He’s coming home, he’s coming home; TB’s coming home! Okay, this is actually a picture of Ricky Hatton but it might as well be because what I have to look forward to is a summer of fighting between the Hub and Tory Boy. Don’t get me wrong: they love each other very much. Preferably from a distance. You know how they say look at the mother to see what the wife will be like in twenty years? That’s not exclusive to the female of the species. Tory Girl, you have been warned.
This photo was taken at a book signing. We took along a full-size and two miniature pairs of boxing gloves – if we’re going to queue for hours then we want our money’s worth. We’re not Northern for nothing. Mr H is a huge Manchester City fan and when he saw these gloves he asked if he could have a pair. The gloves were individually priced and the Hub had bought us all one each but, being good parents, we gave up ours so the boys could keep theirs.You don’t say ‘no’ to a man who can beat you to a pulp and the Hub wouldn’t say ‘no’ to a fellow City fan anyway; being Blue is like being in the Masons: a nod, a handshake, a wince at how we haven’t won any silverware for thirty years, and the deal is done. What irked me as I smiled politely at the boxing champion with the huge fists is that The Hitman took my glove. It never occurred to me until just now to say ‘no’ and use the children as human shields. I never think on my feet; I’ll never make a boxer, will I?
If you are parked at Eastlands one day and you see a flash car with a pair of City boxing gloves hanging from the mirror, do us a favour and pinch them back: they’ll be worth a fortune on eBay.
Tory Boy will get to meet his new fish today. Did I mention we had to buy another two when the boys heard that I was keeping mine? They showed no interest at all in the fish until they were formally adopted, and now they want their own. Spud decided yesterday on a name for his: Shingles, after the disease. I don’t know if I’ve told you about Spud’s shingles. I’ll save that story for another day. Shingles is a Shubunkin (it was worth buying him for the joy of saying his species name; what a fabulous word). They do look kind of diseased, don’t they? If the pattern is followed, Tory Boy’s all-white goldfish could soon glory in the name of ‘leprosy’. Tory Girl, you have been warned.