Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale*

If you find my stories of my new life in a strange land confusing, you might want to read the tale of Maurice Wilson from the beginning.

Day three in the police protection programme and we’re at a bit of a loose end. There’s not a lot to do in Cleckhuddersfax.

Mrs P has taken up knitting cakes, a popular past-time in these parts it seems. She picked up the pattern book at a local charity shop. It was good as new, apart from a few expletives scrawled on the cover in crayon.

I volunteered to take the kids to the town centre to look at the Christmas lights, but they just rolled their eyes at me, saying that temporary traffic signals didn’t really constitute a light show. And anyway, we did that yesterday.

So I switched on the television, changed channels, then switched it off again. They only have three channels in Yorkshire, all of them in black and white and one that only shows interminable re-runs of Calendar, the dreary local news programme.

Master P asked whether the ancient Rediffusion set has high definition, so I pointed him to the contrast control.

Pc BarracloughI would invite Pc Barraclough to join us from nextdoor, but Mrs P isn’t keen.  The hot ashes blown from his pipe have already burned a hole in the carpet and she says that she has the devil’s own job getting the antimacassars clean after he’s laid his lacquered perm on them.

Perhaps Pc Derek will call round later. He was still limping yesterday after the poor reception for his policewoman drag act at Attercliffe Working Men’s Club on Sunday. He barely escaped with his life.

Master P hopes he won’t in any case. He complains that Derek’s perfume brings on his asthma.

We might go to the zoo tomorrow. I’ve read that there’s a place not too far away where they keep parking attendants in captivity. Feeding time is quite a sight to behold I’m told.

Meanwhile, Miss P is tipexing the squares in the Cleckhuddersfax Courier crossword so she can complete it again to give herself something to do.

Personally, I found the clues a little peculiar. For example, 12 across: ‘eggs on’, five letters; answer: ‘toast’.

Sigh. I’m beginning to wonder if my stand against the revisionism of Yorkshire history is worth it after all.

* King John, Act 3 scene 4

Nobody’s prefect. If you find any spelling mistakes or other errors in this post, please let me know by highlighting the text and pressing Ctrl+Enter.

4 comments… Add yours
  • Jennyta 20th December 2011

    Maybe, as a diversion, you could invite yourself round to my daughter’s. She lives next door to a ‘real ale’ pub and is not a Yorkshire person, so could commiserate with you and your family, especially as she has recently been banished to work in darkest Chesterfield.

  • Jennyta 20th December 2011

    PS. Whatever you do, avoid that zoo. I’m told that the parking attendants have now taken to cannibalism.

  • Trevor Rowley 20th December 2011

    Next time you go down the boozer, Mr P (presuming there will be a next time), don’t make the mistake of entertaining them with that joke about “What’s the definition of a Yorkshireman?” (you know the one). It might seem funny in Levenshulme but in your new neck of the woods it would go down like a lead ferret. Are you keeping up with your religious observance as a family? (that should remind you of the old country). Don’t forget to point your prayer mat west (look out for that big chemical plant at Widnes, that should be a good enough guide – on a good day, you can even see the Isle of Man). Keep up your bread and dripping intake and don’t forget to stuff plenty of newspaper down the kids’ vests for insulation through the winter and that way you won’t stand out as different from the locals.

    The gang down the Flying Horse send their best wishes and wonder if you’ll be back in time for the breakfast trip to Morecambe (recently been sandblasted). Also, something about the darts team wonder if you know where the raffle money went? Just thought I’d ask.

  • Mr Parrot 20th December 2011

    Jenny: Thank you for that very kind invitation. By ‘real ale’ I presume you mean something brewed in Lancashire? I am missing my Thwaites dark mild.

    I did ask about the local brew at the off-licence on Crimea Terrace and was pointed to a stack of family packs of cider brewed in in the hills of Holmfirth. (24 litres for £4.99 at 25% abv).

    And the parking attendants have turned to cannibalism? Makes feeding time sound even more exciting.

    Trevor: Remember that itinerant Yorkie who used to drink in the Flying Horse? The one we nicknamed ‘Owmuch!’ because of his reaction whenever he was asked to pay for anything. I’ve now discovered that this is the standard response by everyone in Yorkshire.

    We have invested in prayer mats with a builit-in compass as the weather here is so grim that it’s hard to tell which way is up, let alone east or west.

    I hope get back for the Morecambe trip, but I will have to bring my ‘minders’. Pc Barraclough is quite taken with the idea, not having much seaside over here, and he’s already dug out his kiss-me-quick hat.

    As for the raffle money, that was just an honest mistake on my part and I’ll bring a cheque next time I’m over.


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