Live on TV

After the flurry of cameramen and reporters had left us, we walked to the multi-storey airport car park and stowed the bags in the boot of the car (or trunk as the two women called it!) and started on our 37 mile trip from Manchester to the village where we live. Lily's friend Ema commented on how green the fields looked, and indeed even from the motorway the English countryside looked strikingly beautiful. I remembered too, when in the past, I had flown in from abroad, how attractively fresh and verdanhe rolling fields of England appear upon renewed acquaintance. The two girls talked in a charming Texan drawl, embellished with a bewitching Spanish intonation betraying their Mexican heritage.

The route from Manchester Airport back to my part of the NorthWest Lancashire coast contains lots of scenic treats, which brought about predictable appreciative comments. I could see that they were constantly assessing me, and that they were curious to see whether I was in fact the cool, remote Englishman that they had expected. Ema in particular later confessed, that the impression I gave in my letters to Lily - which Lily had shown her - was of a rather distant - perhaps even remote quasi-academic - better-fitted to communicating on paper than in the flesh. I made a point of stressing the facts of my Celtic antecedents and pointed out the differences in character and behaviour between our island races.

We arrived at our home at 10am. My wife Clare was there in the doorway to greet us with our blue-eyed, fair-haired, fifteen-month-old son Cameron. After a warm family welcome, the two visitors were shown to their bedrooms and freed themselves of their heavy luggage. As we sat in the downstairs lounge, Lily and Ema gave us presents that they had brought from El Paso. There was two lovely Mexican style paper figures - one of a horse - one of a human figure. They were fashioned from thousands of bits of coloured paper stuck on in an overlapping fashion - rather like the scales of a fish. They were extremely attractive. Sadly, in the excitement - I only half-heard Ema's explanation as to the significance of the motifs - but I recall some talk of 'explosions' and 'children's gifts'. There was an El Paso T shirt for Cameron, some Opium perfume for Clare, and an expensive bottle of Tequila for me, and bottle of Mexican Kahlúa - and pretty badges and coffee mugs bearing the El Paso motif.

Southport

A short time later we made the half-hour, ten-mile trip to Southporo have a meal. Southport is our nearest large town, and is the place that we frequeno make our weekly domestic purchases. It is a holiday town - with beaches and a slightly dilapidated Victorian Pier. It boasts a beautiful main shopping street called 'Lord Street’, which is blessed with a covered canopy of glass that extends the whole length of the western, seaward side of the thoroughfare. The protection afforded by this masterpiece of Edwardian design, means that shopping - even in the most inclement weather - is a pleasure. The good shopkeepers of Southport have not suffered from the usual drift away of custom to the 'out of town' shopping malls, which have been the death knell of most inner-township shopping areas. Our intention was to take the two guests to our favourite Indian Restaurant, but sadly, it was closed. We found another - in Eastbank Street - but the meal was indifferent and undistinguished. Cameron enjoyed the freedom of the open space, and toddled around gleefully on his Colombian expeditions of exploration around the tables and chairs. The Indian waiters smiled indulgently, flourishing their snow-white teeth in rigid, waxen smiles.

Then it was a fast drive back to the house - for a rapid freshening up session before our taxi-trip back to Manchester for a live Television appearance!

Live on TV

We had an hour’s grace before the honking of a horn announced the arrival of our taxi that had been arranged for and paid by the TV Company. We left the house at
4.30pm and threaded our way through the quaint lanes and country roads of West Lancashire to the M6 motorway, which leads via the M62 - to the Northwest's largest city. Our taxi-driver was of Pakistani origin, and we engaged him in conversation - about Karachi, British Moslem society, attitudes, and the etiquette of the Mosque. An hour later saw us passing through the crowded streets of city-centre Manchester which was awash with clamorous, spotty, drunken Dutch football supporters - all carrying bottles
- all staggering - all gesticulating - all shouting - all potentially dangerous - all unsportsmanlike representatives of testosterone overabundance!

Once in the portals of Granada Television we were whisked through the rituals of pre-appearance preparation. Chatty make-up girls flourished pretty-power puffs in our perspiring faces. Researcher Nigel provided coffee and light-hearted banter - and before we knew what was happening - Lily and I found ourselves on a red, velvet settee, surrounded by thick electric cables which snaked round the studio floor like benign boa constrictors. Fascinated - like two cobras confronted by a mongoose, we gaped at the two presenters - one male - one female. One by one the other news items were dispensed with - minute by minute the dreaded inevitable moment of our crucifixion drew nearer. Lily squeezed my hand. Her eyes betrayed anguish. The female presenter moved towards us. Lucy Meacock observed us with piercing, kindly, aquamarine eyes. She was so familiar to me. She was a regular, welcome visitor in our living - room every night. I felt that I already knew her - that I had always known her! Now this kindly creature had metamorphosed into a she-devil, and was intent on torturing us - exposing us to millions of people - millions of cruel observers - slavering for our denouement - willing us to make public our frailty and our inadequacy!

The spotlights suddenly blazed. The cyclopean eyes of the cameras abruptly swung in the direction of our velveumbrel - the little island of refuge from where we had watched the execution of our shivering predecessors - was sanctuary no more!

After a re-run of the Manchester Airport 'Welcome' footage those aquamarine orbs zoomed in on mine

"Tell us why you wanted to meet Lily again after fifty years George?".... We were on!

In the warmth of the taxi back to home, we held a post mortem on our performance. Ema, who had been present in the studio during our torment hastened to reassure us - " You both came over well" she said - "It appeared natural and uncontrived."

The taxi-driver was Irish, pragmatic, and very down to earth. "Sure - I would rather get out of town on a long run like this, than to suffer the slings and arrows of an outrageous gang of drunken chauvinist Netherlanders - and end up swabbing out their puerile pukings from my pristine public conveyance !" He was obviously a great fan of the poetic device of alliteration! Those silver tongued Celts - they always put it so beautifully!

As the cab wended its warm way to the west, we were wafted into the welcoming arms of Morpheus. Our ancient Greek benefactor whisked us home in an instant, and we hit the sack like swatted skittles!