Being A Hobo

OK, I have a confession.

It turns out I am a hobo.

No, not the American slang term for a wandering homeless person during the Great Depression. (I mean how could you think the wiktionary definition where the iconic image of a hobo is that of "a downtrodden, shabbily-dressed and perhaps drunken male" sounds like me? ;-))

Hmm, well shabbily-dressed, possibly - but I would absolutely like to refute at this stage any allegation that I might look like Emmett Kelly's "Weary Willy". :-/

And neither is it a reference to the Canadian (yes, Canadian!) TV series some of us watched religiously during school summer holidays inbetween genius shows such as Play Chess, The Monkees, Puzzle Trail, The Red Hand Gang and Why Don't You.

Ah yes, The Littlest Hobo. The greatest programme about a dog (if you don't count Woof or Benji, Zax and the Alien Prince) with a cracking little theme tune too.

Nope, for a hobo in this respect refers to: "Husband Of a Brigade Officer".

As I have mentioned in the past, my wife spends occasional weekends taking part in meetings held at various airports around the UK helping to set out the vision for Girls Brigade in Europe. Now as thrilling and exotic as that sounds, it does generally leave me at a bit of a loose end.

This weekend was meant to be one of those weekends where Linsay heads off to a GB meeting - and she told me that I was just going to have to learn to be a hobo. I have to admit that I hadn't really given much consideration in the past to the skills that need to be honed for someone to be able to pick up a bindle, Dick Wittington style, and jump onto the back of a slow moving train in the middle of nowhere. But fair enough.

But then she explained that being married to a Girls Brigade officer is actually a sacrifice you have to make for the rest of your life. You will always be a hobo. In much the same way that Linsay will be a male Councillor's Obligatory Wife for the forseeable future. (Hmm, actually maybe that acronym needs some thought before I tell her about it!)

But fortunately for me, the meeting this weekend in Didcot was cancelled. I don't know the reason, but I suspect it might be related to the fact that Didcot is not (yet) situated next to a major airport.

So instead of facts and figures we had a much more satisfying weekend.

There was a bit of shopping (ugh) but also plenty of listening to my new Glasvegas and Liam Finn albums and watching classic films such as Brewster's Millions and One Of Our Dinosaur's Is Missing, as well as working on my Wii golf handicap, so not a total loss.

Well, not for me anyway.

I am just getting my own back for that Hungarian folk dancing. I am sure Linsay's old husband never had to do that. ;-)
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