Chris Pascoe’s Fun Tales
It turns out that Chris’s talent for creating calamities is a family trait!
Italked about my dad and his Portsmouth war years last week. Well, we’ve just taken him back to Portsmouth and he almost started another war.
On the way down in the car, which was blissfully quiet due to Maya understanding the need not to play industrial strength thrash US punk to her grandparents, I finally got to the bottom of a mystery surrounding Portsmouth’s seaside resort of Southsea. Whereas Southsea’s always been one of my favourite places, Dad has never, ever mentioned Southsea in any of his childhood memories. I asked him why.
“It wasn’t much of a resort then. The sea was mined, everything was covered in barbed wire and, anyway, they’d have shot you.”
Good enough reason not to use the beach, I suppose.
Anyway, we arrived at our destination, a little museum on the city outskirts, and took our place on the guided tour. Dad was not in the mood to be guided, the deeply cultural man that he is, and immediately became moody.
Wanting to hear the curator over Dad’s moaning, I edged forward. Dad didn’t notice I’d gone. Neither did he notice that my space at his shoulder had been taken by an elderly woman who, we later discovered, was the curator’s wife.
“Horse pulled?” she said, “I didn’t realise canals were so shallow”
“He likes the sound of his own voice, doesn’t he?” Dad whispered in her ear. “He’s so flipping boring, it’s like listening to paint dry. Actually, can you listen to paint dry? I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”
“WILL YOU JUST SHUT UP, YOU RUDE LITTLE MAN!” came a sudden shout that had everyone jumping out of their skin.
The curator stopped mid-sentence, adjusted his spectacles and stared through the crowd inquisitively at his wife. I think for a moment he must have thought she’d been shouting at him, but he seemed to quickly dismiss the idea, as he then carried on with his talk.
I, meanwhile, shuffled forward a few more paces, hoping that another three foot would make me definitely not related to my father.
Needless to say, Dad didn’t finish the tour. Not because he was bored, but more because a certain lady kept stamping on his foot. No idea why.
On the subject of war year parents, I heard a great story on the radio the other day. A chap emailed the radio station to talk about his parents moving to Buckinghamshire during the 1940s. On a taxi ride from the train station to their new home, they drove over a canal bridge. As they crossed they watched a barge making its way slowly through the water, and the husband mentioned in passing that barges were now powered by engines.
“Well, what powered them before?” asked his wife. “Horses,” he told her. “Really?” she exclaimed, “I didn’t realise canals were so shallow!”
And do you know what? Sadly, I’d have probably said exactly the same thing…