not a bad view.

Saturday 15^th April

That morning we went to Sigiriya, an ancient rock fortress, that is often described as the ‘8^th wonder of the world.’ Visiting Sigiriya meant we encountered Sri Lanka’s idiosyncratic pricing policy for the first time. In popular sites Sri Lanka has a price for locals and a price for ‘foreigners.’  My dad doesn’t own a Sri Lankan passport anymore so is seen as ‘foreign.’ The difference in price is marked, meaning it made sense for my dad to play Sri Lankan. Consequently, my dad had the guide buy his 'local' ticket, instructing us if asked to say that he was our uncle who we were visiting on holiday. The alias along with the false glasses, nose, and moustache worked a treat: my dad incognito made it through. I’ve since asked him who else he'll impersonate for his own benefit. He said that he’s going to take on my identity when he next requests a bank loan. Cheeky fellar!

The climb up the 1002 steps of Sigiriya rock was wonderful. With plenty of places to stop on the way you never get tired. The place has historical significance too, as it was where the prince escaped to after killing his father. (If Charles ever gets wind of William redesigning Stonehenge, then he knows he’s got something to worry about.) Historically, the rock had three entrances: lion, elephant and snake. Obviously over time these have eroded, but the lion’s paws are still visible, allowing you to imagine what the rest would have looked like.

Sigiriya.

Sunday 16^th April

Heading to Nuwara Eliya we went via Kandy. Kandy is known for being the epicentre of gems. I went into the store wanting to buy something for The Girl, without knowing anything about jewellery. Before I met her the only presents I would buy were CD’s, books and DVD’s. These would be the fail-safe gifts I would fall back on. But with the invention of Spotify, Kindle and Netflix, I’ve had to meet the 21^st century head on and learn a completely new skills-set for present buying. I think I did ok. I hope the pendant I bought was the genuine article. I mean they gave me a certificate and everything. If her neck goes green, I’ll write to Matt Allwright – maybe BBC’s Rogue Traders can do a foreign special and bust them for me.

After the shopping expedition, we climbed the helter-skelter roads up to Nuwara Eliya. With every bend I was thrown my upright seating position to a supine horizontal one. It was like I was constantly reenacting Del Boy’s falling through the bar routine. A classic British comedy moment our driver had never seen, which meant it felt like I was doing something of a national service by sharing the spirit of the piece with him.

The funniest comedy moment of all time.

Monday 17^th April

On this day we went to Pedro’s Tea Estate for a guided tour of their site. Pedro’s supply tea to PG and Lipton, who they then add their own secret ingredients – probably cocaine and meth amphetamine, given how addictive the brown stuff is. Seeing the staff at work put into perspective how much is gone through to put that mug on the table. Tea pickers earn about a £1 a day, work in all weathers and are expected to collect kilos and kilos. Work conditions have improved over the years, but it makes you appreciate the toil that goes into your brew. Next time you have a cuppa, raise a mug to the ladies who gave it to you.

Tea pickers at work.

After, we walked half an hour up hill to Lovers Leap, a waterfall so called because it was the crime scene of a Sri Lankan love story. Myth has it that a prince was refused from seeing the girl he loved. Consequently, he and the girl went to the site and jumped to their death. This other royal story begs the question: why can’t Sri Lankan princes and kings just get along? With all the father and son problems in Sri Lanka’s history, they really could have done with Freud to sit the men down and explain the reasons for their rivalry. With some good psychoanalysis, Sri Lankan royalty would have been a lot healthier; although the places of interest would be less interesting. So all in all, maybe male rivalry has been a good thing for the country.

Lovers Leap.

Tuesday 18^th April

I was ill for much of the day, but unfortunately my brother was more sick, which meant I was denied some of the sympathy that was owed to me. The problem is he got on early with the sick card. Once someone in your family puts down the sick card you can’t say you’re sick, because then it looks like you’re stealing their thunder. Therefore, I had to remain stoic in the face of a mild headache. Because of this injustice, I’ve learnt to wake up every morning and say I’m sick regardless of whether I am or not. This way if The Girl is sick, I’ve got in their first, meaning I get all the sympathy. (Don’t hate the playa- hate the game.) Until two people within a household can get equal sympathy for their sickness, I’m going to play dirty. If people are going to bagsy illness, like it’s the front seat of the car, then there’s going to be no more Mr Nice Guy.

Wednesday 19^th April

Back in Columbo we make our way to Pettah Market, which is Camden on acid. Pushcarts of impossibly loaded potatoes, water, coconuts, cardboard boxes make their way up the roads, steered by little men performing the challenges of the World Strongest Man. Also, despite all the activity, the roads aren’t closed off. Alan Partridge would be delighted that the Colombo authorities have decided against pedestrianising it; but for me dodging cars, scooters, tuk-tuks and trolleys was a hair-raising experience. Following this chaos, I sought respite in the T-Lounge. This is a posh café in Columbo where the whole mantra appears to be: ‘Stick some tea in it.’  Every dish on the menu is infused with tea. A gimmick you may argue, but a genuinely delicious one.

Market day.

Thursday 20^th April

My aunt brought food to our apartment and sat and watched my brother while we ate. This had happened the day before with my other aunt, making it a kind of take-away cum restaurant service (are you still sniggering over that preposition?). I did feel bad for my aunts doing this, but food is fundamental to Sri Lankan culture and to deny them this decency would be insulting. For all the hours they spent preparing the meals, bringing them over and serving us, they didn’t do the washing up. Because of this, I’ve only given them a 3 star review on TripAdvisor.

My aunt and all the food she brought.

Friday 21^st April

After watching Manchester By The Sea, Fences and Divorce: Series 1, I return home to England a fatter and more enlightened man. A bit like Buddha I guess. An amazing trip!

Gap Year

Establishing shot of an airplane in the sky. Camera then pans to inside where three travellers wait for the toilet.

Sam: A what! A lads holiday in China, why are you doing that?

Sean: Well he's been away at uni for a year. So we thought we'd just have a catch up. And he's been dumped.

Sam:   Sorry that’s not what I meant. I meant why China?

Sean: I don't really mind where we go. As long as we get smashed, soak up some sun, meet some girls. 

Sam: No, you’re not going to get to do that.

Dylan: What do you mean? 

Sam: This is what I do. I’m a travel writer. Trust me when I say, China is not right for you. This is not ideal, hearing about this right now, on the plane. Sorry about that. But you have made a mistake. Unless you’re going for a reason that I’m not aware of.

Dylan: No, of course not. We just wanted to do something different. Out there. We didn’t want to fall into the same old tourist traps as everyone else.

Sam: But you will though. You’ll find them.

Sean: What’s them? Who’s them?

Sam: Everyone else. The kids exactly like you. It’s like two dung beetles on top of a pile of lion poop. And one says to the other ‘fancy meeting you here.’ You know?

Sam and Dylan: No.

Sam: You’re all into exactly the same shit. Anyway fellars I hope that your friendship still functions in a different context. In my experience it won’t. And enjoy Thailand.

Sean: But we’re not going to Thailand.

Sam: You will though.

On the plane.

The opening exchange to Gap Year is prophetic: Sam, the travel writer, a flaneuse by trade, appreciates that foreign life can be difficult. People go with the right intentions, wanting to immerse themselves in a life that is not their own, but soon find language and custom barries make assimilation impossible. So what do they do? They fall back into their old life, seeking out people and places that are familiar and comforting. Also, travelling with a friend is not the same as socialising: it’s a marriage of co-dependency that can leave both parties feeling stymied and suffocated. In the best case scenario some time apart can rekindle the relationship; in the worst, one snaps, serving the other divorce papers citing 'irreconcilable differences.'  The only time I have ever argued with friends is when I’ve been on holiday with them – and that was only for a few days. Even if you live with mates, there’s always a room you can escape to and breathe. When you’re walking the city with others, having to make choices on what you do and where to go, tensions will arise; conflict will ensue.

Dylan and Sean are friends reunited, classmates that have been kept apart by university. Sean hasn’t been to uni, preferring to pursue the trade of plumbing. Dylan, a philosophy student, is well on the way to his BSc. For Sean the trip is a holiday, an opportunity to trade smokes and jokes with a pal. Dylan, on the other hand, sees the trip as something more noble, more worthy, an 18th century Grand Tour that will announce his intellect on the world stage. Cocooned in the bubble of university, his pretension is yet to be pricked.

Dylan and Sean.

Like Macbeth on the heath, the boys scoff at Sam's prediction, vowing to press on and paint China - well, more- red. Arriving, Sean suggests they find a watering hole; a proposal soon squashed by Dylan whom is on the lookout for a more authentic experience They don’t have long to wait. Stopping for the loo they encounter China’s squat toilets. This taste of culture isn't what Dylan had in mind. So with a heave and a hightail they make their way to Costa Coffee. Whilst Dylan sits in the toilet cubicle monitoring ‘Map My Run,’ Sean waits outside with Greg, an awkward Brit, played brilliantly by Tim Key.  Greg is from the David Brent school of interaction, appearing wholly humane whilst being a complete buffoon. Over the course of the series his eccentricities become more endearing, so much so that he'll eventually become the show's beating heart.

Greg played by the brilliant Tim Key.

Greg is unlike other British travellers. He is pushing forty, in age and waist. His boasts of where he’s been, therefore smack off sadness, not arrogance. His pleasure in travelling with two girls (“we're a threesome”) is soon discounted when Sean walks outside and finds them attempting to abscond. Laden with bags, Greg is another piece of baggage they could do without. Sean, the Everyman, argues his case and the girls are stuck with him. In time Dylan and Sean will rejoin ‘the threesome’ where they’ll succumb to Sam’s prediction by discovering what all travellers find: all roads lead to Thailand.

The gang.

Tom Basden, the writer and creator of Gap Year, has done a sterling job at marrying humour and pathos. Critics got their claws out early, complaining that the show lacked laughs and depth. Like Fresh Meat, which Basden wrote for, the drama just needed time to bed in. Take that opening exchange for example, Basden was plotting Dylan and Sean's fall-out from the start; viewers just need to let the writers peel away the pretensions of the characters, trusting the juicy bits will come.

I’ve really enjoyed Gap Year; I think it brilliantly captures the strain it puts on old friendships, along with the excitement gained in making new ones. I remember when I went on a TopDeck tour after finishing my teacher training degree. Despite being averse to anything that takes me away from the BBC, I felt that I had to travel in order to qualify for adulthood. Initially on the trip, I was disappointed to find that I’d been allocated a coterie of dunderheads: many of the Aussie lads on board seemed to confuse the coach for Attenborough’s The Hunt, a battleground, where all males were threats to their female quarry. To remove me from the mating game, I was ‘accused’ of being gay- grounds? quietness and literacy. Fortunately, I would find other people that I got on with, which made the experience worthwhile.

I went on one of these holidays. Imagine the banter of being on a coach with the guy from the front. Imagine...

This illustration proposes that travelling is rarely about places, but people. In one telling moment in Gap Year Dylan looks at The Great Wall of China and asks, “How long am I supposed to look at it for?” Shrines, sites and wonders are brilliant, but that's never a question we would direct at our friends. I could make eye contact with the beauties forever and a day. Ultimately, Gap Year is an honest reflection on travelling: buildings are great, but people are better.   

The Gap Year box-set is available on Channel 4's On Demand service.

Moving House

Moving house is said to be the third most stressful thing after death and divorce. This fact is widely known, although not everyone is aware of what comprises the other top 10.

• Fourth is the season one climax of Homeland
• Fifth is seeing if Watford, in the face of defensive ineptitude and all-enveloping panic, can hold out for a 1-0 win.
• Sixth is wondering if those coins will fall on Tipping Point.
• Seventh is hosting anything.
• Eighth is discussing politics with anyone that does not share your exact ideology.
• Ninth is playing Russian Roulette with a fully loaded chamber.
• Tenth is when your biscuit reaches breaking point and throws itself to the waters, like Virginia Woolf.  (Just as a note: there was a picture of Virginia Woolf in my classroom and last week a student started laughing. I said, “Why are you laughing?” They said, ‘Vagina Woolf. There’s a writer called Vagina Woolf.” I said, “I think she would find it difficult to get published with a name like that; unless she was writing in the style of E.L. James, in which case the pen-name may be something of a boon.)

 

Would a feminist called 'Vagina' be a laughing stock or an even more empowering figure?

So on Monday we moved- and fortunately it wasn’t too stressful.

We were up with the larks bright and early to go and fetch the van. I was only interested in driving the van because I liked the idea of being a brown white van man. A lot of talk has been made of the glass ceiling for women in politics and business. In my opinion not enough has been said about brown men working in skilled labour and removals. I know my time as a white van man would be temporary, but I hoped for other Black and Minority Ethnics that they would see me driving down the carriageway and think, “I could be a White Van Man too.” A journey of a thousand miles begins with the first turn of the ignition; I hope by being that man, other BAME men – and women – will make that short drive to freedom.

White Van Man was actually a sitcom starring Will Mellor. Did you watch it?

So we got back to the flat and so began our wrestling match with a settee. The Girl is a big Friends fan, so last Christmas I bought her a mug that had a picture of a couch underlined with the word ‘PIVOT!” Any Friends fans will know that this references the episode where the friends try unsuccessfully to get a settee up the stairs. Our experience was akin to this, only more desperate. For nearly an hour we attempted and re-attempted to manoeurve a big thing out of a little thing. All of the sea captains in the world wouldn’t have been enough to plot a safe enough course for that settee; it was going to the rocks if we liked it or not. In time we were forced to adopt a different approach: brute strength and a tilt-a-whirl slam; and with that the sofa was finally free.

From there the exit operation was as textbook as you’re going to get. Everyone knew their role: The Girl stayed in the van; the mums did the light lifting; the dads did the heavy lifting; and I went to do the heavy lifting but was soon demoted to light lifting. (Again, I defy racial expectations with my van driving, and I defy gender expectations with my lifting. I won’t be put in a box. I actually won’t on account of claustrophobia and inflexibility).

Then came through news from the Estate Agents that the previous owners had left the building, and the keys were waiting. The scenes of jubilation lasted for all of five seconds, before I retired to a corner, hyperventilating over the financial responsibility I had taken on. Fortunately, my mum is a nurse, a trained medical professional, and she was there to tell me to ‘keep breathing.’ I took her advice on the grounds that experiencing the first and third stressful moments in life simultaneously would be too much to bear.

After making my way out the abyss, I climbed aboard the van – destination: homesville. I tried to take my mind off mortgage repayments by imagining that my mum, dad and me had made off with all the loot, like in the final scene of The Italian Job. This visualisation technique soon failed when I realised I was next to my dad, a Sri Lankan pensioner, an accent that's far removed from a young Michael Caine. Despite my best attempts at bad driving, I didn’t blow the bloody doors off and we arrived safely with our swag still in tow. In your face Michael Caine!

My brother sometimes says my references are too niche to appeal to a wide audience. I'll put a picture here to illustrate my point, so as to appeal to a mixed ability group. 

Taking The Girl’s hand we walked to the Estate Agents, solvent-free for one last time. On entering, the poor man was quite overwhelmed by The Girl’s euphoria. If you could have bottled up her positive energy that day, then … well it would be worthless. Because as lovely as it was to see, there is no market for positive energy. I was watching a Jon Richardson programme the other week about fears. One fear, particularly in the city, is over clean air. So what a company in the countryside has done is they’ve gone up to the hills, bottles in hand, and caught it to sell online. If you ask me, if you’ve got money to buy £50 bottles of clean air, you’ve got enough money to buy a dehumidifier- probably enough money to put a dehumidifier over the city. Getting back to the house we took a picture in front of the ‘Sold’ sign, trying our best to avoid being defriended for looking too smug.

The Tory Government will probably put the contract on air out to tender soon.

Then came the unpacking. Well, not for me. Luckily, the van we hired wasn’t big enough for one trip so my family was tasked with going back to the flat and reloading the van. Whilst we were back at the flat, sharing drinks in the sun – my mum bought me a cream soda- The Girl’s family were at home, slavishly making beds and assembling furniture. The fools! After we finished our dinner in the pub, we loaded the desk lamp and made our way back.

After failing to assemble a coffee table, I was put on light duties and ordered to take the van back to the depot. On returning Dominos Pizza was awaiting for me. A Mighty Meteor to boot. Never has alliteration tasted so good. What’s that green grapes you want a piece of the alliterative pie? Well, sorry green grapes there’s new boy in town, and he’s a lot unhealthier than you, thus miles more delicious.

With dinner defeated I fell into bed with the woman I loved, and looking at her thought, ’She's worth 30 years of financial servitude.’ The end.