by Nick Louth
Tuesday 16th October: Breathing Again
Dot, now feeling better, has been ferried home and I can breathe again. However, it’s clear that she will soon have to go into a home. Whether I’m in her will or not, the cost of a few year’s specialised care will make Northern Rock’s overdraft at the Bank of England look like chicken feed. My own portfolio is worth a miserable £93,000. With current annuity rates the income wouldn’t be enough to cover council tax and utilities. But Dot’s invested assets, even assuming the £150,000 she passed to Jem is now lost to civilisation, are still about half a million. Add the house and she’ll be over £1 million. That’s enough to buy a second home in the Dordogne, two more holidays every year, and a new car, a Jaguar even. Maybe a bit of cosmetic surgery for Eunice. Liposuction, perhaps, if that is where they glue them together. The only trouble would be keeping her face immobile long enough for the Araldite to set.
I must redouble my efforts over the will. I’ll phone her solicitor tomorrow. If my soppy daughter Jem can get money out of the daft old bat, so can I. It’s just a question of working out how.
Wednesday 17th October: Careless Homes
I suggested to the share club that we should buy shares in the care home sector. I talk enthusiastically about the demographics, the consolidation the sector is likely to have and the attractive cash generation.
“I don’t agree,” says Mike Delaney. “My dad went into a so-called care home which was just run for the money. They didn’t have enough staff to feed all the residents, and his dinner often got taken away before he’d had a chance to have any.”
There’s a bit of shock at Mike’s uncharacteristic intervention, until Harry says: “Looks like we just started an ethical investment club, doesn’t it?”
Monday 22nd October: Toby Back Again
A quiet evening with the model railway, a signal box and some Humbrol was in prospect. Eunice was on a witch’s night out with numerous basket-weaving, braid-making and macramé-torturing cronies, presumably just a dry run for Halloween. It wasn’t to be. Jem turned up unexpectedly with a surprise guest: Toby.
The fop-haired former boyfriend and City trader, whose sexual ambiguity is one of life’s great mysteries, is now interested in girls again. Well hooray. He’s wooed Jem with, of all things, a black labrador puppy, and it seems to have worked.
So while I ply them with toasted cheese and Valpolicella, and tickle the charming and so-far unnamed puppy, the story unfolds. No mention is made of course of the £150,000 advance on her grandmother’s will she so effortlessly secured, or how much of it found its way into paying off Toby’s huge debts, or what has happened to the unsaleable Spanish property Toby bought with his mascara-wearing ex-boyfriend Carlos. All Jem has to tell is that their on-again, off-again, relationship is now on. To prove it they canoodle embarrassingly on the sofa, and stare into each other’s eyes. Quite embarrassed by this, I find enthusiasm for washing the grill pan. The only plus I can see is that Jonathan, Jem’s randy and lugubrious boss, and a married man, has been seen off. This may well be at some cost to Jem’s legal career. Yes, now she’s returned to the dandy, there’s little chance of a beano.
Tuesday 23rd October: Lawyer, Lawyer Pants On Fire
Eunice is out, and I’m just tucking into a slice of Swiss roll, when the phone rings and an adenoidal woman says: “Hold for Mr Ridley.” The solicitor I rang for an urgent chat about my mother’s will almost a week ago has just deigned to return my call, or has deigned to let me listen to ‘hold’ music, an irritating glockenspiel rendition of Elton John singing Goodbye Yellow Brick Road. Which, insofar as it concerns a Krugerrand carriageway to inheritance, seems to describe my situation perfectly. After five minutes of this a bored and laconic voice comes on the line: “Ridley.”
“Ah, Herbert. It’s about my mother’s will. Did you know she’s taken a pair of scissors to it?”
“I’m sorry I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I start to give him the details, until he interrupts. “Mr Jones. I’m not at liberty to discuss your mother’s legal affairs with you, or anyone else. I have a copy of her most recent will, and it’s perfectly in order.”
“But has she changed it recently…”
“As I say, I’m not at liberty to discuss it. Should I be notified of any unfortunate circumstances vis-a-vis her ongoing survival, I would as executor be in touch with family and relevant friends.”
“But you’ve been our family solicitor for 40 years.”
“Well, yes. But in this matter I cannot advise you, and you would need another firm. I’ve heard that Mrs Harris at Khan and Singh is rather good. Good day!”
Wednesday 24th October: Split Over Bank Prospects
Share club at the Ring o’Bells is pre-occupied with BHP results, which missed expectations after cost over-runs and some production problems. It’s our best performing stock, but clearly we need others. BT is steady but unexciting, while Debt Free Direct is in a steady downtrend, despite expectations of economic gloom.
“I think it’s time to look at banks again,” said K.P. Sharma. “There are such bargains out there, really unprecedented.”
“Might I remind you about Northern Rock?” Harry said. “A bargain, you said. Couldn’t fail, you said. We lost hundreds on it.”
“Yes, but look at Bradford & Bingley or Barclays. They don’t have the same problem at all. B&B fell below 250p on Monday! That’s a potential yield of nearly 8%.”
“What if it doesn’t make its numbers?” said Chantelle. “I think we should wait until the trading updates at the end of November.”
K.P. doesn’t, and neither does Martin Gale, who seems drawn to risk like a moth to a flame. Mike Delaney and I cast our votes with Harry and Chantelle, which defeats the move to buy banks by four-to-two. Divided, we once again bought nothing.
Thursday 25th October: Return Of The Elevenses
The stock market continues to behave oddly, caning builders and banks, and rewarding commodity plays. Fretting over this, I seek elevenses at the unusually early hour of 9.30am. Opening up Prescott, the suede pig in whose stuffing I had concealed a packet of chocolate digestives, I find just an apple, left there by you-know-who. Oh God. Now I’m for it. Eunice confronts me at lunch.
“Bernard, I’m really tired of you behaving like a naughty schoolboy. Hiding things from me, as if I won’t find out.” She pauses and then gives me that dangerous hippopotamus look as she bites into a high food-miles Peruvian nectarine.
“You know, Bernard. It’s really time you started to grow up. To behave like a man. Take me out to dinner, woo me under starlight, hold me close in your arms. Do you know, Marjorie Fielding at baskets said that Lionel made passionate love to her on the kitchen table during Antiques Roadshow?”
I remind Eunice that our self-assembled MFI kitchen table trembles under the buttering of a toasted teacake. It’s hardly likely to survive the amorous passions of a size-16 woman, antique or otherwise. As a compromise I suggest taking her out to dinner at the new Italian restaurant that has opened in town.
So, at 8pm we arrive at Capo Tomaso’s, which turns out to be a Mafia-themed pizza joint with pounding music, where the waiters have dark glasses and trilbies and the waitresses are mini-skirted molls (or perhaps trolls). Assailed by the din of Motörhead, I eventually ask for a little Omerta. Our gangly waitress flips through their CD collection. “We don’ ave. Marilyn Manson, okay?”
Hastily paying the bill, we’re home by 9.30pm. As I pull into the drive, and turn off the engine Eunice suddenly hits the recline lever on my seat. As I pitch backwards, there is a squeal of faux leather, some grumbling about gear sticks and the final arrival on my midriff of a vast amount of extra wifely weight. Wriggling for breath, all I can manage to say is: “But Antiques Roadshow isn’t on until Sunday!”
Chapter Four: Pizza The Action
Thursday 1st November: Cheesed Off
Up early, having slept well, despite Eunice’s arrival at 2am from a Halloween evening out (bou
nd to include a trip on the broomstick). Fortunately, my feigned unconsciousness was enough to avert any hippopotamus manoeuvres. She’s made no attempts since that appalling episode in the Volvo last week.
My good mood lasts until I log onto my PC and notice Domino’s Pizza shares have fallen 40p to 200p after a trading update. With a 14% jump in like-for-like sales, the only possible bad news is the increased cost of cheese. How ridiculous! This market is scared of its own shadow. Domino’s was about my only share that was really performing this year. Hornby’s down by 25% since August and QinetiQ has frankly been a disaster.
Cheesed off I may be, but Eunice is full of beans. While I struggle at breakfast with my Waitrose organic Namibian grapefruit, she regales me with tales of how her basket-weaving cronies last night painted the town puce.
“How many of you were arrested?” I ask.
“None, Bernard. But we did find this dishy young constable who Daphne wanted to take home. She almost got him into a taxi.”
“Poor chap, had he known it would involve a whole night listening to the horrors of council wheelie bin policy, he’d have handcuffed himself to a lamppost to avoid it.”
At this moment, I open a letter from the garage and almost choke. The bill for fixing the Volvo is £386 plus VAT!
“See what your carnal capers cost?” I say, waving the letter.
“I thought it was just the broken seat recline thingy. What’s this about ‘burned out window motors’?” she asked.
“It’s hardly surprising is it? I mean we’re parked in our own drive at midnight with the windows, front and rear, going up and down for five minutes and I’m too squashed to do a thing about it.”
“Well, I got my knee stuck on the window buttons when I was straddling you. There’s really no room in that car.”
“And the horn jammed on where your giant derrière was wedged against it. I mean, thank God you’d not managed to get our clothes undone by the time the Pendlewoods arrived to see what was going on. I’m sure we’ll never live it down.”
“It’s not too big, is it?” Eunice said, standing before the mirror.
“What?”
“My derrière. You said it was enormous.”
“Giant, actually. Well, only that it kept setting the horn off.”
“Bernard, is giant bigger than enormous, or smaller?”
“For God’s sake, woman, it’s this bloody bill which is enormous. You’re 59-years old and I really don’t care if you’ve got a bum the size of Hanger Lane Gyratory System so long as I don’t have to find hundreds of pounds to get the car fixed.”
And then, quite inexplicably, she burst into tears and fled the room. I will never understand women, not if I live to be a thousand.
Saturday 3rd November: Gleaming Spires
Finally chipped the last of the egg off the porch from Halloween. Bloody kids. Speaking of which, Brian and Janet arrived with our ‘delightful’ nine-year-old grandson, Digby. His sullen countenance, caused this time by the school’s confiscation of his mobile phone (for filming a gang attack on another pupil), does nothing to encourage me in discussing with Brian what should be done to invest for Digby’s university education. We long ago started a saving plan for him which will mature when he’s 18, by which time he’ll undoubtedly use it to buy Semtex, AK47s and credit card cloning equipment. Being an international master criminal will be much more his style than taking PPE at Oxford, and a damn sight cheaper. Indeed, after a miserable performance by the Scunthorpe & Skegness Building Society Child Education Bond, the only education it could buy would be a two-day course at the local community college in doner kebab handling and hygiene. Seeing as I’ve been putting in £1 a week for five years, I think we’ve been mis-sold, again.
In the afternoon, I phoned Perfect Peter Edgington to ask his advice, which was quite simple: “Start him a stakeholder pension wrapped around a cheap tracker fund, Bernard. He won’t be able to touch it until he’s old and sensible, you get tax relief on the contributions and it’ll have six decades to turn your £1 a week into a really sizeable sum.” Well, what a good idea!
Sunday 4th November: Buns Of Steel
Eunice brandishes a DVD at me: “Look, I’ve borrowed Buns of Steel from Irmgard.”
“Oh God, not more organic home baking,” I wailed. “I’ve told you before those multi-grain loaves kill my teeth.”
“Don’t be silly, Bernard. It’s an exercise course. I won’t have you complaining about my bottom again.”
Tuesday 6th November: A Trip Down Clio Lane
A trading update from Bovis, the one house builder in my portfolio, shows life is getting tougher. The average selling price of its homes is now likely to be 3% lower than a year ago. Each time when the share price falls I think it is too late to sell, and each time it falls more. Bovis stood at 1200p at its peak in April, and now it is barely half that. I can’t believe I bought more in the summer at 925p, nor how much less they are now worth. A little glummer than usual at breakfast, I was startled to see Eunice reading the financial pages of the Daily Mail.
“What is all this sub-prime lending, Bernard? Is it affecting our nest egg? Will there be a recession? And what’s stagflation?”
I do my best to explain, and reassure her that everything’s fine. I do not mention that the portfolio is only worth more this year because of the extra cash I’ve put in it. Without that it would be down 8%. I’m pleased to see she’s reassured.
“Bernard, you do such a good job for us,” she strokes my hand, before turning back to the paper. “I presume it’s okay about me getting a new Clio, then?” she slips out innocently, while turning the page to Femail.
“What!” I splutter, spraying coffee and crumbs over the Telegraph. “The current one’s only three years old.”
“But, Bernard, Irmgard’s just got a new Audi. And the paint’s beginning to come off where I knocked it in Waitrose.”
“Which knock? There were three as I recall.”
“Well, exactly. I can’t have everyone at baskets thinking we’re hard up. Anyway, so I’ve chosen a nice kingfisher blue one.”
“Are you telling me that this is a fait accompli?”
“If you mean ‘have I decided?’, the answer is yes.”
“And what will you use for money, pray?”
“Bernard, I don’t need your money. I’ve got a L-O-A-N.
“And how are you going to meet the R-E-P-A-Y-M-E-N-T-S? Have you suddenly started earning an I-N-C-O-M-E?”
“It’s actually quite easy. I put the deposit down on plastic and got a £2000 trade-in on the old one. Loan repayments are over five years, some of which I can pay from my pension.”
The next forty minutes descends into a row in which my key subjects of APR (“What’s that, Bernard?”) and depreciation (“pardon?”) are gradually replaced by hers: old skinflint (“That’s what you’ve always been, Bernard”) and lack of love (“If you loved me more, I wouldn’t have to cheer myself by spending”). The end result, though, is that I will have to foot the bill for a top-of-the-range 1.5 litre diesel limited edition hatchback with satnav and a bloody iMusic system of all things.
Wednesday 7th November: Dented Sweepstake
I take my tale of woe to the Share Club but get nothing but laughter from Harry Staines and Martin Gale, even when I mention the rip-off trade-in price. K.P. Sharma tells me I’m lucky, his wife went out and bought a four-wheel drive BMW before she’d even taken her test. He tells me she’s on re-take number six now and the thing has already lost £12,000 in value.
“Listening to this makes me think I should have bought shares in Accident Exchange,” Chantelle says. “Clearly someone’s making money out of people like Eunice.”
“Tell you what,” says Harry. “Let’s have a sweepstake: how long before Eunice dents the new one. I reckon before Christmas.”
This is too painful, and I tell him so, but everyone else is up for it. Russell Traugh, who senses discomfort like a vulture finds dead meat, looks up
from his pint of Worthington’s. His nylon trousers making a sound like frying bacon as he sidles over.
“My missus never makes money out of me,” he says.
“I don’t imagine too many people do,” Martin responds.
“I bought her a second-hand moped in 1983 and taught her how to maintain it herself,” he says with grim satisfaction.
“And I suppose it’s still running as good as ever?” I say.
“Oh no. It was totally bloody ruined when the old bat pulled out in front of a concrete mixer in 1985. Well, not totally, I sold the gearbox and tyres to me brother for £40, like.”
“But what about your poor wife?” K.P. Sharma asks.
“Nah, he wouldn’t take her. Not without legs, like. But I got her disability living allowance, carer’s allowance and attendance allowance. We’re quids in.”
“I don’t think I’d like to be married to you,” Chantelle says.
“What do you mean? I’m kind!” Russell says indignantly. “I even invested in a specially adapted vehicle to meet her needs.”
“That’s not what you told me,” says Harry. “You said you built a plywood ramp for your old Transit, and bung her in the back in her wheelchair to rattle around with the grinders and sanding discs on her fortnightly outing to Asda.”
I wish Eunice could hear this. She doesn’t know she’s born.
Thursday 15th November: Dental Disaster
I wish I’d never made the joke about ‘buns of steel’. Eunice has started visiting health food shops again. Last year it was lentils and dried fruit, this time it’s organic bread. The stuff is as dense as a gold brick and, with the soaring price of wheat, costs about the same. The top is scattered with what looks like Trill. Next she’ll be shoving a piece of cuttlefish in my cage! She claims the fibre is good for me, but guess what? Bit into a slice of toast and marmalade this morning and crunched something that felt like gravel. Felt a sickening pain in the dodgy molar. Bloody thing’s has been grumbling for months, but this time a huge lump of filling came out. Hardly surprising, got so much of this metal amalgam in my head that I should be able to pick up Radio 4. If only I’d gone for gold. When I had most of my fillings done in the ‘fifties, gold was just $30 an ounce. I’d have made 20 times my money by now.
