Souvenir Rock

After Wilson had opened his birthday presents, he distributed the rest of his sticks of souvenir Great Yarmouth Rock.

W's goldfish, Diesel, always looks forward to his stick, as does sTony, but his brother sToneye never really sees the point of it and usually lets sTony eat his.

In other news, who knew Ear Worms were contagious? Guess who's got Spanish Harlem Incident stuck in his head now? Me! 

Grrrrr...

Belated Birthday Wishes

Once Wilson had woken and staggered out of his bed into the kitchen, he found everyone gathered and waiting to sing Happy Birthday to him.

Uncle Zoltan had baked a beautiful birthday cake, but he was a bit put out by our tardiness.

'It's probably quite stale by now!' he remarked, testily; 'I baked it in time for your birthday, but that was over two weeks ago! You're lucky we didn't eat it without you! It's really not good enough.' Then as an afterthought, he added, 'Oh, Happy Birthday.'

The cake proved to be delicious, in spite of it's age — Wilson told Uncle Z that it had probably matured by being kept — and once everyone had eaten their fill of it, W handed out souvenir sticks of Great Yarmouth Rock.

Ear Worm

Throughout the journey home, Wilson incessantly hummed, whistled or sang the Bob Dylan song, 'Spanish Harlem Incident' — you might be able to imagine how annoying that was. No, more annoying than that.

It didn't help that he knew only two lines of the lyrics, and had at best a tenuous grasp of the tune. He apologised, but said he couldn't help it as the song was just stuck firmly in his head. 

His singing was eventually replaced by his snoring as we passed through Crowborough — only about nine miles from Uckfield, so the relief, though welcome, was short-lived.

We finally got home quite late. Everyone else had gone to bed so I lifted Wilson out of the passenger seat, carried him into the house and popped him into his tumble-dryer for the night…

A Life Story

Just before we reached where we'd left the car, we passed a pub with an elderly chap, possibly the Town Crier, sitting outside. He nodded to us both, and addressed Wilson, saying, 'Hello young sir! You're not from these parts, are you now?'

I'm not usually in favour of W speaking to strangers outside pubs, but as I was there to keep an eye on him I nodded, and Wilson ran over to the man. 

'What sort of a fellow are you, then?' the man asked. In reply Wilson handed him one of his Consulting Detective business cards and proceeded to tell him all about his holiday… followed by his life story… all apparently without stopping for breath. The poor man couldn't say a word!

Eventually I coughed and pointed at my wristwatch to let W know we should be heading off, and he said goodbye and ran back to me.

'Interesting chat, Wilson?' I asked.

'Cor, does that man know how to talk — I could barely get a word in edgeways!' he replied without a hint of irony.

We climbed into the car and, rather sadly, said farewell to Southwold. 

In just a few hours we should be back home…

Southwold Lighthouse

Leaving the pier we passed a row of very pretty beach huts and Wilson, remarking on how lovely they were, asked whether he could have one for his birthday. Sadly that won't be happening as Southwold's beach huts are among the most expensive in the country, being priced at between £50,000—£100,000 each! 

W took this news well, reflecting that it would be quite a long drive to Southwold and there were perfectly nice (and much cheaper) beach huts in Hove and Seaford, which are both much nearer home. 

Or I suggested he might have a shed in the garden painted to look like a beach hut.

Making our way through the centre of this beautiful little village, the lighthouse seemed as characteristic of it as the Eiffel Tower is of Paris, visible from everywhere. 

Speaking of which, Wilson really wants to go to Paris one day. Also Venice, as long as he doesn't fall into a canal.

Quantum Reality revealed!

While Wilson quenched his thirst with an ice-cold Pepsi and his hunger with a toffee-apple, we strolled to the pier head where we came across one last Tim Hunkin machine: the Quantum Tunnelling Telescope.

W was not to be denied a peek through this, and we soon found what proved to be our last £1 coin. 

Popping it in the slot, he peered through the eyepiece and gasped! Then he swung the telescope round and gasped again!

'What is it?' I asked, 'What can you see?'

'I can't really explain,' he replied enigmatically, 'I can see everything like through an ordinary telescope, but it's sort of somehow revealing the world of Quantum Reality too…'

As you can imagine, my curiosity was well and truly piqued, but we didn't have another coin for me to have a go myself.

Anyway, it's high time we thought about heading back to Uckfield, where we can celebrate Wilson's well-overdue birthday!

Walking the Dog

Wilson has always been very wary of dogs, interpreting what is probably just natural curiosity as aggression. Therefore Tim Hunkins' 'Rent-a-Dog' machine seemed the ideal opportunity for W to experience the joy of walking a pet that wouldn't pose a threat. (He has a pet goldfish, Diesel, but he rarely leaves the house apart from when he goes Carol Singing.)

Wilson stood in the machine and inserted his coin, whereupon the robotic dog — which appeared to be modelled on a Bull Terrier, a dog W would normally give a wide berth — turned its head, looked up and seemed to smile at W. 

Then a treadmill started under Wilson's feet, and another, smaller treadmill under the dog's feet, while scenery scrolled past on two monitors, one for W and one for the dog.

When the machine stopped a couple of minutes later, Wilson claimed that the walking had left him 'Totes exhausted!' and he was in urgent need of a cold drink and a toffee apple before he swooned away…