Three of us worked under Syd at the Coal Board – Blountie, Gilly and me.  Blountie would have been in his early 30’s while Gilly and me were in our late 20’s.  So Blountie was known as t’Owd Lad, while Gilly and me were t’Thin Lad and t’Fat Lad.  And t’Owd Lad had rotten luck. 

Shortly after the three of us split up to go our separate ways, I heard that his wife had died of cancer.  She’d have been in her late 30’s I guess, and left t’Owd Lad with a young daughter to bring up. 

A few years passed and some time after he married again.  He deserved better but only enjoyed a couple of years of happiness before his second wife died – likewise of cancer.  The Big C may have struck a third time or perhaps his soul had simply had enough, but t’Owd Lad himself shook a six shortly after.  Anyone who didn’t know the personal sadness of this could be forgiven for mistaking it for the narrative of a country and western song.

But in his memory I recall a couple of tales he told me.

The first one would have happened when his daughter was a toddler.  He’d been watching telly laid out on the settee and had drifted off into a half doze.  He was vaguely aware of his daughter saying “Ee Yar” and handing him something.  After toying with it in his hand for a few seconds he slowly emerged from his torpor to see what it was she’d given him.

It was poo.

You’d have expected better from men of our age but at times we acted like kids.  I recollect him once inserting a row of staples into a cake I’d bought from the village shop.  It was a bit of a surprise when I bit into it.  But I got my own back.

He was in the habit of leaving his car unlocked.  So when he’d stepped out the office I crushed a garlic clove with my foot and shoved it inside his heater vent. They say revenge is a dessert best best served cold.  On this occasion it was better warm.

On another occasion his wife had gone into Beaverbook’s (let’s say) to return a watch that had broken.  The conversation with the salesgirl went something like this.

“Do you have the guarantee?”

“Yes, we only bought it a couple of weeks ago”.

“From this store?”

“No. Your shop in Penzance.  We bought it while we were on holiday”.

“I’m sorry; we can’t offer you an exchange here.  You’ll have to contact our Penzance store”.

“That’s ridiculous.  We’re not going back to Cornwall to show them a broken watch”.

“I‘m sorry.  That’s our policy”

“Well, let me speak to the manager”.

Manager:  “How can I help?”

Mrs t’Owd Lad started to explain again.

Meanwhile, little girl tugged at her coat.  “Mummy, mummy”.

Mrs t’Owd Lad ignored her and climbed up a bit higher on her high horse.

“Mummy, mummy”

“Not now, sweetheart”.  She sensed she was winning this war of attrition with the manager.

“Mummy, mummy”.

“What is it?” she said irritably.

“Isn’t that the watch daddy was wearing when he fell out of the boat in holiday?”

Suffer little children!