The shame.

I’ve just spent nearly an hour on the phone with my son.

The usual pleasantries exchanged the subject changed to politics of the forthcoming election. After a short period he came out with some shocking revelations.

IN THE LAST ELECTION HE VOTED LIBDUMB! Almost as bad is his choice of newspaper. That bloody left wing rag, The Guardian.

.And I thought I’d brought him up with respectable values.

I have failed.

Actually not quite.

In fact he only voted for the Libdem candidate as his constituency is hard labour and he knew that voting conservative was a waste of time.

The reason why he reads the groan is for the amusement factor when reading online comments by those of a lefty, ignorant of real life, hard done by, guardian reading twats.

I’ve persuaded him to vote UKIP, and to read the Daily Mail.

If I can persuade my son, should I stand for parliament?

Enjoyable?

There’s a certain kind of masochist who considers that gardening is a fun pursuit. Well this blogger considers that pastime was conceived somewhere in the lower circles of hell.

Bearing in mind that it was a hot bank holiday weekend for a change, gardening was not my idea of fun.

Let me explain.

I had to mow a lawn which hadn’t been shown the attendance of a cutting implement for a while. Consequentially mowing with a “Less bovver with a hover” appliance, that was sadly lacking in size and power, brought me out in a hate rage of any garden machinery of an orange colour. I honestly believe it would have been easier to have used a scythe and a vacuum cleaner.

Then there was the strimmer for getting into those parts that the orange machinery fails to do. Bloody thing seemed to eat plastic cord like there was no tomorrow.

The hedge needed cutting. The easy bit is slashing away with the hedge trimmer. The backbreaking part is picking up the detritus that you’ve just hacked off.

Then of course you’ve now accumulated a mountain of green rubbish. And this means a trip to the municipal waste facility (The tip). Queue hell.

Not withstanding that, there is the garden furniture to repair. So off to that well known rip off merchant with the web address starting with DIY. You only want one bracket, but oh no, you have to buy a packet of three.

Now your’e all thinking well done Mr FE you’ve now got an outstanding garden. You’re wrong. It’s the errant son’s garden (Errant cos he lives up north), that I’ve slaved over.

It all started a few months ago when he phoned and invited us up for the bank holiday. (I should have refused outright.) I was expecting to be pampered, wined and dined at expensive restaurants, and generally made to feel special. I should have known better. My daughters put Machiavelli into the third division.

In actual fact it was an interesting experience and brought me back in time to my youth. I knew nothing about gardening or DIY. So my son is not to blame in the slightest. (I’ll outline his faults in a future post).

Probably best to have astroturf and practice celibacy.

*I expect a comment Christopher*

Oh no he won’t.

About three weeks ago I wrote an article about my son’s treatment for Thyroid cancer.

He was booked in provisionally to have further radiotherapy treatment^* in July.

The good news is that his Oncologist has reviewed the data which shows that, although slower than normal, his protein levels are returning to a normal state.

It’s nice to have good news.

* Why’s it called Radiotherapy when there isn’t a radio in sight?

(Don’t all shout at once)

Away

I’ve headed up north to spend the weekend with my son. Worryingly I’ve been asked to bring my tools. I just hope it doesn’t involve plumbing.

I don’t know if it’s just a coincidence but it seems to me that since they installed average speed cameras at the Dartford crossing on the M25, there seems to be permanent tailbacks on both sides for miles.

UPDATE

It took six bloody hours to get there. Normally it takes three and a half. I expect they’ll start installing parking meters on the A1 next.

I may be sometime

A few months ago, my son was diagnosed with Cancer of the Thyroid. Very quickly in my mind, he was admitted to Hospital and underwent an operation to remove the entire thyroid. Since then he has been on medication and has made a remarkable recovery.

The second stage of his treatment is about to commence tomorrow, when he will undertake Radiotherapy.

So i’m now travelling up North to where he works and lives, to help him out and assist in his recovery.

And I’d like to say a very special thank you to his employer, Johnson Matthey, who have been so understanding over his illness.