Once I'd put Wilson's suitcase in the boot, I asked, 'Are Antony and TT ready to go?'
'They're not coming with us,' Wilson replied. 'I don't think I'd be very good company, and I wouldn't want to spoil their holiday.'
I popped back into the house and slipped them both in my pocket — I'll smuggle them away with us, just in case W regrets his decision once we arrive in Weston...
In the nineteenth century it was a commonly-held belief – even among Medical Professionals – that a Change of Air could cure many (if not all) ills. Indeed Health Tourism was a major industry, with Spas and Convalescent Asylums all over the world.
Many of these were in glamorous places such as Germany, Switzerland, Italy and the French Riviera, although there were also a few in the UK.
Weston-super-Mare was never a Spa Town as such, but I hope its gaiety and sunshine will exert a healing influence on Wilson and restore him to full health.
Since he was still in very low spirits when he retired last night, you can imagine my delight when I found him packed and ready to leave this morning!
I'd better get on-line and book us some accommodation!
Following yesterday's game of Exploding Kittens, Wilson immediately retired to his bed in the tumble dryer. I found him still there this morning, dozing with his head hanging uncomfortably out of the door.
I called out, 'Wilson? Are you awake?'
'No.' he replied. 'Go away.'
'I know you've been having a horrible time,' I persisted, 'but I was just wondering whether a nice holiday might cheer you up? Somewhere warm and sunny?'
He opened his eyes warily, and enquired, 'A holiday where? New York? Tokyo? The Bahamas?'
I swallowed before replying, 'Well, I was thinking more of Weston Super Mare...'
'Okay,' he replied – in a not altogether enthusiastic tone of voice – 'I suppose...'
I hope that once he's thought about this he might come round to the idea.
When I returned a few minutes later, W appeared to be asleep again, so I just popped a Weston Super Mare Holiday Guide into the dryer and crept away...
Hello, we are The Bees, Polly and Billi, and this is our Guest Blog.
Usually we take this opportunity to blog about bee-related news and honey recipes, but today, as our dear friend Wilson is feeling so down, we've decided to forgo this and try to cheer him up.
Poor Wilson's life has suddenly got so complicated that it reminds us of an episode of a Soap Opera – which is why we've titled our blog this month AntEnders...
We're all in the dining room playing a game of Exploding Kitten... but we're not sure it's working, cheering-up-wise. Poor W doesn't seem to mind whether he wins or loses. He has lost his famous Competitive Edge.
We'll see if offering a (small) jar of Royal Jelly to the winner helps.
Anyway, we've been The Bees, and we'll see you again next month. In the meantime, BEEEEEEEEEE GOOD!
Since Wilson first came to live with me some six years ago, his life has not been without problems.
Mostly these have revolved around a sense of unreality and general existential angst, but never before has he suffered from low self esteem. His positive attitude in the face of adversity has been one of the things I most admired about him.
So it is all the more distressing to see him battling with what he perceives as the stigma attached to him since he heard Andrea's news.
I'd hoped to encourage him to emulate Eric Clapton by channeling his anger and pain into songwriting – I brought out his guitar, but he showed no interest at all.
Nor was he tempted by Ant Juice and Cheesy Wotsits, two of his favourite snacks in the whole world.
Clearly it is time for some decisive action: I must take him on holiday!
By the time I arrived at the Security Office, Wilson was in tears, sobbing, 'Don't send me to Jail! I don't want to be a Jailhouse Bitch, whatever that is – it sounds horrible!'
Surprisingly, though, the Security Manager was also in tears – Wilson had explained how his world had been turned upside-down by the news he'd received from his sister/mother Andrea, and she was more than sympathetic to his plight.
I asked what this 'more expensive – and serious – item' was, and the security lady showed me a photograph of Wilson necking gin from a bottle of Gordons he'd removed from a display by the checkouts.
'It was all the more grave,' she explained between sniffs, 'because we're pretty sure your son is under age, so we're obliged to report it to the Police.'
Wilson's sobbing grew more intense, but she continued:
'But in the circumstances, if you're willing to pay for the damage, I think we might just put it down to experience.'
Wilson whimpered, 'I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'll never do anything like this again!' while I handed over a £20 and a £10.
After we'd all shaken hands/paws I took Wilson out into the car park and we drove home. In silence, but for W begging me not to tell the others what he'd done. Especially Antony.
I shall have to think of something to stop W's constant brooding – something to distract him and restore his feelings of self-worth.
Something to help him out of this pit of despair...
