The late, great Wally Green used to say 'the cliche is the last refuge of the scoundrel'. As a young cub reporter on the Stockport Herald, I never fully appreciated his wise words at the time.
It's too easy to dismiss the wisdom of the elderly as just so much piffle. Of course, now that I've reached that point in life where I too am eligible for the substantial discounts on stairlifts offered by adverts in SAGA magazine, I can see the value of listening to the older generation. Theirs is a wisdom born of experience.
Sometimes, however, a cliche is all there is to hold onto. When Frank Sinatra sang that glorious refrain about Love and Marriage going together like a Horse and Carriage, I wonder if he stopped to think how true his words were? Over the last few weeks, I've had more than a little time to contemplate Frank's philosophy of life, as my long marriage to Mrs Blunt has unwound itself and I now find myself single again. Who was the horse, and who the carriage, in our relationship, I've wondered?
I've made a few decisions, too. There's nothing to hold me in Oldham, now, particularly given the rather disappointing performance of the town's so-called football team. The world is my oyster!
Now, late in life, I'm faced with a blank canvas. Young Jasper has suggested a long holiday, somewhere on Caucasus. "Pa," he said, "within a couple of days you'll have picked up a thirty year old blonde and the world will seem a sweeter place."
For once, I'm not taking his advice. My good pal, Tommy Hamburger, has offered to take me off to Bergerac again, and it's an offer I'm seriously considering. A snake has taken up residence in the compost bin there, by all accounts, and a party needs to be dispatched to err... dispatch it.
Any tips on snake killing that my readers may care to share would be most welcome.
Taking views from a wider circle of family and friends, I've decided to move back to the Wirral, where some of my fondest memories were forged during my days at the Birkenhead Beagle, and where Tranmere Rovers are at least putting up a reasonably decent fist of trying to make it into the Premier League.
I must admit I'm growing fonder, too, of my own company. Mrs Blunt's departure from the marital home has brought with it a more relaxed regime at Blunt Mansions. The constant drone of television has been stilled, and in its place the soothing tones of BBC Radio 3 and 4 have formed a more harmonious backdrop to my life. I've realised, too, that my endless hours spent trawling the internet was actually an escape from the reality of life with a woman whose idea of entertainment was to watch endless re-runs of The High Chaparral, The Waltons and Last of The Summer Wine, so that my life had come to feel like one long (and painful) Sunday afternoon.
So, as a new chapter in my life beckons, I leave you with this thought. It is better to have loved and lost - particularly if your wife was a High Chaparral fan.
