On The Beach

Picture the scene - it's late August, you're lying in the sun, you can hear the rhythmic swish of the Meditteranean washing up on the beach a few feet away from you. Late in the afternoon as the heat begins to mellow, the beach starts to empty a little and you've got a couple of hours before you need to be anywhere. Nothing to do but sit back and watch the world go by. Now turn the music up and listen to my top ten songs for the beach...



1. Speck of Gold - Afterlife. Click

2. Kiko and the Lavender Moon - Los Lobos. Click

3. Sun Worshipper - Mylo. Click

4. Friday's Child - Will Young. Click

5. All I Need - Air. Click

6. Estelle - A Man Called Adam. Click

7. Head - Kirsty MacColl. Click

8. Barefoot in the Head - A Man Called Adam. Click

9. Keep Looking - Sade. Click

10. Before Today - Everything But The Girl. Click


That's better. Now pass me a cold glass of sangria.

The People of Roebuck Lane

I grew up in the countryside on a narrow and windy lane called Roebuck Lane on the edge of Saddleworth. At one end of the lane was the Roebuck Inn, a typical country pub, well known in the eighties for the quality of it's restaurant (sadly not so now) and at the other end was a little shop owned and run by Joan Greenwood. Between the two were ten houses.

Starting at the pub end there was a lady whose name slips my mind but who kept to herself and was kind enough to give us 50p one bonfire night towards food and fireworks; on the other side was an old farmhouse which had been converted into two residences - in one side was Vinny and Mad Mary (so named by my mother for her tendency to feed sliced white bread to the cows in the field behind our houses and the fact that they kept chickens in an old broken down ambulance) and in the other side was Jean, Frank, Christie and Damian.

Next along the lane was a terrace of five houses the first of which I lived in with my brothers Robert and Matthew and our parents Hilary and Howard. We lived at number five. During the time that I lived there I remember three sets of next door neighbours, the first Kevin and his wife Lorraine. Kevin was, I believe, the tour manager for the Grumbleweeds - a comedy and music act. Next to move in were Howard Jones the sign maker and Brenda who shouted a lot at each other and on whose wedding night introduced me to the word bonking through a sign on their front door which read 'Do not disturb - all night bonking in progress.' I think he made the sign himself but I can't be certain. As family tradition dictated they were both given nicknames, Brenda was the poisoned dwarf and Howard was affectionately known as the ferret - but never to their faces...

The Molloys lived there next. Steve was a professional rugby player who played for Featherstone Rovers and Paula was a nurse who according to my youngest brother had a huge arse. They also shouted at each other a lot.

Clara and John lived at number nine with their grown up kids. Clara and Jean from number three, were good friends and I used to go with them and Damian on shopping trips to such wild and adventurous (to a young child) places as the Mosley Mill Shop with it's fascinating aquarium shop full of the biggest and ugliest fish ever to have graced a tank and Ashton Market where Damian and I wandered between the stalls while Jean and Clara shopped and where twenty years previous Brady and Hindley had picked up that poor Kilbride boy and taken him to the moors. For me, through my childish eyes, Ashton Market was not about that, it was about Cornish pasties and my ever growing keyring collection.

Number eleven was an odd one. Brenda lived there with her husband who I only ever knew as China man. They would spend a long time abroad every year and then we would see Brenda and their daughter for a few weeks before they were off again. I might have seen China Man once a year if I was lucky but he was very elusive.

On the other end of our little block of five lived Jimmy and Elaine. Jimmy was known as Mr Angry after a rather unfortunate instance of trespass on my and Damian's part.

Next along the lane was George Groves's farm. He always had a dog tied up in the yard at the front of the house. This dog liked nothing more than barking incessantly and went particularly wild when someone walked past. It was the most terrifying dog I had ever encountered. I used to try sneaking past the farm to avoid the rabid outbursts of this devil creature and woe betide you if the dog wasn't tied up! Grovesy was accused of feeding our dog Dylan rat poison. The poison made Dylan's stomach bleed and cough up blood before he would try to cool down in a bog in one of the fields across the road from our house. We had to have him put down. Grovesy never denied having rat poison on the farm, what he did say was that Dylan must have gone in one of his barns to get it and he shouldn't have been in there in the first place. Whizbang, our cat, was also ill with what we suspected was poison but he recovered. Our next dog Skipper, another Dalmatian but this one with liver colouring rather than black, also died from rat poisoning. Needless to say that we didn't have a great relationship with George Groves and as a young child he was almost demonised in my eyes. It was years until we got another dog and when we did we took great lengths not to let him out of the house without a lead.

Further along the lane was a little stone cottage in the corner of a field. This is where Connie lived. I couldn't begin to start telling you about Connie, all I can remember is that because hers was the nearest house to Joan Greenwood's shop she became know as her near Joan's which over time and with the assistance of Oldhamers' accents morphed into something altogether more unpleasant. Connie tragically adopted the name Hernia Jones and was known as such for ever more.

Finally we follow the lane around the corner and down a dip and reach Joan's shop. A right old treasure chest of goodies and necessities. Sweets of course were there in abundance. Great big jars of chewing nuts and midget gems weighed out and served in little white paper bags. The penny sweets in the glass counter which would make up our traditional 10p mix (an occasional treat for going to Joan's for your parents,) the cans of pop - the ever elusive cherry pepsi which I asked for relentlessly for years and years and she never sold, shandy bass, giant cans of coke the size of a lager can and briefly when i was a teenager, the nasty but fascinating Tab Clear; chocolate bars - Fry's chocolate creme, Terry's Pyramint, Hellas Bars. I don't know why I wasn't the size of a house.

Joan didn't just sell sweets and drinks. Damian's mum used to send him to buy her cigarettes there - something my mum tried with me on a couple of occasions rather unsuccessfully as Joan was not at all happy about selling cigarettes to children. She did though. There was a big bacon slicer in the corner, you could buy potatoes, cleaning products, wine, cat food, fire lighters... The list goes on. Joan had a real community shop. When the lane was cut off by snow in the winter, which it was most years, she stayed open for those brave souls that could make it through the snow drifts (usually us kids) until Holroyd, another local farmer, would dig the lane clear of snow with his tractor. Even when the snow brought power cuts with it she'd be there with candles burning on the counter helping us to get through it and of course flogging us the boxes of household candles that we'd invariably run out of the previous winter.

Joan was in the paper once. The Oldham Evening Chronicle (the chron) ran a story about her shop being robbed. Joan was threatened with a gun which the thieves shot into the ceiling (something I looked for every time I went in there afterwards but never saw) and cleared her till out. I seem to remember that they didn't get very much cash - bad timing on their part. From that day on Joan always peeked through the little glass pane in the door between her house at the back and the shop at the front before she came in to serve anyone.

Roebuck Lane was a good place to grow up - despite the guns, the poison and the scary neighbours - it's a shame that I don't have a reason to go back there any more but I suspect if I did I'd be disappointed so I'm happy to leave it where it is - in my childhood.

La Popote - a review.

I wrote this for Chris. I am one of the two guests that are referred to in the review.

Arriving at La Popote, in Marton on a cold, dark night in early March my two guests and I were given the warmest of welcomes by husband and wife team Lynne and Victor, our hosts for the night.

We started the evening with aperitifs and olives in front of the wood burner, in the bar area of this beautifully converted farm house, before being escorted through to the intimate dining room.

At the table we were served wine from the extensive wine list and offered Lynne's secret recipe bread, still warm from the oven and absolutely delicious.

As we relaxed and chatted over bread (I'll get that recipe one day...) and wine (a beautiful Sancerre Rosé) a quick look around the dining room revealed a real mix of people - including, in the corner, one Martin Edwards of Manchester United fame.

Entrées were served and quickly wolfed down. Try the goats' cheese and caramelised baby beetroot tarte tatin. Very tasty indeed. Or for something a bit more warming on a winter night try the leek soup, equally delicious.

My main course was an event in itself! I chose the fillet of Aberdeen Angus which was flambéed in vodka in the middle of the dining room and, once the flames had died down, Victor created a stunning sauce of cream and mushrooms and it was served, perfectly cooked, with fries. My two guests had the fall-off-the-bone lamb shank with a Madeira sauce and for the vegetarian in the party the rösti with mushrooms and a side of spinach. Judging by the appreciative murmurs and soon empty plates they both loved their dinner.

Where do I begin to tell you about pudding? The biggest slice of Pavlova I have ever seen with perfect meringue (crunchy on the outside and slightly chewy on the inside) topped with fresh strawberries; a beautifully spiced poached pear with Christmas pudding ice cream and the trio of creme brûlée which for me was the highlight of the meal.

We finished with coffee, liqueurs and a few stories of Lynne and Victor's travels and adventures before reluctantly stepping out of the warmth of La Popote into the cold of a March night.

If you are looking for a special night out, excellent food and a relaxed atmosphere then La Popote is well worth considering.

www.la-popote.co.uk

The end of a family.

I wrote this on an old diary on 11th March 2003 at 6.35am:

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There are a number of reasons why I stopped writing there but primarily because I was avoiding writing about the events of last summer.

On 4th July 2002 at about 8pm my mum died.

She had been suffering from cancer a second time and despite much treatment - chemotherapy mostly - she didn't make it.

I got a call from my dad whilst I was at Kings Cross station waiting for a train to Leeds to visit Alison. He told me that somehow, during the night, she had turned in bed and her hip had crumbled and broke. At this point nobody knew the seriousness of this and we assumed that she would go to hospital and be fixed up. I asked dad to keep me up to date and went to Leeds. It didn't feel right.

On the Sunday as I was waiting for a cab to take me to Leeds station I got a call from dad again telling me that she was now on morphine. This is when I knew it was going to happen soon. I asked dad what he thought I should do (my train to London was within the hour) and he suggested that I should go to Preston.

I took the train to Preston and dad picked me up and took me to Churchtown (they were living at gran and grandpa's old house in Churchtown whilst renovating Clifton House.)

When I got there I went in to see mum. She was very drowsy from the morphine but still able to talk. I asked her if she was comfortable and she said no. I helped her to sort out her pillows. Every time she moved she was in agony.

She had a catheter as she was bedridden. Nurses came a couple of times a day to clean her and move her to prevent bed sores. Every time she moved she screamed in pain - you couldn't get away from the noise. Her bedroom smelled horrible, like pee and disinfectant, like a geriatric ward at a hospital - the smell of dying.

I went out with Robert who was there. I bought her some magazines - home magazines... Still planning the house! I don't think she could read them though. I also bought some food and wine and made meals for us all. Mum's last meal was one that I made.

I spoke to Matthew and told him that he should come over. I think Robert picked him up. I don't think he realised how serious it was until he got there. I kept taking him out of mum's room because he was getting so upset and I wasn't sure if she knew or not but felt she might so thought it best.

At some point during the five days we were told that she wouldn't recover. Also her morphine was increased gradually. It was in a pump that hissed every now and then as more more was injected.

I was on the phone to Chris a lot. I wanted him there but also felt that it was right that it was just family. I was annoyed when Kevin turned up, not least about his reaction when he saw mum. It was a look of shock and fear and revulsion which whilst being understandable was something I didn't need to see.

John came over a couple of times. He was a wreck.

I called Janet and Celia because I thought they should know. Janet wept like a child as soon as I told her and had to hang up. Celia kept talking normally for a few minutes before suddenly breaking down. I also had to call Matthew's boss so that they would know why he wasn't at work. It is the most surreal and painful thing to have to tell people that your mum is going to die in the next few days - especially when the people you are telling are your mum's best friends.

On the Thursday Chris drove up. He arrived at about 7pm and I needed to get out so I took him on a tour of Churchtown. We walked down the road. I showed him the two houses that Phillip and Denise had lived in then we went to the Punch Bowl for a drink.

I was about half way through my pint when Kevin called from the house. He said 'I think you'd better come back.'

When we got to the house she had died. She lay there with her head back and her mouth open not breathing any more. She looked yellow and old.

Dad, Robert and Matthew were sat around the bed and the curtains were closed. I held her head in my hands and kissed her. Then I broke down.

Dad said 'a prayer to speed her to heaven.'

About 5 or 10 minutes later the nurses arrived at the door to see to mum again. I told them that she had gone and asked them for a couple of minutes before they went in to clean her.

The nurses did there stuff and then Chris & I went in to sit with her before the undertakers arrived. The most startling thing was the change in sound in the room. After the gurgling and rattling in her chest and throat as she developed pneumonia the room seemed extremely calm now. I held her hand and kissed her again. The nurses had sprayed her perfume around the room.

Dad was in the living room phoning family and friends to tell everyone. Eventually the undertakers came and took her away. We all packed up and went to John and Elaine's.

I have never been back to that house.

Mum's funeral was on 11th July. It was a very sunny, warm day.

She left from Clifton House, went to St Chads and was buried at the cemetery just outside town. Everyone went back to John and Elaine's afterwards.

The strange thing is that only now, months later,I am noticing how it affected me and continues to.

I went back to work immediately but don't know how I managed to do anything - it all seems a bit dream like now.

We've left London now. We lived at my dad's (that's weird too - not saying 'my parents') in Poulton for a couple of months and now live in Chester.

I still have weird dreams about mum and get upset every day.

If you imagine your body is made up of your emotions, it now, still, feels like a huge chunk of my chest has just disappeared. Most of the time I feel empty and as if I am just floating about aimlessly. I don't feel like I have much influence on my own life - I just react to situations. I have little enthusiasm for anything and no ambition. I don't feel that I can talk to anybody about it and I don't think most people are interested.

The whole affair (for want of a better phrase) has made me clarify my thoughts on what happens after death. During mum's funeral the words about God and Jesus did nothing to comfort me. It's hideous but I can only think of her in a box under ground. It kills me to go to her grave. Mum was only 55.

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Reading back on this tonight is upsetting but also makes me realise how much I've healed over the years since mum died. I still don't go to her grave though.

Pride?

The august bank holiday weekend sees Pride hit Manchester as it has done every year (I think) for the last twenty years. I don't always go but this year I am doing and it's already tinged with nostalgia for me.

On Sunday night Paul Cons, nightclub promoter, is hosting Flesh at Fac 251. Flesh was a gay dance night that was held monthly at the Hacienda during the first half of the nineties and it's where Chris and I met for the first time fourteen years ago. I have never seen the likes of flesh anywhere else in the UK and although I only went a handful of times I loved it. It was a heady mix of glamour and hard nosed clubbing; it was dressed up and it was dressed down; it was cool yet it was warm and friendly; I felt that I could wear whatever the hell I wanted to (and I generally did) and feel totally comfortable rubbing shoulders with scally gays, drag queens and straight blokes. Flesh came to an end in 1997 as I remember.

This weekend's venue, as I have mentioned, is Fac 251. This too brings back memories for me as I used to know it as Paradise Factory and I can confidently say that in the mid nineties this was the best nightclub in Manchester. I practically lived there from September 1995 for about two years and it's where I saw Chris for the first time - one week before we actually met down the road at the Hacienda.

So you can understand why I feel somewhat nostalgic and a little bit excited about Sunday night. As for the rest of the Pride weekend - well we shall see.

Throughout the years my opinion of Pride (or Mardi Gras as it was known back in the day in Manchester) has changed. At various times I have been on a parade float, worked behind the bar of one of the bars in the village, actively avoided the entire event and been a willing visitor.

I read this on Twitter today: "@Will_Hoe Re: Pride - don't get me wrong, I'm very proud to be gay. However, my pride doesn't manifest in vodka, cocaine, vanity and random sex. :)"

This got me thinking. A line that I have always used with regard to Pride is that I don't like drinking warm beer, out of a plastic glass, on an overcrowded street. On recent reflection I think that both of us are guilty of missing the point.

Over the years Pride has become less politicised and more obviously a big party and I for one think it is important to bring the political agenda back to the fore.

I have been lucky enough to live in Manchester and London where on the whole being gay is not a problem for most people - in fact in the industries I worked in it was commonplace. Let's not forget though that whilst gay people are mostly accepted in Britain's big cities, gay men and women are still victims of violent crime for no other reason than their sexual orientation.

Then remember those people that may live in smaller towns who still, in this day and age, feel that they must hide who they are for fear of rejection by family, friends, colleagues & community or worse, fear of violence. This still happens to many people in Britain and will continue to do so. I believe that Pride should have many functions and I believe an important one is to encourage acceptance through awareness. This must reach beyond the cities that the Pride events occur in to be really effective and I believe that the media is key to doing this. In raising awareness, as well as helping to make homosexuality acceptable in communities, it can let gay people who don't feel comfortable being open about it know that there is somewhere that they can go to meet other gay people and be themselves without fear of reprisal.

Another, often forgotten issue, which I think is of equal importance and I think Pride should be highlighting, is the struggles of gay men and women in countries where it is still illegal to be gay. Countries where human rights are breached and where a gay person can be sent to prison or even executed because of their sexual orientation.

Pride has a part to play in raising awareness of these struggles as well as lobbying the UK government to put political pressure on such countries as Iran or Cameroon.

There is, of course, an element of this kind of action within the parade but I see it is sorely lacking within the consciousness of many of the people that attend Pride and that is a shame.

Pride can be a drink and drug fuelled shag fest but it can also be a real and strong force for change and for good.

Long live Pride.

The jump

It's rare that I put my life in danger for anything or anyone. The most daring thing that I have done in the past is probably ride a roller coaster which considering all the safety measures to which fairground owners must adhere is probably not all that dangerous.

This Saturday just gone however all that changed when I took part in a mass skydive at Langar airfield in Nottingham. The skydive was on behalf of and in aid of the National Hereditary Breast Cancer Helpline and we did it for two reasons; firstly to raise awareness that a number of NHS Primary Care Trusts around the country go directly against NICE guidelines that they should help fund this important service to the tune of £422 a year and secondly to cover the shortfall that these non payers leave. If you want to know more about the charity you can read about it here: http://www.breastcancergenetics.co.uk/

After arriving at the airfield late and dealing an awful lot of confused people I was instructed to wait. There was a lot of waiting. Eventually my name was called, I was introduced to Milko my tandem partner and I got all trashed up in my blue jumpsuit and strapping.

Before I knew it I was sitting backwards on the floor of the aeroplane with about ten other people and we were off. It took about fifteen minutes to climb up to 13,000 feet. We saw the airfield get smaller, Nottingham appear below us and finally the clouds were below us and the sun was shining brightly. The final minutes before the jump went by so very quickly. The aeroplane flattened off and the engine became very quiet. The door was slid open, we were washed with very cold air and the plane was filled with bright sunlight. Within seconds my flying companions were moving towards the back of the compartment and two by two dropping out into the sky below. This was when it struck me that i was about to do the same. I was the last to jump. Milko and I moved to the edge of the opening, I wrapped my legs under the aeroplane, waved at the camera man and we fell out into nothingness.

Freefalling for the first time was shocking. For forty five breath taking seconds we fell at 130 miles per hour through blue, through clouds and towards the fields below.

Before I knew it Milko had pulled the cord and the parachute opened. We slowed with a sudden jerk and we were hanging in the air. After adjusting the straps and adjusting my sinuses with a quick nose blow I started to regain a sense of being conscious of my surroundings. It took about four minutes to float back down to the ground where we landed with a bit of a stumble.

It took me the best part of an hour to feel normal again - for the travel sickness to ease and for me to begin piecing the whole experience together. The further away from the jump I get the more exciting it seems.

It's taken me five days to say with conviction - yes, I would do it again.

Want to watch it? Here you go - Skydive

Pervert?

As a (now non practicing) voyeur I can understand and sometimes even relate to peoples little perversions. As a teenager it wasn't unusual for me to secretly watch the next door neighbour from behind the curtains in my bedroom whilst he mowed his lawn with his shirt off. It wasn't so much that he was shirtless - although as a professional rugby player there were no complaints - but it was mostly that he didn't know that I was watching him.

Now on the face of it that seems to me not such an unusual kink. I was recently intrigued however to find out a friend's previously undisclosed deviance. He likes to watch girls cry. Let me make it clear, he doesn't like to make them cry but he definitely has a thing for watching them cry. He is the great comforter, he'll use lines like 'get it out of your system' and 'it's okay - let it all out.'. When he told me this I was fascinated but not nearly as excited as when he revealed that he gets off on wiping a tear off the girl's face with his thumb and then secretly tasting it when they're not looking. I have known this friend on and off for fourteen years but have more recently started getting to know him well. This revelation adds another facet to his already interesting character and I love it. I don't get it but I can certainly appreciate it.

Another friend, formerly a colleague, once revealed her most powerful sexual fantasy to me over lunch in a bar in Clerkenwell. How or when she used this fantasy she did not reveal and I did not care to ask. In her mind she was in an army, she was in uniform and she was in a war zone. She was dirty and tired. She scrambled alone to the top of a small hill in the driving rain where she yelled and screamed at the top of her voice and fired rounds of ammunition into the air from her machine gun. This, and only this, gave her a massive sexual rush. I can only guess at what it was that did it for her because it certainly doesn't do anything for me. It does, however, excite me that people can be so diverse.

I look around me and assume that people - friends, family, colleagues, strangers - all have dull or at best ordinary desires, preferences and turn ons. I sometimes think of myself as a pervert. But in reality I bet it's just that I don't know.

Five things I've done this week

1 Said goodbye to a friend: Lee and I have been regular drinking partners for months. Sometimes every week, more recently every two weeks and almost always on a Tuesday. This Tuesday was the last time. On Friday he flew off to Spain to begin his new life as an English teacher. He has no teaching experience and doesn't speak Spanish but he went all the same. I'm quite jealous really. As usual we got really drunk and talked rubbish. At the end of the night there was an awkward hug and that's it. He's gone and by the time he comes back - whenever that may be - I will be back in Manchester.

2 Bought my first car: I collected my car, which I had bought off Lee as he was going to Spain (see above) Since I passed my test at the beginning of May I haven't been behind the wheel of a car other than to do a three point turn in a church car park. The car I bought has been declared off the road for a couple of months and as I can't afford to tax and insure it immediately I asked my dad and cousin to tow it to their work and leave it there for a month.

3 instructed the lawyers: we've finally found a house to buy. Chris has been working in Stoke for over a year now and living in a hotel there for three days a week whilst I stay at home in Preston on my own. It's miserable. We decided to move back to Manchester about six months ago, we've had our house on the market since Easter and we've got a buyer now. We have also found a house that we want in Chorlton, south of the city, and had our for accepted. Very excited. Should be there in about eight weeks.

4 Had a hair cut: the hairdresser FORCED me to have a beer at 2.20 in the afternoon. She is very wicked. Between us we decided that what she would do is disconnect the top of my head from the side completely and blend the back. It sounded quite brutal but it all worked out in the end.

5 Worried: next Saturday morning I am jumping out of an aeroplane somewhere over Nottingham. I am raising money for the National Hereditary Breast Cancer Helpline in order to cover shortfalls in funding caused by a number of NHS Primary Care Trusts around the country choosing not to pay the £422 that their guidelines recommend they do. We will also be naming and shaming these PCTs in the process.

At the beginning of the week I read a report about two experienced sky divers dying recently at Langar airfield where we'll be jumping. This led me to worrying. I'm scared of flying let alone leaping out of aeroplanes.

I called a friend who used to skydive as a hobby. He informed me that I am more likely to die in the car on the way to the airfield than by jumping out of the plane. I'm quite convinced now that I will die in a car crash.

If you'd like to sponsor me you can here... http://justgiving.com/Richard-Douglas

Playing out

I grew up in the countryside on the edge of Oldham where it becomes Saddleworth. My house was surrounded by fields which were brilliant to play in. No street corners for me.

In the front field there was the remains of an old house - now merely a cellar open to the elements in the side of a hill. This was one of our many dens. My friend Damian and I cleared it out, put a roof on it made out of old plywood boards covered in grass and finally installed the piss pipe so we could urinate inside and it would drain outside. Very civilised as far as I was concerned. This den met an untimely end when one of the stinky goats decided that it wanted to eat the roof and promptly fell through it.

In the same field there was an old shed which we also made into a den. We found lots of old wire grates which we used to construct a run around for a local jack russell - I'm not sure how pleased he was with it but it entertained us. There was also, strangely, an overturned wooden boat which had briefly been used as a den by Damian before I was on the scene. It was on top of this boat one summer evening that I told my cousin Peter a horror story. The story naturally involved the boat itself and a thunder storm and was so clearly terrifying that Peter burst into tears and ran back to my folks house.

Continuing on the den theme there was also the cellar of my house. Originally accessed from a trap door under the stairs in my house however by the time we moved in a door had been put on the outside of the house and the stairs down into the cellar had been bricked up. Damian and I slowly but surely over a number of weeks removed a few bricks from the bottom of the stairs and managed to get into what was the old stone staircase. This is where we stashed porn magazines liberated from the local tip as well as other treasures. In the main body of the cellar there were old stone shelves built into recesses in the wall which had originally been a cold store for meat and other produce pre refrigerators. We however covered the front of these openings with wire mesh and connected this, via a dodgy old transformer, to the mains electricity. The reason for this was so that we could contain ghosts, behind the wire, once we caught them. Sadly the outcome was a couple of electrocutions and no ghosts.

In one of the fields at the back of our house was another derelict farm building only revealed by a hole in the ground which was a cellar entrance - do you see a theme here? When you ventured down the hole you found yourself in a brick room with rubble on the floor and a curved ceiling above. This place didn't last long as a den because it was a bit too spidery for us. We did have fun burning the spiders though.

The least successful dens were in the corrugated sheet metal garage at the back of my house. One was rubbish because it was actually on the roof of the garage - I wouldn't recommend it. No shelter from rain, a bit blowy and on a slope. Crap for a den really. The other was in the back of the garage. Damian and I set a fire in there one afternoon. My dad, upon seeing billowing smoke spewing forth from the front of the garage, ran in to rescue us without realising that we had escaped through the secret loose back panel once again to safety. I think he nearly died putting out the fire... He wasn't best pleased either way.

Rosemary

I used to work for MORI Telephone Surveys - or MTS for short. The offices were on the edge of Clerkenwell in London and I worked there for just over two years. They were interesting times and, without wanting to sound dramatic, they were also life changing times.

I was one of three people interviewed for two roles as research executive. They initially offered the jobs to the two other candidates and told me that unfortunately my services would not be required - that's until one of the people didn't turn up to work on their first day, or any other day after that... Not the best way to get a job but I took it all the same.

The woman who ran MTS was Rosemary. She had started her career in research - as far as I remember - working as Bob's assistant. I only ever met Bob once - an American who desperately wanted to be British or at least to have a knighthood or some such accolade. Previous to working for Bob's MORI I believe she worked at Colombia pictures with her husband Donald and also for Greenpeace at some point - but that was all thousands of years previous.

Rosemary had a wicked sense of humour and was somewhat eccentric. On my first day at work she took us all out and got me drunk - little did I know that this would be a regular occurrence - and when I say regular I mean most days. She smoked and if anyone wanted a cigarette we would go and smoke in her office with her - it was whilst smoking in this office with her that we saw the twin towers of the world trade centre come under attack and collapse after being hit by two aeroplanes. She had some funny stories - like falling down the back of a filing cabinet whilst trying to retrieve some papers and being rescued by the actor Sidney Poitier who grabbed her ankles and hauled her out. She used to have an office cat which lived in the bottom of the filing cabinet - and a range of spirits which lived in the top of the same filing cabinet. When one of Rosemary's cats- Trotsky I think - had developed diabetes she joined an online group called Sugar Cats, well who wouldn't? And who wouldn't travel to America to meet up with the sugar cats team and go sky diving with them?

Rosemary once invited us all for a weekend away in Walton on the Naze up in Essex. It was a boating weekend and was incredibly drunken.

Chris & I slept on one of the small boats in what felt like a coffin - my face was about six inches from the top of this box and condensation kept dripping onto my face throughout the night. - Chris was not happy. We ached the next day whilst sailing around the estuary the next day.

I remember Chris Downham playing his guitar and leading a sing along to Van Morrison & Beatles songs at sunset on the deck of a boat. It was a good time.

Rosemary died in the last year that I worked at MTS. She had travelled up to the forest in Essex where her husband was buried, sat at his graveside and injected herself with a massive overdose of insulin which she had kept to one side since his death. She had always said that when the time was ready she would do it herself and that she never wanted to be sick. It was her time and her way.

http://www.sugarcats.com/communications_area/message.asp?message=589309890&messageboard=967975216

Frog

The most horrific thing happened on Saturday whilst I was gardening. I had taken over the mowing of our unusually hilly lawn from Chris - we were road testing our new flymo with it's ferocious full metal blade - and had worked my way towards the bottom of the garden, close to the blair witch project remains of our bonfire.

As I absentmindedly mowed over a patch with a dip in it where the grass was a little longer I felt something unusual - a thud and an interruption in the sound and feel of the mower. I looked down to see a frog. A large frog at that. It was just about in one piece but I had ripped into its flesh and I could see the deep tear in its back legs and a huge gash across its side where entrails were now peeking. I looked away in shock and said fuck.

I looked back and the helpless thing was still moving - not mobile but definitely moving and I could see its wide eyes looking around wildly. I said fuck again - a few times this time. I felt shocked, guilty, sad and a little bit panicky, it was very upsetting. My first reaction was to make it more comfortable before it died which it was inevitably going to. I put on a glove which I had been using to pull thorny brambles up with and picked the frog up. I took it to the bottom of the garden with the intention of putting it in the stream. I threw the frog down to the water and even before it hit the stream I knew that this was a bad idea. As it sank in the water I could see it struggling to swim to the top for air but obviously didn't have the strength - or indeed the ability with it's damaged body - to do so. I watched it twitching on the way down to the bottom of the stream where it must have drowned. I walked away feeling terrible and a few seconds later went back to the edge of the stream. It was still there on the bottom but now not moving. Chris started the lawn mower up again so I went back to where I had maimed the creature and did a quick check through all the remaining long grass for more wildlife. When I returned to the stream a little later the frog had gone.

Update

On 13th August last year I copied a letter on here which was sent to my grandmother and described the last hours of her first husband's life before he was shot by a sniper. I just found the following photograph and eulogy. Margaret Jean was my grandmother.

Click on the picture to see it properly.