Category Archives: Family

The Intervention

For husband and father Tom Hughes, last Sunday morning began like any other. Hot Tea and warm toast to the ready, I sauntered into the lounge looking forward to a double helping of Broadchurch on catch up only to discover my dear wife Sarah and my teenage daughters Hannah and Emily sat in wait. Wearing a benevolent, concerned expression on her face, Sarah gently relieved me of my steaming mug and buttered Hovis, sat me down and said,

“Tom, What we are about to say is said out of love and concern, nothing else.”
Then I realised what was happening, it was a family intervention! But an intervention about what? Was my customary Friday night pint of mild down the Paraffin Lamp getting out of hand? Was my chocolate habit becoming a cause for concern? What could it be? I decided to confront the issue head on.
“Listen, if anyone is wondering why all the cream eggs keep disappearing, I want you all to know that from now on I promise to share the value pack with everyone else.
A confused silence descended. My three precious girls all stared at each other. Chocolate Eggs it seemed, were not the issue. Sarah pressed on.
“We are gathered here today Tom to tell you that, well, you are a bit of a scruff.”
“A what?”
Next to pipe up was Hannah.
“Yes Dad, look at that jumper, look at those jeans?”
“What’s wrong with them? ”
“Dad, who wears hiking socks, walking shoes and a snood to the gym?
“Yes Tom, the girls are embarrassed. Their friends are talking. You need a new wardrobe, urgently.” Said Sarah.
“Well ok, I’ll go through my stuff and – ”
“Too late we’ve done it for you.” Then, to my dismay, Sarah produced a black bin liner full of my precious old clothes. My sweatshirts, my jeans and – horror of horrors- my Bruce Springsteen 2005 tour t-shirt.
“Not the Boss ! Please?”
“No Tom this lot is off to the charity shop in the precinct. Now, grab your coat and let’s go shopping! Er, on second thoughts, leave the coat, let’s just go.”
In the vast Outlet clothes store I wandered aimlessly around, fingering the rails without a clue what I was doing. Eventually I held up a pair of jeans with the pleasing price tag of £24.99.
“Sarah, what about them?”
Sarah examined my choice suspiciously.
“You haven’t just grabbed the cheapest have you?”
“Not at all I-”
“Right put them back and go try on these.”
I examined the pair picked by Sarah. To my untrained eye, they looked identical to the jeans I had just chosen. Identical that is, except for the price. Sarah’s were fifty pounds dearer .
“Why would I pay seventy-five pounds for something I can get for twenty-five, I don’t- ”
Grabbing the seat of the expensive jeans, Sarah pointed to a yellow logo stitched onto the rear pocket.
“Look! That’s why. They are designer!”
“So, they sew a little squiggle onto the pocket and they charge you treble the price? Are you being serious?”
The look from Sarah told me that yes, she was indeed being deadly serious. She picked out a second pair from the rack, handed both of them over and pointed in the direction of the changing rooms. I sloped away to the curtained off area where a glum-faced child gave me an orange circle on which was printed the number two.
I battled with the first pair for what seemed like an age. Eventually I gave up, deciding that, in the words of my Auntie Joyce they “wouldn’t go near me.” The second pair I actually managed to heave myself into. And a more uncomfortable pair of pants I couldn’t imagine. Baggy round the crotch and barely covering my posterior – clearly this particular “Designer”, in his hurry to stitch on the magic money squiggle had stamped them with the wrong size.
Outside I informed Sarah of the manufacturer’s error.
Sarah shook her head in defeat and flung back at me the cheap pair I had originally chosen. I tried them on. Of course, they fitted perfectly.
The next day Sarah arriving home from work, found me sat in my new jeans and sporting another, different purchase.
“Tom! What are you doing wearing that tatty old Bruce Springsteen t shirt? I thought I gave that away?”
“It’s very simple darling, yesterday afternoon, decided to go and do my bit for cancer research…”

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One Day To Go

imageHow many people came to your wedding? 100? 200? 300? Seven? As a rule of thumb, younger couples have bigger guest lists. Work, family, friends, friends of friends, mates from childhood. Fresh-faced men and women who are an item tend to have the resources of school/university to bolster their congregation.

We have jettisoned most of these people.

Age and life experience teaches us this; to value the people who value you back. A maxim that applies equally to friends as it does family. Half of my relations aren’t invited and two of Sarah’s three brothers didn’t make the list.

One of the brothers rang to say that he was dreadfully sorry but he couldn’t attend as it was his silver wedding anniversary this weekend, even though he was married in 1990, twenty four years ago. When Sarah pointed this anomaly out, he still maintained what was not so, was. Some people are strange.

 

As it is twenty years almost to the day since my last wedding, it got me to thinking who is coming tomorrow who attended the last splicing?
Apart from my Mum and my sister, the only other person who made it is Greg, my best man. Everyone else has fallen by the wayside. Happily, those erstwhile contacts have been replaced by people who are delighted to attend and are not turning up under sufferance. One older guest remarked that it was nice for once to go to a formal ceremony where everyone wasn’t staring at a wooden box.

As I age, people are becoming more important to me. But the ones who are important are fewer than before.
I know a number of couples who have no children and because of their ages are unlikely to ever have any.

These three couples all have one thing in common- they have many friends. Friends form the basis of their social life and occupy much of their non-working lives. I suppose it’s their own version of family. But here is the question, if that is their version of a family unit – which unit is the stronger ? Which unit is more loyal?

I hope it all goes ok, I hope nobody faints, nobody dies and there isn’t a fight.

In any case, tomorrow it is the Malmaison hotel in Liverpool, where “the judge will put it all to rest.”