Jonny McCambridge: More tales from silly season – huge shorts and the magpie invasion

I’m going to work on the assumption that the first premise is the more likely. As I said, I am away and, in the spirit of Blue Peter, this is one I prepared earlier.

Writing a column in advance brings its own challenges.

However, I was heartened by the (cough) overwhelmingly positive response to last week’s tales from the silly season, so I bowed to popular demand and decided to deliver another helping.

I should point out that there clearly are compelling reasons and editorial merit in returning to the same theme and it should not in any way be viewed as a short-cut because I am going on holiday and have run out of time and ideas.

No, it definitely isn’t a case of me choosing the lazy path.

No way.

Honestly….

THE NEWS: It is scorchingly hot on the Twelfth and I am out and about. Working in these conditions is challenging enough but my discomfort is exacerbated by having to carry around heavy video equipment.

I am a sweltering and sweating mess.

My white shirt has attached itself to my back and bulbous stomach like another layer of skin and will need to be peeled off later.

As I film the parades, I am approached several times by young people excited at the sight of the camera.

"Mister, are you the news?”, they invariably ask.

“Yes,” I respond with no little sense of self-importance. “I am the news.”

But one teenage girl wounds me deeply with her follow-up query.

“Are you the BBC or UTV?”

“Er...actually I’m neither.”

“So, you’re not the proper news then?”

THE LIE-IN: It is my final day of work before two weeks off and I am drained. I feel more tired than I have ever done and have to fight to stop myself from dozing off at my desk several times.

As I finally turn the computer off in the evening, I can feel the burden of responsibility gloriously begin to lift off my shoulders.

I go downstairs to my family and make an announcement.

"Tomorrow, I’m going to sleep all day.”

My son laughs, my wife rolls her eyes.

“Yeah right,” she challenges. “You’ll be up early as ever.”

I am slightly put out at this response.

“You don’t understand,” I continue.

“I’m utterly exhausted. I have nothing at all on tomorrow, I’m just going to sleep for as long as I can.”

My wife and son exchange a nod.

The following morning, I am up at 5:15am watching a 40-year-old episode of Dempsey and Makepiece on the telly.

THE BUS TRIP: My son has been spending more time than ever outside with his friends during the school holidays.

This is an overwhelmingly positive development as it helps him socially and physically, taking him away from the sofa, the phone and the computer screen.

It does, however, also challenge the over-anxious and fretful daddy who spends too much time standing at the edge of the window peering between the slats of the blinds onto the street.

“Imagine what you’ll be like when he’s driving and going to clubs,” my wife says, sending shudders of anticipatory dread down my spine.

I am both proud and concerned when my son announces that he and his friends are going to get the bus into Lisburn to go shopping and to the cinema.

My offer that I could drive them is rejected as being against the spirit of the adventure.

My further offer that I could come with them as ‘one of the gang’ draws a sad shake of the head.

The trip goes ahead as planned. The emergency backpack which I packed containing a first aid kit, a map, a compass, a blanket and tins of beans is left at home.

GREGORY THE MAGPIE: Several magpies are in my garden. This is not a welcome development as they are a brutish creature which bullies and terrorises the smaller birds.

It has also impacted the variety of the birdsong which I like to listen to while nursing a cup of coffee in the back yard.

The abundance of chirps and chimes has instead been replaced by the magpies’ rasping, throaty call.

As I sit there and listen, it sounds to me like they are saying "Greg, Greg, Greg, Greg, Greg” with an annoying persistency.

Often, I doze off while sitting on the garden bench and my troubled dreams are populated by scary images of flocks of giant magpies invading my garden and searching for their leader who refuses to acknowledge them unless they address him by the more regal Gregory.

HUGE SHORTS: I do not hold with buying new clothes just because I am going on holiday. My trusty pair of sandals are more than 20 years old. They get dusted off for one week of the year, are perfectly serviceable and will remain in use for many more vacations to come.

This year I am reluctantly persuaded by my wife to buy a new pair of holiday shorts, as my old pair, which were of some vintage, have a hole in them where no hole should be.

I choose a pair from the rail in the shop. The hanger they are attached to states they are medium. It is only when I am packing several days later that I notice the shorts are actually 2XL, for a 45-inch waist.

It is too late to do anything about it. I pack the shorts. They may well fit by the time the holiday is over.