Fabulous Frydays

Friday night is fish'n'chips night, or, as my friend Mike so brilliantly calls it, 'chip'n'fish night'.

Why? Who? When? Where? I can't be haddocked to research it but I do champion the tradition. A friend (not Mike this time) recently made the point that life can be enriched by stringently keeping regular nights for regular activities, thereby giving one something to always look forward to – Meatball Mondays, Tug-o-War Tuesdays, Whisky Wednesdays, Tunbridge Wells Thursdays, Fish Fridays, Shaving Saturdays and Sideboard-hunting Sundays.

Maybe seven-days-a-week is pushing it. Half and half would be good. That would, of course, mean we'd have to make the week eight days long but that wouldn't be such a bad thing and would certainly give the three-day weekend argument a further boost.

And while I'm at it let's ban children from zoos and demand recycling bins specifically for lighters, pens, corks and wax.

Dodo On The Doorstep

It's not often you open your front door and find a living dodo on your doorstep – so what do you do when this happens? There's no guidebook, council initiated leaflet or helpline for such a situation. Even Google draws a blank.

I had to rely on my instincts and my instincts told me to give it some muesli.

It's been coming back ever since.

Tolkien's Unfinished Classic Revealed

It's as if I've walked in to the set of an 'Apocalypse Now' sequel - 'Apocalypse Later' perhaps? A sleepy hollow within Blair Witch woods.

Ropes hang from almost every tree and tied to these ropes are the bones of innocent ramblers, skinned alive by a heinous goblin from an aborted Tolkien story. Mist swoops in from the west. Rural Dickensian atmosphere takes a hold. A bead of sweat charges my brow. Silence.

"Hold on a minute. These aren't bones - they're shaved tree branches! Oh I get it - they're swings made by the kids who do bushcraft courses here."

A quick look around for human approach tests negative and I'm up on one of the swings and twisting about like a demented 6-year-old coming up on Jelly Tots. At the peak of my enjoyment and on the verge of breaking into song ('Inbetween Days' by The Cure' incidentally) he rises menacingly from a pile of rotting leaves – the heinous goblin.

"Oldest trick in the book" he snarls. "Replace the bones with shaven tree branches and see how the innocent rambler takes to the bait."

"I don't fear you goblin, you're just a figment of Tolkien's imagination – and an aborted one at that" I retort.

"In which case you are also a figment of his imagination. You must be part of his aborted story too " the goblin volleys back.

I decide to stall this tricky situation with diversion tactics. "What was this story to be called?" I ask.

"Goblin Bastard."

"And how far did Tolkien get with it?"

"As far as this bit."

"So what happens next?"

"I dunno. I suppose we wait and see if anyone ever finishes it."

"Pint?"

"Pint."

Who Will You Be In Seventeen Years?

That's him! The man I want to be when I'm 58. I'm staring adorably at him from across the other side of the cafe. He's slightly mole-like, kind looking, with the type of smile that lights up a fried breakfast. He leans casually on the table and converses with his fellow brunchers in a way that exudes Parisian laissez faire, or Cornish 'matter-do-a?'. His shoulders appear light and burden free. He wears his glasses on top of his head, sports a borderline eccentric moustache and a brow furnished with 'good-time' creases. The top it all it's a Friday and he's not working. But wait...oh knackers! 

He's got his shirt tucked tightly into his trousers. It's not him after all. I sigh deeply and turn my attention back to the black pudding.