Beware small men playing banjos...

Andy, as you know, is away at BSAVA Congress in Birmingham at the moment, filling his suitcase with free pens, notepads, cat toys and pompom advertising bugs despite the fact I've told him not to because we still haven't got through the lot he collected 2 years ago. I went to Birmingham once. I shan't be going back. It was too full of many-laned roads leading nowhere, it rained a lot and the people I encountered, were, I am afraid to say, not a friendly bunch. 'Pushy and loud' is the phrase that comes to mind. The whole experience upset my delicate Southern sensibilities. And my dislike of Birmingham is compounded by one of the regulars at the swimming pool I go to. She is Brummie and swims in a loud and pushy kind of way, causing tidal waves with her breast-stroke and hogging a whole lane with her aquaerobics so us up and downers have to swim around her and try not to drown.

Now before anyone gets huffy about my attitude towards Birmingham I should like to point out three things - 1) I have the right to pass an opinion on any subject 2) I have travelled around the country a bit and there are places I feel 'right' in and places I don't and 3) it's my blog and I'll grump if I want to.

Take Liverpool. Andy was living in Liverpool when we met. I like Liverpool. Very much. I like the people, and I like the cultural variety and the vastness of scenery. Ditto Norwich. Everything you could want from a City and more. I love Stratford-upon-Avon for the Shakespeare, the trees, the river and the Swan Hotel breakfast room. I don't like Oxford. Too many bicycles. I HATE London. You have no idea how much London freaks me out (unless you are Andy or Heather and have had the misfortune of travelling in London with me and seen me clinging to a pole in the Underground trying to fend off a panic attack via the medium of a bad temper). I like Bath for the history and architecture but I didn't like the 'feel' of the place and the people were sniffy. I like Canterbury, I don't like Tunbridge Wells. York is nice, if very tall. Manchester has potential if only it would stop raining each time I visit. We visited Banbury last year and I was very impressed. But then we went to a few of the surrounding villages one of which was incredibly creepy and I am surprised we made it out alive. I can't remember what it was called but it made me shiver.

So, you see, I am open-minded about places. I visit, I assess and I make a decision one way or another. And I shan't be going back to Birmingham. Or Kenilworth. (They claimed to have a castle but we couldn't find it.)

Andy is staying in a hotel in a room with no window. What's that all about? Bizarrely, the room does have a whirlpool bath. What kind of trade off is that? No daylight, but you can have a fuzzy bath in the dark. Sounds like a shonky fairground attraction to me. Anyway, Andy has been phoning and texting regularly mostly, I think, to make sure I'm not filling the front garden with bee-hives. He tells me he found a trade stand at the exhibition that made neckbraces for parrots to stop them feather plucking. He thinks we should get one for Mrs Slocombe. I think, that'll make for an amusing blog post with pictures. And then he calls yesterday to tell me he is being taken to dinner by a group of drug company reps who, as a side-line, play in a folk music band.

There were a couple of phrases in that conversation that made me suspicious. One was 'drug' and the other was 'folk music band'.

'They play folk music?' I say.
'Yes,' said Andy. 'They're going to play at the cabaret tomorrow evening.'
'And they are drug company reps and they want to take you out to dinner?' I say.
'Yes,' said Andy. 'Free food! Apparently a lot of the drug company reps are doing it. Taking vets out for free dinners.'

I am not liking the sound of this. It sounds like a PLOT to me. A plot to mass kidnap all the veterinary surgeons in the country by lulling them into a false sense of security with banjo playing and tambourine banging and hey nonny no, and then drugging them with horse pills and the next thing they know they'll be waking up in some underground mine with bags on their heads, digging for diamonds.

Or something like that. Give me time and I'll be able to come up with something more inventive and/or sinister.

Andy laughs at my notion. 'It's just a sales technique,' he says.
'Well, you say that,' I say. 'Just keep your back to the wall and buy your own drinks, that's my advice.'

This morning I text Andy to make sure he hasn't been kidnapped by a band of smooth-talking, banjo-playing mafia-manics. He is fine. Or so he says. I reckon last night was only stage one in their kidnap plot. Last night they planted subliminal messages inbetween the pudding and coffee 'n' mints. Tonight will be the night they strike. One thwack on a tambourine and it'll be zombie city in Birmingham.

Not that anyone will be able to tell the difference.

P. S No deliberate offence intended. It's been a long three days in the house on my own with only cats and chickens for company.

'You're telling us,' says Mrs Miggins.