Eighteen ‘Til I Die

I was halfway up the garden path, suitcase dragging, scarf flapping in the breeze like some sort of half-hearted battle flag, when I heard the rumble.

Then came the roar….

Around the corner came the van—rattling, growling, and belching a small cloud of exhaust. Windows down. Music blasting. Sunglasses on. Frank at the wheel, leaning into the turn like a man with nothing to lose. Dad beside him, both stretching their arms through the windows with fists up in the air, howling along every ”18 ’til I Die” with the conviction of someone who probably should’ve stopped at forty.

They screeched—well, groaned—to a stop just in front of me.

Frank then says ”Eighteen ’til I die! That’s me, you know!”

I didn’t even blink.

“You’re not The Young Ones anymore,” I said, deadpan with a smile.

Dad gave a dramatic sigh. “That was below the belt.” But there was a sly grin on his face letting me know that I had struck home base.

Frank popped the bonnet from inside. A puff of steam hissed out. “Eleanor’s running a bit hot today” he said, with a sly grin.

“Like the two of you?” I asked.

They both looked at me, perfectly in sync, like two schoolboys pleading innocence when being caught read-handed with doing mischief.

That moment lasted approximately three seconds.

Because that’s exactly how long it took for the front door to creak open and reveal Mum — standing like a Roman emperor in an apron. Arms crossed. Eyebrow raised. The kind of stillness that makes you reconsider all your life choices.

“Where’s the receipt?” Mum asked.

Now, most people would ask that question as a formality. Not Mum. When she says it, it’s cross-examination. It’s war protocol. And Dad, bless him, still hadn’t clocked the tone.

“…Which one?” Dad asked, with a nervous smile.

Mum:

“The one from Peterborough Tent Experts. The ones I booked. The ones who PHONED ME. This morning. Wondering where the hell my husband and my other child had vanished to.”

Oh yes. Mum had been tipped off. The trap was already set. And they’d walked straight into the execution chamber.

“Well, we thought we’d… explore some… alternatives.” Dad said with a guilty face, shrinking quickly to the size of a teaspoon.

Mum went on:

“Alternatives? Like what, Patrick? A man named Clive with three teeth and a garden full of rusted patio heaters?”

If Dad had a shell, he’d have disappeared into it. Frank tried to look innocent, which is difficult when you’re holding a bent tent pole and smell faintly of pub crisps. Mum had moved into full Defcon one mode now — clipped vowels, sharp elbows, and enough steam coming out of her ears to power the kettle.

Dad, still trying to salvage the moment then says ”Well… ahem… it does have a CE marking. From… 1997.”

Unfortunately that did not help at all

Mum went on “1997? 1997, Patrick! The Roman Empire has better markings than whatever you two dragged in here! Honestly — I sent you to Peterborough, not to visit some Army World War 2 salvage yard!”

Mum paused. Not because she was done — but because she was reloading and her fumes were now running hoter than the reactors of Chernobyl.

And just when Dad thought the worst was over, she tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing with surgical precision.

“And the Margot?”

There it was. The final nail.

Frank froze like someone who’d just remembered the oven was still on at home.

Dad blinked. Twice. Then tried to play it casual.

“Ah. Yes. About that…”

There was a silence so thick you could butter toast with it.

Mum didn’t move. She didn’t need to. The weight of her expectation alone was enough to make Dad fumble in his coat pocket — as if the cheese might magically appear there like some guilty block of contraband dairy.

Frank, however, went in head first.

“We did find the shop,” he said quickly. “Lovely display. Very artisanal. Smelled a bit like, uh… if tyres had a fungal phase.”

Mum’s lips pressed so tightly together, they looked like they’d been vacuum sealed.

“So,” she said. “You’re telling me the cheese smelled too much like cheese, and that’s why you didn’t bring it back?”

“It wasn’t just that!” Dad jumped in. “It was very… advanced. A mature Margot. Quite aggressive.”

Mum went on:

”You two numbnuts had one job. One. Tent. Cheese. That’s it. That’s the list. Now the both of you get your butts down to Sage and Saffron on Market Row and bring me that Margot cheese and don’t you dare come back without it!”

And just like that, the case was closed.

Like two lost schoolboys who’d just been sent out of the headmaster’s office, the pair of them shuffled back to the van. The engine rattled to life in a cloud of dust, and off they went toward Market Row in search of the missing Margot.