Sail Away, Raymond

It seemed that I was involved in two comedy sketches today. The first is a classic, only not for those involved. I was about to wash my hands after using the toilet at Derby Railway Station when I was attacked by a particularly aggressive tap. I casually pressed the top of it and it sprayed water more viciously than a cannon or cherry tomato across my chest, towards my knees and, of course, over the crotch area. Fortunately my train was parked just outside the lavatory and I quickly entered it, found a seat and adopted a sitting position which would optimise the drying of clothing. I was en route to a court appearance. All dried off by the time I arrived I made myself known to the usher and sat down with my book. The waiting area was filled with life’s rich tapestry as usual. Seated several rows away from me was a young man in a wheelchair. One of two young women seated near him asked “What happened to your leg?”. And thus began the second comedy sketch. He didn’t say what had happened to it but said “I can’t lift it” and proceeded to do just that and straighten it out in front of him. He added “There’s a lot of pressure if I lift it, so I don’t” as the second leg joined it floating in the air. This was clearly a horrific disability. Then he lowered his legs and lifted his trouser leg up, clearly to reveal a scar. The scar was hidden to me but the girl’s faces weren’t and they showed a look of horror as if they’d caught their grandparents at it on the kitchen worktop or had just heard the words “You’ve won a holiday in Bridlington”. Then he stood, lowered himself onto a chair and rested his legs up on his wheelchair. I carried on waiting but kept an eye out for banana skins.


I largely dislike court appearances. I shouldn’t since I’m largely being paid for sitting in the waiting area and reading but I don’t, it’s just too boring. I do love a bit of verbal sparring though when I get to give evidence. One of the barristers today was good, very good. It caught me off guard initially like a boxer who, a few seconds into round one, has realised his opponent is much younger and quicker than him. However, she had a couple of tells and would play with her spectacles and blush slightly when she felt she was on dodgy ground so I always knew how I was scoring on points. The other barrister couldn’t draw the short straw in a clutching at straws competition so was no competition at all. There was no “You can’t handle the truth!!” moment. The defendant, who I’d assessed some months previously, stared at me with a particularly unimpressed expression the whole time. I took this as a sign of a job well done. Earlier in the year a defendant mouthed variations on “You fucking wanker” to me throughout my evidence. I’ve removed him from the Christmas card list. Unless they’re mouthing my home address I’m indifferent.

I walked into the train station at 13.13 and caught the 13.18 train heading homeward. These days I celebrate timing like that like a lottery win. When I got to Derby again I called Pete the plumber. The last time I met Pete his trouser zip was undone. Don’t think poorly of me but I didn’t mention it to him. I wasn’t sure how to; “I happened to be looking at your genitals and couldn’t help but notice…….” or “Calvin Klein?? Me too”. I hadn’t been able to call him previously because I was in ‘The Quiet Zone’ and I like to respect the idea of it being free from mobile phones, games, laptops, conversation, laughter…..Not everyone does but personally I couldn’t stand the festival of silent hatred that would surround me if I made or took a telephone call. I needed to call Pete because Marianna and I visited the house at the weekend and discovered that our boiler had been fitted and the heating was now working, drying the plaster and warping the skirting and architrave. Of course, if you’ve read these missives from an inconsequential life before then the words…..the boiler wasn’t fixed to the wall we’d asked it to be fixed to….won’t surprise you. It was disappointing to say the least. It could have been tucked behind a door but now renders a section of wall useless. The other issue was the amount of pipes which surrounded it. It looked like an Escher drawing; pipes from the left and right, above and below, twisting and turning. There was also what looked like two gas tanks. The whole collection looked like something James Bond might need to defuse at the end of the movie. I asked Pete why it was there. He said no one had ever told him that it should go anywhere else. We did, it was one of the meetings I was actually present at. It was also an opportunity to ask why they had hidden the pipes for the radiators in all but two rooms. That was because we hadn’t ever told him exactly where we wanted them. We did, it was one of the meetings I was actually present at. I also asked why the pipes had been fixed at one distance and were then bent at an angle to meet the radiators. The measuring should have been easy since the radiators were delivered before the pipes were put into the walls. He said they were only bent by a matter of millimetres. I disagreed. It was becoming a rather awkward conversation. He said he was happy to go and complete the work but some things hadn’t been supplied and some decisions hadn’t been made…..”by your wife”. I took it as a very bad sign that he had intentionally chosen not to use Marianna’s name. He was becoming increasingly oppositional and suggested we meet.
After the visit to the house on Saturday we had a few house related errands to run. Amongst these was ordering the internal doors. Marianna was in charge of the negotiations. I forget the exact prices but the conversation went pretty much like this

Salesman: “Those doors are £100 each including VAT”

Marianna: “I’ve seen them online for £85” (This was a lie. The best price she found was over £100)

Salesman: “Where was this?”

Marianna: “Building and Plumbing Supplies Ltd” (Remember, this is not true)

Salesman: “I can do those for £81”. (Thank you and goodnight. Bow, accept applause and exit stage left.)

They’ll be delivered on Wednesday. I think we all know that if I did the negotiations it would have gone like this:

Salesman: “Those doors are £100 each including VAT”

Patrick: “Lovely. Do you take Visa Debit card?”

Last Thursday we had a meeting with Max. The aim of this was to challenge him over part of his latest invoice since he’s trying to charge us an additional £800 for the box gutter that was constructed between our house and Martin’s. The problem is that when we showed all of the builders around the house at the start of the year when we wanted quotes we detailed everything we wanted doing. Max failed to quote for some of the things we detailed. That’s his fault. We failed to spot that he had done this. That’ll be our fault. We pointed this out to him and he acknowledged this but his negotiation technique is incredible and seems to largely involve pretending we haven’t said what we have or just re-stating his position endlessly. He must have been trained by the SAS since he doesn’t give an inch. I’d like to remind you that Marianna and I are capable people. I’ve talked people into confessions and into disclosing things to me they were adamant they wouldn’t but Max is immune to these techniques. He is Kryptonite to me. That’ll be a cheque for £800 then. At least the house is nearing completion. We should move back in on the 4th of December. The kitchen will be fitted six weeks later but that’ll be fine.

Marianna and I, like the Royal family, travelled separately to this meeting. She went by car and I cycled after exercising in the rain on Newbold Comyn. As I arrived Martin was just leaving our house. He blanked me. He had wanted the telephone number of the roofer from Max. To torture him Marianna was particularly cheery in greeting him. He had delivered a letter to us a couple of weeks ago detailing all of the things he’s still unhappy with and photographs of the things he’s unhappy with. One of Anne's sizeable arse wasn’t included. Marianna has written an acidic response to him but I’d really rather not engage with them anymore. One more conversation, discussion or negotiation session and I’ll lose all interest in going back to live there.

I walked back to Vikki’s from the Railway Station along the canal towpath. Thankfully, it was warmer than the minus three it was when I left in the morning but with the increasingly autumnal weather the towpath doesn’t make for an easy walking surface and it’s much like a game of hopscotch around the puddles. I saw a sign on one of the barges; “FOR SALE. OFFERS AROUND £9500. NEEDS A LOT OF WORK. NO, REALLY I MEAN A LOT OF WORK. CALL ME AND COME AND HAVE A LOOK AROUND”. I’m tempted to call. Our house must be worth about £9500 at the minute. The barge owner and I could just swap.

Sail away, Raymond, sail away.