It was raining. Cloudy. But there was a glimmer – we were off to collect Jolyon and Cath from Yarmouth, a mere 25 minute journey, and bring them back to Seaview for a fish lunch and plenty of chat and wine. Carolyn had many uses, her most used being the fact she is tee total and when I am a little giddy with alcohol consumption, she can drive. Today she would drive Jolyon and Cath back to Yarmouth after our fish lunch. A flutter of giddiness took me over.
I set the post code into my phone and grabbed a bottle of water. The girls were excited. I was not. Carolyn’s driving was not to my liking. It was vomit inducing. But I should not complain. She tapped the post code into her phone and stuck it on the windscreen. I also tapped in the code to my own phone to ensure we were going in the right direction. And off we went.
10 minutes into the journey I was alarmed. My sat nav said we should turn left. Carolyn’s said straight on. What is this fuckery I hissed. Carolyn applied the brakes and with a look that could kill pulled into a side road. We agreed to follow her directions. I sat in silence. I had run out of mints and was sucking on a Halls Extra Strong Mentho-Lyptus sweet. My tongue was tingling. I liked it. For a brief moment I was back in Germany with a butch lezza called Helga. And then I was back.
Rather than the sea route to Yarmouth, the road swung away from the coast and took us right into the armpit of the IOW. The roads became thinner, the bushes high, the people odd and the level of car sickness rose. After 15 minutes we were still nowhere near Yarmouth. Vivien and Ruby were now whimpering. I needed a snifter. I turned up My Jamaican Guy and listened to Grace Jones until the girls announced they hated her.
40 minutes and there was a glimmer of hope on the horizon. Yes it was cloudy, it was raining, it was windy, I wanted to vomit, the girls were crying, and Carolyn was not talking to me. But we were 6 miles from Yarmouth. I sent a text to Jolyon and Cath announcing our arrival imminent.
Jolyon, my eccentric younger brother. Jolyon who has a title of Lord Miller. Jolyon who once shared a house in Spain with 25 feral cats. Jolyon who jested loudly on my arrival to our Spanish villa with new boyfriend that he had warts on his knob and could I go and purchase some Wart cream. Jolyon who assumes the posture of a sergeant major, marches like Captain Mannering, drinks like Oliver Reed, cooks like Keith Floyd, smokes like a ruddy chimney and only dresses in Royal Blue.
We drove into Yarmouth and headed to the George Hotel. Jolyon likes the simple things in life, ie, not having to travel far. The Ferry terminal was literally attached to the George hotel, offering a mere 25ft walk from terminal to hotel bar.
I saw the smoke before I saw Jolyon. He marched in a semi-circle, looking a little flustered, and a tad hungover.
I needed to vacate the car before I vommed. I told Carolyn to pull over. I told her again. And then I shouted. I jumped out of the car and walked towards Jolyon and Cath greedily gulping water and breathing deeply. As the car sickness began to wear off I went to kiss Jolyon – he marched past me, blowing clouds of smoke in the air, to the boot of the car and announced we were to take his antiques back to Henley as they were too heavy for him to carry. He handed the large plastic bags to me and sniggered as the weight dragged my arms down. He sucked hard at his cigarette – his wheeze was crackly and loud. I noticed he was attired from head to toe in royal blue Lazy Jacks sailing clothes, even down to a rather splendid pair of deck shoes. My snigger caused a bogey to drop. I quickly wiped in the hope nobody saw. He marched over to the girls and bent down to kiss them. The subtle waft of stale cigarette and fresh wine hit my nostrils. The girls pulled away, Uncle Jolyon was smelly and his whiskers scratched their skin.
We all piled into the car to head back to Seaview, a journey I was not looking forward to. We drove around Yarmouth for 10 minutes, and then parked. We had decided not to drive back to Seaview but instead to dine at Jolyon’s favourite establishment. A reservation was made and we made our merry way to Salty’s.
Jolyon marched ahead, fag in hand, telling us how he had spent most of yesterday ‘ferry spotting’ from the bar in the garden of his hotel. And that we will also partake in ferry spotting this afternoon. What ruddy joy I hissed. The girls were still wiping away the smell of wine and fags from their faces as we strolled into the rustic restaurant.
There was a strong fish stench as we walked in. I started to tell my lesbian brothel joke but Carolyn told me no. Our table was ready. Jolyon ordered the wine. I ordered the girls drinks. Cath went to the balcony for a fag. Jolyon went out for a fag. And then we began.
myfamilyandothermillers 