Sorry to keep you but...

AAh, there you are. Sorry to keep you, but you know how it is.There's nothing worse than being kept waiting, and Mrs Bramhall should know. Because I have an unfortunate habit which drives her to distraction. Er no, not that one - I can't indulge that any more after what the judge told me at my last hearing! No, I'm talking about my habit of not rushing. You see, no matter how quickly I try to do things, it seems it is never fast enough for Mrs B. Take getting ready to go out for an evening on the tiles. This is a rare occurence in itself, as She Who Is The Fount Of All Knowledge will readily confirm. After all, she will tell all who listen, her nickname is The Olympic Flame. Why? Because she never goes out. Boom, boom. Now as most blokes know, waiting for a woman to get ready is like watching nail varnish dry. They titivate, curl, polish, smooth, perfume, paint, daub, highlight and shine places most men didn't even know existed. For some, this can take several hours. But not Mrs B. Oh sure, she does all that. But she has an annoying habit of doing it all very quickly. I, on the other hand, need only minimal maintenance - a quick rinse under the cold water tap, a scrape with the razor, a ruffle of what little hair I have got left and voila, perfection personified. But somehow, no matter how hard I try, it seems to take me forever. And there is nothing worse than emerging from the bathroom, scrubbed up and smelling faintly of Fiery Jack (no madam, it's not after shave; it's for my perfectly-toned muscles) to find Mrs B stood there in her hat and coat, drumming her fingers on her rolling pin. I've even tried getting ready hours before I need to, but without success. Because whenever I feel I'm nearly sorted, something always happens to delay me. Don't ask me what, because I can't explain. It's just that fate always conspires against me, however much I rush. Mrs B has a mania for punctuality, which I normally admire. But on our summer holidays she managed to take this one step beyond what I consider acceptable. We were in France, and were sailing home by ferry. We had a lengthy trip from our camp site to the port so Mrs B suggested we set off the day before and stay overnight near the terminal so we would be sure to make our sailing. So far, so good. We duly made the trek, drove for several hours, arrived on the outskirts of our port and settled in for the night. Great, I thought. No rushing in the morning. Plenty of time for a lie-in, leisurely breakfast, perhaps even a bit of last-minute shopping, then a tootle along to the ferry terminal where we could spend a relaxing 20 minutes before boarding. Bliss! Sadly, my dreams were shattered by an early morning alarm call. Mrs B likes to rise early, and this day was to be no exception. A leisurely breakfast? No time; Mrs B took one look at what was on offer, gave her best Gallic shrug, and indicated in no uncertain terms that we should high-tail it for the ferryport. Last-minute shopping? You're having a laugh. Got to get to the ferry terminal. We can't miss the boat. "But it won't be here for another four hours," I plaintively whimpered. But I was over-ruled. Got to be punctual, you see. So there we were. The only car on the huge waiting area the size of three Wembley stadiums, with no ferry staff to be seen as they hadn?t started work yet... and certainly no ferry. Still, those four hours flew by. Not! And just to add insult to injury, as we came to embark, guess whose vehicle was among the last to be loaded. Yes, that's right. Who said being punctual was a virtue?

Welcome...to The Bramhalls

Welcome to the weird and wonderful world of the Bramhalls, a fortysomething couple who used to consider themselves reasonably trendy... but are now struggling to make sense of the modern world.



Hi, my name is Mike and I am a saddo. At least I think that’s what I should be saying.
Because after years of considering myself reasonably tuned in to modern life, I’ve come to the shattering conclusion that I’m now hopelessly out of touch.
It’s been coming on for a while of course. When my son, now 24 and living a rock-n-roll lifestyle – well, he stays up past 3am sometimes, so that’s good enough for me – was living at home, I could at least keep up with who was hot and not in the music/fashion/celebrity stakes.
He use to wearily correct me when I referred to nightclubs as discos, the music charts as the hit parade and bands as pop groups.
But he moved out years ago. So now it’s left to Mrs Bramhall, my gorgeous, pouting (she might read this) other half, to keep me up to date with what’s going on in the outside world.
And bless her, despite her best efforts, it seems there is no hope... for either of us.
Take this week and the Lord Stevens ‘bung inquiry’ into suspect footie transfers.
The conversation at Bramhall Towers went something like:
Me: “This bungs business looks bad.”
Mrs Bramhall: “What’s a bung?”
Me: “It’s when...”
Mrs B: “Is it one of those stopper things they have in beer barrels?”
Me: “No, it’s a football...”
Mrs B: “Or one of those harness things that you are strapped into before leaping off a bridge or high tower?”
Me: “No, it’s when...”
Mrs B: “Drake Circus opens this week. I can’t wait.”
See what I’m up against.
In the coming months, I hope to share some more moments of madness from the inner sanctum.
In the meantime, see you later alligator. Or should that be “Laters, Babe!”