It was spring, and that meant several things. Firstly, it meant that the dares and threats to push other family members in the pool- still unpleasantly cold- had begun. It also meant that the season of family birthdays was in full swing; a succession in which, much to my dismay, I was the last. But most importantly of all it meant that my faithful friends the insects had returned in all their glory to the garden, and so every spare afternoon I could find I would be down in those mosquito-ridden, overgrown paths with my camera. They were exciting times. Beyond our lawn lay the pool, shimmering in the afternoon light. And beyond that, further still, was the garden proper: an exotic collection of mismatched plants and shrubs, crowned in the centre by a fig tree perched upon a large flat rock. Beside this ran a narrow path snaking its way to the back of the garden before it petered out into nothingness. I would spend hours down here, crouched peering into the greenery or observing closely as an ant tottered its way around the edge of a leaf on the hunt for food. Always I was surrounded by the whine of mosquitoes, caught between the need for utter stillness and swatting at these pests. And then there were the breakthroughs- those exciting moments in which I would stumble across something truly spectacular. It might be a large praying mantis, a lacework green moth, or an ant freshly ensnared in a spider's web. The nature of the finding itself mattered little. It was simply the pure joy of having discovered something new, something which I had all to myself… almost. One afternoon, I was happily snapping away when I became aware of my mother poised on the garden steps behind me. It was highly unusual of her not to have said anything in greeting, so it was with no small amount of confusion that I broke my concentration and turned to face her. Silence. Stood feet ajar with a cumbersome telephoto lens sighted across at nearby tree, she was certainly quite the picture. I tried to peer up to see what it was she had found, without success. After what seemed like an age, she straightened up and glanced down at my diminutive form peering up at her. She smiled, walking down to my level. “So this is where you spend all you time, is it?” As a conversation starter, I thought this could do with a little improvement, so chose not to respond. “There was a pretty interesting cricket up in the canopy there, but it disappeared, so I took some nice photos of the leaves.” Okay, perhaps I should have spoken first off. “They aren't crickets, they're katydids. And there are plenty more down here (I paused to indicate a few) if you want. But really your chances of getting a decent photo with that lens are pretty slim.” Sometimes it's hard for parents to be perfect.

“Two of you, take this woman. Go do a breast examination on her.” You would think this is God blessing me finally for being a good son to my parents and limiting my lying and covetousness to the barest minimum. Or you would think this is the beginning of an indie porn movie. Or the beginning of a wet dream which I will wake up from and find the woman I'm dreaming of right next to me, a perfectly natural prelude to an indie porn movie. You would be wrong. This is a hospital. And Dr Bond is a plastic surgeon. When he says examine, he really means examine and come back to report my findings to him. As it stands my life is in his hands right now. He decides whether I graduate from med school or not. If I am being honest, this breast exam began five minutes ago. Actually, it began thirty minutes ago. Every examination begins with observation, and what should my observant eyes fall on the moment I walk through the clinic doors this morning – a pair of water melons bouncing and bobbing joyfully within the confines of a push-up bra like the heads of two bubbly, conjoined twins. You would think you'd never be able to tear your eyes away from such a wonder of the world, but eventually I did. There is such a thing as better judgement after all. However, the beauty of seeing – or staring open mouthed really – is the mental picture you get to keep and savour later on. Just when the mental picture was blurring out, the young lady came into the consulting room. Aha, a model! Of course. Decent 5,7 frame, dark skin, pretty face with enough layers of makeup to plaster a wall, hourglass figure, and what do you know, an amply endowed backside as well! Just around the point at which I've firmly made up my mind that I am going to become a plastic surgeon or die trying, the consultant rudely awakens me from the dark, lecherous recesses of my imagination. A breast exam, you say? Now I am thinking if ever there was proof that there is a God in heaven, this has to be it. Until the realities of my situation hit me. The other part of ‘two of you' is a grumpy, straight-jacketed, female colleague. The kind that leads prayers in school fellowship and makes warfare everywhere immorality tries to raise its ugly head. She's the type I've never thought of looking at her breasts probably because I grew up in Sunday school and I still remember what holy ghost fire can do. Then there's the official chaperone: a hawk eyed senior nurse who seems not to like people in general but has a particularly short fuse for medical students. Model lady has undressed from the waist up and now, standing before the million-naira investments in all their glory, under the watchful eyes of these two, I am beginning to realize that this gift is a punishment. I can't even remember how the breast examination sequence goes anymore. She smiles at me and says it's okay to touch. This is my first encounter with breast implants. The round, rubbery smoothness of the silicon feels unnatural. I'm afraid to apply pressure for fear I might burst something. When my shaky fingers approach the nipple, she gives me that semi-coy, mask-like grin again. I can't fathom what she means by it. I only know it makes me squirm under my ward coat. Worst indie porn ever.

The story of Don Quixote by Cervantes told the ancient tale of a knight who attacked windmills which he believed were the enemy of the people. The Peckham Quixote makes no bones about mimicking the originals quest, but his modern day chosen foe becomes the infamous roadside Speed Camera. Slaying these one eyed monsters is not only payback for taking away our hero's job, car, home and ladylove, but makes the Peckham Quixote a local Robin Hood to the likely lads and speedsters of Peckham. Acting under the cover of darkness his reputation and fame grows but so does the determination of the local law to catch him. The Peckham Quixote is a three part comedy thriller written with an ‘Only Fools and Horses' situation comedy style. 5 Stars – Highly Recommended.

The Prophecy It was foretold that the skies would groan as black as pitch, no moon nor stars would gleam on high, the clouds, thick and tremulous, torn apart for but an instant by the terrifying bolts of Thor, violent shards eye splitting bright, a lizards tongue of heavens anger aimed to fell the mightiest of oak, to the accompaniment of thunder's deepest roar. Meanwhile the seas with tempest surge, white spumes of froth the rocks devour, no ship nor seaman's time be safe as Neptune's trident spears them down into an early grave. But despite the weather forecast we had quite a nice Bank Holiday Monday. Hobson Tarrant

There once was a princess, in a land far away Who wasn't the youngest, she'd started going grey Her name was beautiful, though the rest of her less so Aurelia wasn't married- had never had a beau Her features weren't aweful, it was just her attitude Her face had grown sour, from being arrogant and rude Like other royal ladies, she had to wait for a prince Unfortunately, seeing her, made handsome princes wince The old king spent years trying to convince Posh princes such as John and Vince That his daughter was lovely and smelled of mints Petrified princes galloped off, yet the king took no hints The king couldn't wait to see Aurelia hitched In every town he visited, he made sure she was pitched As any young man's dreamy wife With whom they'd have a fabulous life He needed her to marry off well So he could live in luxury and dwell His old days in the castle, swimming in dough Thus he needed Aurelia to score a rich beau She was shown many a pretty polaroid Though no one seemed to fill the void The princess felt deep inside her heart Scrap that, in her every body part Despite the king's best efforts, nothing really paid off To every prince she met, she said “Do YOU know what I love? Horrible words, like ‘blast!', ‘poo', and ‘bum'” The princes ran and cried, “That's not why I've come I want a fair lady!” They stamped their feet and screamed That this mean princess Aurelia was not one they deemed A lady they'd take for tea along with their precious Mums “She looks as though she lives in the dirty slums,” One disgruntled prince yelled Want to know how Aurelia felt? Smiling, she shook her hair out over the balustrade And demanded the king arrange a date With the bum who lived out in the street She said, “That bum doesn't mind my smelly feet He doesn't care about wrinkles or grey strands He doesn't need Prim and Proper, or manicured hands This man likes me for who I am inside, Unlike those arrogant princes, for whom I have to hide My flaws and the profanities I daily use One broken fingernail and those princes would pop a fuse!” And so Aurelia married, the homeless guy next door The king was forced to move into their shack, all poor For there was a strict rule in their land A princess who doesn't accept a prince's hand From the castle, the royal family is banned A rule is a rule, no point taking a stand But for the very first time in his life He saw a smile on the bum's wife He'd never seen his daughter not look grim The light in her eyes was no longer dim! She was happy; she'd come alive Even though they now drank - not from crystal -in a dive They all lived happily ever after On tins of beans and laughter

My thirteen-year old grandson and I are flying together for the first time. Rainy England to sunny Spain. I hope to take him to Thailand to visit family there but first, secretly want to test his flying skills. I quickly learn he also has a hidden agenda; for the first time in his life to really, test my nana patience. During take-off he grabs my hand. In recent weeks he's been dodging family hugs and kisses - unless it's a pally high five you're not coming in. Talking him through any turns and tiny bumps I try further distraction with Pringles and Uno. “If you let go of the armrests we can play Uno. You'll give yourself cramp. Here, have a Pringle.” He gives a look I haven't seen before. One suggesting I'm a stranger. “Huh? I always sit like this.” Countless memories of him lounging disagree. Thrown, I use a wrong word. “Please, you'll give yourself dead arms.” I'm a jinx now. “Well, that won't matter if we crash, will it? All of me will be dead.” “Love, chances are we're not going to crash so it will matter when we land. I'm ancient! I can't carry all the bags myself!” Clearly, today I am ancient and, no longer funny. He looks away, sighing. “God.” But I do keep standards. “Please don't say that.” Which today he ignores. “Jeez. What's the time?” My patience rubs. “Please stop asking the time. Asking the time every five minutes won't get us there any quicker.Try to enjoy it! We're flying!” He's staring, “Don't remind me.What was that?!” “The wheels being released.” I sing a high-pitched joy, sweet joy. “We'll be landing soon!” Refusing my hand, he makes one last-ditch effort to pooh his teenage pants. Gripping knuckle white on the armrests he scrunches his eyes. “God. I hate landings. Landings are evil.” Distracted by his ears popping, something else on his loathe list, he misses the landing, looks up to see the cabin doors being opened: The ultimate despicable act, “Why are they putting the chute out?” Pettily I throw him the stranger look back. “Eh? Oh, they're not. We've landed, they're attaching the steps.” “God. I hate it when you don't know you've landed.” Had he been younger when we arrived in Barcelona I wondered if he would have done his happy dance. He used to do his happy dance whenever we'd had a tube journey in London and resurfaced back to fresh air. Arms and legs flying everywhere, singing nonsense at the top of his voice. Older, he reacts differently to stopping here. Waiting to disembark, “Hurry up. I need the toilet.” Highly likely, he refused to go an hour ago even though he said he was bursting. Queuing at Passport Control, “Get a move on. I'm starving.” Probably also true, he didn't eat anything because his hands were superglued to the armrests the entire time. Outside, standing for the coach transfer, “Whennn? I'm melting.” Remember this? I've brought him from rainy England to sunny Spain. FOR A SUNSHINE HOLIDAY. My patience flies. I lift my face skywards. “Me too. Lovely, isn't it? Can't wait to take my shoes off.” By way of some small sympathy I suggest he move to stand under shade. He stands his heated ground, “I want to see when the coach comes.” I dig deeper, “Would you like another drink?” As does he, “Nah, I want a shower.” Nah? What is nah? I flip a funny. “Nah? Lazybones! That's only half my name!” Deadpan, he comedies too. “Alright, Sal.” I ask, during our transfer to Calella, what he's looking forward to most. “Swimming pool? Beach? Paella in Calella?”. In a bid to lighten the mood again I pronounce my last option as flamboyantly Spanish as possible. Not colourful enough. “Getting there. The music he's playing is driving me mad.” I agree, try again. “Then Paella in Calella?” My foody persistence elicits a half smile a semi-agreeable palm wave, “As long as it hasn't got mussels in. I hate mussels in paella. They look… dead.” I give him that one, “They are.” My standards however, thrive, “Hate's a very strong word.” That old chestnut. “You always say that.” Here's a new one. “I don't really do beaches.” Too much to say, much too much. I bite my tongue, “Paella in Calella it is then!” Dramatically hand gesturing I accidentally flick him in the eye. “Ouch!” He bursts out laughing, playfully punches, “Nana! Stop beating me up!” Our travel agreement for the rest of that day can be summed up thus: Don't expect him to eat mussels or take his shoes off on the beach. Don't expect me to take his moodiness to heart or keep mine on. Naturally, he throws curve balls. One of them, “Do buses run from Barcelona to London. We could get the bus back?” is still winging its unquantified way through the airwaves somewhere. Another, “Nana, don't take this the wrong way but I think you might be going a bit deaf.” whooshes closely behind. Three months later, still honing our foreign flight compatibilities but now at, long haul speed, we arrive safely together in Bangkok. Our seven weeks stay in Thailand is anything but dull; some of our selfies even show us smiling.

Dear men, According to my Kurdisch-Swedish friend, a woman is like a friendly volcano. “She really is,” he stresses. “I'm not,” I huff, “but I see your point.” Indeed. A woman is beautiful and serene: one truly amazing sight that stands out. Like a volcano. Until she errupts. Her volcanic ash, along with her conveniently aligned pyroclastic and mentstrual flow, can and will destroy everything dear to you. Including your upcoming dudes-trip, tickets to the match of the century, or your precious porn mags. Especially those. I'd like to say I'm the exception. That I am, although womanly and girly at the best of times, more like ‘one of the guys'. I can burp for Britain, fart for France. I nod and say I understand perfectly well how men drool over a gorgeous woman's body, without a hint of jealousy on my part, knowing “it means nothing”. I claim to find women annoying, how I detest nagging, how women never really seem to know or say what they want. And when they do, they change their minds. I state that I don't get them either. I say that I am this serene and beautiful volcano too, though a dormant one. One you can easily take on your man-cation. While you try to drink me under the table, I will banter until you're totally tongue-tied. The exception. Me. Sure. I burp, fart, and banter. But the exception? Nah. Don't tell porkies. For I am like all the others, just as all the others are like me. Women are NOT docile little creatures that agree with you eternally; who scrub your floors; cook; raise your gaggle of kids; wriggle a soft, manicured hand down your trousers to warm and tickle your yearning third leg. Even the most devout of nuns, calm and chock-full of self-restraint as she usually is, has her boiling points. At times she grows so angry and frustrated that simple gardening won't suffice to diffuse the situation: a radish will perish from her ferocious and terrifying screams, cucumbers will curl up in fear. She too encounters moments when she's so pent up, she'll lock the monastery door, shut the curtains, stick her Bible in the fridge and sinfully masturbate for six solid hours until she gives herself carpal tunnel syndrome, just to find some form of relief. So, yes. That thing about women being like volcanoes? It's true. For all of them. Be warned. Best wishes, Volcanic Female.