Our holiday in Tenby, in a flat with a wide view of the harbour and the pastel-coloured crescent of houses facing it, was characterised by hot weather and an effortless harmony amongst our family and its now naturalised superaddition.
Looking for hats to ward off the Pembrokeshire sun, we wandered into a shop with an incongruous concatenation of displays: sunglasses and keyrings abutted a large glass cupboard full of murderous knives; in the back, next to the hats, were penis sunglasses and boob beach balls. We named it The Sex Shop.
We took the boat over to Caldey Island. There's a very continental looking 1930s monastery there now, a revival of a much older one. Its first abbot came to an unseemly end by falling first into a drunken stupor and then a well. They were Trappists, and he was wobbling to his dormitory after a night on their homebrew.
I had a dish of crab claws, white wine sauce and samphire, to eat which I was given a pair of pliers and a narrow shovel-like instrument. The meat was delicious, and it was good sport to crack and gouge into the very hard claws, my fingers getting greased and flecked.
But it ended badly. Almost home, on a packed train with masks and social distancing equally ditched. I was surrounded at my table by girls going for a weekend in Bristol -- "I've booked the table for six o'clock, because we've booked tables for eight in the past and by then everyone's absolutely plastered" -- and behind me, rugby club lads going to a stag do in Cardiff. One was in a complete gimp suit, a retortion to emasculate the demand for a mere face covering; another, bull-necked in a floral dress.
I chanced my outdated rail pass at the station where I was to change, in the search for more alcohol. At the ticket barrier, the guard noticed its expired status. "I'll let you out, but I'm taking this off you."
Cardiff had an airy, liberating feel. I sat girl-watching on the terrace in Wetherspoons, and texted Wendy and Kitty. "Kin ell, Cardiff girls. It's all minidresses and play suits here. I'm so appalled that I am watching them carefully in case there is any untoward behaviour."
In a way I'm relieved. The inevitable end came quietly. But up to last Saturday, I've had thousands of pounds worth of travel out of it.
I am in the northeast for a few days from Thursday, as it's my brother's fiftieth. The care home owners, frustrated now, see no legal way of preventing him meeting up with his family. I'll also be able to see Kim, who lives near Middlesbrough. A month ago, she warned me that my plan to invite Trina was "a disaster."
As Kim is a woman who talks sense, I rang to sound my worries out on Wendy. She suggested the radical option which I rarely consider -- being honest with all parties. "Ring Trina now. Go on, do it now."
I'd had a couple of pints of cider at this point so felt more able to cope with the call. We chatted on the periphery for a couple of minutes before I jumped in. "Just to put you in the know Trina, I'm going out with someone now, someone I met at Parks and Carks."
She surprised me by how she took it in her stride. A minute or so later, she moved onto another topic and carried on talking. I know she can't dissemble, so I breathed more easily after that phone call.
Since coming back from Tenby, I've been sleeping even more badly than I normally do, hardly a mysterious state of affairs for someone who pours liquid sugar down his neck before every bedtime. Yesterday at work, I served a cheeseburger "with salad please" containing just the salad.
I've got some diazepam put away for a rainy day, and took my first ever dose of it last night. It was like being pushed gently into a soft bed of ease. No worries, no guilt-dreams. And I woke up this morning with my pecker all bushy-tailed.
I am boyishly pleased with my new scooter, a more powerful one to get me up and down a hilly city like Bristol. On my way home last night I passed a thirtysomething couple. "She's a belligerent old cunt anyway," he said.
Going at less than walking pace thorough one of the large parks that decorate Bristol, I am behind an untrammelled child. His dad intervenes. "Elijah! Elijah! Move out of the way for the man."
One mustn't mock middle class children's names because that will only lead us to a useless discord.
