Last week, whilst ‘Airbnbing’ with my in-laws in a rather splendid pile tucked away in the boonies of Lancashire, the owners mentioned they kept hens, and we were very welcome to collect our own eggs. Every morning, my excited daughters would throw on wellies, rush outside and proudly return with the day’s clutch. I’d then serve them…
On Monday 15th June, my days as a gin-soaked house husband, ended. Hanging up my pinny, I bounced into the Victoria Quarter, a whirling dervish of enthusiasm and pent up energy, sporting a new summer suit and highly polished Oxfords. Bright eyed, head held high like a meerkat on patrol duty, I surveyed my surroundings.…
Like a whippet on crystal meth, I’m exploding with boundless energy, now that Boris has set the retail hare running. I am thrilled and delighted to say that Michelsberg Tailoring will be reopening it’s doors on Monday 15th June, and not a moment too soon. My liver, to paraphrase Scotty in Star Trek, “cannae take any more…
“Keep it covered, James.” Those were my father’s (rather embarrassing) parting words at the airport, before I headed off to Portugal with friends to celebrate the end of our GCSE examinations. As far as Personal Protective Equipment goes, a ‘love glove’ is all I’ve ever needed, but until now, that’s all changed. In preparation for…
April has left me tanned like George Hamilton with the liver of George Best. Yesterday, was my first day back in the showroom since lock down, to check for mail, leaks, rodents and pick up a spare computer for home schooling. Unfortunately, Daddy’s darlings had fully committed to their maths “Rock Stars” homework, and decided to…
The Corona iceberg has been struck, and the good ship Victoria Quarter, is on her way down. It’s ‘Lock down’ – to members of the public, verboten. As I sit here at my desk, putting my business in mothballs, I am officially the last man standing. Violin poised, bow in hand, I must serenade a sad farewell…
So this month saw the beginning of Brexit. As an eighteen year old boy, I remember my father dragging me into the polling station in Bingley for my first General Election. When I joked I was voting for Neil Kinnock, he entered my booth and to the gasps of poll workers, forcibly moved my pen…
It’s 6pm on a Sunday evening and I type this missive, sniffling in front of a log fire, wearing a dressing gown and sheepskin slippers. Dear friends, it seems, to quote ‘Withnail,’ I have drifted into the arena of the unwell. With a temperature over 39 degrees, there’s been more perspiration and sighing than in…
Heading into Leeds this morning on the train, I surveyed my fellow passengers with an air of melancholic despondency. To a man, everyone was dressed in Anoraks. More like a ski lift than a railway carriage, this huddled mass of high tech, zip-infested, shapeless Gore Tex smocks and goose down ‘puffer’ coats, left me mourning for the…
This month welcomed the Jet2Ski Snow report back into my inbox. As a young boy, I first strapped on skis at a dry ski slope in Queensbury. Howling winds, driving rain, and not a clue what I was doing, left me bundled into the passenger seat of the manager’s Triumph Spitfire, heading to the Bradford Royal Infirmary with…