sunbathing. He called the shed the TORTOISE HOTEL, five star accommodation for your
tortoise!
He also had a tortoise hospital, and a hospice, but, the shed now has a big lock and a chain on
the door. He locked it the day before he left. I cried a lot, as he did himself, when he left.
Sometimes, people’s tortoises died, either in the hotel, the hospital, or the hospice; or in their
homes, and, as father was known locally as Mr Tortoise, they would either bring them from their
home and hand them to him, or mum, (she hated that, but at least this time they were boxed) for
burial in the special Tortoise Cemetery, in amongst the trees behind the shed, or they would come to
him for a ceremony if their pet had passed in his care. Mind you, sometimes they brought the dead
animals to the door and stayed for a ceremony, especially for the kids.
We have quite a large garden with trees at the lower part, behind the shed. Dad held quite a few
very nice tortoise funerals in the spaces between the trees. He would read the service from a special
‘tortoise’ Bible father had written specially for such occasions. In his Bible, God was a Galapagos
tortoise, heaven was a slow world full of lovely lettuce leaves …you get the idea? (The kids liked it).
He had mini gravestones made by the local undertaker.
Father though had this rather ‘macabre’ pastime.
He would go out into the graveyard some nights, dig up the freshly buried tortoises, and make
ashtrays from them, or designer soup bowls. He also sold them in a craft shop up North, and, some to
a guitar pick manufacturer; and some to a designer specs manufacturer. How many he sold, I have no
idea.
He must have done ok though with the whole venture, because he drove a fairly new Jag.
One day, mother got a moped, and father, being a creative soul, but a little tight with the cash,
tried to save her money for a crash helmet, and made her one from Timmy, an extra large specimen.
He got a good battering for that, but never seemed to learn. It’s difficult mixing love and miser-ism.
There again, it’s difficult mixing love and money (or the lack of either).
In the end, the ash trays, soup bowls, a large wind chime (which didn’t chime, it clonked), a
large wind clonk, and a host of other products just got mother so angry that she threatened to kill him
if he did any more. She also ordered him to pack in the Tortoise Hotel and all to do with the ‘bloody
things!’ Which he did, and it broke his heart.
He disappeared shortly after this, and mother, who must have thought something of him,
started comfort eating … big time.
Well. I finished school, and … I couldn’t get a job offer above the level of a cleaner. But,
mother said ‘you’re worth much more than that Grant’, (parents! They only want the best for us, in
their selfish opinion); so, believing her (mothers are your best friend and women are always right …
the two qualities therefore made logic of her idea about me) I decided to ‘dole’ it for a little while
until something ‘suit and tie’ came along. I’m still waiting (I don’t have a tie yet).
Now, as I would often try and diffuse the situation between mother and father, (especially the
times when she had her hands round his neck and he was going purple) ... I sometimes had to use
‘reasonable’ force.
For e.g. I had built a homemade cattle prod from a broomstick, with two metal rods fixed to it
(one either side), two pushbike handlebar grips (for both hands), some insulating tape; and a mains
plug and flex. It was crude, but, it would break mother’s grip on father’s neck, and force her into the
pantry where I’d lock her in until she cooled down. While in the pantry, I would ‘talk her down’ and
therefore save her relationship once again, and most probably father’s life. This is when I realised I
could be a great agony uncle, and so, advertised in the local paper.
RELATIONSHIP PROBLEMS?
IN ‘AGONY’?
Call GRANT on …
Solutions and happiness
