Tight

'Money Is Too Tight Too Mention', as Mr Simply Red might say. In a bid to cut our fuel bills I have implemented two new house rules, the heating should only be in operation between the hours of 5-8pm and at all other times we wear winter woolies when we feel a chill. The penalty for having the heating on outside these hours is a fiver. Should stop my daughter padding around in next to nothing with the radiator on full blast. I have also been turning off all the lights in rooms that aren't in use. Last night I didn't see my daughter's boyfriend in the kitchen and plunged him into darkness as he was fixing the pipe under the sink. Alarmed he jumped up and whacked his head on the cupboard under the sink. I have also been switching off the TV and have taken to reading the TV guide over breakfast instead. Rather good because you can catch up on all programmes simultaneously without the hassle of channel surfing.

Disintegrating Shopping Bags

Now the weather has turned a shade colder I have been rooting around in search of suitable attire. My red knitted bobble hat complete with pom pom has gone awol as has my much loved, cosy ski jumper. I've had both items for twenty years or more, they may have gone a little saggy and bobbly in the wash but they're comforting and most importantly warm. Unable to locate half of my winter wardrobe my daughter Louise suggested I buy some new winter clothes. I pleaded poverty and was about to head out to the local charity shop (where I had originally purchased my red hat and ski jumper) when Louise scampered about in her room, coming out seconds later with £50 in her hand. 'Buy a decent jumper dad', she said folding the notes into my palm. Thankfully her mobile rang and she darted off to her room, giving me chance to pop the money back in her purse and make it out of the door. I caught the bus into town and strided past the large chain stores, just then I caught sight of my Ex - she of the acid tongue - edging her way out of a well known discount retailer, loaded down with five full paper bags of cheap undergarments and the like. The heavens had opened and a deluge of rain drenched everyone shopping. I didn't want to help as my Ex's new knickers spilled forth from soggy shopping bags so I took refuge in the nearest charity shop, only to be confronted by my red bobble hat and ski jumper. I think someone has been up to some tricks.

The Holiday

It's been three weeks since I returned from my break away with Ray and memories of the hellish holiday are seared onto my brain, like a toddler's indelible crayon etchings on a freshly painted wall. During the last four days of the holiday I put 'Operation Special Brew' into action. The aim was to pull Ray out of his depression without the use of strong alcohol. I withdrew my savings and drew up an action plan. On the first day we went bowling. I was shocked at the steep price for each game. As the cost was coming out of my pocket I feigned a twisted ankle and hobbled to and from the alley in a slow and laborious manner, just to keep the game going for longer. Afterwards I bought a cheap loaf of white bread and a bag of chips to share. On day two we had enough cash to catch the bus to the next town, we spent the morning in a quirky little museum with dusty stuffed animals and skeletons and the afternoon in a greasy cafe playing dominoes. We saved all the excitement for day three, a trip to a local funfair complete with rickety rides and heavily tattooed men with missing teeth and gold jewellery. Embarrasingly Ray won a soft toy on hook a duck and squealed with delight, eliciting some unfriendly stares from the hard nuts standing around nearby. After three rides on the Mexican Wave and two bags of Candy Floss we felt suitably sick and returned back to the caravan. On our last day we set ourselves the task of buying unusual gifts from the local pound and charity shops, the person with the best array of booty for £10 won. Ray came back with a collection of peg dolls for his neice, a creepy looking picture of Pierrot for his sister, a cheap looking satin cushion for his mother and an earthenware jug from Paxos for his sponser. I spent a pound on a glittery purse for my daughter Louise and saved the rest. Ray went ballistic, said he couldn't take all the tat he had bought back it was all non-returnable. I ignored him, it was sweet revenge for such a shockingly awful holiday.

Festering

Five days into our holiday the sun came out, by this point we had exhausted all board and card games and had took to playing 'eye spy'. I noticed Ray's mood was sinking by the day, when the sun came out Ray was glum. He felt guilty for dragging me out to such a dismal place and he felt sorry for lying. You see Ray had told me the holiday was a treat paid for by himself for wrecking my flat in a fit of drunken behaviour, when infact the whole break away was booked and paid for by Ray's sponser on the condition a sober friend accompany Ray. Although I do enjoy the odd tipple Ray decided he would use the holiday as a way of apologising for his misdemeaners before he got clean and sober. As the day went on and the sun shone brighter Ray became more melancholy. I tried to jolly him along but it was to no avail. His depression turned to anger and it was at this point I decided to call his sponser, if he booked and paid for this sheer atrocity of a holiday he was sure as anything going to get us home. He must have known what was waiting for us some two hundred miles from our home town. But alas there was no signal. Out of desperation I came up with a plan, I dragged Ray across town to the nearest cashpoint and withdrew a large chunk of my savings. i bought us a brew in the bus station cafe and drew up an action plan of places to go and things to do. maybe I should have used the money to get out of there and leave Ray festering there for the next week or help. I decided to help.

Danger

Entering a pub with a sober alcoholic is dicey at the best of times. As you may already be aware Ray came out of rehab little over a year ago and at every opportunity renounces drink with extended lectures and discussions on the nature of addiction. It's interesting at first but can get a little wearing. In times of 'danger' Ray will often ramp up the volume on such discussions, to the point they became like sermons on the evils of drink. And he delivers them not only to the person he is with but to anyone who will listen. Simply walking within 50 metres of a pub is a 'danger zone' never mind stepping into a campsite 'fun pub' with more in common with the Wild West than Wales. I didn't want to go in there, after witnessing the trail of destruction left by Ray's last drinking binge I didn't fancy getting caught in the chaos again but Ray was adament it would be okay. We ordered two coffees and sat by the window watching the rain bucket down outside. Ray began a monologue on how good he felt now he is sober, I tried to steer him away from the topic especially as two tough looking men were within earshot but Ray rattled on. His speech became louder and louder until two women staggered away from the bar and into our table. Finally he stopped, I noticed his cup was empty and seized my moment. Claiming hunger I urged him to venture out into the rain and into town for a fish supper. Two bags of chips later we were on safe ground, nursing tea in a bus station cafe. Never have I been more pleased to be drinking from a polystyrene cup than a pint glass.

Cockerel

Residing in towns and cities most of my life I have never been woken up by the sound of a cockerel before. Until I took my two weeks away with Ray. At precisely three thirty every morning Mr Cockadoodledooh and his feathered friends took it upon themselves to alert all the unhappy campers that they were awake. Why oh why did the campsite owner, the rather disagreeable chap on reception, took to keeping poultry on a campsite is anyone's guess. What use are three cockerels without any hens? After three sleepless nights I took it to be a form of torture and bought earplugs, which had little effect. Indeed most of the people staying on the site resembled the walking dead in the daytime. Aside from the living hell of little sleep Ray and I were playing a losing battle with the weather and a caravan that could have doubled as a seive. The heavens opened as I nursed a hot sweet tea and a headache on my first morning and did not stop until the evening of our fifth night, if it wasn't torrential downpours it was showers or driving rain. Every type of rain cloud stopped by our campsite that week to say 'hi' and drop its watery load. We couldn't cook as our four pans were ringing to the sound of rain dripping in from every corner of the caravan. After twelve games of Guess Who and Rummikub we headed off to the site's 'fun pub' and that's when things turned sour.

Trouble and Strife

'Larger than life' is how many people describe my friend Ray, however I feel the phrase 'Trouble and Strife' is more fitting. This summer I took two weeks off work to join Ray on an all expenses paid luxury camping trip, it would have been better spent making paper airplanes from five pound notes and launching them out of the window. I'd be better off financially. I took three trains and two taxis to a remote campsite somewhere in Wales, after wrangling with an argumentative chap on reception I was finally admitted to the site. Trudging through the mud in the dark I located the caravan, a rust bucket from the 60's. I was horrified but Ray didn't seem to phased. He let me in and thrust a bundle of musty covers into my arms, suggesting I 'Get some kip before the cockerel starts up'. Left in the tiny lounge area I made my bed on a damp sofa and hoped I would wake somewhere else.