Tag: dailyprompt

If you have been reading Listen, Linda for a while, you will know I have shared more than a few stories about my mum and the antics she gets herself into. 

So, I thought it was about time she got a blog all to herself. 

This one is about Mum’s first holiday abroad on her own since Dad passed away. 

After more than 50 years of marriage, Mum suddenly found herself having to navigate life without her favourite travelling companion. That is a huge adjustment for anyone. The little decisions, the big decisions, the things you have always done together. Suddenly, they are all on you. 

Now, to be fair, Mum is not completely new to solo travel. 

When I was little, she used to disappear off on holidays with her friends. She has also been away with me plenty of times, leaving Dad behind at home. But there was always one big difference. 

Dad was still there. 

Every trip was discussed. Every decision was shared. Every plan was made together. 

This time, it was just Mum. 

And that was a completely different prospect. 

The moment she mentioned she was thinking about going away by herself, I practically dragged her to the travel agent before she could change her mind. 

Sixteen nights. 

A coach tour of Italy. 

Booked. 

Committed. 

No backing out now. 

Mum and Dad had done coach holidays before and absolutely loved them. The problem was not the travelling. 

The problem was the people. 

Dad was always the social one. He would happily strike up conversations with complete strangers, while Mum could sit quietly worrying that she would spend sixteen nights trapped next to an absolute bell pipe. 

A genuine concern if you ask me. 

Thankfully, we were prepared. 

Before she left, we made sure she was fully equipped with the anti-bell-pipe package. 

Earphones. 

Travel charger. 

A decent playlist. 

When all else fails, good music can drown out almost anyone. 

As departure day got closer, you could see the nerves creeping in. 

She would never admit it, of course. 

But they were there. 

Then Debs dropped her off, waved goodbye, and off she went. 

Italy-bound. 

Since then, she has called me every single day. 

Every day there has been an update. 

Every day there are new photos. 

Every day there is another tale from the coach. 

And do you know what I have learned? 

She does not need me as her comfort cushion sitting back here in the UK. 

Not one bit. 

She is absolutely smashing it. 

In fact, I suspect she is having far more fun than the rest of us. 

Take the AirTag incident. 

Because I am a responsible daughter, I slipped an AirTag into Mum’s luggage before she left. 

Just for peace of mind. 

Now bear in mind that at 75, Mum is one of the youngest people on this trip. 

Most of the other passengers are in their eighties. 

Can you imagine their faces when notifications started appearing on their phones telling them an AirTag was travelling with them? 

Apparently, several people became convinced they were being stalked. 

Mum eventually had to admit that it was not an international crime syndicate. 

It was just her daughter tracking her. 

I have never laughed so much. 

Being sat on the front row has worked out nicely too. 

She has developed a cracking relationship with the driver and his son, who seem to have taken personal responsibility for making sure she stays hydrated. 

Mainly with Bacardi and Coke. 

Not exactly the hydration strategy the NHS recommends, but she is on holiday. 

The driver and his son have also discovered that Mrs Linda’s Mum has one very firm rule. 

She does not do steps. 

There has apparently been an occasion where they have enthusiastically encouraged everyone up some ancient castle staircase, only for Mum to plant herself firmly at the bottom and declare she has absolutely no intention of climbing anything. 

The resulting mickey-taking has become part of the daily entertainment. 

Then there was yesterday’s photo. 

Sent at 9:30am UK time. 

10:30am in Italy. 

There she was. 

Sat with a beer. 

Surrounded by friends. 

And that’s the thing. 

They aren’t “the people on row one” anymore. 

They all have names now. 

Stories. 

In-jokes. 

Friendships. 

One particular passenger has even been awarded a nickname. 

There’s apparently a chap on the coach who has become such an irritant that the group have christened him “Pothole”. 

Because everybody wants to avoid him. 

Cruel? 

Possibly. 

Funny? 

Absolutely. 

Most importantly, Mum’s laughing. 

Really laughing. 

The sort of laughing that tells you someone is genuinely enjoying themselves. 

She is making friends, creating memories, and proving to herself that life does not stop because someone you love is no longer beside you. 

Although she does have one major complaint. 

Apparently, she cannot find a decent hot coffee. 

Or decent Italian food. 

Which feels like the travel equivalent of going to France and not seeing a baguette. 

Only Mum could spend over a week in Italy and struggle to find coffee and decent food. 

At the time of writing, she is over halfway through her trip. 

And I could not be prouder. 

Because this holiday was never really about Italy. 

It was about confidence. 

It was about courage. 

It was about proving to herself that although life looks different now, it can still be full of adventure. 

Dad would have been incredibly proud of her. 

And so are we. 

Keep going, Mum. 

Love, 

Linda and Debs ❤️ 

There are many views on Generation X. I have never been one for labels, but apparently, I fall squarely into the Gen X category. 

People love to romanticise our childhoods. They say there were no curfews, no rules, and that we could be trusted to do pretty much whatever we wanted. 

Well… not in our house. 

I was strictly forbidden from going past the barriers at the end of our street. These barriers separated the council house side from the “rich” people. Now, do not get me wrong, Mum and Dad owned their own home when I was small (as did many of our neighbours), and that exact house is worth just under £300,000 nowadays! But Mum? If she said do not go past the barriers, she bloody wellmeant it! 

If she came to the front gate and could not see you… well, have you ever seen Eddie Murphy’s Delirious stand-up routine? You should really watch it if you have not. You will understand exactly what kind of danger I was in! 

The Innocent Face 

Where I grew up, it was a small town where everyone knew everyone. You would think that meant you could not get away with anything. But honestly, being the youngest of four children with a naturally innocent face? I absolutely could. 

• Do not want to go to school today? Not going. 

• Better things to do? Yep. 

Dad would tell Mum, “If she says she’s poorly, then she is!” 

That strategy worked beautifully right up until I did not get the exam results, I should have. Not very well thought out that, was it, Dad? 

If I decided I wanted pet chickens and ducks, I got them. I was not spoilt, but I was definitely over-indulged at times. Probably because I was not asking for high-priced items.

We went through the miners’ strike, and my mum, dad, and grandparents did absolutely everything they could to maintain a sense of normality. They were incredibly challenging times, but my parents were fierce workers. I would like to say that work ethic filtered down to all of us… but if I am being honest, not all four of us got that gene.

Squeezing the Wage Packet 

I was so desperate to leave school that I took a job in a factory—literally anything to get out of the classroom. Well, that did not go down well. Between the brutal early mornings and the shitty conditions, I lasted a grand total of six weeks. 

Then, I found an advertisement for a trainee hairdresser. £40 per week. £1 per hour. In the city centre. 

It does not seem like a lot now, but back then, that money went a ridiculously long way. Out of that single wage packet, I could: 

• Pay my parents some board money 

• Pay my bus fares 

• Smoke 10 cigarettes a day 

• Go to the pub at least 4 nights a week 

• Save up for clothes 

• And every now and again, go into the city centre to a nightclub! 

So, although I was working long hours, I could squeeze an absolute lifetime out of my money. 

The Google Reality Check 

People that age nowadays would drop dead at the thought of working so many hours for so little pay. I ran the numbers through Google, and it says the equivalent value nowadays is actually around £105 a week. 

Google also confirmed what I already knew: there is no bloody way on God’s green earth a young person could live the lifestyle I did on £105 a week today. 

But do they even need to? Everything is at the tips of their fingers on their mobile phones. We had to actually go out and physically meet people, otherwise, we would have become hermits. Nowadays, everyone is on the other end of a video call. 

Take my move to America when I was 19. I would call Mum once a week, and that phone call would pretty much cost me what I earned over there for the entire week! Now, when I go away, I call Mum at least once a day, completely free of charge over hotel Wi-Fi. 

Where is the Grit? 

I do not think it is entirely fair to compare generations. And look, I am quite sure you will still hear me calling people “snowflakes” from time to time. 

Times were simpler when I grew up, absolutely. It is undoubtedly harder to grow up in the world today, and I respect that. But I cannot help but feel like the grit is missing from a lot of people today.

Do they have it too easy? Or did we just have it beautifully tough? 

I don’t really have a bucket list as such, but sometimes I become absolutely focused on doing something and, if I decide I want to do it, the chances are I will find a way to make it happen.

When I was younger, I think I had less fear.

One Monday, on my day off when I was 19, I saw an advert to become an Au Pair in America. In that moment, I knew I had to do it. And, with a lot of help and support from my parents, I actually did!

It was one of the best experiences of my life and really helped shape the person I am today.

When I returned home, I knew I wanted to travel to more places. I also wanted children. So, when the kids were old enough, we decided to take them on our travels and experience the world together as a family.

As the children grew into teenagers, I developed a strong desire to return to higher education and earn a degree. I enrolled while working full-time and, five years later, graduated with a First in Business Management.

Then it happened.

For the first time, I saw something that I would truly consider a bucket list item.

I was watching Race Across the World on TV when a brother and sister visited Cappadocia, Turkey. The sister had always dreamed of going there to see the hot air balloons. I remember thinking, How on earth did I not know this was a thing?

It looked absolutely incredible.

Watching them sit on their hotel rooftop, eating breakfast while hundreds of colourful balloons floated across the sky, was magical.

I wanted to go.

We had already booked a holiday to Turkey later that year, so I started researching. Turkey is a huge country, but the more I looked into it, the more I realised it was actually possible. Better still, it was something we could afford to add on to our existing holiday.

That was it.

Let’s book it.

Before the holiday, Master Linda & Debs was talking to Debs about the trip. He suggested that, instead of simply watching the balloons, we should actually take a balloon ride ourselves.

The problem was that neither of us is particularly good with heights, and Debs is already quite nervous about flying.

Master Linda & Debs had experienced a balloon ride in Marrakech the previous year and assured him there was nothing to worry about. Debs also spoke to several other people who all said the same thing:

“It’s a once-in-a-lifetime experience. You have to do it.”

So here I was, planning to fulfil my bucket list dream of seeing the balloons, and suddenly Debs was trying to convince me to actually get in one!

Normally, that would have made me nervous, but strangely, it didn’t.

I told him I would think about it and make the decision once we were there.

When we finally arrived in Turkey, Debs decided against the idea. He said he would be perfectly happy going with his aunt to watch the balloons while I went on the ride.

I was torn.

I wanted to experience the balloon flight, but I also wanted to share the moment of watching the balloons rise over Cappadocia with them. Unfortunately, it wasn’t possible to do both because everything happens at sunrise.

The day arrived.

We were picked up and began the 500km-plus journey to Cappadocia in a minibus with around fifteen other people. As we travelled, the tour guide walked up and down the aisle asking about lunch options and extra activities, enthusiastically upselling almost everyone on the tour.

Then he reached me.

I agreed to lunch.

And before I knew it, I had also agreed, without even hesitating, to one balloon ride for myself and two balloon-viewing tickets for Debs and his aunt.

Done.

No going back now.

Strangely, I wasn’t worried at all.

In fact, I was quite excited.

The next morning, at 4:45am, I headed down to the pick-up point wearing a hoodie and a pair of shorts. After all, we were in Turkey in the middle of summer, weren’t we?

As I arrived, I noticed everyone else was dressed in winter coats, hats and layers.

Had I missed something?

Oh well. In for a penny, in for a pound. Let’s go!

As we pulled up at the launch site, the darkness of the morning was filled with the glow of giant burners. Dozens and dozens of balloons were slowly inflating all around us. It felt surreal, like something from another world.

We were shown to our balloon and, before I knew it, I found myself doing something completely out of character.

I was the fourth person in.

Normally, I’d be very British about it. I’d hang back, let everyone else go first and spend a few minutes deciding if I was really sure.

Not today.

Within minutes, the balloon gently lifted from the ground.

There was no dramatic sensation of take-off. No stomach-dropping moment.

You simply floated.

Up, up and away.

Soon we were approaching 1,000 metres in the air.

It was breathtaking.

The landscape stretched as far as the eye could see. The famous cave houses dotted the valleys below and, from that height, it almost felt as though you could reach out and touch the rock formations surrounding us.

There wasn’t even the slightest breeze.

It didn’t feel like we were moving at all.

It felt peaceful.

Then my phone buzzed.

A message from Debs.

“I think I can see your balloon! Look over towards the mountains. That group of people you can see is us!”

I looked across and spotted them.

And suddenly it hit me.

There I was, floating high above Cappadocia in a hot-air balloon, while Debs and his aunt stood on a hillside below, watching the sunrise and the balloons drift across the sky.

They were living out my bucket list dream.

And I was living out someone else’s.

What started as wanting to see the balloons had become something so much bigger.

I wasn’t just ticking off a bucket list item. I was doing something I never imagined I would have the confidence to do.

The views were unforgettable, the silence was magical, and the feeling of floating above Cappadocia at sunrise is something that will stay with me forever.

So, have I ever done someone else’s bucket list item instead of my own?

Yes.

And it turned out to be one of the best decisions I’ve ever made.

I do love a bargain.

In fact, if a bargain makes a trip even better, then I am all for it. Well, I used to be. Nowadays, I am a little more cautious.

And the reason for that caution?

Of course, it involves the Hs.

Why does that not surprise me?

We had booked ourselves a cheeky little holiday together. The kind of trip that would either strengthen our friendships forever or see us all blocking each other’s numbers by the flight home.

Because we had a ridiculously early flight, we decided to treat ourselves and stay at the airport hotel the night before. The deal included two hours’ access to the executive lounge, complete with complimentary drinks and snacks.

Perfect.

The Hs do not actually live that far from the airport, but thanks to a motorway closure, our journey took about an hour longer than it should have. Well, when I say “our” journey, I actually mean Master Linda and Debs drove us. The poor bloke had to drive us all there and then drive all the way home again afterwards.

When we arrived, the Hs already had a slight head start on the drinking.

By “slight”, I mean they were a few drinks in.

Naturally, we joined them.

A couple more in the bar led to checking into our rooms, which somehow led to a couple more there too, before we eventually made our way down to the lounge.

Now this was our kind of place.

Table service.

Free drinks.

Free snacks.

I think we had been seated for approximately seven seconds before someone had ordered a round.

“Keep the drinks coming!”

“And bring more snacks!”

The conversation flowed, the laughter got louder, and the holiday spirit kicked in.

Then Mr H went into full Mr H mode.

Every time someone entered the lounge, he absolutely had to know where they were going.

Not quietly, either.

This was not a casual conversation.

It was an interrogation.

“So where are you off to?”

“Mexico.”

“Oh lovely! Have you met the couple going to Paris?”

Before long, he had appointed himself unofficial host of the lounge.

“Mr and Mrs Paris, meet Mr and Mrs Mexico!”

“Mr and Mrs Tenerife, have you seen who’s just walked in?”

Honestly, it was like he was performing his own one-man show.

Most people found him hilarious.

Some looked slightly alarmed.

Then they arrived.

A slightly different couple.

Not dressed like holidaymakers. A little older than everyone else. A little quirkier. They were not giving off beach holiday vibes at all.

Naturally, Mr H pounced.

“So where are you flying to?”

The answer caught everyone off guard.

“Work.”

Not a country.

Not a city.

Just work.

The couple seemed fascinated by our table. As the drinks continued to flow and the laughter became progressively louder, they paid closer and closer attention.

At some point, and I cannot remember who said it first, somebody suddenly blurted out:

“Just to be clear… we’re not swingers.”

Now, in the context of the evening, it made sense.

Mr H had spent the last hour randomly introducing strangers to one another and collecting holiday details like some kind of social researcher.

But from the outside?

Well…

Maybe it did not look quite so innocent.

The phrase somehow caught on.

“We’re not swingers.”

“He just likes talking to people.”

“Honestly, we’re not swingers.”

Soon most of us had said it at least once.

Which, in hindsight, probably was not helping.

The quirky couple continued watching us with increasing interest.

Then Mr H and Debs disappeared to the toilet.

The moment they left, one member of the couple made their move.

They approached Mrs H and me.

“So…” they began.

My heart immediately sank.

“You’re not swingers then?”

Oh, my days.

“No! Absolutely not!”

I could not have been clearer if I had produced a signed affidavit.

When Mr H and Debs returned, we immediately told them what had happened.

This was a mistake.

The story did not reduce the awkwardness.

It amplified it.

The couple clearly remained unconvinced and seemed determined not to miss a potential opportunity if one presented itself.

The more we denied it, the guiltier we probably looked.

Eventually Mr H decided to call it a night and headed off to bed.

The remaining three of us stayed until every last minute of our complimentary lounge access had expired.

I mean, we had paid for two hours of free drinks.

We were getting two hours of free drinks.

Then, in a decision that surprised absolutely nobody, we continued drinking back in the rooms.

Well, it was technically the first night of the holiday.

The next morning, Mr H was blissfully unaware of the attention his performance had attracted.

While the rest of us had spent the evening inadvertently fighting rumours of an airport-lounge swinging convention, he had simply been enjoying himself, living in the moment and chatting to complete strangers.

As far as he was concerned, it had been a perfectly normal evening.

Which, to be fair, it probably was.

For him.

As for me, I have learned an important lesson.

The next time I find an unbelievable bargain that includes a hotel lounge, free drinks, and complimentary snacks, I will be reading every single review beforehand.

You never know.

There may already be one online about a loud group of holidaymakers and the mysterious swinging club they definitely, absolutely, categorically were not running.

At least I hope there is not.

That is such a broad question, I know.

In fact, it is probably too broad for a single blog post. I suspect we will revisit the subject another day. For now, let us focus on one particular area where humanity seems determined to test the limits of common sense: holidays.

Everyone loves a holiday abroad. The lucky ones manage it at least once a year. So how is it that, every single time I queue for airport security, approximately 75% of the people around me appear to have never encountered an airport before?

We have all been doing this for years now.

No belts.

Nothing in your pockets.

Liquids under the limit.

And yet there is always someone standing at the scanner looking genuinely shocked.

“What do you mean I can’t take this litre bottle of water through?”

“I’ve just paid £2 for it!”

“Do I look like a terrorist to you?”

Now, I know this sounds judgemental. Those of you who know me can probably hear me muttering all of this under my breath while shuffling through the queue.

And before anybody points it out, no, I am not perfect either.

I am more the “attempting to remove my hoodie while walking towards the trays and accidentally flashing my bra to half of Terminal 2” type of traveller.

Yes, I travel at least once a year.

Yes, this has happened more than once.

And no, apparently, I have not learned my lesson.

But that’s not stupidity.

That is merely me.

My pockets are empty. I do not have any liquids in my bag. I am not wearing a belt or enough jewellery to set off airport alarms. I just have not quite mastered the art of removing outerwear while maintaining my dignity.

Then there is the flight itself.

How difficult can it be to find your seat?

The seat numbers are written down.

They are printed on your boarding pass.

They are attached to the aircraft.

And yet some people board a plane as though they have just been dropped into an escape room.

Then comes the faffing.

The stopping in the aisle.

The opening and closing of the overhead locker six times.

The unpacking of snacks.

The repacking of snacks.

The removal of headphones.

The search for a passport they definitely do not need for the next four hours.

All while fifty people behind them are wondering whether they are actually going to leave the airport that day.

And let us talk about the people who immediately need the toilet the second the seatbelt sign goes off.

Why?

There were toilets in the terminal.

Loads of them.

They are bigger, cleaner, and significantly less turbulent than the one you are now queueing for while blocking the drinks trolley.

Without fail, the seatbelt sign pings off and suddenly there is a queue of five people waiting outside the toilet like it is the hottest nightclub on the Costa del Sol.

And speaking of the Costa del Sol…

You finally arrive at your destination and the complaints begin.

“Cor, it’s hot.”

Well, yes.

It is Spain.

It is July.

What exactly were you expecting?

A light dusting of snow?

Then comes my personal favourite.

“Where can we get a proper English breakfast?”

You are in another country.

Try their food.

If all you want is fish and chips, Yorkshire tea and a Carvery, there are easier ways of spending two grand.

Unfortunately, some people seem determined to turn every resort into a British high street on a Saturday night.

The result?

Too much cheap alcohol, poor decisions, lost passports, lost friends, waking up in places they do not recognise, and occasionally waking up in hospitals they cannot pronounce.

Just because the drinks are cheap does not mean your liver suddenly becomes professional grade.

And then, inevitably, comes the online fundraiser because someone did not bother to take out travel insurance.

Honestly.

I know this all sounds harsh.

Maybe it is.

But sometimes I genuinely wonder how some people manage the complexities of everyday life. These are people who successfully wake up, get dressed and brush their teeth every morning. Yet somehow airport security remains an unsolved mystery.

As you can probably tell, I am very much looking forward to my upcoming holiday.

The real question is: what are the chances of none of this happening this time?

I grew up in much simpler times. A food critic was a food critic. A chef was a chef. A banker was a banker. A travel agent was a travel agent. And if there ever was such a thing, an analyst was an analyst.

That is definitely not the case now.

Back then, if Judith Chalmers told you on a Monday night that somewhere looked like a great holiday destination, you might wander down to the travel agent on the high street and book it. If you were feeling particularly adventurous, you might even use Teletext.

Today, everyone is a travel agent. We compare flights, read reviews, scour hotel websites, and build our own itineraries without speaking to another human being. The travel agent has not disappeared entirely, but most of us have taken on the role ourselves.

The same thing has happened with food.

Once upon a time, you had read restaurant reviews in the Sunday broadsheets, written by professional food critics who were paid to travel around the country sampling menus and offering their considered opinions. Now everyone has a platform. People blog. People post. People review. Some influencers even ask restaurants to pay them for promotion.

What is remarkable is how quickly we have all become critics. Go out for dinner with a group of friends and it will not be long before someone is discussing the texture of the steak, the balance of flavours in the sauce, or whether the vegetables were overcooked. Suddenly, the table sounds like an editorial meeting at a national newspaper.

Which brings me neatly to analysts.

Someone learns how to use Excel, creates a pivot table, builds a graph, and before you know it, they are presenting themselves as a data analyst. They are about as much of an analyst as I am a food critic, chef, or travel agent.

Yet we are surrounded by them.

There was a time when being interested in data was considered a bit geeky. The person who spent their day poring over spreadsheets was not exactly the life and soul of the party. Today, however, data carries a certain status. People see it as evidence of intelligence and insight. If you can produce a colourful dashboard with a few trend lines and percentages, people assume you possess some deep analytical wisdom.

Perhaps that is because we now live in a world saturated with information.

In the past, most of our news, knowledge and data came from newspapers, television, and radio. Information was filtered and curated before it reached us. Today, data is everywhere. Every app, website, loyalty card, and social media platform feeds us metrics, charts, and statistics. We are immersed in numbers from the moment we wake up until we go to bed.

When information becomes universally available, it creates the illusion that expertise is too.

We all book holidays, so we are travel agents. We all eat out, so we are food critics. We all look at spreadsheets, so we are analysts.

The democratisation of information is undoubtedly a good thing. But access to information is not the same as expertise. Owning a frying pan does not make me a chef, and building a pivot table does not automatically make someone an analyst.

Sometimes, despite what modern life might suggest, a profession is still a profession.

You have heard many a tale about the H’s and their shenanigans, and you have certainly heard plenty of stories about Mum and her quirky little moments. So, we thought, wouldn’t it be brilliant if we merged the two together? 

I am writing this whilst the H’s are currently making the three-hour journey back home, and honestly… what a weekend it has been! 

Where do we even start? 

Well, we cannot fit everything into one post, but we can certainly give you the highlights. 

Day Two: Taking Mum Day Drinking 

Day two of the H’s visit arrived, and at around 1pm we rolled up at Mum’s with the H’s and Mr T in tow. It would have been a bit rude to leave him behind when we were planning on being out all day and well into the evening, wouldn’t it? 

Naturally, we arrived fully prepared. Bags full of beer, wine, and a selection of shots that Mrs H had discovered during a little shopping trip that morning. 

Now, it is not as though Mum’s short of supplies. Her summer house, affectionately known as The Gardeners Arms, is already a fully stocked bar. But turning up empty-handed would have been rude. Considering the speed at which we can get through drinks, it would have been very rude. 

So, after a quick “one for the road” in The Gardeners Arms, we headed out to take mum day drinking! 

Within a noticeably short space of time, we had transformed a peaceful pub beer garden into a lively hub of laughter, stories, and questionable conversations. We spent a few hours enjoying the sunshine, drinks flowing steadily and the laughs getting louder as the afternoon went on. 

Now, before anyone judges us, we were being responsible drinkers. We even ordered chips, garlic bread, and buffalo wings for the table. That is basically health and safety at that point. 

Back to the Gardeners Arms 

Eventually it was time for Mr T’s dinner, so we headed back to Mum’s. 

The drinks continued, the stories got better, and the laughter never really stopped. At some point kebabs were consumed because, once again, responsible drinking. 

By the end of the night, an Uber was called, a couple more drinks somehow appeared, and eventually everyone admitted defeat and crashed into bed. 

The Morning After 

As always, the morning after was almost as entertaining as the night before. 

The boys were trying to work out where Mr T had disappeared to before suddenly remembering he had stayed at Mum’s. 

Meanwhile, Mum had a mystery of her own. 

She could not find her phone charger. 

Apparently, somebody must have taken it. 

Now, whilst Mr H’s accent may occasionally raise suspicions, he is not exactly a bin dipper, and nobody had charged their phone the night before, let alone accidentally packed a charger. 

So where had it gone? 

Mum had searched everywhere. 

And when we say everywhere, we mean everywhere. 

Including the fridge. 

And the freezer. 

Now you might laugh, but these are locations where Mum has previously found missing possessions, so honestly, nothing could be ruled out. 

The Great Charger Investigation 

The following morning, we met Mum for breakfast and continued piecing together the previous day’s events. 

Large soft drinks with ice all round for the sensible adults. 

Well… almost all round. 

Mum ordered a skinny latte. 

Trying to look like a responsible adult, are we Mum? 

After breakfast, we headed back to Mum’s, said our goodbyes to the H’s, reunited ourselves with Mr T, and resumed the hunt for the missing charger. 

I checked downstairs. 

Under sofas. 

Behind chairs. 

In drawers. 

Nothing. 

Debs headed down to The Gardeners Arms to check there and after no luck headed back to the kitchen to speak to mum. 

“Do you have a spare charger?” he asked. 

“No,” came the reply. 

At exactly that moment, I was upstairs looking at a power bank sitting in the corner of the bedroom. 

A power bank filled with cables and plugs. 

One of which had the word Samsung printed on it. 

So, Mum does not have a spare charger. 

But she has looked everywhere, right? 

Wrong. 

She had not lost the charger at all. 

The charger was exactly where it belonged. 

In the power bank where she always keeps it. 

The only thing missing was Mum’s ability to use her “adult eyes.” 

Mystery solved. 

Nobody had stolen it. 

Nobody had packed it by accident. 

No elaborate drunken charger heist had taken place. 

Mum simply had not looked in the one place it had been all along. 

Not quite sure Mum is cut out for this whole adulting business, but I am sure practice makes perfect. 

At least we have another story to add to the collection. 😂 

Everyone’s tempted by those schemes where you can supposedly earn money with very little effort. Some of us are more sceptical than others.

I always thought I was one of the sceptical ones.

Then I started seeing those adverts.

“You’re already playing games… why not get paid for it?”

“Earn up to £80 playing just one game!”

My first thought was, that’s clearly bullshit.

I’m a reasonably clever person. Surely I wasn’t going to fall for one of those ads.

But they just kept appearing. Every time I opened social media, there it was again. After what felt like months of relentless advertising, I started thinking:

“Well… I could have earned hundreds by now if I’d signed up the first time I saw it!”

That’s probably how the brainwashing begins.

To be fair, I did some adulting first. I checked Trustpilot, read a few reviews and convinced myself it wasn’t a complete scam. Then I jumped straight in.

Fast forward six months…

I’ve successfully cashed out a grand total of £55.

Six months.

£55.

To achieve this life-changing fortune, I played around six different games and spent far too much time trying to maximise rewards. I’d hate to calculate what my hourly rate worked out to be.

Debs thought the whole thing was hilarious.

I’d be sitting there shouting into the next room:

“I’ve just made £1!”

Or…

“I don’t need a pay rise, I just earned 50p!”

At one point I even told my mum:

“Don’t worry about leaving me an inheritance, I’ve just made another 50p.”

I’m fairly certain both she and Debs thought I’d completely lost the plot.

The best part?

The minimum withdrawal amount was £55.

That wasn’t even £55 of pure gaming profits either. Around £7.50 came from shamelessly coercing some of my coworkers into downloading the app so I could collect referral bonuses.

Sorry, not sorry.

Of course, I always knew I wasn’t going to get rich this way. Let’s be honest, I don’t think I’m destined for great wealth. I’m meant to stumble through life collecting ridiculous stories and sharing them on this blog.

Which brings me to my latest venture.

I’m now a farmer.

Well… sort of.

I have a farm.

A farm game, to be precise.

And I have become surprisingly invested in it.

There’s something strangely cathartic about feeding the animals, preparing deliveries, building new equipment and expanding my little virtual empire. Nobody’s screaming about supermarket prices. There are no tractors breaking down. No paperwork. No unpredictable weather.

Just me and my fictional chickens.

Financially, it’s going incredibly well.

In just over a week, I’ve earned approximately 50p.

Which, when you think about it, probably compares quite favourably to what many British farmers earn after putting in a proper valiant effort and dealing with all the real-life challenges of farming in the UK.

So no, I haven’t discovered a secret path to financial freedom.

I haven’t cracked the code.

I haven’t become an online gaming millionaire.

But I have earned £55, acquired a digital farm, and provided endless entertainment for everyone around me as I excitedly announce each new 50p milestone.

Honestly, when I look at it like that, I think I’ve done alright!

This one is a hard post to write. It involves some enormous highs and some incredibly deep lows, but in true fashion, I am going to try my best to keep it lighthearted. 

First things first: we won the bloody league! Again. Now, this was not our team’s first rodeo; they have won it quite a few times previously, but the excitement never fades. Because of that, Miss H and Master Linda & Debs decided we absolutely had to go to the victory parade. The last one had happened during lockdown, so we figured, why not eh? 

Train tickets were immediately booked. We were really excited to go. 

That excitement was incredibly short-lived. 

Debs decided not to wear his football shirt because we do not actually live in the same city as the team we support. Let us just say the fans of the city they live in have some questionable fans—but then again, most teams do, don’t they? 

When we arrived at our local train station to pop into the shops for some journey drinks, we were met with a literal sea of red. Everyone was wearing their shirts. Everyone was going to the parade. It felt like the entire city had decamped to the platform. We were early for our train, but when it arrived, the queue was already at least five people deep down the full length of the platform. 

We obviously did not manage to get on that train. 

When the next one arrived, it was already standing room only. Luckily, the train attendants had finally stopped more people from coming down onto the platform because it was absolute carnage. We managed to squeeze ourselves on. By that point, I had already decided in my own head that if we did not make this train, we should just stay in town and celebrate locally. 

Part of me really wishes we had not got on that train. 

We stood and propped ourselves up for what felt like hours. The banter was good and everyone was in high spirits because about 90% of the carriage was there for the exact same reason. People were even sitting on the floor inside the toilets. When I say it was packed, it was ridiculous. 

We finally arrived and messaged Mr and Miss H: “We are here! Where are you? Where shall we meet?” Miss H and I suggested the start of the parade route. Nope. The boys wanted to catch the end of it. So off we went, successfully hunting them down in a crowd that was already ridiculously busy. We then set off to find some toilets and grab supplies while we prepared to wait hours for the bus to come around. 

I kid you not, the public toilets were closed for cleaning. We had to wait almost an hour just to use a local coffee shop’s facilities. The queues were trailing right down the street at the local Sainsbury’s, so we dived into M&S instead. The shelves were pretty much bare. It felt like a lockdown free-for-all—the kind where toilet roll, flour, and everything else became gold dust. 

By the time we got back to our meeting point, it was five times busier. You actively had to push your way through. People were purposely invading your personal space just to get a slightly better view for themselves. 

The security scale was wild. There were snipers on the roofs of the buildings. Some locals had completely taken over the scaffolding on a nearby building to get a higher vantage point, ripping off the safety netting in the process. Christ knows how someone did not die on that thing that day. 

And then, the weather turned. It had been spitting a bit as we walked up, but then the rain got heavier and much more consistent. 

But wow, the atmosphere was electric! The singing, the camaraderie—it was unbelievable. How the hell people climbed up into the top of lampposts and managed to sit up there for hours absolutely blew my mind. 

I would love to say that we stayed right until the very end. Unfortunately, the combination of the freezing weather, the thick smoke from the flares making it hard to breathe, the urgent need for a bathroom, and the increasingly dangerous-looking scaffolding situation right behind us finally got the better of us. 

We decided to make our way back to the station. 

Only, nobody would let us through. 

People were packed halfway down the side streets, and they simply refused to move. You had to really push for every single inch of ground. The feeling of camaraderie evaporated instantly; this was now a physical fight just to get out. 

We made it, but only because we refused to use the officially assigned exit route. We would never have made it through that bottleneck. If we had stayed to the end and gone that way… well, I hate to fucking think what would have happened to us. 

We left Mr and Miss H to head to our station, as they had to use a different one. As we approached, we saw a massive sea of people waiting outside. No one knew what was happening and the station appeared to be completely locked down and closed. 

We stood there cold, wet, and pretty much entirely pissed off. 

“Fuck it,” we said. “We will get an Uber.” 

We had to move fast before thousands of other people had the exact same thought. We knew it would not be cheap because we had travelled so far, but right then, we just needed to get home. The first driver cancelled on us. Luckily, the next one arrived, and we all jumped inside. 

It was only then that we found out why the first driver had likely cancelled. There had been a major incident at the parade. Master Linda and Debs’ girlfriend (let us call her Geordie J) suddenly got a frantic text from someone checking if she was okay because they knew she was there with us. 

We were okay. But finding out what happened really shook us all to the core. 

When we got home and turned on the TV, we could not believe what we were seeing. It was completely surreal. If we had stayed… if we had followed that exit route… Fuck. 

What should have been an amazing day out ended with cold chills running down our spines—and not just from the rain. We made some amazing memories with incredible people, and the electric atmosphere is something we are proud to have been a part of, but it was an incredibly close call. 

I really do not want to leave this post on a total negative. We do not normally share personal videos and photos on here, but you have to take a look at this clip of Debs emerging from the crowd halfway up the side street. When I say we had to push through, just look at the absolute mess of his sandwich that he was holding in his hand when trying to get through the sea of people!!! 

Most people think families are boring. I have spoken before about the quieter ones in ours. There are those families where stories are either never told or told so gently you cannot quite hear them. But maybe they are not boring at all. Maybe you are just used to people’s quirks, and you do not realise how unusual some of them actually are until someone points it out. 

Because every family has the ones who stand out. The ones who are not scared to tell you about their lives—about the things they have done, survived, regretted, laughed at, and then laughed about again later. 

For me, that was my granddad. 

We used to go around on Saturdays, and without fail, he would roll out the same stories again and again—each one delivered like it had just happened. How he lost one of his stripes in the war because he managed to lose his tank. How he survived being run over by a slow-moving train. (Which, I often joke, is probably why I am accident-prone—genetics and storytelling clearly share a gene pool.) 

And then there were his Italian “adventures.” He once claimed he was liberating oranges from an orchard. You can probably already guess how that went… because the “oranges” turned out to be lemons. He told it like a victory anyway. 

With granddad, it was not that he did not have new stories—it was that he had the same old stories he clearly enjoyed reliving. Maybe somefamilies keep photos. Ours kept legends. 

Then there are the ones who create funny, ad-hoc stories—little moments that happen so unexpectedly you cannot plan how you’ll react. You just end up laughing, even if your first instinct is disbelief. 

When the other half’s grandad passed away, we started going to see his grandma every Wednesday evening around 5pm after work, and every Sunday morning around 10am. She knew what time to expect us, which sounds normal… until you realise what happens when time suddenly doesn’t behave. 

One particular Sunday we were running late—about an hour. We arrived as usual: me, Debs, Master & Miss Linda & Debs. 

But the door was not open. That was not unusual in itself—people do forget. So, Debs did what any sensible person would do: he leaned through the letterbox and shouted to grandma. 

She told him to get the key out of the lock box because she could not get to the door. 

So, Debs got the key. He opened the door. And there, in the hallway, sat grandma—tangled in one of those old-fashioned wooden airers, with her washing piled around her like it had decided to become part of the furniture. 

Now, grandma had one of those alarm chains around her neck. If she pressed it, someone would come and help. 

But she was patient. She was also stubborn. And she knew it was nearly time for us. 

So, she did not want to waste anyone’s time. 

Except… we were an hour late. 

Debs untangled her and, honestly, she stayed good-humoured the entire time. It still makes us laugh now. But it also taught us something important: if you say you will be somewhere at a certain time, try not to test whether “nearly time” really means anything. 

And then—because every family needs at least one absolute chaos legend—there was my late niece. We will call her S. 

S was vivacious. Effervescent. Feisty, bold, and fearless—like she came with her own soundtrack and absolutely zero interest in anyone else’s opinion about what was sensible. 

When Debs used to go to an afternoon drinking session at S’s dad’s house, S would sometimes walk with him back to mums for his dinner. It was about a 20-minute walk to my mum’s house. (Possibly a bit longer if you were inebriated, like Debs… though Debs has always maintained he was only “slightly affected.”) 

But S did not just lead the way—she made it a challenge. 

She would find shortcuts. Ginnels full of nettles. Routes that most people would avoid—not because they were dangerous in theory, but because they sounded like a bad idea the moment you imagined them. 

And I think part of it was about trust. She enjoyed seeing how much Debs would believe her. How far she could push it. Whether Debs would still follow when the route got increasingly ridiculous. 

It worked every time. 

And every time he arrived back at dinner, there was a story to tell. Something to laugh at. Something to retell later. Something that turned “just a walk” into a family myth. 

Which brings me to my mum. 

You will have heard before about her speeding fine just before she turned 75. But one day after her 75th birthday, I rang her and she announced—very calmly—that she had tried “Baby Guinness” for the first time that day. 

Now, you might think fair play to the lady. It was her birthday. She deserved a little treat. 

Except it was 10am. 

And she had had it at 9. 

The reason? Not because she was going rogue in the usual way. Not because she was living life in total chaos. 

She was simply trying it out for her birthday party at the weekend. 

Nine in the morning, taste-testing alcohol like a responsible adult. 

I can already imagine that mum will have plenty more stories for these blogs. 

Because our families are not boring. 

They are just… full of people with quirks you only understand once you have been close enough to hear them properly. 

Thank you so much to Pink Grass for playing at Mum’s birthday party! What an apt song to choose—everyone loved it.

For anyone who missed them, be sure to follow pinkgrassband on YouTube, Instagram (@pink_grass_band), and TikTok (@pink_grass_band).