Ah, for simpler times, when you'd turn on the TV, flick through the latest Look-In while waiting for the set to warm up, finish off that can of OneCal and settle down to watch Lucinda Prior-Palmer compete in the Horse Of The Year show. No Xboxes or Big Macs for us back then, I can tell you.

Though we did have the Wimpy. There was one in Ipswich somewhere between Youngsters and the ABC, and Andy, as a lad, was taken to his local joint in Sheffield. Down in Felixstowe, we'd agreed to meet up at the always reliable Sangha when I spotted it, right there on the high street. Its patty-powered cloaking device temporarily disabled, those lower-case ketchup letters on a mustard backdrop beckoned me in. I texted Andy: C U @ the Wimpy.

My my, busy busy within. Fortunate to get a table near the front, though it goes back further than a reminiscing relative. Very friendly girl presented me with a couple of menus: these aren't just menus, they're glossy laminated catalogues of saturated temptation. In a nod to the current day, every item is given a thorough nutritional breakdown. Choices, choices. Meantime, impressive vanilla shake for me, freshly made smoothie for him.

Torn between the pork rib and the retro spicy beanburger, I resist the chance to order a "bender in a bun" and go with the Club & Chips. That'll be 907 calories of bacon, egg, cheese, burger and lettuce (the goodness) in a layered toasted sandwich. Less of a sandwich, more of a manwich.

Doesn't this section include the term "light lunch"? Not today, my friend. Some foodstuffs hit the spot; this plateful (distressing metaphor alert) clubbed it like a baby seal. No toasted teacake necessary, no sir. I see from the Wimpy website (really) that Norfolk has a solitary site while Suffolk boasts five of the fellas. Find one and feed your face like it's the 50s.

If it was a car -- Armstrong Siddeley Sapphire.
If they were passing by -- Mark Kermode.

Sufficient time has now passed for me to make this announcement: I did not, repeat not, win the Ip-art short story competition this year, 2010. That will have been obvious to anyone passing by the Ip-art website but I've only recently digested this nugget. Time to drop it and move on.

Indulge me further while we run through a potted history of my Ip-art fiction:

• 2007 -- Coast -- winner, natch
• 2008 -- Cold War Kid -- entry quite clearly lost in the post, ahem
• 2009 -- The Bean Counter -- another mislaid entry, cough cough

So having been accelerating downhill for the last couple of years, it was gratifying to slam on the literary brakes and find myself shortlisted this year:

• 2010 -- Lights Out -- shortlisted

Had an enjoyable if tense evening at the groovy UCS building, back at the end of June, in the company of the judge, Kate Pullinger. After passing a quick comment on each of the dozen entries, Canadian Kate named the runner-up as Sheila Preston -- well done, polite clap -- and the winner as ... drumroll ... Kate Thurlow. Hearty congrats to Kate, who I've seen at more than one local writers' cafe.

Didn't quite manage to get myself sorted for the Guardian's summer fiction comp this time around, nor indeed the more parochial Let's Talk mag. Bit like the footy, there's always next year.

A few bits and bobs that come to mind when thinking of Mr F.W.Talbot, my Grandad, whose funeral we attended on Wednesday 4th August:

• that finger trick -- was he really pulling the top off his thumb?
• Town & Country -- during the inevitable olde-fashioned party games at Christmas, he would cheat terribly while playing Town & Country, claiming, for example, that Asia was a country beginning with "A"
• 1980s European Cup Finals -- me and big brother cycled up to Hatfield Road to watch the footy with him
• 10p pieces -- mercenary highlight of Christmas was receiving a sizeable stack of shiny silver coins
• Walnut Whips -- and we always gave him these in return: wouldn't be surprised if he'd once mentioned in passing that he quite liked Walnut Whips, only to then get them as gifts forever after

For posterity, here's a brief biography from his order of service as written by his three children:

Dad was born in Anness Yard in Ipswich in 1917, later moving to Austin Street, both places being known as "over Stoke". His mother having been a former Salvation Army officer, he was sent to Sunday school at the Citadel in Tacket Street with his brother Fred, his other brother Maurice having had polio as a child and could not get there.

Dad joined the YP Band and later at 16 became a Senior Bandsman. He was also Singing Company Leader when he was 19.

Dad had a varied working life - he became a policeman in 1938 and was stationed in Grays in Essex initially, later being called up by the Government, and being sent to the Suffolk Regiment Gibraltar Barracks in Bury St Edmunds. Then it was off to Africa where he helped train the King’s African Rifle Brigade. He did say that the uniform he wore was washed with so much starch he dare not turn his head too quickly in case he cut his throat! One Christmas morning while he was there, he saw people on the march and spied the Salvation Army flag at the head of it; they had come from a village some way away and strange and various instruments were being played. After this he was a Camp Labour Officer at a German prisoner of war camp at Debach, until the Germans were repatriated.

He then worked for Ipswich Borough Council and Suffolk County Council, but while waiting for the first job he was a mortuary assistant for one week only, as the pathologist was asking for things to be done that he could not face!

Other short occupations were raking over the ashes at the Speedway circuit after the races, and being an ice-cream seller on a bike to earn some money.

He was the Treasurer of Cancer Research locally for some years, became the President of the Ipswich Co-operative Society as it was then, and also with Mum took on the job of Divisional Envoys with the Army, covering several corps in the area and taking meetings. He always provided for, and took an interest in, his family and we will all miss him.

Margaret, Jean and Peter.

A full life. RIP, Frank.

Long-term readers (ahem) with powers of recall like Rainman will doubtless remember an off-the-cuff remark from Jan 2001 about an old Saturday job, plus a follow-up reference from a trip to Wyevale. That was me, back in I Heart 1982, clearing the tables, loading the dishwasher and -- can you believe it? -- emptying the ashtrays in Springles, the restaurant upstairs in Debenhams, Ipswich. Merest hint of a dog-end and whoosh, I'm back there in an instant.

Skipping the nineties and noughties, I am returned like the conquering hero to the same ex-Footmans department store. Not even sure if there remains an eatery on the top floor, 'cos today I'm grounded. Into the leftmost entrance, commando crawl past the Venture portrait people and grab a tray.

Savoury options closely resemble a Costa or a Starbucks. Unlike BHS last week, there's no hot food sitting around though I spy a questionable prawn salad. Guess it'll be a panini -- would you like that heated? -- plus small bag of kettle chips and a bottle of This Water. That'll be £7.17, please. You what?! Four quid panini, one quid crisps and over two quid for the drink. Like being in flippin' Cineworld. And could I have a glass for my liquid gold? Certainly sir, she says, handing me a plastic beaker.

Lots of outside seating for ladies and gents who like to light up with a light lunch. Can still watch the world go by from an inside table. Here's panini, limp and lava-hot. Fetch your own cutlery, it seems. I dunno, fings ain't wot they used to be.

Bits of cake are passing the time of day with no cover. Pre-packed caramel slice will have to do, with an Americano -- pleased to see that "all our coffee has two shots". Demolishing the slice, I catch sight of Evans, the plus size outfitters, out of the corner of my fat lazy eye.

If it was a car -- Fiat Doblo.
If they were passing by -- Ann Widdecombe.

I've been cycling to work for some years now. One day, I hope to get there! Skidoosh! By far the worst section, apart from Valley Road hill and the narrow & windy stretch by the golf course, is the unmade road by Dobbs Lane at the start/end of the Grange Farm cycle path in Kesgrave. Why, maybe I mentioned it back in April 2007, in which there was speculative talk of it all being fixed.

Never happen, I thought. Meantime, all of us -- cyclists, schoolkids, parents, pedestrians -- will continue to battle our way between cavernous potholes (when it's dry) and muddy puddles (when it's wet). Not much fun in the daylight, even less fun of an early winter's evening with zero streetlighting.

Waddya know, it has been. Fixed, that is. Once the clocks did whatever they do in spring, out came the boys in the hard hats for 12 weeks of proper work. During which time I largely avoided it and stuck to the main road.

In the last couple of weeks, they've tidied up and moved on, bish-bosh. Job is very much a good 'un. Those 300m or so have literally been transformed. The track of horror has become a terrain of harmony. Hard to get across how much better it is. Coasting along that baby's bottom of a boulevard, I feel the need to stop, get off and lay down, spreading myself like a tarmac angel. Obviously I don't do that; that'd be crazy.

Nonetheless, it's wonderful.

What with the Co-op on Carr Street having been Virgo-ed, then vanished like Woolies, that's another less department store in town. Don't need to go too much further back to witness the demise of Littlewoods in Tower Ramparts and Allders in the Buttermarket. Should you be torturing yourself for a towel bale, there's always Debenhams, or, of course, a name you can trust -- British Home Stores, aka BHS.

Frontage faces Blends and is home to a small-ish takeaway place. Back faces JaCey's and is home to a larger restaurant, today's destination. Once all parties are present -- both of us -- I propose that we do the mid-40s thing and take the tea for two. Working backwards, that's the scone, pot of tea and, weirdly, a shared sandwich. Agreed, says Andy. As a tribute to our late friend, we opt for the pre-packed prawn: it's what he would have had.

To bulk out the savoury, we take advantage of the stickered offer and "add chips for 99p". Daft not to. Swiftly past the olde worlde hotplated hot food -- chicken portions, cottage pie -- and find a table. Stay inside to bathe in the natural light, of which there is a goodly amount. Numerous tables out there by the groovy tourist information centre but most pleasant in here too.

Done savoury and on to the main event. Tricky choice of miniature pot of jam, proper cream and an excellent scone. Such a tasty morsel is what the whole light lunch shindig is all about. Next time you're choosing a sensible lamp or even an uplighter, you devil, drop by.

If it was a car -- Smart ForTwo Cabrio.
If they were passing by -- Miranda Hart.

That there local Latitude festival used to be so much simpler when it was just me (2008), or even me and Wifey (2009). Wee bit trickier this year. Eldest and friend v. keen to come along, what with that Florence and her accompanying machine. No way they can pass as 12 and under, hence ordered three adult tickets. Middler, still 12 at the start of that week, expressed an interest when I mentioned the free child ticket per grown-up one. Plus she'd like to bring a buddy too. Alrighty.

Complications arose when Middler invited pal number two. X seats in car, X+1 people. Hello Houston? Options evaluated and fully costed, agreed a workaround (less said the better) with friend's mum.

All six of us arrive midday-ish and eventually get our secure wristbands. No takers for the face painting area. Walk them the length of the site -- look, kids, that's the Obelisk stage -- and agree to meet for 2pm at the Dead Tree. Not a trendy stall but, er, a dead tree. Gotta dash, guys, I'm already behind on my personal itinerary.

Catch end of lively Jane Bussman talk, couple of decent tracks by These Ghosts, and successful meet-up takes place. Everyone fed and accounted for. Let's do this again. 6pm-ish? No can do, Dad, that'll clash with The Feeling. Seems we all have our timetables.

Not far to see Villagers, impressively powerful, on to folksy clog dancing Unthanks on big stage, and uneven Sara Pascoe in comedy tent. Can't get near poetry place for Wendy Cope. Back to Word Arena for Angus & Julia Stone -- cameo appearance for Damien Rice on great Grease track -- and a soupcon of new wave Spoon. Wander through the woods for enjoyable Luna Belle and second rendezvous is as smooth as the first.

Bit of Laura Marling -- doesn't work for me -- and grab donuts before settling down in corner of Word Arena for eccentric Wild Beasts. Watching the Chris Morris Q&A queue grow and grow when text arrives from one of Middler's mates:

I lost everyone and phone won't connect. Where are you?

Bottoms. Not the best time to discover that although mobile signal is good, calls aren't getting through reliably and texts are taking minutes, if not hours, to arrive. I can't contact her and I've no idea where she is on the site.

Let's gloss over bouncing from one warden to another, incoming messages from lost mate's Mum and the white noise of walkie-talkies. Half an hour or so later, we had a happy ending, and off they disappeared again. Time for the last five minutes of Chris Morris, the man himself, and straight back to the Word for The National, a towering performance.

Yes, we met up successfully afterwards, despite the darkness, and easily found our way back to the black car with its single balloon left tied to the aerial. Job done, and they're all asleep on the journey back.

... and still missed Billy Bragg, Eddie Argos and that bloke from CSI.