Thank You!

Earlier this week I had the good fortune to spend a day with a young person who , though he has had to deal with lots of issues, is still good company. The young man in question has autism, which means he sees life through a unique pair of eyes.

He wanted to go to Wakefield in West Yorkshire to visit the Waterton collection in the local museum. Charles Waterton is credited as being the first naturalist. He collected animals from all around the world and brought them back intact to Britain. One of the famous stories about him is that all the collections of snakes here in Britain had wooden heads at this time because people decapitated them for safety while collecting them. Waterton wanted to change this and show animals as they were in the wild. One day while out walking in the jungle, Waterton found a large python and is supposed to have punched it in the face! When the poor creature came round, it coiled itself around our intrepid explorer, who then calmly walked back to camp with the creature intact. Who ever first told that story had no idea how a python kills its prey. Every time Waterton took a breath The snake would have tightened its grip until it would have been impossible for him to breathe. But what ever the truth was, the young man I was with wanted to see this snake in the museum, though it is now very dead and very stuffed!

So we set off on a bus together and he happily chatted as the bus slowly manoeuvred itself on what seemed a never ending journey. As we trundled along, I noticed a person I hadn't seen in a long time. This man was at school with me and, unlike lots of other people I have written about before who attended my school, this man is quite successful. He owns a very busy and, I would imagine, profitable business. But as he walked past the tediously-slow bus, I couldn't help but notice just how he had physically changed since our school days together. He had taken on board excessive timber and was now quite portly, plus his hair, though suspiciously jet black, now had a large "helicopter pad" on the back (bald patch). He wore a suit that screamed money and which needed to be let out by a good tailor, and to round up his new look he had a pair of small spectacles precariously balanced on the end of his nose. I had to smile, because he was regarded as a good catch when he was younger, as he was good looking and slim and his father had a successful business. I suppose now he still would be regarded as a good catch by some, and he seemed happy enough and is 'financially viable'.

As he rushed on I caught a glimpse of myself reflected back at me in the window, I noticed that the years of abuse have also taken their toll on my face, As my young companion carried on chatting away I couldn't help but think of the line from the song 'Once in a Lifetime' by the 'Talking Heads' “How did I get here?”

My life, like everyone else's life, has been a mixture of highs and lows. I have worked hard to make sure the highs far outweigh the lows. I thought about those I have met recently who have trodden different paths to me and paid a heavy price. I looked at my travelling companion, who had little or no say in his life, and who found it hard to make sense of what the world around him was doing (just like a lot of us I suppose). I thought about all the times in my life that I have been rejected for whatever reason, whether it was for a job, love or life, and I started to feel so happy.

I would like to take this opportunity to thank all the people who have rejected me in the past; all the employers, women, directors, editors, thank you all! This is not a sneer at any of them, as their rejection has led me to where I am now in life, which is in a very good place. I have everything I need, family and friends. I can choose what work I wish to do and who I wish to spend my time with. I can afford my bills (for the moment) and I live a good life. If I had been successful in any other way my life may have been so different, so thank you to all those who couldn't see what others could see in me.

The World-Famous Gez Walsh!

Before you start thinking that I'm a conceited, arrogant, halfwit (which I am) for making such a claim, please let me explain the above title.

I have, for a long time, wondered just what the criteria are for being able to make certain claims. I know trading standards and other bodies are there to ensure that things such a pork sausages have at least been in the same room as a pig at some point in their manufacture. But what about other claims?

Many years ago, Morrisons, the supermarket chain, advertised their breakfasts as 'World Famous'. I have put this claim to the test on many occasions, much to the annoyance of my wife. While on holiday in foreign climes I like to mix with locals rather than do the tourist hot spots. While chatting about life in their countries, food, music, literature, and the like, I always drop in the question, “Have you ever had a big breakfast from Morrisons?” I have to say that, over the past ten years of doing this, no person outside Britain knows what I'm talking about. I usually get a blank look, followed by the look that says, 'Oh my God, he has mental health issues!” My wife has usually walked away by that point, shaking her head and calling me names that are best left between her and myself.

This year, while travelling around southern Spain, we got chatting to a lovely French couple. The man's name was Julian, which didn't sound very French to me. He was a chef, and had been for thirty years, so I thought he might be a good person to ask the question of. After telling him that I didn't like eating pig's trotter, something that was forced upon me as a child while visiting grandparents in Ireland, he proceeded to tell me the best way to cook them. I responded with, “Have you ever cooked or eaten a Morrisons world famous big breakfast?” He was intrigued, but it's safe to say that he was probably more confused by my wife calling me a 'Twat'. I have since checked, and Morrisons has dropped the 'World Famous' tag, so I shall stop my investigations.

This week, a young man told me that he loves cooking, and that no one could resist his 'world famous Pinkertons chocolate sundaes'. Pinkerton, by the way, is his surname. The pedant in me had an urge to go on the internet to check out his world famous boast but instead, I asked him to prove that it's world famous. It turns out close family and a couple of friends constitute his world.

I know what you're thinking right now, my wife's assessment of me is one hundred percent accurate.

But these descriptions of things for some reason annoy me, which is unusual because, as an author, I've claimed all sorts of bullshit myself! So can you imagine my surprise when this week I decided to find out just what I have to do to make such a claim as being 'World Famous' .

I had an afternoon free, which was a surprise, as I've been working non-stop for ages now. I have written before about how dangerous me and idleness are. I couldn't think of a way to prove these claims, so I decided to phone trading standards, as they should surely know. I have to say that I was passed to lots of different departments as I don't think my request was being taken seriously, until I was transferred to a man who I seem to have caught off guard. The man whom I spoke to humoured me at first thinking that my medication had worn off but I told him a little lie. (Just a lie, really). Well, I told him two lies, actually. I told him I worked for a publishing company and gave him the name of the company (sorry Steve). Then I told him that we had an author who had had a lot of success (that's not the lie bit by the way) I then told him that this author was about to embark on a tour of Europe (there you go!) and could we claim he was 'world famous' when he (me) came home?

I need to have sold books on at least three continents to be able to claim that I'm 'world famous' according to this man, who, by the end of the conversation, seemed to be losing the will to live. I have proof that my books are sold in Europe, America and both Australia and New Zealand. This means, ladies and gentlemen, and those in-between, that I, Gez Walsh, am legally WORLD FAMOUS!

Now, can I set you your homework? I have read recently in an article that Jedward (correct spelling, though my spell check keeps trying to change it to 'deadwood' which is more accurate!) are on tour. In the article it described these mighty Irish colossuses of art and literature as singer-song-writers? Your mission, should you chose to take it, is to find any evidence of either of these claims.

Signed,

The World Famous Gez Walsh

The Lucky Lucky Lucky

Ever since I was a young child I have been fascinated by acts of random kindness, I always make a mental note to remember any such acts that I witness.

Every day people do wonderful things for total strangers, and these people do not receive anything in return, other than the knowledge that they have helped a fellow human being. I first became fascinated by such acts because of my own Grandfather.

One Saturday as a small child I had to go into the local town centre with my Grandfather to meet Nonna after she had finished work. This particular day must have been in the height of summer as I remember it being one of those rose-tinted childhood warm, sunny afternoons. As both Granddad and I walked through town we could hear a man's voice shouting out . It was the standard rantings of every drunk the world over, a mixture of inane babbling and threats. We walked on until we happened upon the owner of the inane rants, a large dishevelled man who was lying on his back at the side of a busy road. He was so drunk that he resembled a tortoise that had been placed upside down; try as he might, he couldn't get to his feet. People walked past him, and cars drove perilously close to him. Some people looked on in disgust at him, while others laughed and jeered. Old ladies, with arms straining at the weight of the shopping bags they struggled to carry, chastised his unruly behaviour as the walked past him, leaving him spread-eagled at the side of the road. I seem to remember being half terrified by this man and yet half disgusted with him (I've been a snob since birth).

My Grandfather gave a wry smile and then tutted. He had a way of calming any situation just by his own calmness. I thought Granddad was about to give me a lecture about the dangers of drink (I doubted it, though, as he loved a whisky) or to tell me not to end up like this man, but to work hard instead! But how wrong I was. He walked over to the man and even though this bloke looked twice the size of Granddad, he bent down and lifted the man from the ground. The man hissed, and cursed Granddad as he helped him to a bench in the town centre. Granddad plonked the man on the bench then asked him if he had a home to go to. The man just ranted and swore at Granddad. I was so indignant with this man! How rude to treat someone who was trying to help you in such a way! Granddad asked this man if he had any money, and the man responded with a string of swear words. This was a mistake, as Granddad hated anyone swearing in front of children or women. (I don't take after him in this way!) He got hold of the drunk by his lapels lifted him off the bench telling him to  “cut out the language!” He then threw the man back down on the bench. This seemed to jolt the man back to his senses, as Granddad asked him again if he had a home, the man nodded. Granddad then asked him if he had any money the man shook his head and pulled out his pockets to prove his point. Granddad reached into his own pocket and produced 'two bob' (10p) and told the man to get a coffee and then catch the bus home (This was the 'sixties). We then walked away, leaving the man to come to his senses.

As we walked away from the man I asked Granddad if he knew him, but he shook his head.

“Then why did you help him?” I asked wondering why anyone would help such an ungrateful oaf.

Granddad replied in his soft Irish accent, “And why wouldn't I? He needed help”. I have written many times before that Granddad had a wonderful way of teaching people lessons.

I'm telling you this because While on holiday the other week I witnessed a wonderful act of random kindness.

My wife and I have just spent a marvellous week travelling around southern Spain. Anyone who has visited this area will, I'm sure, have come in contact with the 'Lucky Lucky' men. I'm not sure if it's 'lucky lucky' or 'looky looky'? as in 'have a look at my wares'. I did get talking to one of these men as he tried to sell us a handbag. In this case, he was 'lucky lucky' because he actually had the bag my wife wanted. But his luck ran out when he had to barter with her, as she has a way of disarming the most hardened sales person, only to fleece them. These men used to sell lighters many years ago, but now it's fake designer wear. I don't know where they get this gear or how much they pay for it, but he sold a leather bag to my wife for 8 euros (He started off at 35 euros). He told me that he was from Senegal - as most of the men there were. They all lived in shipping containers at the end of the beach where we were stood. 8 men and their goods to each container, and all had dogs outside standing guard.

These men walk from resort to resort in the baking heat of summer time Spain their arms full of designer wear. They do this from morning to night. Then when the summer season is over they go back to their families in Africa.

One evening my wife and I were in a crowded bar when a 'lucky lucky' man entered the bar. He looked anything but lucky. His head was held low, sweat dripped from his brow and he looked tired and depressed. He walked around the room from table to table desperately trying to sell anything. It was now nearly midnight. I watched him move about the room, as people just blatantly ignored him or waved him away as if he was nothing but an irritating fly. I noticed the barman look over to him. This barman was, my wife informs me, very good looking. All the women in the bar tried to get his attention and to flirt with him. They obviously hadn't noticed that I was in the bar, otherwise surely they would have all been crowding around me!

The barman, without anyone noticing, beckoned the 'lucky lucky' man over. He then poured him an orange juice with lots of ice in, which the 'lucky lucky' man downed in one. The barman then leaned over to a group of middle-aged women who had been flirting with him all night and pointed to the 'lucky lucky' man and gave a thumbs up sign. The women called him over and started to look at the bags he was selling. Before long, other women joined in and a bidding frenzy started for his fake designer bags. Soon the man only had one bag left, even though he had entered the bar with arms full of them. The man's demeanour had now changed. It was as if he had been given an injection to bring him back to life. He danced and laughed, then he walked over to the barman took hold of his hand then gave him a hug which said to all who witnessed it, 'thank you from the bottom of my heart'. The 'lucky lucky' man danced out of the crowded bar and the barman carried on flirting with the middle aged women, and no one had noticed this one act of random kindness the barman had just performed. He had not only given the man a drink when he probably most needed it, but also got all the punters to buy a bag from him.

I would like to claim that I to do acts of random kindness on a regular basis, but in truth I'm usually too wrapped up in my own tiny little life to notice that the people I pass in the street may sometimes need a hand of friendship. Maybe it's time I stopped watching others do these wonderful deeds, and did a few myself!

How To Book A Cheap Holiday

We are always being bombarded by holiday companies, with adverts for relaxing holidays on some foreign shore, languishing on some sun-kissed beach. The adverts will always show people with young, nubile bodies nonchalantly strolling hand-in-hand against a backdrop of sun and sea.

We all know that holidays can be quite a stressful time, where you can often wonder why you bothered in the first place. Have you packed the right clothing? Will there be enough things to occupy the kids? What if the hotel is half-built or next to a building site, the list goes on! You even start to worry that you may not have turned everything off at home before you set off, leaving you with that feeling that the bath may still be running, and you are currently 36,000 feet in the air unable to turn it off! You know the drill: if you booked the holiday then it's your fault! It's your fault that the taxi to take you to the airport was late! It's your fault that the French air traffic controllers went on strike. It's your fault that the little one has developed diarrhoea and you haven't even left Heathrow yet! It's your fault that the hotel doesn't serve the exact beer/wine/spirits that your other half likes!

All this can be avoided! Just book the holiday, and unless any of your party suffer anything serious just treat the whole episode as a new experience.

There are many ways to book a holiday, online sites, and the tried and trusted high street travel agents are the most popular. Online sites often look always the cheapest, but be careful, lots of them don't show 'live' prices, so a holiday offered at £300 per week may end up as £500 a week and more expensive than your local travel agent. Having said this, the old-fashioned local travel agent is usually the most expensive way to book a holiday. But if you want someone to do all the work for you and look after you while on holiday, then they are your best bet.

Online sites often seem to be selling package deals, but are really just selling you individual parts of a holiday so you don't have the same protection with them that you would with the high street agent selling package deals. You may also pay what you think is a bargain price for a holiday only to receive a phone call to say the price has gone up - this is because they couldn't get the flights they promised or the hotel rooms they originally priced for have been sold. This is a very common occurrence with lots of the cheap and cheerful sites. I must point out that they are completely legal and as long as you read their terms and conditions, you may get a bargain. I have tried every which way there is to book a holiday, I have used the high street agents, online cheap and cheerful, booked direct, booked villas and flights and cars: you name it, I've tried it. But I think I have found, for me, the cheapest way to book.

Firstly when you have decided which country, resort you would like to visit, go online and type in hotels then enter the name of your chosen resort, add a star rating if you wish. When you find a hotel that you like the look of, look it up on Trip Advisor or other such sites. Read the reviews with an open mind, as some of the negative ones are written by people who are merely after their money back. Once you have decided that you have found your perfect hotel in your perfect resort in your perfect country of choice, look up a variety of hotel room booking sites, there are lots to choose from. You can of course book direct with the hotel, but this will usually be more expensive, as the room booking companies will have booked lots of rooms at a competitive price. Try to book your room about five/six weeks before you go as the price will be at its lowest then. You will hear lots of horror stories about using bed booking companies but in my experience when you get bed-bumped (room not available) it is usually the hotel's fault through double-booking, though they will never own up to it. I have used bed booking companies many times and have never, as yet, ever had the slightest problem. My son uses them on a weekly basis because he travels a lot with his work, and he has only ever had one problem after hundreds of bookings and that was his fault! He booked the correct hotel on the correct day on the correct month but typed in the wrong year, so in effect he turned up a year early! I think he gets this from his Mother's side! Before you book, type into the internet "promo codes for..." then type in the company you are choosing to go with, and you may save even more money.

Book your flight direct with the airline, there are lots of good sites you can go on which will show you who is offering the best prices out there. The low-cost carriers often get a bad name but again if you read their terms and conditions they are often the best to travel with if you are only going short-haul. Remember that if they say it will cost you extra if you exceed weight or bag size, and you do either, don't be shocked and outraged when the charge you extra! Again, I have travelled numerous times with a certain low-cost airline which has a reputation for being outrageous with certain policies, as of yet I have had no problems. I would go as far as saying that they are always my first port of call when flying short-haul. Long-haul flights are different: don't go for the cheapest price or you might find that you have three of four stops before you reach your destination which could add another day to your flight! Flying to Asia seems to be the worst for this.

When you reach your destination you will need transport to your hotel. Unless you know of a cheap car hire or taxi firm personally when you arrive, always book before you travel. Again, go online and look up car rentals/ coach or taxi transfers. When you find a company offering what you want at a price you are happy with, again type into the internet "promo code" for the company and you may get even more money off. I have just come back from Spain and got my transfers for half price by doing this.

You will also need travel insurance, DON'T BUY IT FROM A TRAVEL AGENT! This is ALWAYS the most expensive way. Your bank may have cheap insurance deals, or you can use the online comparison sites. ALWAYS declare any long-term illnesses you may have, because if you don't and you fall ill it may make your insurance void.

Finally, have fun, relax, and charge your batteries up, after all it will soon be Christmas!

Adventures With Lipstick and Lycra

The other day when little Harleigh came to stay at ours, it coincided with me having to finish of a bit of work (story of my life). Harleigh is such a quiet, loving child and also very creative. She loves to paint and make things. So I set her up with a few little art projects and got on with my work. As long as you chat to her, she is quite happy to sit and paint all day.

This day, though, she wanted her make up doll. If you don't know what these macabre things are, you are very lucky, as I find them very creepy! They are just plastic dolls' heads stuck on a board, like some warning of what might happen if you pass this way! The heads have long nylon hair and a grin on their face which suggests trapped wind. Harleigh loves to give her doll a full make up, which makes the doll even more creepy looking.

The other day, while playing with the doll she suddenly stopped and looked at me, “Babbo, I think you need some work doing.” She's not the first person to mention this to me. She said this with an innocent smile on her face which said guess what happens next. Yes, that's right, Babbo had a full make over. I thought that the make up she used was children's play make up, not realising that Nonna Carol had given her all her old make up! When she had finished with me I had a face that would have scared Chucky! Using some industrial wipes, I eventually cleaned all the gunk off my face and Harleigh carried on painting her doll's face. She then asked. “Babbo, you want some lipstick to bring colour to your face?" I shrugged my shoulders, as resistance is futile. Harleigh then proceeded to smear my lips with some lipstick that Nonna Carol might have or might have not given her (as she often finds things and claims them as her own). 

Harleigh had just finished my lip works when Nonna shouted in from the kitchen that we needed to go to the shops and that Harleigh needed to clear away her paints. We did this together, and I completely forgot about my new lipstick smeared on my face.

As I walked into the kitchen covered in make up Nonna Carol didn't bat an eyelid or say a word, she just asked if we were ready to go. So we set off to the local shops. To say that I got a few strange looks and a few sniggers aimed at me is an under statement, I had, by now, totally forgotten about my make over. It wasn't until an old lady smiled and asked Harleigh, “That's a lovely job did you do it?” Harleigh smiled and coyly nodded as the old lady asked, “What colour is it?” 

“Peach” answered Harleigh with a look of pride all over her face.

At first I was not sure what they were talking about until the memory of the lipstick came rushing into my brain. I looked at my reflection in the window of the shop, One thing you must realise is that three year olds do not understand the concept of subtle! I had so much lipstick smeared on my face that I looked like a cross between Grimaldi and baby Jane with a hint of the Joker! I tried desperately to wipe the offending gunk off my face only to be told by my wife who was by now sporting an evil grin on her face that the lipstick that Harleigh had used was supposed to be twenty four hour lipstick which is water resistant!

I went to the nearest toilet and managed to remove most of the evil grease off my face but I did have a tinge of peach about me for the rest of the day.

Also this week a friend of mine, who has become obsessed with Triathlon, asked if I would like to go for an extra long bike ride. It has been so long since I rode a bike I thought it might be fun to give it a go, so I borrowed one of his bikes. He also offered me some clothing that he had bought as a job lot. This was serious-looking Lycra, the sort that makes you look good if you live off uncooked food and train for twenty hours a day! But it also make the smallest roll of fat look like a serious hernia!

I tried on the offending garments for a laugh, but I was shocked to find that Lycra shorts actually self-wedgies! It shot up my arse crack as if it had been hoovered up! I also didn't know what to do with my front bottom bits! Should I show them off or hide them? I tried to make them look presentable but they just looked a bank robbers face in tights! Carol came into the bedroom and burst out laughing saying, “ You look like you have a small canary tucked down there!”

Small canary! What does she mean, small canary? A small canary is an egg! Is she saying that my genitals are no bigger that a canary's egg? I would say that if we were to stick to the ornithological theme that we should be comparing things to a bald eagle or at least some kind of hawk, not a fucking canary egg!

Needless to say the Lycra got dumped and I did the bike ride in a a pair of shorts and a tee shirt. It's not been a good week for my self confidence.

 

Sex Educashun!

All the lines in the poem below have been told to me by countless students in the schools that I have visited, all over Britain. The only difference is that I have tried to rhyme them, but I have still tried to write them down as they were told to me.

Half of me finds their innocence quite funny, while the parent side of my brain is horrified that young adults are so unaware of the perils of teenage sex.

I'm a firm believer that young people should be given as much information as possible about sex, it's much better than finding things out the hard way! (No pun intended).

How does a boring old doctor know how I feel?

I talk to my mates, they keep it real!

You can't get pregnant, if you do it standing up,

And you can catch VD from a dirty cup.

You only get pregnant if you're really sloppy,

But if you do it to much your fanny goes floppy!

You can't get her pregnant if you stick it up her bum,

Because the girl's poo kills all your cum!

Toothpaste on the wart makes it go away,

You can only catch AIDs if you're gay.

You can't get pregnant if you keep it brief,

To many blow jobs give you goofy teeth!

You can't have sex more than once a day,

Wearing girls' pants will turn you gay.

When you get VD, you wee out jelly,

Going down on her makes mushrooms grow in your belly!

I know someone whose willy bone broke,

Giving someone a love bite can give them a stroke.

Girls don't masturbate, don't be silly,

How could they when they don't have a willy?

To much wanking makes your hand grow hairs,

It make you go blind, but then, who cares?

I don't need sex education, I know what to do,

I've not done it yet, have you?

The last line was said to me by a young thirteen year old in a school in Lincolnshire. He told me he knew everything there was to know about sex. He then asked me if I had ever had sex, even though he knew that I had a son and had been married for many years. But then I suppose there are people who have been married a long time with children that have never had sex! Well, at least, one of them may not have.

Janice The Gnome Slayer!

We all reach an age when our own mortality suddenly dawns on us. When you are young, you are invincible, immortal - the world, for you, will never end. But, sooner or later, time and gravity catches up with all of us.

I pride myself on keeping fit and active. When I was young, I used to leap from my bed each morning and bounce around the house like a gazelle on steroids. Now, I slide from my bed each morning and shuffle around like a eunuch with piles for the first hour of the day. I, too, have sustained an injury which I have worsened by ignoring the fact that I'm mortal like the rest of the human race. These things force you to re-evaluate your way of life and what matters the most to you most.

To be honest, as soon as I have had my op for my injury I shall be back to training again, just like I have done all my life. I know what is important in my life. I always have, even though I have not always shown it. When push comes to shove, only close family and friends really count, I suppose I knew that when I was young, but I was too engrossed in being an idiot to tell the people I loved how much they meant to me.

If you have read my previous blogs, and are now starting to think that I'm going all American sitcom, where one episode can cause you to contract type one diabetes because of its sugar content, please read on, there is a reason for the schmaltz, as the late, great, Harry Muntz used to say!

Last week the nemesis (my wife) and I had an excursion to the local DIY superstore. We paid our visit on a Sunday, which is something I normally avoid doing. I believe that a Sunday visit to a DIY store or a garden centre is the new church for the middle-aged population of Britain. I try to avoid this, because I don't want to be associated with them. It starts with the DIY store and ends up with you thinking a scone is a treat and 'Flog It' is compulsive television viewing!

By the way to all the people in the south it's pronounced "scone" to rhyme with "phone", with a capital 'O' -  that's why it has an 'E' on the end, none of this "scon" rubbish!

While walking around the said DIY store, giving reasons for not sorting out the fence which is now falling over more times than an Italian footballer in a penalty area, I noticed a strange little plump gentleman talking to a member of staff about a brightly-coloured gnome. What caught my attention was that the man was obviously consumed with interest about the little pot figure, as he talked to the young staff member, who either thought he should have listened more at school or couldn't wait for his university course to finish so he could get a proper job away from gnomes and men like the one who was dominating the conversation. But, as the little plump man ranted on about the merits of gnomedom, I couldn't help but notice a woman standing with them. She was much taller than the little plump man, and well dressed, and was quite attractive. I couldn't help but wonder that if she was gnome-man's partner, why?

This lady had a look of boredom on her face that I have not seen since I once tried to describe a boxing match to my wife. The taller woman repeatedly asked the little plump man if they could leave because she wanted to go for lunch, but he ignored her and waxed lyrical about his collection of gnomes. My wife by now was pulling me towards the most expensive fence panel that has ever been constructed. I don't know how they can charge so much for something which contains no precious metals. But, as I started to walk away, the gnome man's partner did something that stopped me dead in my tracks. She picked up a lump of timber that was on a shelf next to where she was standing, and she eyed it up, then eyed up her plump little partner. I was transfixed, as I was sure that I was about to witness a murder! I felt as if I should do something, but I was helpless. I just stared and to be honest half of me was hoping she would hit the boring little twonk with the wood.

My wife pulled me away, but I had not taken more than two steps when I heard a crash, followed by a deathly silence, which was only broken by the wails of the little plump man, “Janice, you've knocked its fucking head off!” he wailed. I peered over and found his assumptions to be correct, for, there on the floor, was one decapitated gnome. Next to the shattered pot figure was his wife holding up the murder weapon above her head and a smile of sheer evil pleasure emblazoned across her face. She turned to her partner and announced, “I'm off!”

She had a look of relief, as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. The way she announced that she was going suggested that she didn't just mean "from the store", but from his life: she had had enough. One middle-aged woman had realised that life is short, and there was no time to worry about garden gnomes. I, for one, applauded her behaviour.

“Are we getting this fence panel or not?” snapped my wife. I saw the look in her eyes, the same look that the gnome-murdering woman had. There were too many lumps of wood to hand and not enough gnomes to vent her rage on, so I replied, “That's a lovely panel, love it, should look nice in the garden, you go get us a coffee from the cafe, while I go buy the panel and fasten it to the car!”

Like I said, life is already too short, and there's no need to try to make it any shorter!