My Dad Sold My Mum For £30 And 2 Camels.

I went to meet my Mum and Dad of the at the airport. They were flying back from a long globe hopping trip. I'd missed being able to call them round to help me with DIY or nip down the road to their house for tea. The crackling disjointed telephone conversations about our respective weather had been no replacement for seeing them. So I stood at the arrivals gate, sign with "Mum and Dad" written on it clutched in my hands, surplus to requirements but a funny touch. The flow of people began, like tadpoles set free from a jar. They came, pulling big wheeled cases. All tanned and travel worn. Dad came out as the trickle of people began to dry up muttering something about his case getting stuck in the carousel. His grey hair whitened by the sun and startling against the new brown of his skin. I looked on, expectantly, waiting for Mum. Dad rolled his case off across the foyer. I thought maybe they had had one of their arguments. As he reached the door he shouted back, "I sold your Mum for £30.00 and 2 camels".

That is the story which Dad tells to this day. We never saw the £30.00 or the 2 camels.

I just got selected to go on "Coach Trip" the Tv program.

I have always loved coach trips. Staring out of the window as the landscape flicks past. Sharing small spaces with a group of complete strangers. Finding yourself left at a hotel nestled between high speed motorways. Sniffing up and getting a good whiff of travelsick and overfilled chemical toilet. So it was with a whoop that I read the words on the confirmation letter "We would like to offer you and your mother a place on the coming version of the hit channel 4 show, The Coach Trip." It went on to detail some of the plans and talked of a phone call we will receive from one of their assistant producers. I wait with baited breath.

Rolf Harris in Spar

I was just pondering the cereal selection in my local spar, childish coco based or get into a red swim suit special K? Its not often that you hear an Australian accent in my particular backwater. Its all Manchester drawn out vowels round here. So to hear the slightly anglicised "Gooday, I'd like a bottle of The Shiraz on the left and a box of cooks matches Please." made me turn from my selecting. The boy behind the till looked to be trying to remember something, maybe which bus he had seen this grey haired gent on. I knew Rolf from Dad's LPs of my childhood, Rolf's Cartoon club (I was one of the children on it once) and others of his great works. I didn't expect to see him here, in Spar, buying mid price range wine and cooks matches. I guess that everybody has to buy them somewhere. I chose the cereal rapidly, bran flakes, I'd never eat them, grabbed a bic biro from the shelf on the way up the aisle. I got to the end of the aisle and Rolf was making his way to the door, thin carrier bag of goodies in hand. As I headed out of the door after him I had ideas that I would invite him round to my house for a cup of tea, that I'd ask him to draw a picture on the back of the cereal box and one day it would be worth a fortune. As I crossed the threshold between shop and street I felt a hand on my shoulder. "You going to pay for them or what?" Said the shop manger, hand still clinging onto my collar. I saw Rolf give one tiny backwards glance at me and my predicament as he jumped into his car and headed off up the road.