Sunday 11th October An attractive man got on the train at Moreton and sat down a few rows down in the same carriage, on an opposite facing seat (i.e. facing me). However, seconds later he got up and moved further down to the far end of the carriage in a seat positioned with its back to me.
Maybe he did not like the seat he was in, maybe he was too stunned by my beautiful looks, but either way way I’ve now lost my eye candy for the train journey. Dam you First Great Western for providing handsome passengers with too much choice over seats.
Most weekends I commute from place of life/work, Swindon, to place of family, Mickleton (aka the Cotswolds). On a good weekend the commute can be dull, on a bad day truly awful. No words can explain how felt when my train was delayed on New Year’s Day due to, according to the automated robot announcer, “a member of train staff failing to show for work”. For the record Network Rail no one accepts that excuse for being delayed by 45 minutes. We all know train guard Bob had a few too many gin and tonics the night before and now he’s hungover/pulling a sickie. Just tell me that rather than being so very British and making out that your way of phrasing the delay makes it a valid excuse. It’s not.
As you can see, I get very easily wound up on my weekly commute home. In order to keep myself sane I started to put my observations on digital paper and save them onto my phone. The result, random trails of thought from the mind of a irritated, baffled and bored 20-something trying to stay sane on the commute from Swindon to Honeybourne.
#1
Sunday 7th June: Everyone in this carriage on the train from Didcot Parkway is sitting individually on the paired seats, tending to opt for the window seat. This is indeed a very British train carriage. I like it, I think Network Rail should work on the idea. it’s so quiet maybe I might even finish this chapter of Wild Swans, yay! Oh, actually, should I say yay when accomplishing anything linked to Wild Swans? I mean the main accomplishment with this book is surely “I’ve finished this book and I’m still alive. Sure, I’m a fat bourgeois capitalist, but I’m still alive.” Anyway, gotta get back to reading.
Some of these will be tiny, but I thought I start of with this one.
Ps, on a random note this song was in the pub quiz last night but I’ve had it stuck in my head all day:
On Friday I did my weekly food shop. To redeem a £2.25 money off voucher I ended up spending £20, forcing myself to buy enough juice, milk, bread etc. to keep me going until the next millennia. Single handedly lugging this weight back home I was winning at life but losing at the will to live it.
Once back I faced a new, equally crushing, task. I now had to find somewhere to put all this food. My attitude to unpacking shopping is usually to stuff it anywhere there is space. If I manage to put the correct food in the fridge/cupboard then it’s a bonus. However the draw back of this laid back attitude is a cupboard space full of, well, rubbish which in a house share environment with limited personal space isn’t really the most practical way to store food. After a long period of time trying to find a way around the problem I decided the only way to tackle the issue was to have a full on clear out.
Very quickly I realised I had accumulated a lot of random items over the past year. That or items severely damaged from the the random items. For example, this ‘good luck in your new house/job’ bag of fudge given to me last year…
Due to high temperatures and other items the individual pieces of fudge had become a super block of fudge, so flat my cup could sit comfortably on it:
There were the compulsory random assortment of mugs deep in my cupboard that I’d completely forgotten about:
There was also half a packet of Bachelor’s pasta, from where I’d clearly tried it but given up:
I’m not a student any more, I can afford better.
There was some random rubbish in there:
(The bin is literally two steps away, yet I made the effort to reach up and put the rubbish in the cupboard. Why would I do that?!)
Also had a container with a small amount of squash in it (I had just bought back a vat of the same flavour. Must be destiny!)
Start digging further back though and things get weird.
There’s a battery:
A piece of random string:
There was also a carton(?) of UHT milk:
I guess I’ll never experience the “tastes like fresh milk” feeling. It was the first item to be binned.
The carrots which have been in there so long they’ve attempted to grow but then died:
I’m assuming this is tea, but then it’s not in my tea tin with the regular, circular, tea bags.
Who knows what could be in it…
It made me think of this clip from the Inbetweeners:
Come on though, this is me here. It’s tea.
*Bing, bonk* “Sugar leakage in cupboard three!”
Ooooh hello, some decent coffee. I actually could do with this!
Better see how many months I’ve got left to use up…
Oh.
There was some powder mix stuff in there that I’m sure dates back from my student days:
Still, at least that was in date.
There was also some cause for concern items in there. Notably the very close proximity of my vegetable sock cubes and the descaler tablets for my coffee machine.
(They were very quickly separated).
Three broken/badly damaged lunch bags? Check.
Every cupboard has that tin of tomato soup that everyone has but never actually wants to consume. You know, the one that would sell better in supermarkets if it skipped the bull and said “consume when sick: Eat when taste and quality are your lowest priorities.”
There is a happy end to all this though. No clear out would be complete without finding that gift card someone gave you at Christmas where you don’t know if it’s value is £0 or £1,000,000,000:
Knowing me it’ll probably be the former. A girl can dream.
So clear out complete and items reorganised I was able to fit the old rubbish food with the new. All categorised based on usage frequency and what time of the day they get used (breakfast, baking, dinner)*. Everything fitted in perfectly for once.
*Except the pittas. They are a category by themselves for some reason.
Now as long as I don’t accumulate any large or awkward items I’ll be fine…
(What do you mean September 1st isn’t a national holiday? It needs to be, more than anything because papa Bennett hates this song and lil bub Bennett and I would get immense joy from being allowed to play it on repeat one day a year. We need to make it happen.)
Anyway, back to the point at hand, on Sunday myself and the family visited Blenheim Palace, Oxfordshire. A place reowned for its rich history and splendour.
The entrance fee for the day was a whopping £92 (for that price I was expecting to take home a memento piece of silver or maybe a priceless piece of artwork, but to my utter shock even that wasn’t included in the price). To make up for this we refused to buy the official guidebook opting instead to make our own way round without the use of a guide. While we were looking around I suddenly had one of my amazing brainwaves. Why don’t I create a simple, unofficial guide which people can use FOR FREE. After all, I’m renowned for my ability to convey serious, factual information in a captivating way which never goes off the point. Camera and budding assistant (India) in hand, I got to work on producing a new, improved guide. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Blenheim Palace: The Unofficial Guide.
The Exterior
Blenheim was built in the 17th century although over the years it has been extended. The exterior of the palace is very grand. By being grand the palace sent a powerful message: “Oi, monarchy, don’t be messing with us, we’ve got a fine pad too.”
The most recent part of the exterior probably dates from around 1948, when the Duke of Marlbrough took a fancy to the works of Orwell:
There is also ample space for adopting the middle aged man position:
Top Tip: There’s a lot of gravel outside the front, but us oiks aren’t allowed to walk across most of it. Stick to the central section which is disinfected every night.
For a comprehensive summary of the palace’s exterior, check out this useful video where India will tour you around the important features of the palace’s architecture.
In short, there are invisible birds, flies everywhere and there is a risk you might slip through a time hole and be transported back to the Victorian era (Blenheim accepts no responsibility should the latter occur).
Inside the Palace
Inside their are two different tours of the house. The first is titled ‘Blenheim Untold’. This is an exhibition which features holograms, information boards and scary mannequins. Be warned, you will be in a room with a naked Barbara Villiers where you won’t know where to look or how to feel:
The author can’t speak for the rest of the world, but as someone who had a morbid fear of museum mannequins for about 15 years and still doesn’t like them I would thoroughly avoid traumatising your child with such a sight.
There’s also a random cake model of Blenheim Palace here. Made in the 1970s, it was the first ever Bake Off show stopper.
(Still didn’t get star baker though)
The other part of the house open to the public is a self lead affair. There are several lovely tapestries, including this one titled “What the gentlemen did while a historic battle was being fought elsewhere alias what we did on our holidays“
“My, my, what a wonderful day for watching a battle”
“Indeed sir it is. It looks so much fun down there what with the blood and fighting and all. I was briefly tempted to follow them, but then I realised that I was an aristocrat and the feeling passed. Is it lunch served yet?”
“Hey everyone, when you get a moment I’d really appreciate it if you could check out these battle plans I drew up. If you could check them out before some civilians get killed that would be great.”
“Fudge”
There’s also some fancy silver dinner sets that only get used on Christmas day (i.e. marvel at our wealth peasants).
And there are a lot of art pieces in the rooms too. Below are a selection of personal favourites (apologises in advance for photo quality):
The first ever mother, baby selfie:
“This better get at least 10 likes”
The world record holder for sideburns:
The wife of Donkey from Shrek being crushed by a memorial:
Her death is mourned by many
There’s a massive sculpture to in the library, as you do.
You know that feeling when you’re just so fed up of having your portrait taken? There’s even a lovely art piece that summarises the feeling:
Author Recommends: The portrait of Churchill and a horse found towards the end of the Winston Churchill exhibition.
“Mum, mum! You’ll never guess what! I’m going to be in a painting with Winston Churchill! I’ve been posing for hours but it’ll be worth it. I told you I’d do our family proud.”
#Awkward
Top Tip: Check out this mini radiator in the library. Not for any reason in partiuclar, just check it out:
That’s not gonna dry anyone’s socks out or heat a room but I’ll let it slide because it’s so dam tiny. Cute!
Oh, and there are also hats:
Outside
The gardens outside are nice:
A nice garden.
Top Tip: Watch out for stating the obvious signs, e.g. one that tells you not to go beyond this point when beyond this point in a sheer drop.
The garden has some pretty flowers in it:
Pretty flowers.
It also has the first example of photo-shopping in England.
As my assistant demonstrates, posing for such sculptures was a very hard job to do:
Top Tip: There are a lot of good paths for amateur runners.
The grounds contain an attractive man-made cascade with nature-made swan…
…and a bridge nearby that leads to no where (much to the author’s bafflement).
The garden also provides many opportunities for the keen photobomber:
Author Recommends: dancing in front of one of the door ways for no reason:
Has to be done.
Pleasure Gardens
There are some funky butterflies in the pleasure garden:
Funky butterflies.
There is also a maze:
Which floods very easily:
Top Tip: Do not be put off by the puddles. Take a sip of tea, man up and enter:
(In case readers doubted my love of tea)
The maze contains many twisty sections, two bridges and a monster who jumps out at you (otherwise known as dad)
However that said, it was a fun experience (even if the author was beaten by her younger sibling).
Comments Book
Where would any tourist attraction be without its comments book? Lets take a moment to view some of the comments that will always be part of Blenheim’s rich tapestry.
When you’re so happy and excited about something that last word turns in a blur:
The very British comment:
“It was ok, not that good” Age 57
(what a unique name)
Comments from the intergalactic ambassadors:
And finally, the comment that speaks for everyone:
Great tunez they indeed were.
So, to sum up, Blenheim Palace has a lot of art, plants and a dying dragon. Shame about the lack of a free guidebook but then most normal people do actually buy them. That said, this unofficial guide should now fill that gap in the market (you’re welcome). Fun for all the family, a great day out and I’d thoroughly recommend it to all. Can think of absolutely no problems or faults with it at all, keep it the same for forever.
Right, so it’s 6:15pm on a Wednesday in August, that gives me precisely 1.75 hours to get this typed and posted before the holy grail of television airs aka The Great British Bake Off (praise be to Mary Berry). Lets do this.
For this post I’m going to have to ask you to cast your minds back a month. I know it’s asking a lot of you, given you’ve actually made the effort to read this, but I’m lazy and a month ago I was too distracted by typing posts on my family. In short just pretend everything you’re about to read is in the present…
Annnnddd we’re there! Ok, so as part of my attempts to learn a skill/meet real life humans out of the office I enrolled on a pottery evening course at the local college. I thought “finally a way to release my creativity on the world!”, my family “bless, this will be a good outlet for her love of all things muddy”.
The first stages of any new skill are always rocky. Throughout the first term there were misshapen bowls a plenty and, like all potters, I had to undergo my share of heart break. The bottomless pot was my first experience of death by kiln. Before:
After:
But with a little patience and a lot of clay and paints, my first creation was released into the world. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you a humble bowl:
And this was BEFORE it was glazed.
(Shall I just give you a moment to take in this artistic wonder? Sure.)
Now this may shock you but some people weren’t so quick to recognise this humble masterpiece. In the words of mumma Bennett, “Is that is? No seriously” (c. 2015), lil bub Bennett “Is it meant to be quite so unsymmetrical?” (c. 2 seconds after mumma Bennett) and Papa Bennett, “well at least you got something for you’re £90 tuition” (c. a long time of deep thought after mumma and lil bub Bennett). Well in response to the harsh words of the critics I decided to prove my humble bowl did have an artistic and physical purpose. As the artistic purpose will be something for the Historians to decide I thought I’d prove some of the physical uses for my bowl. Did someone say photo gallery…?
A Humble Bowl – C. 2015
A Modernistic Creation of the Incredible Artist Dame (I’m starting the campaign now) Alice Bennett
(Please note: This is a modest creation and this gallery is no way a reflection of how much time the artist has on her hands. Nor is it a reflection of her mental state of mind or at least not at present, we’re still waiting on the test results.)
For this gallery I will be using a soundtrack to set the upmarket scene. A lovely little classic titled: The Sims: Build Mode
The humble bowl can be used for a variety of purposes. It can be used for storing tea:
Or maybe even a tasty snack:
(“Where are you pita bread? Oh there you are! You were in the humble bowl!)
It can even help your commute by storing those pesky train tickets. Heck, if arranged nicely you may even forget the extortionate price you paid for them:
You can place it on a window sill:
Or by your front door:
Look how welcoming a sight that is.
Fed up with Avon catalogues? No worries, the humble bowl can store those too!
The humble bowl (thb, I’m getting repetitive strain injury from typing the humble bowl). Can sit on your sofa. It makes a perfect companion to watch Pointless with
In fact you can leave it to sit on the sofa all day. While you’re away it’ll ponder the meaning of life:
Which is deep…
…Real deep:
So deep that thb creates it’s own life. He reads the paper:
Checks out what cars he can afford:
Maybe he’ll then try and chat up the living room lamp:
And then later on he’ll have a soiree with the other misshapen bowls created:
But then thb can also be used for more mundane, predictable uses such as wearing it as a hat:
Heck, it’s so amazing you could even give it to someone as a March Christmas present:
I kid you not, that Christmas tree was in our living room until May.
Overall though, you’ll just be so dam happy to have this piece of practical art in your life. Look how happy this crazy person is:
In short it is a humble bowl. I’m very modest about my work as you can tell, I can only ask the public try to contain themselves also. I am potentially open to creating merchandise linked to my bowl, specifically t-shirts, posters and pens, but ultimately it’s all about the art.
Joking aside I was a little bit pleased when I finally got to take this lump of clay home. It was the first thing that had survived my clumsy hands/the kiln and proved to me that if I put my mind to something I could do anything. I went on to do another term of pottery at the same college which finished in June (that reminds me, I really need to pick up my completed tea pot at some point) but I do not intend to do another. It was a great experience but I felt I had learnt all I could for now. I knew how to make pinch, coil and mould bowls and, most importantly, I had mastered the art of the potters’ wheel (or at least the basics) ready for when Patrick shows up:
What pottery didn’t give me though was the young social vibe and the new friends I was hoping to get from the experience. Everyone there was lovely, all very chatty and helpful, but they weren’t my age and they were all at stages in their life I couldn’t begin to relate to. Retired, divorced with children, grandparents with grandchildren my age, I was never going to be able to fully bond with these people. My hunt to meet new people in Swindon continued…
This seems like as good a place as any to end this evening. Also gives me 33 minutes to review and get this post uploaded before Bake Off. Tonight, bakers will do amazing things in the kitchen and create Show Stoppers that’ll make my mouth drop (quick shout out to Paul’s Lion from last week):
While that is going on I will be mastering to eat this, a piece of cheesecake I squashed last night when I lay down on it.
On Tuesday (11th August) I celebrated something very special. Not a birthday or a religious festival, a new pet or a new choice of cereal (although I have started eating Sainsburys own brand Wheetabix instead of their cheap Basics brand, that was a big day). I didn’t even celebrate National Presidential Joke day, that’s how important the 11th day of the eighth month meant to me.
All hyping aside Tuesday marked a year since I moved to the town of Swindon to start my first post-university job (i.e. the moment I became a ‘proper’ adult). Now when I say adult I don’t mean the moment I came of legal adult age as specified by the British Government (no one believes the tosh that being 18 makes you a grown up, well unless you’re a pub or club owner). No, what I’m talking about is the moment I sat behind a proper desk, handling proper suppliers and paid, to much weeping, proper taxes. It was the moment I was dragged kicking and screaming out of my cushy student bubble and into the real world people live in.
The transition into the real world was by no means an easy one. When I found out that I’d got a job in the Heritage sector I was sky high. I was literally dancing on the kitchen tiles for days. I became a groupie of the organisation I was working for, I stalked the living daylights out of their webpages to get a solid idea of what they did, where they did it and why they were doing it. If they had offered me a free tacky t-shirt I probably would have worn it every day.
The search for rental properties was the first adult challenge I experienced. Looking back, it was actually more of a mess than the perfectly structured, rose-tinted, plan I was convincing myself it was and if I wasn’t so hyped up about my job I may have struggled with it more than I did. As someone who has never lived or rented in Swindon I was faced with an uphill struggle from day one. Single bed, decent, apartments were a nightmare to find, especially within a walking distance of my office. Those I did find either vanished before I had chance to view them or were blocked from viewing by agents who didn’t feel comfortable showing them to a young, single, female. Reassuring stuff. Luckily the day before mumma Bennett and I were due to travel to Swindon for rentals I found a website called Spare Room. A bit of searching and a few calls later I had three places lined up. Housing dilemma solved? You’d think that…
The day mumma Bennett I travelled to Swindon just had to be the hottest day of the year in Swindon. It also just happened to be the day Google maps decided to throw a tantrum and not work and the day all the First Great Western trains were delayed. Sorry, correction, train wise it was a normal day. The first property was located at the top of the steepest hill in the world, we had no idea where we were in Swindon and the pair of us were very much close to passing out. “Go ahead, go ahead!” cried mum, “I’m not going anywhere without you!” I yelled back while gasping for air. It had the makings of an emotional scene for a land-based Titanic film (you know where I am James, just think about it). We then had to go all the way back down that hill and cross the train tracks (getting lost again) to view a house in Bridgemead. At this point we were way behind schedule. This would be property I’d end up choosing, however at the time it was rush rush to get out and onto the next place. Only a couple of streets away yet we still ended up at the wrong end of a very long street. By lunchtime we’d seen only three houses but were sweaty, physically exhausted and mentally shattered. When mum pulled out Kirsty Allsop’s property rating method in Costa I came very close to banging my head against the table. That was the point I realised that being an adult wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows and it was at that moment I learnt my first life lesson as an adult:
In urban areas they have these mysterious things called taxis. Use them.
Rental property sorted, I moved into my new house on the 10th August. I met one of my housemates, mermaid Becki, for the first time which was actually a scarier experience than anticipated. Not because Becki isn’t a lovely person (she is/was), it was the pressure to get on with this random stranger. In my student days I was renting with friends, people my own age who I already knew. Chatting to Becki I was actually relived that she was a normal, nice human being, even though she knew nothing about me and was 30 years old compared to my baby-faced 21 years. Second lesson learnt:
Living in a houseshare with random people doesn’t mean no one is friendly and social.
…And third life lesson:
Mermaids are actually pretty cool in real life.
Started my new job the next day. As with any new environment I was an absolute bag of nerves, I was introduced to what felt like a million new people in the space of five minutes and I had no idea what I was supposed to be doing. How do I work this? What am I meant to be typing? Can I go home for the evening now? I really had not a clue what was going on. I found myself asking what felt like endless questions to team members and feeling like I was getting no where. For the first couple of weeks I walked out of the office feeling stressed, tired and guilty for slowing everyone up with their work. When I was studying at university I was fiercely independent with my work, I knew when and where my lectures were, how to use the online resources and where to find books linked to my course. Simply put I knew what I was doing. In my new job I was entirely dependant on the help of strangers. Independence to dependence, I felt like I was going backwards. After the first few weeks I started to pick things up at a quicker pace, I could remember names and faces, and I started to relax more knowing that the people around me did care about me and wanted to help. After a three month review with my line manager I reflected on my progression and with it a fourth lesson:
Everyone is the office newbie at some stage.
With the house and work side cracked, I still felt the personal side very lacking. Work, watch tv, eat, sleep, repeat, that was how my life operated. As crazy as my lifestyle got was watching Dave instead of ITVBe. When I started developing favourite Real Housewives (Teresa from New Jersey is a cow, and Phaedra from Atlanta is as sassy as – not that I watched much of it…), that was the point I had to do something. I started walking around the local area with the aid of a Swindon A-Z purchased on the advice of papa Bennett. While I started off wandering around the local paths and parks I almost always ended up in a housing estate a bit confused as to how I got there. While I enjoy getting lost in certain environments, wandering around housing estates at dusk with only an A-Z is hardly a joyful experience. Lesson obtained:
When they don’t understand the context of the situation, local residents really don’t like it when you stare at road signs and their houses before saying ‘ah hah!’ and wandering off in the opposite direction.
Following my feeble attempts to spend my evenings doing something I thought I’d try a different approach, I decided to get involved with Swindon’s clubs and societies. Now, for your own sanity I’m not going to go into much information right now about this aspect of my life in Swindon. I’ll talk about this later. What I did learn from the whole experience is a valuable lesson *spoilers!*:
You make your own happiness
And so one year later here I am, still sat here, in Swindon, in my houseshare, typing a new blog post. My deep rooted modesty makes me want to say not a lot has changed, but actually a lot has. It has been a roller coaster of emotions, it really has. From the highs of getting my job to hitting the low point of loneliness and dependency in a strange concrete town. Those who have a basic understanding of British towns and cities may argue I should have known what I was getting myself into when I decided to move to a town whose name derives from ‘pig market on a hill’. At first, yes, I did pin my uneasiness on the fact that I was living in Swindon and not the buzzing city of Southampton where I had spent my student days. However, as I started to integrate myself in to the proper adult pace of life and work I realised that it wasn’t me struggling with Swindon, all along it had been me struggling with the acquired taste of adult life. I was sat in my room with a cup of tea when this revelation hit me and I didn’t move until a sip of cold tea shocked me into spilling half the cup over me (some things I’ll never grow out of).
Tuesday marked a milestone in my young adult life. As I served up celebratory butterfly cakes to my colleagues on my proper adult birthday several asked “what’s the occasion?” I told them it was my one year job anniversary. “Wow! Where has the time gone?” They responded with amazement. To many of them it also felt like only yesterday since I’d started working with them. While we all sat eating my cakes and talking about children, weddings and everything in between I glanced out of the window to see the sun shining down outside. From this I can now add my most recent (and waffley) lesson to the list. Something I wish I could have told myself many months ago:
Life after university is like the British weather. There will be rain, you will feel feel rubbish and at times it may feel like you’re the only one in the world going through it. However the sun will come out. It may take weeks or maybe even months, but it will come and trust me when it does arrive the glorious sun will be worth the wait.
Less waffley version – life will get better so man up and get on with it.
“For God’s sake, what is your father doing? We have a plane to catch and no idea how bad traffic will be!”
“I think he’s offering Albert the Tuna sandwiches India got from Hidcote…”
“No, he ate those. Maybe it’s the pies?”
“Oh for crying out loud! That’s it, I’m getting out of the car. Ben! Ben! Stop offering Albert pork pies and get in the car!”
Here we go again…
Bennett summer holiday 2k15 (that’s what the cool people say, right? 2k15?) And this one was to the lovely sunny island of Kos. Before we’d even reached July mumma B had panicked about several things. She firstly worried that we were all going to fry to death in the Grecian sun (England/North France has been the choice of the Cotswold Bennett clan for many years). Then, once she’d simmered down about that, guess what? Reports start flooding in that Kos is being flooded with migrants. This one took a bit more to reassure mum’s nerves ‘mum, the migrants are coming into the south of the island. We’re going to be in the north. I could be wrong here, but I highly doubt the Grecian government are going to go “hey you! Unemployed random migrant! We know you’ve had a tough time in Syria so you know what, we’re gonna let you have free reign across the island. Here’s a car, you should go up to the tourist hotspot, we’ll even throw in a free meal!”‘ Mum got the idea. It wouldn’t be the last time she freaked out, but at least for now she was settled.
Airport stuff went smoothly, having a lunchtime flight did mean we were more alive this time around. The fun really started though when we got on the plane. Once we’d taken off and I felt I could relax (hate take offs). I grabbed the in flight magazine and happened to land on this page:
Gee, thanks Thomas Cook for making me feel fat before I’ve even left British airspace.
The events that unfolded in the following 20 minutes can only be put down to a lack of Oxygen. Photos like this started occurring A LOT
(And these are the good ones)
Then the (in)famous Thomas Cook song came on so we started to do some awkward dancing, the only kind you can do while strapped into a tiny space:
And then India discovered this picture of the prophet Gary Barlow which was a complete game changer:
Dear readers (esp. those in London), while you were carrying about your day to day lives at around 2pm on Thursday 8th July, about a mile above you this was was happening:
Yep, bet you’re pretty dam jealous you weren’t there, right?
Ok, so skip ahead a few hours and we arrive at Kos. Due to Kos’ stringent immigration checks at least half the plane skipped passport control by going through a door located just behind the booths. Dad had a slight oh-err moment when he went to get another man’s luggage off the carousel (made more awkward by the fact we spent the following week in the same hotel), but otherwise all good.
Hotel of choice: Ramira Beach.
Great hotel, all inclusive (of course) and we actually discovered on the last day it was 5 star (“how did they get that rating when they don’t serve hummus?!” said a very middle class, Marie Antoinette, blogger.)
The Snow White themed alcoholic cocktails were a point of family confusion, especially when the child friendly mocktails had adult names and remained picture-less on the menu.
The waiting staff has these names so engrained into them, that to request a pina colada to some staff was met with blank looks until you changed your request to ‘a Snow White’
Views were to die for. With the sea views from our room, you could very easily see Turkey from where we were. Mum worried briefly that we might be the front line for a Turkish/migrant take-over, but five minutes taking in the view and sun stopped that.
Meanwhile, in Alice and India’s room, India did a lot of this:
“India, I want to sit on something that isn’t your face”
We also took to raiding the free drinks in our fridge which were topped up almost too frequently.
“Do you want a drink bub?
“Sure, what have we got?”
“Well we’ve got Ban, wine and Ban. Ban, Ban and coke. Ban, beer and Ban. Ban, Ban and Ban. Ban, Ban and soda Ban…”
Remind you of anything?
Kos Town
Moving on, Kos town itself was actually very nice during the day…
On one of the first days we made the horrific choice to walk there AND back, not realising how long a walk it was and how hot the midday heat could be. A couple of choice shots from the walk though was the Kos’ attempt at heath and safety:
“India, stand next to these”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, urm because it’s art”
But, more interestingly, there was this cow who shall forever remain nameless.
A cow named Cow. she barely moved a jot in the time we walked past her on the way in and then on the way back. On way in I jumped when I somehow turned around and was face to face with this animal but a few hours later she’d turned her back on the road. As such I created a back story for cow:
Cow: A Short Biography
Cow was in fact born in Turkey to a Ms Cowley. Her mother was Turkish but her father was part of a Grecian travelling heard (you know, the ones who go from town to town to show city kids where milk comes from). Cow’s dad was the star attraction of the show, because he had the best moo in the whole Mediterranean. His name was Alejandro and, just like Lady Gaga, Ms Cowley fell for his bad bull charm. However many months a cow is pregnant for later, Cow was born.
When she had grown up into adulthood, Cow’s mother told her about her father. Spurred on by the thought of meeting her papa, she become determined to go to Kos in the hope of finding him. One night she sneaked out of the field and hopped on a passenger ferry to Kos under the disguise of an old lady. Although she was full of optimism initially, as the days, weeks and months wore on Cow struggled to find any trace of her long lost father or his family in the local press and Grecian archives (made worse by the fact most archives do not permit bovines to access their records).
With barely any money and food left, Cow became desperate. One day she was walking along a road when she saw a farmer passing by. “Please sir, can you help me find my father?” Cow asked. “Why certainly my dear, I know exactly where he is” the farmer responded. However little did Cow know that it was a trap, and before she knew it the farmer had her tied up to a tree.
Cow was trapped and unable to escape the clutches of her captor. Even if she did break free, Cow had no food or money and she knew the farmer would find her (running and athletics were never her strongest pursuits). To this day all she can do is look back at Turkey and think about the life she lost and the mother she never said goodbye to.
Fin.
Some say I have an over active imagination…
Meanwhile, back in Kos town, there were some random objects. Some of them not suitable for anyone, regardless of age, to look at (taking taste and tat to whole new levels). Here are just a couple of more audience friendly tat:
Queasy looking frog hats!
Also, have you ever wanted a lower leg/foot cast but didn’t want the hassle of actually having to break your leg? Look no further, Kos has something to solve your problem!
In terms of architecture/heritage, Kos town really gave me an eye opener in how they preserve heritage vs. Britain. This archelogical site was, on the surface, very charming in its own way.
But then you realise it’s actually not wild and overgrown because it looks nice, it’s because local government have abandoned it.
It was clearly something that had been well maintained and looked after back in the 70’s. But then while we ambled around for free, there were signs of what once was a paid entry attraction.
The state of the place didn’t go unnoticed by the family either. “Look Alice, there’s even an abandoned ice cream hut there! You should go inside and play shops!”
Don’t get me wrong, we enjoyed looking at the ruins and learning about what was once the centre of the island’s early civilisation, it’s just seeing these things reminded me of how lucky we are that our heritage is preserved, even if it does mean having to sometimes pay to view it.
The Greek Economy
On the subject of money, I cannot write a blog post on Greece in summer 2015 without even touching on the Grecian economy. The whole bail out deal was a big thing before we flew out, and it felt like an even bigger deal while we were out there. We took plenty of cash and all clued ourselves up on how to spot ‘shady figures’ and avoid pick pocketers just in case. While we were out there though we definitely felt a slight unease, especially among staff. In her room mum was pacing up and down while the only English channels, Sky and BBC news, kept reporting of riots in Athens and predicting public sector strikes “if they go on strike on the day we leave we’ll be in serious trouble, it’ll be like the ash cloud all over again. We’ll be stuck here and what’s worse, this time around there’s no travel insurance to cover us.” The main concern here being we got a nice extra all inclusive week in Crete that time around, but this time it would be an airport floor. Every now and then she’d turn to the TV in hope the government had agreed to the reforms, when they were still arguing she’d sigh and walk out onto the balcony to distract herself.
If mum was panicking internally, dad’s method of handling the tense situation was ten times worse. Before we left he had told us all “now, we must be very careful not to mention the economy while we’re there, especially with locals. It’s a very touchy subject at the moment. Don’t mention the Euro!”
I couldn’t contain myself at this “Hah! You’re one to talk, you started asking a Southern Cypriot about his views on the Turkish occupation of the north! If anyone makes a social faux pas, it’ll be you!”
I was proved right time and time again. We knew what we were in for when mum paid up 22€ for a safe on the first day.
“22€ for a safe!” Dad exclaimed rather loudly “Well at least I’m helping to bail out the country.”
Red alert raised, we quickly walked him out of reception.
“You can’t say that Dad!”
“Why? If they’re going to charge me that for a metal box, I should say how I feel.”
This was a common theme throughout the holiday. Frequently trying to engage us in deep debate about the Grecian economy while the bartenders served us drinks. And it wasn’t just sensitive political issues that were up for debate, no, he even dipped in to his bank of stereotypes. Large German party behind us, he says:
“Well it’s all very random, like Nazis vs Aliens.”
(Through gritted teeth) “Dad!”
“What, there were Nazis there, against the aliens. The film with the James Bond guy in it.”
“You’re talking about Cowboys Vs Aliens. Conversation changer, isn’t the view lovely!”
All I would say in Dad’s defence is that, at times, it felt like Kos were flashing neon signs at us to want to comment openly about their dangerously weak financial status. Case in point, bike rentals.
Bike rental shops were everywhere, and I mean everywhere. They out numbered car rentals by an extraordinary level, a level that in all my years (22, in case you’re asking) I had never seen before. Bike rental shops all with an alarming about of un-hired bikes sat on the tarmac.
It’s not like no one was cycling, heck Kos town has bike lanes a plenty. Borris would have loved it! (For us mere pedestrians it created another flow of traffic and therefore chaos).
(As you can see above, even with the bike lanes cyclists still chose to cycle wherever they pleased. Nightmare!)
As we walked past bike rental after bike rental with flashy new bikes piled high on the forecourt and staff sat looking bored, all we could do was keep saying “what bank would approve a loan for another bike shop in Kos?”
We were starting to see why perhaps Greece was in a spot of bother. Combined with the strings of failed restaurants located outside our all inclusive hotel, it started to paint a picture of the Greece you don’t see on English TV. A weak infrastructure that had been allowed to worsen unchecked for many years. This was not the image of rebellious pensioners in Athens storming the banks that I was used to seeing on TV.
I think the mood needs lightening now, this is a bit down beat. Ok, so…
Entertainment
This side of the hotel I’ll admit was poor. But at the “Lord of the Dance Show” I discovered what Zorro was doing with himself nowadays:
Irish dance. Who’d have thought it.
Part of the God awful daily entertainment included a 3pm random dance I soon dubbed ‘the Zumba’ dance, because everything about it, the song, the dance moves, the energy, it all reminded me of Zumba. Here’s a clip of them doing it, I’ll let you make you own mind up:
Maybe if it was February and I wanted to burn off the Christmas weight I’d join them, but I was lying on a sun-bed trying to not think about the calories I put on when I ate this monstrosity the night before:
I can’t even explain what is going on on that plate, let alone defend it.
Hotel Staff
One evening we were introduced to our Animation team, the people behind the Zumba dance. All very straightforward stuff until you heard where they were from. Two were from South Africa, another Hawaii, one Bulgaria, three from Romania. Crucially, not of them was Greek. Soon it became very apparent that in a Greek hotel on a Grecian island virtually all the staff were migrants, working for the summer season to send money home. As a family we formed a connection with one of the drinks waitresses, a young lady called Lia. Her accent was clearly not Greek and we were curious to know how she got here. A few days in, we asked her about her background. She told us she was Albanian, but had spent 12 years living in Cyrpus moving around. Her father had owned a small business which had failed forcing him and his wife to travel overseas for work. In England they had worked for a short time “in a place called Bir-me-ham” but they now were living “in Bor-ney-mout” (Bournemouth). Her sister was a trained hairdresser struggling to find work and the aim of her job was to save up to support her family and go to England when the season was over.
“Do they not keep anyone on over the winter?”
“No, it all close down in October. I may apply to work here for the next season, but if job comes up in England then I stay.”
She was full of questions herself, asking us about where we lived in relation to Bournemouth. When we told her it was some distance, about two hours, she went “it is no distance, very close compared to other places!” I do feel a tinge of guilt though for telling her about our weather.
“England, I am told it is a little cooler than Kos.”
There we were, sat in light dresses, T-shirts and shorts at 10pm and she thinks England is a little cooler?!
“It’s a lot more cooler than Kos! Always raining!”
We all took one look at her shocked face which was quickly turning into disappointment at this revelation and quickly added, “of course, you’ll be on the south coast, it’s better there.” Luckily this cheered her up and she carried on. For someone who can barely go one day without texting my family who are an hour away, the thought of being separated from my family, working in a foreign country to support my relatives, well I cannot describe how that one thought made me feel.
Pick up the energy Alice, come on!
Oh, there were a few cleaning ladies walking around who were dressed like French maids. It’s the world’s most unpractical uniform during the day and I didn’t feel at ease when I saw them tottering about with feather dusters at 11:30pm.
(I even struggled to photo them.)
Also, here’s a calendar you could buy in the hotel which emotionally divides you because you know cats are cute but these cats are freaky as:
They know what you did last Summer
India, Dad and I tried Banana boating and had a spin on a ringo
A brilliant experience, but the latter was terrifying to say the least #ScreamFest #DeafDad
Middle Aged Man snap!
And if all else fails just think, you’re not Cow.
She’s still sat there.
Right, that’s enough to perk everyone up.
Zumba, bikes and cows aside, I had a fabulous time in Kos. I even wore a dressing gown and slippers with a glass of wine what like them posh people do:
Great time in a hot sunny country. A needed break from the unpredictable British climate spending time with this piece of sunshine:
And the actual sunshine:
“
“What a lovely view…oh for Christ’s sake India, get off the bed!!”
“I’ve got this Lynx for women shower gel, but I don’t like it. It makes me smell like a teenage boy on heat.”
“Why don’t you bin it then?”
“Yeah, but I got it as a Christmas present, so it’s free and all…”
Welcome to my world. A world where the golden rule is to always save money by any means possible. You are reading the words of a girl who never ate fancy during her uni days, instead always had a stash of £1.99 McDonalds vouchers to hand, a bottle of 19p water from Savers in her bag and a impressive knowledge of the shops which gave out free food (praise the Lord for the Hotel Chocolat samples!) A person who still cuts cost corners where possible, and if it’s free is all over it. For example, some of you may/may not be familiar with the Galaxy men and women, attractive people hired to give out free bars of chocolate to promote the brand…
(I couldn’t find any pictures of the men but trust me, in their Galaxy suits they were looking sweet as chocolate – yes, pun intended)
Right here is a girl that constantly walked past the beautiful men not because they were beautiful men, but because they were giving away free chocolate and vouchers. It was a good Christmas that year, I had enough chocolate to see me though to Easter and enough free vouchers to palm off to my friends in far flung locations in place of actual gifts. One card even went missing en route to my friend studying in Japan. To this day I firmly believe the Japanese stole the voucher inside.
Fads
Like every human being, I’ve had my fair share of fashion fads in my life so far. There was the waist belt phase, where I wore wide waist belts with everything, even though looking back a lot of the time they really didn’t suit me. There were the teen years where I genuinely convinced myself I was incapable of smiling and/or looking good in photos so I just looked forever grumpy:
Of course there were the selfie photos, back in the day where a ‘selfie’ was a photo taken with this newfangled ball thing called a webcam:
(I thought I was so cool when I took that one)
(no make up selfie, accompanied by: By the rules of social media (which you must never break, like the laws of jinx or tag) here is my no make up selfie. I’ve had no make up on all day, but I’ve taken it now fresh out of the shower to show I genuinely have nada on. If you like this you may be interested in checking out many of my other profile pictures or me most days of the week. People should love you, not your face paint. A belief I’ve stuck by for 20 years, and still do.) – sickening, eh? After a few gentle nudges I did actually donate money to charity.
And then there was the ‘rebellious’ year at university when I grew a side fringe.
That was a very questionable style choice. Never again will I take the advice from someone who says after a drink “you know, you’d look really good with a side fringe”. Never. Again.
Thankfully I had my fringe reinstated April 2013 and it made me so much happier…
As mumma Bennett is forever reminding me, “when we drove away from Southampton that Easter after you’d had it done, I remember telling your father how much better you looked. I mean it looked ok on occasion, but most of the time that side fringe really didn’t suit you at all.” Thanks mum.
Of course uni also brought the dressing up fad as standard:
(An alien, before you ask)
(Above I’m representing the Italian Mafia for Eurovision. Back then it was fancy dress, nowadays it’s called office wear)
(For this one I was so chuffed I fitted into an age 12 gothic bride dress I literally refused to take it off all night. It freaked the hell out of my housemates, who thought Miss Havishman was patrolling the hallways when they saw my darkened figure at 1am)
Oh wait, that was a couple of months ago…
Anyway, you get the picture.
Hats, hats and more hats!
A fad I’m currently riding now is hats (although I hope I never look back on these with regret). I mean hats go with everything!
Days out
With snow
At winter birthdays…
…Or in summer selfies
In the Disney store with friends
Or with fancy dress
Every so often there’s a mask…
…Or we get the lines really blurred with a full on mask
But then we return to the safety of hats
Team hat selfie!
Even though I was in the Parisian sewers I was still happy. You know why? Probably because I was wearing a hat.
In short, hats are cool. End of.
The photos you really want to see – lets bring out the baby pics
Ok, lets get a couple of these out:
Yep, I used to be blonde
Keenly eyed readers will notice I match the curtains almost perfectly
When you don’t have curtains to hand there are always bin bags (in fairness, I used to love dressing up as a witch. My parents should have seen the warning signs then)
Bonus points if you can guess which one is me. Think you’ve spotted me? Here’s a close up:
I was quite literally shaking with excitement at having my photo taken. According to my family I still shake to this day when I’m excited or uber smug.
So…
I think that’s enough about me for now. Enough to give an insight into the warped life and mind of Miss Alice E. Bennett, a taster if you will. If you really want to get to know me you only need only give five minutes of your undivided attention. Within seven I’ll be telling you why Tom Hanks’ character in The Polar Express doesn’t make me comfortable…
“Look, all I’m saying is that when I was watching The Polar Express the only things I kept thinking were a) where is this guy’s CRB check certificate? And b) where are all the other kids on the train?”
Hang on a mo, is that gas I can smell? No?….Ok the smell has passed now, I think it might have been someone stoking up the BBQ on this lovely Summer’s evening. Now that has passed I can begin on this.
India Bennett, my little sister three years my junior, is, well, she’s urm, well let’s stick at her being my little sister. Like all siblings it is a near impossible task to define her or our relationship in a few words. Take the the featured image of this blog post…
…This picture was taken in Suffolk when India decided to put Spandau Ballet’s ‘Gold’ on for no reason. I was incredibly hyper (I was dancing with salad servers) and India had had a sip of wine. We were crazy! This photo sums up the next three and a half minutes very well, just pure dementedness.
Welcome to my relationship with India. A world where these photos are a frequent occurrence:
A relationship where photo in-jokes are frequent, but rarely understood by the outside world:
(The above, shot in the New Forest, being one of the very few people get)
And where mum has to accept that for every 10 normal photos we demand one light-hearted one.
A pub called Beerwolf! Did I also tell you it sells Books? We had to have a photo with it. (Bennett sister’s top place to visit in Falmouth).
Can you role your eyes? Good, then you can define our relationship. Mumma B does it all the time so it must be a good, endearing, way to sum us up.
Nicknames
Over the years I’ve assigned many nicknames to my beloved little sister. These include (deep breath):
Lil bub
Bub
Bubbakins
Sister of the Sea
My little crustation
Squidly
Lobster (used when quoting Friends)
(Can you see some patterns emerging here?)
India
Ind
Innnndddddiiiiiaaaaaa
Indiana Jones
Sis
Chick
Chick-a-dee
Smelly
Turnip (in the context of ‘oh you little turnip’)
Turd/poop (as the above, but in stronger circumstances)
Mum and dad bonus names: Pumpkin, pickle pants
Basically any noun or random noise I assign her. There are interchangeable, e.g.:
‘Sister of the Sea, dinner is ready!’
5 minutes later… ‘can you pass me the salt bubbakins?’
‘Please stop calling me bubbakins, you’re making me feel like a little fat kid’
‘What was that lil bub? I was too busy eating my fruits de la mer’
‘It’s fish and chips’
‘Fruits de la mer!’
In short, whether she likes them or not, India has many ‘Alice-given’ nicknames.
Miss Congeniality
As well as goodness knows how many in-jokes and giggling fits we have over nothing at all (“Barry! There’s a frog in the shower!” – guarantee she’ll be laughing now), we both have a special place in our hearts for the Sandra Bullock classic that is Miss Congeniality. Why I hear you ask? Well as well as it being a classic chick flick, we particularly admire the legend that is Michael Caine. The amazing actor that has performed in some amazing films over the years found himself in 2001 playing a pageant coach. Surprisingly the Oscar nominations didn’t pour in.
From the film we took two life lessons: 1) Our favourite date is April 25th (because it’s not too hot or too cold) and 2) we are the crown:
At one point in the film Bullock realises (spoilers) that the pageant crown is a bomb. She tries to tell Caine this while being pushed on stage. Misinterpreting her warning as her showing determination to win, Caine says “that’s right, you wear the crown, be the crown, youare the crown.”
Ever since India and myself have used this as our inspirational quote. If ever in doubt, or you need perking up, just utter the above quote and you’re bound to find the strength to continue. At the very least you can think to yourself “if Michael Caine can bring himself to say that on film then I can do anything”.
If you want to be accepted by the pair of us you need to watch this film and appreciate the pure 00’s cheesiness of it (without wine).
India’s Spot
In an uncanny resemblance to Sheldon from The Big Bang Theory, India will seek out a spot she can call home and set up base there. This tends to be in a corner behind a sofa, where she can sneak in and out of a room without anyone noticing. The frustration really ensues when you’re trying to have a conversation with her, and you’re found trying to work out if she’s there, not listening/aware of the conversation or actually left the room ages ago.
It’s time to play the Bennett family fun game of:
Is India actually in the room?
Question 1: Which of the below is India least likely to engage in or with no matter if she’s in the room or not?
a) Cats
b) Clothing she’s put in the charity bag that actually belongs to someone else
c) Anything related to herself (education, what she’s up to, her friends etc)
Answer: C (“why do you keep talking about me?” “actually, we thought if we talked about you for long enough and you’d get the hint. That was 15 minutes ago.”
Question 2: How do you know India is definitely in the room?
a) She’ll be laughing like a drain at a youtube video on her phone, while you’re watching a serious documentary on TV
b) She’ll be hitting the keyboard so hard playing Skyrim the noise will drive you insane
c) Silly question, she’ll be sat on the sofa chatting to you!
Answer: A (“India! Seriously! Someone is dying here!” “What? What? Sorry…….hehehehehe” “INDIA!”)
Question 3: In a dining room setting, how will India get away from conversation?
a) she’ll stand up and walk out
b) she’ll pull out her phone and plug her headphones in, to try and convince us she’s listening
c) she’ll make two trips to the dishwasher and never return
Answer: C (“I don’t see why some people should do more trips with dirty plates than others. If everyone made two trips to the dishwasher then we’d all have the same amount of work to do and everything would get done quicker. I did my trips, so I went to my room.” First we had Karl Marx, now we have India Bennett. Prepare yourselves for the revolution).
Finally, Question 4: How many times do you say ‘India’ before assuming she’s not in the room?
a) one
b) two
c) three or more until someone checks behind the sofa or she responds
d) She’s never in the room
e) Throw a random comment that would make any normal person react (e.g. “India smells” or “I’m sure India would love to help clear the garage out”)
(Some of India’s photography, an evolving fish escaping the bathroom. Deep.)
Answer: C (it’s as close as you’ll get to having something in writing should you later require proof she had no opinion on a matter.
So…
Like all of my family, it is very difficult to sum up my sister in one blog post. To sum up my crazy and messed up relationship with her is impossible. That’s something for the Psychologists of the future to discuss over many heated debates and research journals. No, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to decipher why India says and does the things she says and does, but I love her thisssssssss much and I would never replace her. And if anyone says or does anything to upset her, well, may I refer you again to our favourite guilty pleasure:
So here we are, another Thursday evening. The sun is out, an assortment of children are playing outside, and there’s a ice cream van playing a God-awful, screeching tune every five minutes. Oh wait, it’s starting again (I DON’T WANT YOUR ICE CREAM! If I did, what are you going to do, scale three floors to get to my bedroom window? Work on that and your ice cream tune and we can talk).
So here I am, in a post traumatic state after viewing Season 5, episode 6 of Game of Thrones, where Ramsay Bolton has just married Stansa Stark. What better time than to start writing a blog post on my father!
Father (‘pappa’) Bennett
My dad is a clockmaker by trade, he owns a clock shop in a small Warwickshire town where he buys, repairs and/or sells clocks. He’s a popular guy in the area, he does the clocks for a variety of towns and local celebrities (“tell me, what’s John Nettles REALLY like?”). It’s also an off year when he doesn’t feature at least once in the regional newspaper and/or TV news under the headline “it’s not a wind up! Spare a thought for the man tasked with putting all the clocks forward/back an hour!” (or words to that effect). Heck, even when Shipston flooded people wanted to go to his shop:
(ok, maybe that’s a slight an overstatement…)
Dad’s Fads
Dad is a respected figure in the local community, however less can be said for his standing in the family household. Mr. Bennett in every sense of the word, he often retreats in his study (aka the Play/Games room) to ‘noodle’ about online. No one really knows what he noodles about on, until he comes out with information on a recent fad he’s into. We’ve had rotisseries, pigs, peacocks, chickens, flagpoles, wood stores, hot tubs, B&Bs, diet fads (anti dairy, anti sugar, anti-fat, porridge, muesli), the lot. His recent one which is still lingering is the unicycle phase. He had been wanting to try it for a while, but mum point blank refused to get him a one wheeled bike of death. Then one day, like something from a 90s sitcom, he came in with a unicycle that he’d found in a charity shop. I waited for the canned laugher and a comic jingle to play, but then I realised this was real life and all my 90s games show jingles were saved on my laptop in Southampton.
“Why would someone give such a thing away?”
“Oh, I can think of a few reasons” was the joyous reaction of mumma Bennett. “You’re going to hurt myself, break all your bones and then I’ll have to care for you while you moan.”
“But this is what I want to do, I’ve been watching videos. I just need a couple of ladders…”
“Ladders?!”
“Or two willing volunteers, whichever is easiest”
“This is ridiculous!”
“Why? I’ve always wanted t do this! I wouldn’t stop you if you wanted to do it!”
“(inaudible grumbles)”
*Awkward Silence*
“India! Play Barney, for God sake get Barney on now!”
(Barney is my fail safe for reliving tension, you try and stay mad at someone when this gets played randomly. Very difficult!)
Middle Aged Man
How to explain this. So, back in 2012 as a family we were in Suffolk when India and I looked up from the bottom of a castle to see dad standing on a mound, deep in thought. For some unknown reason we couldn’t stop laughing. We went to take a photo but he saw/heard us and struck this pose:
Afterwards we made it our mission to subtly take photos of dad when he was in his own world. We simply called it “Middle Aged Man…” The rest is Bennett History. Cue art gallery photo reel!
For this next bit, please play the song below to help set the backdrop and tone:
Middle Aged Man having coffee at St Ives Art Gallery
Middle Aged Man reads an interpretation board at Totnes Castle
Middle Aged Man watches people go about their day
Middle Aged Man takes in a Devonshire view
Middle Aged Man takes in the same view but from a different angle
Middle Aged Man on the beach
Middle Aged Man takes time out to eat a croissant and read the Telegraph supplements
Middle Aged Man goes boat watching
Middle Aged Man with wife on an Autumn day
Middle Aged Man on a boat
Middle Aged Man takes time out to train India up on the art of aimlessly staring over a cruise ship
(Middle Aged Man having less success in Falmouth with his other daughter, who can’t quite master the basics)
Middle Aged Man in a Yurt
Middle Aged Man: If a man sits in the New Forest and no one is around, does he exist?
Middle Aged Man deep in thought
And finally:
Middle Aged Man views classic art
(Our thanks to mumma Bennett for catching this moment in Paris on film and lending it to the Middle Aged Man Collection)
I’m certain more will follow, this collection has only been in existence for a couple of years and there’s still many more family outings/holidays ahead. (Donations to keep this piece of Bennett and British Heritage alive are most welcome).
So..
That’s my dad in a nutshell. I could write loads more here, like how he is forever mishearing things (see title for an example), or how he has a nerf gun hidden in a top drawer ready to unleash whenever next door’s chickens come onto our lawn. However the night is still young, and I’ve got an episode of Game of Thrones to watch before I’m up to speed with this season. Finally I will be able to engage in office discussions without yelling ‘don’t tell me anything!!’.
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My Housemate's a Mermaid 