I must have written notes for a Terry blog when I was squiffy on Cointreau at Terry Towers because I’d forgotten about them until now.
As it’s past Twelfth Night, and as I can’t remember much more (Cointreau), here they are in their nude form. Enjoy!
• “You know Mike Stevens, who I work with,” says Terry.
“No, Dad,” I reply, honestly.
“No, you wouldn’t know him,” says Terry, and launches into a long story about Mike’s holiday request for 1 January, a national holiday.
Terry winds up by telling me, “He spends all his money in the brass shop anyway.”
“The where, Dad?” I ask, innocently.
“The knocking shop,” says Terry. “You know, Mr Magoos, in Birkenhead”.
• Terry is considering a holiday in New York, so I ask him what he wants to see – what really says “New York” to Terry.
“Macy’s, the Empire State Building and Brooklyn Bridge,” he says, after much prompting.
“Not the Statue of Liberty, Dad?” I ask, surprised.
“No, that’s French, why would I want to see that?” Terry replies.
• I craft a dog nappy from a carrier bag before taking Sammy Sammy No Balls for a festive stroll. Sam doesn’t seem to mind.
• I dress Sam in Philly’s bra and knickers. All Terrys find this hilarious other than Philly who flies into a Christmas rage just because her bra is now muddy (or worse. Sam is a notorious pissy paws).
• Parish carol service. Terry has many talents but music is not one of them. He is, in fact, tone deaf. I have a strident and tuneful voice and Terry is confident I am singing the right notes, so sings along with me, in falsetto.
• I ask Mrs Terry if I can open a bottle of Pouilly-Fume from Terry’s wine cellar (garage) or if she’s saving it for something special.
“Oh no, Sweetheart,’” says Mrs T. “The celebrations start now you’re home.” Mrs Terry then makes me wrap my own gift, in front of her, on Christmas Day.
• “What’s your favourite vegetable, Dad?”
“You can’t have garlic, Dad”.
“You can’t have onion, Dad. It’s cheating.”
Hold onto your hats for the next exciting installment, when I’ll probably write about Easter* in July!
*Except I won’t write about Easter as Terry and Mrs Terry are going on a bloody cruise.