A table for 13, please

The following series of emails is based on my husband Chris’s attempt to organise a festive get-together with his side of the family in Lincolnshire. Some paragraphs are real, others fictional. The senders and recipients are Chris, his Uncle Bob (former owner of a chain of restaurants, now retired) and Chris’s sister Jenny, a nurse. Names of places and characters have been changed. Except Chris, that is.

To all. From Chris:

Howdy all.

After hours of strenuous internet research, I can happily confirm that I’ve booked McDonalds for 12:30pm on Saturday 8th Dec. Only joking. I’ve booked The Castle on Duke Street, see attached map. It has a private room that can squeeze in all 13 of us, just to please you, Bob.

Jenny, I’ve reserved a highchair for Olivia. Bob, will you and yours be arriving by helicopter? If so, please warn them in advance so they can reserve a spot on their helipad:-)

They’ve asked that we order food one week in advance – see attached menus. As Mum probably won’t want anything fancy I’ve posted her a kids’ menu.


To all. From Bob:

Chris, many thanks for making all these arrangements – we do appreciate it.

I have a confession to make.

Having looked up on tinternet how to get to The Castle, I noted that 20% of the respondents to TripAdvisor.com rated it Poor or Terrible. So, I phoned The Castle to get a feel for the place, and was given a 10-minute fire and brimstone diatribe by the owner on how they have 1,000 customers a week and no one ever complains. Oh, and “all customers are self-abusers”.

Frankly if I were a Lincolnite and had the inclination to complain, I’d think twice too given that Attila the Hun is the gatekeeper. Anyway I took matters even further (OH NO I can hear Chris exclaim), yes, I’m your Uncle and I reserve the right to be bonkers. So I emailed the owner – Margaret – and I explained to her how she can respond to her critics if she feels that the criticism is unfounded.

I have to say, one in five can’t be that wrong – however, she didn’t reply and I can only assume that given she’s a geriatric exhibitionist who apparently loves to prance around behind the bar, she hasn’t got time for technology. Unfortunately she’s probably worked out when we’re coming now, as you CC’d me on the booking emails, so maybe she’s instructed the chef to goz in my plum pudding and fart into my wine glass. So, all in all it should make for a very eventful occasion, which I for one am looking forward to.

If this has made anyone remotely nervous I apologise in advance – and no we shouldn’t change the venue because it’ll be a hoot. Tell Tash it’ll make great fodder for her next book.

All will be revealed…

Mischievous and obdurate,

Uncle Bob of Bobbington Heights

To all. From Chris:
Right… Nice one, Bob. I suggest we move to Plan B. (Actually this would be Plan H, as I already crossed off several plans before submitting Plan A to all of you lot and I don’t have time to start the search for the perfect restaurant all over again as I’m two men down at work this week and up to my neck.)

So Plan B, if Jenny’s ok with it, would be for us all to meet at hers instead. We can all bring a dish with us, and a dessert, and have a buffet. The kids can run riot, we get to chat properly and we can all muck in with the cooking and washing up. It’s cheaper and we won’t get kicked out at 4pm. Well, we might…

And we won’t have a chef wanking into our rice pudding. What do you think, Jen?


To all. From Jenny:

No pressure then.

Can anyone recommend a crack team of industrial cleaners to come and blitz my house so it meets with Uncle Bob’s standards? And by the way, we’ve got a new dog called Biffy who likes to hump everyone. Oh, and our loo doesn’t flush anything other than wee. Other than that, you’re all welcome.

Bring some chairs. About 6? Uncle Bob, you can sit on the recycling bin.

To all. From Bob:

Great response – you’re on fire my peachy little niecey-nephlings. This sounds like the best option. At least we won’t find a cock ring in the guacamole.

Now listen you lot, I’m quite happy to run the gauntlet with Atilla the Hun and see what unfolds. But Jen-Jen (I can just see you with folded arms and tapping foot giving me a withering side-long glance), if you’re happy to have us, we’re happy to come. Your house is lovely, and I’m not averse to some mess. After all, you have young kiddiwinks and we’ve all been there. I’ll make sure our lot empty their bowels before we descend upon you.

To make life easier for everyone I’ll draw up a spreadsheet of what food each team should bring. In the meantime, let’s move on to presents. Who wants what? Or shall we ditch the idea and just buy each other goats in Africa? Although Jen, I’ve just thought of the perfect present for you: an inflatable pink poodle. There, that’s one problem solved.

See you all on the 8th,, squadron.

Lord Bob of Bobsworth Manor

To all. From Jenny:

If you want to get me a present you can chip in with our kitchen extension fund. That way I can fit you all in.

Bring booze.

And no you can’t stay the night.

See you on the 8th.

To all. From Chris:

Sorry, I missed the last round of emails. Can someone bring me up to date? There’s a message from Margaret at The Castle on my voicemail asking if I can give her a call. I’m too scared. You do it Bob.

To all. From Bob:

With pleasure my little Chrissie-whissie. Can’t get enough of Margaret the Hun.

To all. From Jenny:

Bring crisps.

And Valium.

To all. From Margaret@TheCastle:

I suggest you bunch of morons all learn how to use the CC facility properly. In the meantime, you’re all banned from my restaurant from now until hell freezes over. Set foot in the door and you can expect a proper Attila the Hun welcome.

Good riddance.

Paw Choices – a short story

Henry likes to think of himself as a free spirit. At the weekends he likes to get up and see where the day takes him. Once we bought a two-man tent on a whim, and were camping wild in the New Forest a few hours later. Sometimes we go to a nightclub, dance into the early hours, and then fall asleep on the beach. You wouldn’t know Henry was a 45-year-old vet with a penchant for humorous socks.

Henry says he doesn’t want to get tied down. He says I’m great, that we have something special, so why ruin it by getting all serious? As long as we’re honest with each other, he says, that’s what counts. I know it’s fear of getting hurt that keeps him from getting too close, and that’s why I’ve been patient. I’ve never pestered him to see me, or even to call me his girlfriend, and I’ve been happy enough to take things at his pace. But deep down I know he wants to be loved and cherished like everyone else. And I’m the woman to love and cherish him. I know that because fate brought us together.

We met at the cat rescue centre the day I adopted Monty. Henry was doing the rounds, giving injections and flea drops. I couldn’t make up my mind whether to go for Monty, a black and white male domestic short-hair, or Coco, a sleek female with shiny chocolate-coloured fur.

‘See which cat responds to you the most,’ said Henry, noticing that the helper I’d been talking to was now busy talking to someone else. His deep brown eyes twinkled at me as he opened the door to Coco’s run. Coco, who was fast asleep in a basket, twitched an ear periscope-style in my direction, but didn’t so much as lift an eyelid to check me out. ‘Don’t take it personally,’ smiled Henry. He ushered me over to Monty’s run and opened it. Monty immediately got up and came to investigate.

‘Hello moggie,’ I cooed, stroking his head. Monty nuzzled my leg and miaowed.

‘Looks like Monty’s your man,’ said Henry, flashing me a grin. ‘Coco might look like the perfect accessory to one’s sofa, but she’s clearly not the emotional type. Still it’s up to you.’ As I took in Henry’s tall stature, his broad shoulders and confident smile, I couldn’t help feeling that he would be the perfect accessory to my sofa and if only I could take him home I wouldn’t be needing a pet to keep me company.

‘I’m sold on Monty,’ I said, hoping my instant attraction to this man wasn’t written all over my face.

‘Good choice. This one clearly wants to be loved.’

After helping me get Monty into my portable cat basket, he fished a card out of his pocket and handed it to me.

‘He’ll need a flu-jab in twelve months’ time,’ he said. ‘But if you fancy going out for a drink a little sooner than that, give me a call.’

Now here were are, ten months’ later. We’ve coasted along and I’ve been cool, calm and collected. But there comes a time when a woman has to lay her cards on the table…if only I could get him to the bloody table to show him my cards.

You see, Henry’s been somewhat elusive lately. I mean, he’s impossible to pin down at the best of times, but recently he’s been rather slack at returning my calls. I forced myself to casually ask if everything was ok, but he said – somewhat irritably – that he was simply rushed off his feet at work.

For some reason I find myself phoning his practice and booking an appointment. I know this is not a cool thing to do, but I need to see him. And besides, I’ve noticed that Monty is looking a little porky these days. I can’t understand it as he never finishes his food. But I’m sure my eyes are not deceiving me: Monty has definitely gained weight. Could he have an overactive thyroid? Obviously I need a vet’s opinion.


I sit in the waiting room with Monty protesting loudly from within his basket. I stretch my back. It is aching from carrying Monty on foot. My house is only a short walk from Henry’s practice, but in hindsight it would have been better to drive. Carrying a big cat in a heavy basket could see me end up at the osteopath’s if I’m not careful. I look around – there are two other people, an old lady with a Westie and a younger woman with far too much make-up and an immaculately groomed poodle. It’s hardly the long queue I’d been expecting.

Henry greets me coolly and mumbles an apology for not getting round to calling me. He adjusts his glasses and scratches his stubble. I look down at his ankles. Yes, as usual he’s wearing a pair of ridiculous socks: fluorescent pink and orange stripes. I remember the first time I met him, he joked it was his trademark, that it “jazzed up” the obligatory white coat. So on Valentine’s Day this year, I sent him a pair of Cupid socks – anonymously, of course, in case the act of giving a Valentine’s present were to bring Henry out in a cold sweat.

‘It’s been like Piccadilly Circus in here,’ he says, lifting the basket onto his table and extracting Monty who was now reluctant to emerge.

‘Seems pretty quiet to me,’ I say.

‘Two people cancelled today,’ he says quickly.

‘I thought we could go for a drink this Friday?’ I say.

Henry clears his throat and strokes Monty. ‘Er, I can’t, I’m afraid. I’m visiting my parents this weekend.’

‘Well, how about lunch on Monday, then?’ I suggest, breaking the golden rule of always leaving the ball in his court.

‘Sorry, Kate. At best I’ll be scoffing a sandwich in the back yard here on Monday – we’re booked out next week. People going on holiday. They need flu-jab certificates for the catteries and kennels. Now what did you say was wrong with Minty?’

Monty,’ I say tersely. He ought to know my pet’s name by now. ‘He seems to have put on some weight.’

With his free hand, Henry points to the cat adoption papers I am holding and beckons impatiently. He spreads them on the table next to Monty and scans the illegible handwriting of the woman from the cat rescue centre. Then he picks Monty up and places him on a large set of scales on the floor. ‘Dear God!’ he exclaims. ‘What have you been feeding him? Cement?’

‘Sheba,’ I reply defensively. ‘And sometimes Iams.’

‘How much? A kilo a day?’

I do not appreciate his sarcasm. As his girlfriend, I deserve a little more respect.

‘How much does he weigh?’ I ask.

‘Nine kilos. Congratulations. That’s a new record at this practice.’

‘I don’t understand it,’ I say. ‘He never finishes his food.’

‘Probably because he’s so stuffed. You’re overfeeding him.’

‘I can’t be!’ I gasp.

Henry points to Monty’s papers. ‘Says here he was six kilos when you adopted him from the cat rescue centre. He’s gained three kilos in the ten months you’ve owned him, Kate. He’s overweight.’

I’m speechless. My eyes well up. ‘Someone else must be feeding him,’ I splutter. ‘A well-meaning neighbour perhaps.’

‘I’m afraid it’s more likely you are the culprit, Kate. It’s very common. People overfeed their pets out of love. Just cut down the portion sizes and only feed him twice a day. We sell Obesity Management biscuits here at the practice. They’re expensive, but they’re the best nutrition you can give him in these circumstances.’

Henry checks his watch and heaves Monty back into his basket.

‘Bring him back in a month’s time so we can check his weight,’ he instructs me as he shows me to the door.

‘So when will you be free?’ I ask, my voice rising an octave.

‘Um, I’ll call you when work’s calmed down a bit…next week.’ He almost shoves me back into the waiting room and calls cheerfully for a Mrs Whitely and Squiggles to come in. The heavily made-up woman with the poodle teeters past me on impossibly high stilettoes as I lug Monty’s basket towards the reception desk to pay the bill.

‘Rita, get one of those Obesity Management sacks down for Kate and add it to her bill, will you?’ The door slams behind him as the receptionist hauls a giant sack onto her desk.

‘That’ll be seventy-three pounds and eighty-five pence, please love,’ says Rita, tapping away at her keyboard. I inhale.

I look at the sack: 3.5 kilos. I look at Monty: nine kilos. I look at the basket: two kilos? I look at the receptionist. She smiles sympathetically. ‘Would you like me to call you a cab, love?’


One week later, and still no call from Henry. I can’t help feeling that something isn’t right. I try to reassure myself that this is normal behaviour for Henry, and that if he no longer wanted to be with me, he would say so, as he prides himself on his honesty. So that only leaves one credible theory: we are getting too close, and he is retreating. He is yanking up his draw-bridge as I must have accidentally lifted a toe over the marked boundary.

What a load of nonsense, I suddenly think. Sod Henry and his bloody boundaries. I’m going to call him today because for one thing, I am about to prove him wrong: there is someone else feeding Monty, I just know it. And with the help of a teeny-tiny spy-cam I’ve bought online, I shall soon be able to prove it.

I call to Monty who loyally trots over to me and nuzzles my leg. I kneel down, stroke him and attach the spy-cam to his collar. Then I usher him towards the catflap, and watch eagerly as he squeezes through. He trots up the steps into my tiny garden and leaps up onto the wall, disappearing into the garden next door.

When I hear the sound of the catflap clattering twenty minutes later, I jump up from the sofa. Monty brushes up against me and purrs. I remove the camera from his collar and plug it into my laptop.

‘Now for the moment of truth,’ I announce to Monty, who saunters over to his empty bowl and miaows.

I watch the laptop with wide eyes. A succession of grainy, wobbly images fill the screen as Monty goes walkabout. There’s my garden; the wall; my next-door neighbour’s garden; the alleyway, and so on. Monty doesn’t hang about. I’m no longer sure where he is – between some back gardens by the look of it – but he has ventured a lot further than expected.

Finally he stops by some railings. I hope to God he isn’t about to try and squeeze through them as they do not look wide enough to accommodate Monty’s girth. The next image I see is a bit of a blur – there is a figure, but then a dog appears, barking, and Monty does a u-turn and runs. I rewind and pause the footage. Yes, there is someone – in fact there are two people.

‘Cover your eyes, Monty!’ I gasp as I realise what I’m witnessing. I press play and pause it again. I can clearly make out a woman’s legs wrapped around a man’s hips. I ought to avert my eyes but I’m too intrigued. Are they actually doing it, I wonder? Outside, in their back garden? Good Lord! I will Monty to look up so that I can see their faces, but instead he looks down. Dismayed, I follow the man’s legs down to his ankles. My heart stops. For there, between his trousers and his shoes, are a pair of socks covered in little Cupids, pointing their arrows towards a pair of impossibly high heels.