Happy Days

There's a couple of firsts for me this Mother's Day.  

I received this card through the post (usually it would be delivered in person).   It did make me laugh, though, considering he's 22 this year!   Aww, but I guess he'll always be my little pirate, regardless of whatever age he reaches.. and although Matt can't join us today he'll be home soon enough over Easter, when he returns on his break from Uni.

Sweet Sam has totally made my day today, because for the first time ever he's actually chosen and bought his own gift for me this year.  He helps out at a charity shop for a couple of hours during the week, and he's not only selected something from there, he's even paid for it with his own money - two beautiful matching picture frames, that are very, very special in every way.  We usually have a family photograph taken on Mother's Day, but this year I'm deferring it 'til Easter, when all the family are together - and when we are, I now have the perfect frame to set it in.

The girls have also done me proud, just look at these yummy cakes Abby has gifted me..!   Beccy is working as I type (she has a part-time job at WH SMITH), I have no idea if she has bought me anything, but suspect it may involve stationery if she has (silly not use that staff discount of hers, eh?).

Despite my protests that I am NOT hubby's mummy, nor ever will I be, hubby still managed to see it in his heart to deliver a  truly inspired gift upon his own behalf.  I had no idea Stuart MacBride has a new book out - ooooooh, what a treat!  I'm just so thrilled at the prospect of opening a new novel of his - whoohoo! 

And as for the hound from hell who ate my address book last week, well, even he's come through, by somehow miraculously managing to replace it with a brand new one (even if it is still minus all the numbers I've lost down his gullet).

Tonight the family and I are treating ourselves to a meal out at our favorite restaurant - what better way to celebrate the end of a wonderful day?  We'll be sure to raise a glass to our "absent friend", Matt.

All in all, life is good in the world of Shrinky.  My building blues are also resolved - the contractor is back on site, and coming through with the original plan - rebuilding to the spec I want, and at no extra cost.  I honestly couldn't be happier with the way things are going now, and am very excited to see the finished result.

As for the SKY saga, the third engineer's visit in as many weeks not only appears to have fixed the problem, he has also - bless his heart,  re-tuned every telly throughout the house for me, so they now have both boxes broadcasting in splendid HD (finger's crossed)!

Although my sewing machine is still not back yet, I'm assured the fault is covered under it's recent service warranty, and this also includes the spare new part they've needed to order - how good is that? 

AND MY FURNITURE HAS FINALLY ARRIVED - albeit some damaged in transit.  Being as how it all came wrapped in packaging it took three hours to break into, I signed for it unseen.  The darling guy who sent it accepted the photo's I've emailed vouching I speak true, and is open to discussing compensation.  People are on the whole good, aren't they?  

(I now have me some cakes to scoff, so please excuse me whilst I exit, hugging myself..)

Oh um, yeah - the diet's delayed 'til Monday.

SHE WAS SO ILL

.

She stopped breathing twice.  Relied on a nebuliser to make it through most days.  Saw numerous specialists, had countless invasive tests, and endured endless emergency hospitalizations.

All the while, "Here we go again" playing punchbag with my heart.

By then, although Sweet Sam, her older brother, was still largely undiagnosed, the common consensus with the experts favoured faulty genes for his mental and physical "delays".  (Of course, this genetic speculation only came two months after Beccy's conception.  With hindsight I'm glad, as had we known prior I doubt we would've been brave enough to try for a third child - but back then our entire world caved in.)  

See, with Sam it was only beginning to dawn on us these weren't delays, not really.  "Delay" infers arriving late, doesn't it?  Just an interruption,  a longer than expected journey between the start to the finish line.  'Twas bloody callous holding out such hope, implying as it did to me I could actually make it all better, if only I could be a good enough, focused enough, intense enough, loving enough, worthy mother to him. 

So when Beccy developed serious health issues, and also began to  miss those critical milestones, I guess t'was only a natural assumption for us to fear for the worst, that it was happening all over again.    I asked if Beccy would have a shortened life-span, the doctors shrugged and scratched their heads.  It took four long, agonizing days before the results of the sweat tests came back clear.  She didn't, thank God, have Cystic Fibrosis after all, and neither did Sam.  Check another one of their so many terrifying stabs-in-the-dark off the list.

It's hard to laugh and play, with a permanent rattle in your chest, when you're always short of breath and too tired to eat.  Especially if most foods hurt your tummy, and usually make you puke up. Minor things such as toileting and speech do tend to be placed on hold, to the back burner.

(Don't please DON'T lecture or advise me on food allergies and intolerances; aside from having a qualified dietician for an irritatingly knowledgeable big sister, I have completely lost patience over time with all the well meaning Numpties who think I haven't already written the book, designed and modeled the t-shirt, as well as stocked the whole buggerin' gluten/lactose/additive-free bakery with all that stuff!)       

So yes, she was VERY ill.

But a fighter.  

With her frequent absences, she struggled with missing out on so much at school, and had to run just to barely keep pace with her class.  She didn't have many friends, as she wasn't as able or as energetic as her peer group to be socially interactive with them.  Thank goodness Abby had arrived (hubby having foolishly postponed his scheduled vasectomy until AFTER running the London marathon one particular year, and YES, upon receiving the news 'tis true, all our friends and family thought we were stark raving bonkers, and nothing short of certifiably insane - which probably wasn't too far from the truth.  At that point, my dad, with terminal lung cancer, had just moved in).

The foundation educational stepping stones Beccy had missed out on, were soon, via Abby, able to be re-visited again.  They BOTH read to me from the self same books, tallied their numbers, and learned Abby's homework together.

Ever so slowly Beccy began to catch up.  Miraculously, she also strengthened.  The hospital trips lessened, her tummy became more tolerant, and her breathing difficulties not only gradually improved,  eventually, over time they inexplicably near vanished clean away.

Far from overnight, and sure, she had her set backs, even to this day she still often needs her inhalers, but overall, each passing year proved a blessing.

Now here's the thing - Beccy not only moved forward, she actually began to scholastically over-take some of her class mates.

  

Better still, she also took to sports like a cheetah does to running -  and eventually excelled to become a key member of virtually every "A" team at school.  She currently holds her sporting "colours", one of only four girls in her year awarded such an honor.

Academically, she is brighter than her sib's, though Matt, the eldest, is much more competitive, works far harder, and usually achieves the better grades.  Beccy coasts, doing enough to gain merit, but not anywhere near enough to break out in a sweat.  She's "Miss Popularity", a constant chatter-box, and the elected Head Girl of her school House.

I can't even find fault with her boyfriend (hard as I've tried).  He's a dream - polite, easy-going, set for university next term; a tall, handsome rugby-playing Adonis, who obviously worships the ground he believes she floats above - and the feeling appears mutual, they have known each other for years, went to the same school, share the same friends, and, as far as I can tell, haven't exchanged so much as a cross word between them, not in the entire 18 months they've been together. 

Oh, don't get me wrong, she knows better than any how to push all my buttons, and often drives me to complete and demented distraction like as in when the boyfriend was stuck last month, in a Vietnam hospital with his exploded appendix, and she blithely gave herself permission to run us up a nice phone bill totaling over £300).  

But all that aside, just look at her - she's happy, she's healthy, and appears nothing short of positively thriving.  What parent in their right mind could ask more?

                       (From a spoof fabric conditioner ad she recently shot)

Yes, I am stunned, proud and often utterly amazed at how far my fearless eldest daughter has managed to travel, especially considering the awful start she had to life.

And as sweet coincidence would have it, it just so happens to be her lovely birthday come the morn..

       Happy 17th,  Dearest, Beautiful Beccy  

  

Under New Management

What The Fly On The Wall Heard

 

Some things I've been caught saying:-


To Matt, aged 3:  "Nope, Goldie-fish isn't "resting" on the conservatory roof, he's dead.  Say sorry."


To Abby, aged 5:  "And you cut your fringe off, because.?"


To Sweet Sam (for years):  "You don't sniff and lick strangers in the supermarket aisle, nor do you creep up behind them to ping their tights.  Would you like it?  Oh.  Well, they don't, okay?"


To Beccy, almost twelve:  "Well, you shouldn't have told everyone, should you? For the last time I am NOT hiring a stretch limo, nor are we throwing a cocktail party for your birthday.  Live with it."


To Abby, aged seven:  "Of course I like Mary's mum, whatever makes you ask? Aw, daddy's only joking, I never really said that."


To Beccy, aged three (after splattering the unfortunate guy behind):  "S'alright, sweetie, we'll get you some travel sickness pills as soon as the coach stops, just try to aim more for the bag next time."


To Abby, aged 15:  "Have you been drinking? Let me smell your breath. Mmnn, minty.. polo mints, again? Isn't it funny how they always make your eyes so glazed?"


To Matt, aged 14:  "Will you kindly stop bench-pressing the dog? Ha, knew he'd throw up.."


To Beccy, aged 9:  "If you must run away from home, at least have the decency to run farther than just to the shed."


To Sweet Sam (up until around ten or eleven): "Why do you always have to shout so loud? Yes, I know you're only being friendly. Thing is, every man you wave "hi" to passing a building site is not called daddy, okay?"


To Abby, aged 15:  "Because I said so.  I don't care if the whole world and their Uncle has one, you are NOT getting a skull and crossbones tattooed across your bum."


To Matt, aged 16:  Apologize to your sister, NOW!  I don't care that she snapped your guitar string, you do not dangle anyone by their ankles, three flights up, outside of a window."


To Beccy, aged eight:  "How many times do I have to tell you? You are not adopted. Yes, FINE, I'll go and fetch your birth certificate."


To Beccy (on the eve of her prom):  "No, of course I'm not laughing, it'll wash out.  Ah, it's a permanent dye then, is it?"


To Matt (every time he's home, about to go out):  "No, I don't have any spare change."


To all four, eternally:  "Can you PLEASE at least try using the lavatory brush, after you?"


Not forgetting those all time classics of, "Don't you DARE slam that door..", "What did your last slave die of?", "The subject is closed.",  and naturally, the eternally useful, "Why don't you try asking your dad?" cop-out.


Horrible thing is, I also often catch myself quoting some of the stuff my parents used to say to me as a kid, too, and usually it's all those things I swore I'd never, ever say to my own lot, if and when I had them.


Funny how parenthood alters perspective.


I still hold firmly to the belief every child should come into this world clutching their own lie-detector.  Yeah, I know I've posted about this before, but just think of all the fruitless banter it would save:-


Me:  Are these your dirty knickers I found lying in my bathroom?


Beccy:  Nah, they're Abby's.


Abby:  Liar!


So much easier to just cut to the chase.  Hook 'em up and zap 'em, that's what I say.  Can you imagine?


"Were you really late home because aliens abducted you?"


"Was it you who told your brother's girlfriend he has herpes?"


"Who wrecked the kitchen again?"


"Do you have any other websites I should know about?"


"Who scoffed all the biscuits?"


"What happened to my favorite vase?"


"What's the real story behind this detention?"


"Is it true that dirty mag was planted under your mattress without your prior knowledge and consent?"


"Did you tell your sister she was abandoned at birth as a crack-baby?"


Oh, the possibilities are endless.  In fact, the more I think about it, I think perhaps the government should step up here, provide one free of charge per household.  Now that's what I call supporting responsible parenting, eh?


We might even bring out an alternative version, one that delivers a wee, small electrical charge for when the needle strays over to deceptive (okay, only for persistent offenders, let's not be entirely heartless).


Hey, I wonder if I can buy these things on-line?


Charging out of the blog with a fresh spring to my step.. 

The Case of the Stolen Governor

I love this photo,  I just happened to have my camera to hand as he exited the police station.  Er, before proceeding, think I'd best pop up a little disclaimer:  This here following story is purely fictional, and in no way at all expresses the thoughts, feelings  or acts of the above-photographed gentleman.
  (So far as I know.)

P.C. Stuart laments not for the first time, having not listened to his dear old, long-departed ma’s sound advice.  She always knew he would be a fuck up in uniform.  Here she was probably watching him right now, a knowing glint in her eye.

This sleepy wee isle seemed a good enough escape at the time, where nothing other than the annual T.T. motorbike races shatters the peace.  With his early ambitions at the London Met soon fast quelled, he'd been relieved to find, at least over here the junkie population is still in the minority, and the odd encounter with any knife-wielding maniac rarely, if ever, turns out gang-affiliated.  

Looking a regular knob-head in the pointy white helmet appeared but a small price to pay.  Or so he'd thought.

But four years on, now a couple of missed promotions down the line, and with him over three full stones the wider, he was seriously beginning to question he'd met his true calling.

In fairness, there's a limit as to how many days one poor, put-upon  Copper can reasonably be expected to lecture to a class-load of plukie teenagers on the evils of drink. 

It's a far sure cry from CSI. 

What's the odds of catching any undercover work, in a place where everybody not only knows you, but even knows the name of your bloody dog you're out walking with every night? 

Little wonder if he's taken to comfort eating.

Checking his watch, he's mollified to find time enough for his regular morning detour (to help lift his volatile blood-sugar) to the corner bakery.  Mrs. Quirke spotting him enter, and ever the tease, flashes her tray of still steaming, juicy meat pies up at him.

"Now that's timing to perfection, Willie, just fresh from my oven, these are."

Give Old Widow Quirke a full set of new dentures, and P.C. Stuart reflects he might even get down on one knee to her, yet.  He asks her to bag up two, ordering a large iced donut to go.  Digging deep for the change in his pocket, the radio on his shoulder interrupts with a screech of static.

It's his Sargent, calling him in back to base.  Bugger, what now? Scoffing the donut, he settles the tab, and unwrapping a pie for the road, scuttles back the way he came, wondering what must be so urgent as to cancel out his 10 o'clock talk with the finest of  St. Ninian's.

Sargent Sergent (yes, that really is his name) greets him at the desk, directing him through to a freshly commandeered rear room, where he finds there is a surprisingly full house.  Stuart swallows the last of pie number two, wipes the gravy from his lips, and sidles in, hopeful to catch the low-down on the latest afoot from the Luscious Lucy, aka WPC Robinson, before the Inspector's arrival.

"You not heard?  Seems the Governor's only gone and gotten himself kidnapped, hasn't he?"

"What?  No.  Who in the hell would want to go and kidnap Inspector Saunders?  I mean, what's the point to that?  It's not like he's worth anything, even money-wise, like - is he?"

"Jesus, you o.d. on the stupid syrup this morning?  Not Saunders, The Lieutenant Governor of The Isle of Man, you Numpty, Adam "Retired-Diplomat" Woolly, that's who."

"Nooooooo..?  Oh my.  That's a bit bad, isn't it?  Didn't he have bodyguards or somebody, to look out for him?  I'd've thought he would've had, wouldn't you?"

Luscious Lucy shoots him the slanty-eyed dagger, "Probably serves 'em right, for not having put you in charge there then, eh?"

As Inspector Saunders takes to the floor,  Stuart feels the faint stirrings of his partially-digested mutton begin to repeat.  

I have a feeling PC Stuart's luck is maybe about to look up, don't you?  I'll see how it goes - I'm starting to warm to the incompetent, big galoot, but, yeah, don't hold your breath - you know how easily distracted I get.  (Hope him up there, and his dear old ma never gets to see this, lest I land myself in some trouble.  I don't want my next post be to in aid of a whip-round, to scare up my bail money.)

The Birthday Meal



'

Ma (affectionately snarling as she scratches at a flea-bite): "You've had that mangy mongrel back in this house again, haven't you, you idjit?"


Me (innocent as the day is long): "Eh, dog? What dog?"


Now, I'm not saying Laddie was my dog exactly, he was his own master, but the two of us had reached the loose arrangement he might visit from time to time. Being a wily old rascal, he regularly hung outside of the school gates to exchange the odd cuddle for a crisp, and he had no qualms whatsoever about whom he went home with.


Forty years ago, as all us old timers are wont to say, things were very different from now. For example, if a parent ever showed up outside of our school gates, it usually signalled their kid had landed into some seriously deep-doo-doo, the whack-around-the-lug-until-your-ear-sings type of trouble that you wouldn't even wish upon your very own worst enemy. 

See, way back then the strange concept of collecting your sprog home from school would have been about as alien to us, as the notion of one of our parents being mug enough to "help us out" with our homework. The minute you were old enough to know the route home (and in some instances before), you were simply expected to take yourself off and get on with it.


Like most of my mates, I grew up as a "latch-key" kid, Ma worked down by the quay as a filleter, slicing the flesh from the bone of the catch of the day (Da was a trawler-man, often away for weeks at a time) so until she got home, Ma instructed my sib's to "watch out for the bairn" (me) but they, having their own fish to fry seldom took that pointer to heart. Not that it mattered one jot to me, I was far happiest left to my own devices, May and Ian were known to boss me about something chronic.


So it was, Laddie and I began to form a lasting friendship. It wasn't long before he took to calling round uninvited, sloping in through the back door when it was left open, and much to ma's horror, boldly making himself totally at home. Almost always instantly ejected, he never took offence, and being the persistent little bugger that he was, he even gradually managed to wear Ma down some. Although never voiced, when I came home one afternoon to find her sudding him down in the back yard, I knew we had won her over.


Laddie was used to his own agenda, he still liked to do his old rounds, but he always found his way back again.


Sometimes in a dreadful state.


Being a scrapper, he often bit off rather more than he could chew, and there were manys a time that Ma, in tears, would have to bathe a torn ear or tend to his various wounds. Much as she liked to deny it, she'd grown to love him every bit as much as we all did.


As you have probably gathered by now, money was tight growing up, but no matter how poor we were, we usually ate reasonably well. Our diet consisted of mainly fresh fish, eggs, cod roes or lambs hearts, sometimes this was varied with liver or for a special treat, pigs trotters. All the cheapest cuts granted, but nutritious non the less. 

Imagine then, when our Belling cooker finally up and died, the massive investment it was to find the money for a replacement. A loan was arranged from the Tick-man ("Tick" meaning "debt" in the vernacular of the day), this being the guy who called weekly door-to-door. Clutching his slate, he collected payment with the one hand and offered more debt from out of the other. No one liked, but everyone needed him. He ran a brisk business.


Our brand new new stove was a sight to behold, it came full with every modern bell and whistle you could ever wish for. The oven had a self-timer, it even sported a bright orange light as it warmed to the right setting, clicking off again as it reached the required temperature.


Sadly, even poor Ma knew what a rotten cook she was. Everything was either boiled or fried, seasoning was unheard of, and the only sauce we ever came by was served fresh from out of a ketchup bottle. But the arrival of this pristine appliance encouraged Ma on to new heights. Not having had a working oven for years, she was mad keen to see if she could put it to good use.


Oh my, did we suffer!


Ma stuck stubbornly to her claim we had a dodgy oven. Lord knows why, but for some inexplicable reason neither one of my folks ever needed to read an instruction manual. They KNEW how to operate stuff, and if the stuff didn't work, well, stands to reason it was faulty, du-uh! Wasn't that obvious?


The timer had a habit of going off before, during and after the oven was set (each time requiring a further fiddle with the button). Worse, the orange light kept clicking off, necessitating a higher spin of the dial to make it come on again. Every lump of fish/meat/offal came out looking identically charred and tasting equally leather-like. Time after time after time after time. (It didn't help that basting, braising or broiling had still yet to be invented in our household)


Well finally, being no body's fool and having also become hugely motivated by now, big sis decided to investigate further. Once she had fully read and boned up, she sat down with Ma to explain that the orange light was MEANT to flick off at the right temperature, it would still cook the meat. But ma was having none of it, the damned oven was faulty, it was nothing to do with her, and that was the end of it. Besides, everyone knows under cooked meat/fish/offal isn't good for you.


Sigh.


Anyway, time rolled on and Da's birthday came by. Once a year our Ma and his Ma made the huge effort to be seen to like each other, granny was invited over to sit round the table with us as we all tried to ignore the tension between them both, and pretend how much we would just love to do this kind of thing much more often. Naturally, this meal put Ma under a huge pressure. Already knowing whatever she produced would never be good enough, she was determined to serve up the most edible offering her skills could muster.


In honour of this auspicious occasion, she went and pushed the boat way out, buying the most expensive slab of beef this side of Commerce Street. Us kids gathered round to eye the brown, red tinged paper parcel lying out on the table.


"Go on, scoot, out the lot of you, I'm busy in here, and don't you dare to make a mess anywhere, you hear?"


Why was it always me who got the eyeball treatment when ever she said that? I'm telling you, being the youngest around those parts was enough to turn you paranoid. We had never so much as sniffed, never mind had the joy of wrapping our jaws around such a fine roast of beef before, this was a huge, huge big deal, believe me. 

Da had set off to collect Granny from home, and Ma was scuttling about still fixing the house up nice. I was just crossing the hallway to head for my comics, when in the flash of a second all hell broke loose.

A black and white blur slammed me across the wall, as I spun around just in time to catch a small fleeting glimpse of the tip of a tail  exiting the open front door. Simultaneously, I heard my Ma's  piercing scream fly up, and the blood in my veins instantly froze solid.


Laddie's made off with the beef!


Ma grabbed at my arm, and sprinting to give chase, she pushed and shoved me to run on ahead. Finding my legs, I sprang to action, a deep, awful dread spurring me on. I must have been the fastest kid since Bannister was a child. 

It was all to no avail, by the time we hit the street, Laddie had long since scarpered. 

I was truly distraught, what had Laddie done? I just knew Ma was going to kill the both of us, so she was!


Well she certainly was as mad as hell. She ranted and she raved, even delivered one of her infamous back- hand slaps on me. Oh boy, was I scared for Laddie when he got back. 

But then something really weird happened. Ma stopped mid-rant and I swear I saw a little light-bulb go off in her head (it was a very long time ago, so I may be mis-remembering now). She stopped and she looked at me, tilted her head to one side, and a small hint of a smile lifted her lips. The smile turned into a grin, and the grin grew into a laugh.


"Carol!" She bent and kissed me where she'd slapped. Without a further word, she turned and virtually danced to the kitchen. 

Maybe everyone was right after all, she really was nuts?


Naturally I was firmly in the doghouse once Da and Granny found out. Da was all for turning Laddie out into the street for once and for all. We all sat round the table with our two veg and some tatties (spuds), trying not to mourn too hard for the loss of our beef. It was a muted affair, and sure, it wasn't too long after this that granny demanded she be fetched back to her own home again (in her grand display of disapproval). 

Ordered off to clear and to wash the dishes all by my lonisome, I didn't mind, I wasn't up for much company anyway. I didn't need any encouragement to take myself on off for an early night, either.


What I had no inkling of at the time was that Laddie had actually delivered to Da probably the best birthday present he'd had in years. With no meat on the table, there was no ammunition for granny to find fault with, Ma was for the first time in ages finally able to relax, and nobody had to risk breaking their jaws to chew down what would have surely been yet another blackened offering. Even granny won out, being spared the undoubted indigestion Ma's cooking always inflicted upon her self-proclaimed delicate constitution.


Laddy?  Well yeah, he did get punished, little thief that he was - and I rather doubt he had even a clue as to why.. mind,  for years after that, every time he heard the dreaded words, "Who stole the beef?"   He'd slope off, tail dragging low.

Shrinky's Douglas

Firstly, may I  welcome you aboard to my the all-inclusive Shrinky Tour, and thank you for your gullibility discerning taste in choosing to book with "us" again.  Please note, all fees are strictly mine now  non-returnable, and any whining complaints to the Manx Tourist Board shall be given my undivided follow-thorough, via a personal visit to your loved ones our full consideration.

I am in receipt of all the signed disclaimers, yes?  Great.  Hang on, who's Mickey Mouse??   You at the back, yeah, near the table, Choco, will you please, kindly pass Chewy along a fresh form from there, to re-complete..?  Thank you.

Okay, so a little background to orientate you to this place from tip to tail.  The entire isle is approx. 35 miles long, and 15 miles wide - effectively, that means the farthest drive away you can ever be from the coast, is around 10 minutes.

Put simply Al, car theft is rendered redundant here, we just wait by the ferry to catch you.  

The cross on the map is Douglas, where I live, the red dot on the map is Kirk Michael, where my lil' sis', Lainee, and her family lives.  

Huh?  Well, of course it's relevant, RC.  The clue is in the tour name.

(Stony stare.)

Our island is a tax haven, a bit like the Cayman Islands, but without the sun.  Being self-governing, we can get away with this, elect our own parliament to set the laws and levy taxes.  We even have our own separate flag from the Union Jack, as well as our own Manx currency, (which is a right pain in the bum, since it needs to be exchanged over to British sterling, before taking any trip over to the UK mainland, and likewise to Euros, for any jaunts over to Ireland) but don't let that trouble you, as I'll gladly accept everything from the Euro right through to the Yen, okay? 

No, sorry Dan, it's still a no to those slot-machine tokens. 

The overall population here is circa 75,000, and Douglas is the Isle of Man capital, with by far the highest population at over 25,000.  Douglas may be not the prettiest part of the island, but it is the island hub for shipping, transport, shopping, and entertainment (did you notice how I convincingly managed to keep a straight face in saying that last bit?).   It is also the home of the government, and a main finance sector.  Banks from all over the world hold offices here. 

Sorry?  Yes Skunk, 'fraid I'm pretty sure the banks do have adequate security systems in place, it's not like we're that backward, y'know?

Right, that's the boring bits over, let's move on. 

        

If any of you (Bone) should find yourselves ditched for some reason parted from the group, please make your way back to this gathering point at the top of my drive, and wait for Jake to come find you.  Under no circumstances whatsoever stray down the drive (hubby thinks I'm at the gym). 

Those of you who took the last week, "Shrinky Residence Tour" may be surprised to find I'm not actually situated in the rural back of beyond, after all.  In fact, I live only a few minutes drive from the centre of town.

Before we venture out there, if we take this left, and continue straight on up, one mile along lies the famed TT Grandstand, and the start line for the super bikes, those which relentlessly whizz  past our drive on race days, effectively holding me and mine hostage for the duration.

This also happens to be Sweet Sam's most favourite place in the whole wide world.   

"The Paddock" lies directly behind the Grandstand, where Sam and I chase down autographs, to add to his burgeoning collection.  As his officially appointed photographer, I wear the eternal shame proud reputation of being viewed as the oldest paparazzi biker-groupie in town. 
No biking Royalty is safe, here he is ambushing Michael Dunlop (again). 

But I'm getting distracted here, and giving too much away - this diversion really belongs on the, "Shrinky TT Tour" (tickets for which can be purchased in advance at a very reasonable price, on any week day hubby is out of town).

Do keep your eyes peeled for any cats on our travels, we're quite famous for our tail-less pussies.  It's thought it was originally a genetic defect which overtook most of the island's population, throughout generations of inbreeding. Um, yes, there is a part of this isle (rumour has it) where certain human defects have also similarly been passed on.. but, er, probably best to leave that one for another tour - we'll be having no careless talk of this in Douglas.

So, if we retrace our steps, taking a right will head us towards the town.

The Railway station sits in front of my Tesco Supermarket (well, not mine as such, though I wish it were, no, I simply get my on-line grocery weekly shop delivered to me, from there).  When the weather is rough and the ferries can't get through from the mainland, the shelves there are often bare.  Most of us tend to lay in a good store cupboard, 'cos in truth, you just never know in this place when you might have to hole up and make do for a bit.

Our railway was the inspiration for all the Thomas the Tank Engine stories, and the author, Reverend W Awdry, set each tale in the mythical "Isle of Sodor" which everyone knows is just a euphemism for us - well, we even have our own Bishop of Sodor, don't we, what more proof do you need?

We've never seen the need to update our rolling stock, and this is the only mode of train to be found on our island.

It doesn't just serve the tourists, as the line runs throughout the island, and is a regular service from A-B, over the summer months.

This station exits on to the North Quayside, and to the odd pub and restaurant.  Coaster's is where Matt, my eldest, held his first ever (crappy, minimum wage) job, bless him, washing up endless giant pots and pans, after school.  It was handy for him, being within walking distance from home.

And it paid his rent.

Ack, blow your nose, Babs, I'm only kidding (it went towards his school fees).

The restaurant faces directly over the marina, and on to the South Quayside.  Actually folks, this is probably as good a place as any to stop now, for that all-inclusive meal of ours.

What, where for the love of sweet Jesus, do you shower of feckless moron's think you're stampeding off to?  Get your assorted arses back over here, right this minute.  No, I didn't mean Coasters - why on earth would anyone be wanting to closet themselves indoors for lunch, when there's perfectly good tin-foil wrapped, chilled bacon sandwiches to be had, right out here in the fine, fresh air?  Look, I've even made you up some nice fruit squash, to help swill it down with.

Oh, there's always ONE vegetarian, isn't there?  Yeah, yeah, Veggie-Assassin - no worries, look, see?  There's still a bit of lettuce left, once you remove the bacon, alright?   Yeah, and bon appetite to you, too.  Any more of that kind of language, and you'll find yourself fast marching back to that aforementioned meeting point, me lass.. 

Whoops, yeah, sorry about the gulls, they've no manners at all, have they?  Best for you that's got hoods, to maybe wear them up for now?  And I'd advise us all to eat discreetly, shielded beneath the safety of our coats, these thieving banshees are known to get vicious.

Cheer up, Secret Agent, I've brought the bandaid's.

Ah, isn't this grand?  There's nothing can beat a good picnic. 

This is where Sam and his friends sometimes crew a sailing boat, provided and supervised by "Sailing for the Disabled", a brilliant charity in aid of kids and young adults, with physical or learning difficulties.   

True, X-Dell, it is in for repair a lot.. 

Follow the road around the South quay, and it'll lead you on up to Douglas Head, one of the highest points in the town, which provides sweeping views over Douglas.  


If you continue on, the road winds upwards and along to the lighthouse.  I occasionally used to take Jake up here for a run, but no, not so much recently, Vince, not since he confused himself as a lemming, and tried inventing that shortcut down to the sea.

This is perched just along the way from The Union Camera Obscura.   A single lens and mirror in a revolving turret, above the darkened room there, projects a picture of the surrounding area.   It was first built in 1887, but burned down within the same year, proving that the youth of the island have ever long been a problem around these parts.   It was rebuilt in  the1890's, and for all I know, has had an invisible armed guard round it ever since.

The camera was originally used to spy on tourists at the bathing baths, or at the locals making out on the headland, and provided a popular form of fun and entertainment at the time.  Kinda' proves nothing much changes, doesn't it, Hilary?  Hilary?  (Sigh)  It'll turn you blind, it will.

Retracing back now, we're entering into the town proper, and to where the main shopping centre lies.  Yes, I know you must be quite envious now, you amongst us of the huge Plazza's and Mall's, sure, it's not every day you get to experience wind, hail and sleeting rain the open skies above you, as you are buffeted and battered sauntering from shop to shop.

The nearest we have to a department store, is the over-priced and under-stocked, local branch of Marks & Spencer's (termed, "Markies" by some of us in the know), where we buy our knickers and "Meals for Two" at.  It lies behind from where this shot was taken, but trust me, Bill, you're not missing very much.  They charge you a quid, just to push the trolley round.  

See past the pub on the left? That's the little art supply shop I use to frame and mount my pictures, lovely couple they are there, husband and wife team, both artists.


Perhaps you understand now why I'm such a big fan of this on-line shopping malarkey?

Take any small side street off to the right, and it'll lead you straight down to the prom, and the open seafront. 

The horse-trams run the whole length of the two mile promenade, with frequent drop off and pick up points along the way.  When the kids were younger, we regularly used to ride free on these.  It wasn't until a couple of years back I found out we'd been dodging our fare.  Gospel truth, there'd never ever been anyone there to collect it from us, I swear. 

If you're looking for a scenic, coastal route up to the mountain, the electric tram is the way to go.  It also has several scheduled stations it stops at, and I used to often catch it through to Laxey, before the embroidery supplies shop I used there closed down. 

(Pout.)

The Sefton Hotel on the Prom is where my eldest worked as a barman, on his breaks home from University (until his boss opened a new place in Peel, and took him with him).

This is a sculpture of the comedian, Sir Norman Wisdom, one of our island's more colourful resident's, who sadly died a couple of years back.  He was quite a well known character, everyone knew to jump well out of the way when they saw him peeking up over that bonnet of his Bentley he drove.

When the Queen came over one Tynwald Day, he and my neighbours, amongst some others (very notably not me), were invited to attend a formal dinner with her.  She tells me (not HRH, no, my neighbour) all throughout the meal, she kept having to kick him under the table, in an attempt to stop him from removing his dentures each time the Queen addressed him .  Ever the clown, he was.

We also have George Formby clutching his Uke, leaning against a lamppost, and mutely serenading passers-by, on another of our street corners.

The Sefton statue is only on loan to them from the borough, though it's never actually sat anywhere else.

The hotel gets a lot of trade from The Gaiety Theatre, next door, and Matt served drinks to many of the rich and famous who've passed through there.
   

Which is where I'll be found on Saturday, to see this - wheyhey!

Over the road,, a pedestrian walkway runs the full length of the beach,

Lined with sunken gardens.  Yes Chantel, I'll bet there are some fine cuttings to be had here, when no one is looking.

This spot on the beach is where I used to take Jake for his daily run.

 But since his arthritis, he needs use of a ramp now to make it into the car - and being such a huge brute, it takes a very long, long ramp indeed, to coax his hairy Lordship up a gentle enough incline. 

I need to ensure space for almost the length of three cars to unfold the darn thing, and sadly the Prom isn't one of the best of places to find ample parking there, so I've recently taken to using the glens more now, where I can always guarantee space for the ramp.

Further along the way, is the Tower of Refuge.  At first glance, I thought it was just an ornamental folly, but seems I was mistaken, and it serves a very real purpose.

When the Lifeboat Service was founded in the 1800's, they soon discovered many shipwrecked sailors often drowned, mistakenly believing they could make the swim to shore.  They built this on a reef, and stocked it with blankets, and a supply of fresh bread and water.  I'm told it's briefly accessible from shore, during certain tides and times of the year.

Where the Prom ends is the Ferry Terminal (I'll be parked at the front, Leslie, for you to head over to, when you dock).

Built in the 1960's, it looks as if it could double up as a giant lemon- squeegee-implement, but it seems it's still fit(ish) for purpose, and as there's certainly no money left lying around to replace it (not since the UK government stuffed us over the VAT), I guess we're stuck with it for the foreseeable future.

And this here behind it, is the harbour.

Which I am happy to say is blissfully close to where I live.  It's wonderful to pile off the ferry, and to be warming my toes before my own fireplace, within a few minutes. 

Yeah Furtheron, there is an airport, but it's further on (sorry), in Castletown, and we're only doing DOUGLAS on this trip, remember?  You want Castletown, it costs extra.

So there we have it folks, this is almost a wrap.  Talking of which, kindly take your tin foil wrappers with you as you go, please, or you won't be finding yourselves invited back here in a hurry.

Maybe I WILL cover Castletown at some point, it is a much bonnier spot (it gets prettier the further south or north you get).  I know it well, as my kids attend school there.

Here's a taster.  Gorgeous building to attend lessons in, isn't it?

Okay, next stop we might do the "Castle and Museum Tour", what do say? 

Cheer up, Sully, I'll be sure to throw in a few visits to the odd Pub and Inn along the way - just so long as you promise to buy in an occassional round for the tour guide?

Alright, leave it with me.