Hello chums.
I won’t lie to you - these last few weeks have been rougher than the post-rugger celebrations back at Mountbatten.
If you’re avid perusers of my musings, you’ll no doubt have heard about the writer’s retreat that Mummy and Papa paid for me to go on over the break. Well, as it turns out, it was no such thing.
Instead, I found myself transported to the distant land of Stoke-on-Trent, armed with only my personalised Lamy pen, a couple of COOK ready meals and a copy of Tatler (they told me it was an all-inclusive, so I packed light).
But not to worry, chums, I soon used that catastrophic cranium of mine to devise a way to return to my caregivers, who had clearly made some sort of mistake. Despite the language barrier, I was able to wangle myself a train ticket home, and soon made the 3 hour trek from the station to ‘chež Jonty’ (God bless you, British countryside infrastructure!).
I expected a warm welcome, and perhaps some Gardener’s Question time, courtesy of Radio 4. What I found was a sickening den of debauchery.
First, my folks had deliberately streamed the 2025 season of Strictly Come Dancing without me (we’re a year behind) so I missed watching absolute ‘ledge’ Tom Skinner presumably dominate the competition with his business acumen and trademark gusto. No spoilies.
Second, they had converted my bedroom - my Chamber of Secrets, if you will - into an erotic pottery studio. Presumably, like so many other hobbies, Mummy saw Helen do it on Facebook and got jealous of the attention. Hopefully it’ll go the same way as her fencing room, home planetarium and Rainbow Six Siege den (unceremoniously rejected by the editorial team at Home and Gardens) and I’ll be allowed to re-capture my quarters like Napoleon.
Third, they didn’t mention me once. Not a sausage. Apparently they had paid one of the old biddies in the post office to forge kind letters to me in Stoke, which explains the Werther’s Original I found stuck to the inside of the envelope and the strange tangents about migrants.
No, chums, they spent the entire week drinking primo chardonnay and laughing like retired racehorses. Well, joke’s on them - Ol’ Jonty’s coming down like a farmer with a shotgun.
I managed to squirrel myself away, Die Hard-style, inside one of the house’s vents (honestly, I can’t understand why everyone doesn’t have air conditioning, it makes summer so peachy). Subsiding on a steady diet of Mummy’s secret Dom Perignon and all-you-can-eat lint, and entertained by a discarded Antiques Roadshow novelty fidget spinner, I was able to conceal myself for several days.
Listening.
Waiting.
And then - like a muscled panther pouncing on unsuspecting prey, albeit without the musings of Attenborough - I fell through a loose panel onto the coffee table in the lounge.
Upon confronting my surprised parental figures, I learned that they had sent me to Stoke in an effort to broaden my cultural horizons in preparation for second year. Unfortunately for them I simply developed a lifetime passion for Stoke City FC and gout.
Oh well. At least I’ve nearly got the hang of that fidget spinner.