Not Quite British

Last night Mr Grumpy regaled me with tales of his adventures whilst he was in Skegness yesterday. We got to the last bit and he told me about RUNNING - he's nearly 76 - to the bus stop and waving frantically to the bus driver.

Apparently this behaviour was because no one was waiting at the bus stop ... the driver did stop and he was clearly amused.

I was appalled, doesn't he realise how totally un-British this behaviour is? I mean, yes ... if there's only one bus a fortnight and you've got your snow shoes under one arm, an unamused cat under the other, a mosquito net shoved down your vest and a canoe strapped to your back ... plus enough supplies in a dozen shopping bags to get you through those next two weeks. Then by all means ... an apologetic little wave to the bus driver might, just might, be in order.

But we're talking about Skeggy here, with at least one bus every 5 minutes ... and he was carrying nothing more taxing than a pack of new biros for writing his bets.

Which makes me wonder ... 'What nationality is he? because it's definitely not British'.

Several times last year we tootled off to Mablethorpe, I know I've possibly mentioned it to friends what I'm up to ... but I'd hate anyone to miss out on how riveting my life is. But he mentions it THERE what we're doing ... like when we were in a charity shop, I'm browsing the book shelf - for him, I use a kindle - and I can hear him announcing that we're in Mablethorpe because the Skegness Lidl is 'but a pile of rubble' as they're about to rebuild it bigger. It's about this time that I can feel the tops of my ears going red.

Next stop, the pet shop for our badger and bird supplies and the conversation goes ... "We usually go to your shop in Skegness but they're rebuilding Lidl, is it your daughter who works in the pet shop there?" ... by now I'm several aisles away pretending I don't know him ... I do this a lot.

Lidl itself ... I'm shopping, he's chatting. Two aisles away I can hear him ... "Will you be going back to the Skeggy Lidl when it re-opens?". He's obviously cornered a member of staff he recognises as they were sent to different stores. I turn the corner and see him, he's found new victims to tell them 'What we're doing here'.

He sees me coming and announces ... "Here's my wife, I was just telling..." too late they've made their escape.

In the early days I used to think that everyone he was chatting to was someone he actually knew. I'd turn up from whatever shop I'd been in and they'd make a hasty retreat. I took this to mean they liked him and thought I was horrible, so I started to practice smiling ... this was not easy for me, I'm not a smily person ... remember, I am British.

It took me several months of wearing a rictus grin whenever I went out, to realise people just thought I was as big a barmpot as he his. Bless him...

It Doesn't Matter

A week ago we had a major crisis. Mr Grumpy came back from the local bookies and he'd lost a winning bet he'd had at another branch in Mablethorpe the day before.

He went through all his slips on the table, checked his pockets ... "but it doesn't matter" ... he then started going through the kitchen bin, teabags flarted one way, packaging from my parcel received that morning another, and a mountain of dust hoiked on the floor - I'd literally only just emptied the Dyson two minutes before he came in ... "but it doesn't matter".

I went through the bets he'd chucked for the cat to play with ...  "ne'er mind  ... it's a mystery to me ... but it doesn't matter" ... and I'm about to get my rubber gloves on for this state of emergency to go deeper in the bin.

I think for a minute ... "how much is this bet worth?"  ... I ask him

"£1.10 ... but it doesn't matter, if I've lost it, I can write it out again as they've got the original"

ONE chuffin POUND 10 bluddy P ... and he's got the caravan upside down ... and I've had to clean the kitchen again.

A little later - after a nice sunbathing session - he told me he'd had another bin bag out and been through the rubbish one piece at a time. And we we're "still baffled".

In those five minutes - it was coffee time so I was a captive audience - I relived every step he'd taken to Don Noble's bookies, where it should have been safely inside one of that days bets, and it wasn't ... but it doesn't matter ...

Next time I'll ask first and have my purse handy to reimburse him... bless him ... but it doesn't matter...

 .....

A week later and we're at Mablethorpe, off he went to the bookies and went through all the rigmarole of telling the poor buggers who work there the sad story of the missing bet. They checked the time he'd placed it, found it and printed another copy for him to sign to say he'd received his winnings, and it was finally worth £1.05. He'd barely slept a whole week for £1.05! ... but it doesn't matter ...