Coming home

The last few days have been a nice relaxing time, away from the stresses and strains of everyday life, chilling out in the beautiful Wye Valley.

The cottage was near the pub, always a plus and always one of my priorities when searching for somewhere to stay. This one was a good one with the stagger back along a wide meandering river through wild meadows and wooded glades lit only by the moon and stars.

The walking was good too, with paths going through shaded wooded hillsides with panoramic views glimpsed through the trees. They undulated, sometimes steeply, which left me gasping for breath and thinking that perhaps I wasn’t as fit as I thought I was.

However it was a break away and it recharged the batteries. The car was hardly used, shanks’s pony being the main form of getting about. It was a holiday, it was nice.....but then I came home.

Parking the car I was looking forward to the cup of tea and the collapse into the chair.

Emptying the car of the luggage I staggered to the door, the missus standing behind me giving me instruction on how best to place the stuff so that everything was properly balanced, (nice touch dear) and then whilst balancing three cases, a back pack, a cool bag and assorted other bits and pieces fiddled with the key to get into the house. The door seemed stiff so I leant into it thinking perhaps that the heat had perhaps swollen the wood. But no, the frame was fine, what was causing the problem was a week’s supply of junk mail.

There was a mountain of it, piled up beneath the letter box higher than half the hills I’d been walking up only a few short hours ago. It was massive, and as I stepped in it cascaded across the floor. Cursing and swearing at the pile of unsolicited, unwanted and certainly unnecessary communication from people and companies that I have never heard of, never want to hear of, and never think that even in the future would want to hear from, I found that stepping on the pile of leaflets was rather like stepping on ice. I skidded across the hall, or I should say one foot skidded across the hall, as the other one had miraculously found a bare bit and stayed put. Now bear in mind that I was knackered, I was hot and I was laden down with bits of luggage, so you can imagine my language as my foot went from under me and decided to get into the front room well ahead of the other. My groin also complained, because though thirty years ago my joints and muscles were reasonably flexible, age, beer, ciggies etc had taken their toll. I heard the sinews stretch, felt them complain and with a degree of horror realised that the next few micro-seconds were not going to be one of the best.

You girlies haven’t got them, but us blokes have, and I’m referring to the two round hairy objects which dangle between the legs and give a sense of masculinity. Yes, I’m talking bollocks here!

Now, I’m getting on in life, I’ll admit to that, but that makes it even harder to take as I did something which the body is not designed to do even under normal circumstances. I did the splits, and the floor came up at a rate of knots not conducive to the good wellbeing of the soul. My bollocks hit the floor with a half ton of me on top. They scrunched and twisted and screamed out their displeasure at the unwarranted attention of a bit of parquet flooring. I was not happy and my bad language increased accordingly. The wife looked on and smiled.

I dumped the luggage and somehow managed to get to my feet, and then casting a furious glance at the pile of crap adorning the floor staggered bandy-legged through to the front room holding my two precious objects gently in my hand, thanking the Gods that they were still there whole and intact.

I rested awhile and then when the reverberations had slowed down enough I began to go through the pile of junk mail, now there must be a truss manufacturer here somewhere.....or at least some bastard that I can bloody well sue!