some research and book us on a spa weekend in Bath?’
‘Err, because they don’t have Cats playing in Bath at the moment.’
‘Ahh, so it’s a musical theatre break you’ve organised for us.’ The fact I’d handed her the show tickets in an envelope along with the hotel booking should have given that away really. She’d hung up but then phoned me back fifteen minutes later whilst they were on their way to the theatre to see the show.
‘Kat.’
‘Mum.’
‘If you’d done your research you’d have discovered that The Lion King is the most popular show on in London now, so next time—’
I hung up on her.
That happened to be the first and last surprise break I ever organised for them.
Back in the hall my mum got down from her steps and moved them along three feet to get at the next bit of offending ornate plasterwork. ‘You’d better tell your dad you’re here.’
‘Where is he?’
‘It’s Saturday morning and it’s sunny; where do you think he is?’
‘In a shed?’
‘Where else? Number two, I think.’
I plonked my jacket onto the back of a kitchen chair and went out of the French doors. Our back garden stretched back almost ninety feet with a load of trees and shrubs clustered at the far end. Grass and sheds took up most of the space, though using the word ‘sheds’ to describe my father’s pride and joys did them a huge disservice.
Number one had a flat slated roof, large double-glazed windows and a seven-point locking door with toughened safety glass making it very difficult to break into or, as we discovered, out of. I suppose I’d describe it as a glam-shed. Inside, mounted on the wall was an HDTV, two comfy couches and, in the corner, a desk with a PC and internet connection. It also had independent LPG heating. Shed number one doubled as my dad’s escape from reality. He’d sit in there for hours in the summer watching the test match or peering at the PC screen, researching stuff for his work or talking to fellow shed enthusiasts. Shed number one had also been the site of his run-in with authority when he’d locked the local MSP, Moira Cleethorpes, inside for not agreeing to challenge the local planning authority who’d refused him permission to build an extension onto the back of our house.
Moira had used her mobile to call the police, who had arrived and duly cautioned my father for false imprisonment despite his argument she’d had the third day of the England versus South Africa test match on HDTV to watch and a jug of homemade lemonade to keep her cool.
I approached shed number two from the ‘blind side’ (the side with no windows) and noticed a pile of fixtures and fittings on the grass. Shed number two had recently been decked out to resemble an artist’s studio with two easels, selections of paint, acrylics, charcoal and canvases. The fact neither of my parents had any kind of artistic ability or interest whatsoever hadn’t seemed to cross his mind when he’d been planning it. Now that idea had obviously been changed and a new project had started.
‘Hi, Dad.’
‘Kat.’ My dad jumped, startled. ‘I didn’t know you were coming today. Does your mum know you’re here?’
‘Yeah, she’s cleaning the cornicing.’
He nodded. ‘Still? She started that yesterday. Keeps her busy, I suppose.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’m cleaning out space for my new project.’
‘Which is what exactly?’
‘Llamas.’
‘Llamas?’
‘Llamas – they make excellent pets.’
‘I’m not sure they do and why do you want a pet? No disrespect, Dad, but you and Mum have a hard enough time looking after yourselves.’
‘They make very good guard animals, especially against small predators.’
‘Dad, this is Glasgow; the only small predators around here usually hail from a sink estate, are malnourished, have substance-abuse issues, a bad attitude and a Stanley knife in their pocket, oh, and maybe a pit bull in tow.’
‘Llamas don’t like dogs.’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘I don’t like dogs either.’
‘I’m not sure picking a pet based on a mutual dislike of something is necessarily the way to go about it but, for argument’s sake, let’s say it is – why not just opt for a cat?’
‘I can’t sell cat poo online.’
I stared at him for a moment. ‘I’m sorry, Dad, I thought you said you “can’t sell cat poo online”.’
‘I did.’
‘I’m not following you.’
‘Llama poo is called “beans” and is very prized by gardeners due to its very rich texture and high phosphate content. It retails for around £35 a kilo.’
‘You’re going to get a llama for its poo?’
‘Two. I’m going to get two. They’re sociable pack animals and like company, and two pooing llamas are better than one, and I might even breed them, so I’ll get two females to start with.’
Although nothing my parents did really should surprise me any more I had to admit this had set me back a little – also if he planned to breed them he’d surely be better with a male and a female unless he’d decided to utilise some sort of artificial insemination technique. The picture dropped into my head of my dad approaching the rear end of a female llama with a large syringe filled with llama semen. I shook my head to get rid of the image and instead continued with my llama objections.
‘Aren’t they noisy?’
‘No, they hum a little.’
‘What, stink?’
‘No, hum as in humming a tune.’
‘They hum tunes?’
‘Well, now, I don’t know,’ he said, scratching his head. ‘I don’t think so. They just make a delightful little humming noise. There’s a website that shows some llamas humming. Do you want to see?’
‘Not right now, thank you. Don’t they spit at you?’
‘No, that’s a myth. They don’t do that unless they’re badly treated or stressed out.’
I reckoned anything, llama or otherwise, living with my mum and dad would be likely to get stressed out damn quickly but I didn’t share my thoughts. ‘You must need a licence or permission from the local authority, then?’
‘No,
