Debbie Viggiano's Blog

Let's Go to the Seaside... in Detling

My husband is a couch potato.  Now that I’m writing full-time, it’s probably fair to that I’m a computer potato… if there is such a thing. That said, my loyal hound keeps me fairly active although, these days, I walk her without Mr V.  As I head off to Trosley Country Park, my husband heads off to the lounge. And as I exercise with Molly Muddles, my husband puts his index finger through a few push-ups changing channels on the remote control in a quest to find a football match going on somewhere in the world. Lately I’ve started to wonder just what we have in common… which doesn’t bode well when you’re meant to share retirement together. Oh my God, did I just say the “R” word?  H-e-l-p-p-p…
          ‘We no longer do things together,’ I complained.
          ‘Foul!  Didn’t you see that ref?  Don’t you have EYES?’
          ‘Shall we go to Dubai this year?’
          ‘I have no idea why that IDIOT was signed by Manchester United.’
          ‘Did you hear me?’
          ‘Did you see that? Un-be-LIEVE-able!’
          ‘I said, did you hear me?’
          ‘Oh go on then, if you’re making. But not too much sugar.’
          Such are our conversations.  Or, even, lack of conversations.
          ‘God, I miss skiing,’ said Eleanor, home from drama school.  ‘I can’t wait to graduate so we can get back to the slopes.’
          Before I even knew what I was doing, my fingers were flying over the keys of my iPhone googling best places to ski at Easter.  Seconds later I’d found a hotel with ski-in-ski-out access to The Three Valleys where, theoretically, you can ski 365 days of the year.
          ‘Let’s do it,’ I said, impulsively.
          ‘Really?’
          ‘Really,’ I nodded, before trotting off to find my husband lying horizontal in his favourite place.  Inches from the television. ‘Fancy going skiing?’
          ‘Yes.’
          ‘Fantastic!  I’ll book it right now.’
          ‘Sorry?  Book what?’
          ‘Didn’t you hear me?  Skiing… you’re coming?’
          ‘Oh, ah… no, thanks.  I will… one day.  But not yet.’
          Eleanor frowned, but made no comment as I went ahead and booked a room for two with a view of fir trees, sunshine and snow.
          And then my cousin suggested we take our daughters on a girly week to Dubai.
          ‘That place has been on my Living List for so long,’ I said, wistfully.
          ‘Fancy it?’
          ‘Yes!’
          Wow, roll on November!
          Eleanor’s frown lines deepened and, without my knowing, she went off to find my husband.  I soon got wind something was up when she tried talking to him during a football match.
          ‘WILL YOU LISTEN TO ME!’ she yelled across the background roar of the crowd.
          And suddenly the volume went off and my husband came to find me.
          ‘I think we need to start doing more things together,’ he suggested.
          ‘Such as?’ I said, waspishly.
          ‘Let’s do something off-the-cuff.  Something spontaneous.’
          ‘What… like combusting?’ I quipped.
          ‘This weekend, let’s go to the seaside.’
          ‘At the moment, we have Storm Gareth,’ I pointed out.
          ‘So?’ Mr V shrugged.  ‘We’ll wrap up warm and watch the waves crash, get wet and dry off in a cosy pub eating fish and chips.’
          Good God.  Was this my couch-potato husband talking?
          ‘You’re on,’ I replied quickly, before he could change his mind.
          Which is how we ended up going to Broadstairs yesterday.  Or, rather, not going to Broadstairs, because there was a bad accident on the motorway, and everything was at a standstill.  Eventually, Mr V found an exit and we swerved off towards Sittingbourne.
          Eleanor, sitting in the back, piped up.  ‘Is there sea in Sittingbourne?’
          ‘No,’ said my husband, ‘but we could travel past Sittingbourne and pick up Sheerness.  See what that’s like.’
          ‘How far away?’ asked Eleanor.
          ‘The Sat-Nav says we could be there in forty-five minutes.’
          ‘It must be wrong,’ I said, pointing straight ahead. ‘Look over there, on the horizon.  There’s the sea and it’s a beautiful blue.’
          ‘Er, I think that’s a large warehouse roof, Mum,’ said Eleanor.
          ‘Oh no, look, the Sat-Nav says there’s more traffic jams coming up,’ I pointed to the screen.  ‘Let’s do something else, instead.  You suggested off-the-cuff,’ I said to Mr V.  ‘What is there to do in Sittingbourne?’
          ‘Get on Google,’ said my husband to Eleanor.
          ‘Doddington Place Gardens,’ she replied.  ‘Sounds nice. Let’s go there.  Oh, hang on… it’s closed today.’
          ‘Look,’ I said, leaning forward and pointing to a sign.  ‘It says there’s a country park coming up.  Let’s go there.  We can have a great time exploring a new place, and there’s bound to be a café to visit afterwards.’ I sat back in my seat, happily thinking of our own gorgeous local country park full of ramblers, horse-riders, cycle riders, and dog walkers all meandering through the leafy tree-lined routes that, here and there, broke off to open areas full of grazing goats.  Many a pleasant hour had been spent afterwards at the café scoffing cake and washing it down with freshly made coffee.
          My husband nodded his agreement, and the car bounced through a gate and along a track, passing through a series of ugly metal barriers until we were in some sort of wasteland.  There was no one around.  No yapping dogs. No rosy-cheeked visitors.  Ahead, a lone car with blacked-out windows was stationary on a patch of concrete, engine idling.
          ‘I’m not sure what sort of a walk this will be,’ said my husband.
          ‘Er, I think we should scrap the walk,’ I murmured, not liking the vibe of the place at all.
          ‘I thought you wanted to do something off-the-cuff?’ said Mr V, pulling up alongside the lone vehicle.  A pair of suspicious eyes stared at us.
          ‘Flipping heck,’ said Eleanor, ‘I’m not getting out here.  I feel like I’ve parachuted into the film set of a horror movie.  Seriously, hit the accelerator.’
          ‘Well today isn’t going anything like how I’d hoped,’ said Mr V, pumping the foot pedal.  ‘Where to now?’
          My stomach let out a huge rumble.  ‘Let’s stop at the first restaurant we come across and grab some lunch.’
          Fifteen minutes later, we were in Detling.
          ‘Yay, a pub!’ I said excitedly. ‘Look, there, slow down, don’t drive past it.’
          ‘Where?’
          ‘To your left.  It’s called The Cock House.  Blimey, that sounds a bit iffy.’
          ‘The only thing that’s iffy, Mother,’ said Eleanor, ‘is your eyesight.  It’s called The Cock HORSE.’
          ‘You know,’ I said to Mr V, as we sat down by a wood burner to eat bangers and mash, ‘we really must go to the seaside more often.’
          Which reminds me.  A magician and his pet parrot worked on Brighton Pier.  Every day, the audience was different, so the magician did the same tricks over and over.  But there was a problem. The parrot, after seeing the same tricks time and time again, sussed them out.  He began squawking the secrets out to the crowd. ‘Look! It’s not the same hat… he’s hiding the doves under the table… hey, why are all the cards the King of Clubs?’ The magician was livid, but he loved the parrot and didn’t want to get rid of him. Then one day the pier sank.  The magician found himself floating on a piece of wood with the parrot.  They glared at each other for a good twenty minutes until, finally, the parrot squawked, ‘Okay, I give up. Where’s the pier?’

Moving On Up

We recently celebrated my son’s twenty-fifth birthday.  February is usually the month where I scratch my head and say, ‘What would you like for a prezzie?’ and Rob scratches his head back and says, ‘I don’t know.’  I stopped buying clothes for the men in my family a long time ago.  Their ideas of style are oceans apart from mine (indeed, they would say I don’t have any!).  My son’s taste is ‘muscle fit’ which always looks to me as if he’s wearing too-small t-shirts.  My husband’s style is anything providing it’s black, so he looks like he has only one outfit.  Anyway, I digress.  This birthday, my son had a list.
          ‘I’d like a toaster, Mum.  Ooh, and a kettle.  And if anybody wants to buy me an ironing board and an iron, that would be good too.  And I mustn’t forget cutlery.’
          Up until now my son has lived in various digs where most things are provided, although the crockery so far has consisted of mismatched utensils, chipped cups and cracked plates.  But now, after intense saving, he’s about to buy an apartment.  That said, I can’t help thinking how flipping hard it is for today’s young adults to take this step.
          When I was twenty-five, I was living in a two-up-two-down house.  The mortgage had been obtained on the strength of three payslips and a letter from my employer.  These days, a lender asks so many questions they almost want to know what you had for dinner and a mortgage isn’t lightly granted.  My son was all set to buy a new build at nearby Ebbsfleet Village when the lender, at the last minute, said, ‘Sorry, there was a cock-up with the paperwork our end, and your 10% deposit is no longer enough.  They want the deposit to be a third of the property price.’ So Rob had to walk away. The little house I bought all those years ago cost £27,000.  These days the same property is £270,000, which is crazy.  What will property prices be in another thirty years?  It makes my brain spin like the washing machines we’re pricing up on-line.  Which reminds me.
          Did you hear about the man who completed a PhD in washing machines?  He’s now a spin doctor…

Wardrobe Sense

I think I have just about accepted that I’m never going to be a size 10 again.  As the end of January approaches, my dieting stint has resulted in the paltry weight loss of just three pounds.  This is not enough to have the button easily meeting on any of the jeans that have been languishing on the wardrobe rail.  Hitting the mid-fifties has seen a total re-arrangement of lumps and bumps, with everything relocating to the waistline.  How do celebrities like Michelle Pfeiffer and Jane Fonda manage to keep such youthful figures?  Do they simply never eat?  Or do they work out every hour of every day?  Or perhaps they just visit some Hollywood liposuction surgeon, nod at his fat-sucking machine and say, ‘Fill it up, dah-ling’.’ Regrettably I don’t have a celebrity-sized bank balance, but at least I can afford to buy myself a new pair of (bigger) jeans.  Which was what I did yesterday.  I must admit, it was wonderful to do up the button without feeling I was being sawn in half.
          Meanwhile, the wardrobe has been gone through with a fine toothcomb.  It’s been a heart-breaking, but cleansing, exercise.  Every garment was tried on again, and then a large black sack was filled to take to the charity shop.  I was in my stride by this point, which immediately had the attention turning to shoes. An avid collector of heels, I knew there was all manner of strappy stuff that had not been worn for years. Shoes were the next to go. I’m now down to about six garments and a pair of muddy wellies.  From the sublime to the ridiculous.  But as I seem to spend most of my days wearing joggers and t-shirts covered in dog and cat hair, it doesn’t matter. Spring is just around the corner, along with a new ensemble!  Which reminds me (rude joke alert, stop reading now if easily offended).
          A very voluptuous lady was trying to board a bus, but her skirt was too tight for her to make the step up.  She reached behind her and discreetly lowered her zip before trying again. Unfortunately the skirt was still too tight.  So she gave it another go, lowering the zip a little further.  But still the skirt was too tight.  Determined to catch this bus, she once more reached behind her and lowered the zip all the way down.  Suddenly she felt two hands on her backside propelling her into the bus.  Angry, she turned around to the man behind her and said, ‘Sir, I don’t know you well enough for you to behave in such a manner,’ to which he replied, ‘Lady, I don’t know you well enough for you to unzip my fly three times either…’

Ready Steady (Reluctantly) Cook

Anyone who knows me will tell you I’m no Nigella.  I have phases where cooking from scratch seems a brilliant idea, and I embrace the kitchen like a long-lost relative from the Arctic Circle who is visiting for a week.  Seven days is usually the average for how long this odd behaviour lasts.  I’ve even been known to rush out and buy the odd new pot or utensil in a fit of out-of-character enthusiasm.  The last purchase was a vegetable peeler.  Those last two words currently leave me cold.  But at the time I was fired up by eating more vegetables than Bugs Bunny and rushed into Lakeland like a kid that had been let loose in a toy shop.  I came out with a ceramic implement that looked like it might also do a very good job at shaving my legs.  Needless to say, once home, the peeler remained in its packaging and was put away in a drawer full of other mainly redundant utensils, from flashy chopping knives to … well, weird looking objects, the purpose of which now fails me.
          However, at the beginning of January, the cooking issue reared its head again when I decided to have another crack at losing weight and was instantly attracted to websites that pledged you could stuff your face while the inches on your waistline melted away faster than a snowball in a microwave.  Enthused, I flipped through pages of mouth-watering recipes, all the while thinking, ‘Yesss, I’m up for this, get me into the kitchen NOW!’
          In the first week I lost three pounds.  In the second week my son gave me chocolate from Belgium which was devoured in sixty seconds and the weight went back on again.  In the third week I once again lost three pounds.  Please God that I stick to the website recipes and lose another three pounds in the fourth week.  Or a pound.  Even an ounce.  I’ll settle for that.
          On Friday night I cooked barbecue pulled pork with so much steamed veg I currently can’t look a bunch of broccoli in the eye.  The kitchen, which usually smells of fresh air and dog, wafted a tantalising aroma that had everybody’s taste buds tingling.  My daughter came home from drama school for the weekend, and nearly fainted with pleasure when she sat down at the table.
          ‘This is the nicest dinner you have ever cooked, Mum,’ said Eleanor.  ‘Did you really do this yourself, or did you nip out to the local pub and steal some of their cooking to pass off as your own?’
          I have been known, in an emergency, to do just that.
          ‘I really did cook this,’ I said, beaming away, enjoying the praise.  After all, it doesn’t happen very often.  In fact, I don’t think it’s ever happened.  Which reminds me.
          Little Johnny’s pre-school class went on a field trip to the fire station.  The firefighter giving the presentation held up a smoke detector.  He asked the class, ‘Does anyone know what this is?’  Little Johnny’s hand shot up.  ‘Yes, it’s what my mummy uses to let her know when dinner is ready…’

Born Again

Last week was a bit surreal.  Something peculiar happened that … well … left everybody feeling a bit weirded out. I’ll start at the beginning.
          Every morning I telephone my parents to see how they are.  Last week was no exception. On this particular morning Father Bryant was getting ready to take Mother Bryant to her weekly hair appointment.  The Senior Citizen special.  This is a shampoo-and-set glued into place by an entire can of salon hair lacquer.  My parents were running late, so I didn’t chat for long. I’d barely disconnected the call, when the phone rang.
          ‘Hello?’
          ‘Debbie?’
          ‘Yes.’
          ‘Uncle Phil here.’
          ‘Hi, how are you?’
          ‘Well, shocked, obviously.  What about you?’
          ‘Er … I’m fine.’
          ‘Really?  Are you coping all right?’
          ‘Yes … yes, I think so,’ I said, wondering if my Uncle was having a ‘senior’ moment.  They’re not unusual in 80-year-olds.  I have enough of them myself these days, so heaven knows what I’ll be like when I get to eighty.  ‘I’m sorry to hear you’re shocked,’ I said carefully.  ‘What’s happened?’
          There was a stunned pause from the other end of the line.
          ‘Oh my goodness,’ said Uncle Phil.  ‘You don’t know, do you?’
          ‘Know what?’
          ‘Oh dear.  I don’t know how to tell you this.  Ah, let me see now.  Have you spoken to your father recently?’
          ‘Yes, about two minutes ago.’
          ‘Right … right.  And how was he?’
          ‘A bit fed up.’
          ‘Hardly surprising.  He must be devastated.’
          ‘Well it’s only a backache. But it can be tiresome.’
          ‘But what about the heartache?’
          I boggled at the handset.  Heartache?  ‘His doctor said he has a sticky valve, but it’s not painful.  Uncle Phil, what has happened that I don’t know about?’
          ‘I’m really sorry to tell you this,’ said my uncle taking a deep breath, ‘but I've been told your mother has died.’
          In the five second stunned silence that followed, my brain whizzed off and did some calculations faster than Broadband’s fibre optic line.  I’d literally just come off the phone to my parents.  They’d been about to get in their car.  Had there been a terrible accident?  If so, had the Emergency Services teleported to them?  And why would the police contact my mother’s brother two-hundred miles north rather than telephone me twenty miles away?  This was crazy.
          ‘Uncle Phil, I’ve just come off the phone to my parents.’
          ‘Both of them?’
          ‘Yes.’
          ‘You spoke to your mother?’
          ‘Yes!’
          ‘And … how was she?’
          ‘Alive!’
          Meanwhile, my mobile phone started buzzing with messages of condolence coming in as far away as Canada.  What the heck was going on?
          So sorry about your mum…
          When is the funeral?
          Where can we send flowers…?
          Can I have the address of the undertaker, please…
          I felt my blood run cold.
          ‘Uncle Phil, who told you this?’
          To cut a long story short, it transpired that a very elderly cousin’s wife several times removed (I didn't even know them) had passed away, and the message had been conveyed by somebody who didn't speak English.  Talk about setting the cat amongst the pigeons!  My main concern at that point was getting hold of my father and warning him that he was possibly about to be bombarded with messages of condolence and to make sure my mother didn’t know anything about it, as I didn’t want her distressed.  Unfortunately, Father Bryant is quite deaf, so it wasn’t the easiest of phone calls to make.
          ‘Dad?’
          ‘Hello, dear, I’m at the hairdresser’s with your mother.  I’ll put you on loudspeaker so she can hear you.’
          ‘NO!’
          ‘What?’
          ‘Don’t put me on loudspeaker.’
          ‘What?’
          ‘DON’T PUT ME ON LOUDSPEAKER.  LISTEN VERY CAREFULLY AND DO NOT REPEAT ANYTHING I SAY.’
          ‘Don’t repeat anything you say?’
          I slapped my forehead a few times and tried not to get frustrated.
          ‘Dad, I don’t want Mum knowing what I’m about to say to you.’
          ‘Okay, understood.  What’s the matter.’
          ‘The family think she’s died.’
          ‘Who’s died?’
          ‘Somebody!’
          ‘Somebody has died?’
          ‘Stop repeating things, I don’t want Mum hearing.  DOO YOO UND…ER…STAND?’
          ‘Yes, stop shouting.  Now tell me who’s died.’
          (Mother in the background) ‘Who’s died?’
          Bugger.
          ‘No one.’
          ‘But you said someone had died.’
          (Mother in the background) ‘Tell me who’s died.’
          In the end I had to make out I was ringing about Mother Bryant’s imminent 85th birthday and needed to speak to my father in private about a surprise birthday present and that he should call me back, out of earshot, once home. 
          It later struck me that the entire thing was quite funny in a dark way.  But it also left us feeling very out of sorts, as if we were doing a ghastly rehearsal for a funeral.  Needless to say, family was informed that Mother Bryant was alive and kicking and none too pleased with her hair-do, because the shampoo girl hadn’t given her a thorough enough rinse and the stylist always insisted on backcombing her hair which she hates.  Hearing Mother Bryant’s complaints was music to my ears.  Needless to say, we will be doubly looking forward to celebrating her 85th birthday next week.  Long live Mother Bryant!  Which reminds me.
          A one-hundred-year-old husband and wife were having trouble remembering things. The doctor suggested they write things down so as not to forget. The couple thanked the doctor and left.  That night they were watching television and the man got up from his chair.
          ‘Where are you going?’ asked the wife.
          ‘To the kitchen,’ he replied.
          ‘Well get me some ice-cream,’ she said.
          ‘Sure,’ he said.
          ‘Do you think you should write it down?’ she asked.
          ‘No, I’ll remember,’ he said.
          Twenty minutes later he returned with a plate of bacon and eggs.
          ‘I told you to write it down,’ she scolded, ‘you’ve forgotten my toast…’
         

Growing Older!

Earlier this week, I came across a post on Facebook asking a research question.  It was aimed at people of “a certain age”.  I can’t remember the exact wording, but the gist of it was: What do you dislike about growing older?  There was a thundering response which included people complaining about looking in the mirror and not recognising the person they’d become, despair at going grey/white/bald, annoyance at gaining weight, frustration at losing teeth, ditto mobility, experiencing arthritis, wrinkles, health issues, and finally feeling invisible.  The thread went on and on.
          I added my tuppence worth.  For me, it was noticing a loss of energy.  Stamina just isn’t what it used to be.  Last year I was taking part in an anti-gravity class and was the only one who needed a ‘leg up’ into the hammock.  My upper body strength, after a freak accident with a vacuum cleaner, is absolutely hopeless.  I still have a haematoma which was being aggravated by my upper arms tugging on silks whilst trying to kick a leg in the air and hang upside down like a bat.  As the blood rushed to my head, I did wonder what the hell I was trying to prove other than looking like a Heffalump against the rest of the class who were more like ballerinas.
          Shortly afterwards, I switched to Pilates.  Which was fine.  Easy-peasy.  But I came out of the class feeling beyond depressed.  My classmates this time were no ballerinas, instead they were all of the above on the aging thread – and I just wasn’t ready to embrace this, even though I can tick quite a few of those boxes myself!  The mind is so easily influenced by its surroundings.  So now I play with Pilates at home with a YouTube tutorial.  But oh, how I long for the energy I took for granted in my twenties.  I look back and realise that I went through life like Tigger, joyfully bouncing along as if invisible springs were attached to my feet, and it was so effortless!  Somewhere along the way, the chuffing springs fell off.
          However, a new year is here and with it comes all sorts of promises to turn into a new person, and try and recapture some lost youth.  In an effort to shift middle-age spread, I’ve joined Slimming World, and in an attempt to trick my body into slowing down the aging process, I am setting targets on doing fun things.  Like sky diving.  Without the plane, I hasten to add.  Watch this space.  At some point this year there will be a wind tunnel with a hyperventilating blonde. Which reminds me.
          Some 15-year-old girlfriends met for dinner. They agreed on McDonalds next to the Sea Side Restaurant because they only had £6.50 between them.
          Ten years later, the same girlfriends, now 25-year-olds, discussed where to meet for dinner. They agreed to meet at the Sea Side Restaurant because the band was good and there were lots of cute guys.
          Ten years later, the same girlfriends, now 35-year-olds, discussed where to meet for dinner. They agreed on the Sea Side Restaurant because the combos were good and it was near the gym.
          Ten years later, the same girlfriends, now 45-year-olds, discussed where to meet for dinner. They agreed to meet at the Sea Side restaurant because the martinis were big and the waiters had nice bums.
          Ten years later, the same girlfriends, now 55-year-olds, discussed where to meet for dinner. They agreed to meet at the Sea Side Restaurant because the prices were reasonable, it had windows which opened (in case of hot flushes), and the fish was good for their cholesterol.
          Ten years later, the same girlfriends, now 65-year-olds, discussed where to meet for dinner. They agreed to meet at the Sea Side Restaurant because they had an Early Bird Special and the lighting was good.
          Ten years later, the same girlfriends, now 75-year-olds, discussed where to meet for dinner. They agreed to meet at the Sea Side Restaurant because the food wasn’t too spicy and it was mobility-aid friendly.
          Ten years later, the same girlfriends, now 85-year-olds, discussed where to meet for dinner. They agreed to meet at the Sea Side Restaurant because they'd never been there before…

Happy New Year!

It’s the last day of the year – hurrah!  I don’t know why I’m so excited, because right now the party mood is distinctly absent due to being a hacking, wheezing, sniffing, nose-blowing, croaking wreck.  Many of us get the lurgy in winter, but I thought I’d been one of the lucky ones and missed it.  Christmas Day and Boxing Day passed in a haze of goodwill (maybe Prosecco had something to do with that) but the moment I opened my eyes on Wednesday morning, my body just knew it was in for a rough ride.
          I’m a firm believer in fresh air and exercise, so the pooch has continued to have her woodland walkies, with me calling her to heel in a voice that sounds like I’d been inhaling helium.  Thank goodness I didn’t splash out on tickets for an event at Leeds Castle.  My sis was very keen we join her and her Other Half and celebrate in style (I even have a new sparkly dress in my wardrobe).  Instead, tonight will comprise a takeaway and raising a glass of Lemsip at midnight while watching the fireworks on the telly.  Whatever you’re doing, I wish you Happy New Year.  Which reminds me.
          On New Year’s Eve, Daniel was in no shape to drive, so he sensibly left his van in the car park and walked home.  As he was wobbling along, he was stopped by a policeman.  ‘What are you doing out here at four o’clock in the morning?’ asked the police officer. ‘I’m on my way to a lecture,’ Daniel replied. ‘And who on earth in their right mind is going to give a lecture in the early hours?’ asked the copper. ‘My wife,’ Daniel slurred…
         

Thursday Thursday

My little rescue dog, Molly Muddles, is the sweetest mongrel you could ever meet.  If you walk out the door for five minutes, she’ll greet you as if you’ve been gone for five days, with a tail going from side to side faster than windscreen wipers on full speed. I love walking her through local woodland.  It’s away from the road and she can run safely off the lead to chase squirrels (with falconry bells clipped to her collar I hasten to add, so they are alerted and stay safe!).
          Every morning we walk about two miles together.  Actually, that’s not true.  I walk two miles, but Molly probably does four to my two. She runs from side to side through the woods, traversing the main path over and over, disappearing out of sight, her jingle bells tinkling in the distance as she pursues quarry.  We’re usually out for an hour, and by the time we’re done her sides are heaving like a horse that’s just completed the Grand National. Exhausted, she’ll spend the rest of the day sleeping while I write.
          However, walkies with my pooch became a little fraught throughout December. Suddenly my two-year-old was emulating a two-year-old toddler, ignoring my calls to heel, instead galloping past me, rolling her eyes naughtily, as if to say, “Just five more minutes, Mum”.
          I indulged her, which was probably the wrong thing to do, because suddenly I was no longer waiting five minutes for her to finish a forage in the undergrowth, but ten minutes. And then fifteen.  This is all well and good when you have time on your hands, but not when work is waiting. Twice Molly kept me hanging around for ninety minutes.  Doggy training books advise if your dog disappears on a scent, stay put, the dog will find you.  Well, I’d like to amend that advice because my dog did not find me.  As other dog walkers ambled my way, obedient hounds at heels, I felt somewhat foolish asking every single one of them the same question.
          ‘Hi, have you seen a brown and white dog with a bell clipped to her collar?’
          ‘Oh yes, we passed her half an hour ago.  She was coming this way.’
          As Molly hadn’t passed me and the bell had gone off the radar, I knew she’d changed course.
          ‘Hello, have you seen my dog,’ I asked an old boy who always walks his two arthritic terriers at around the same time I walk Molly.
          ‘Yes, we saw her at end of the path,’ he said, pointing with his walking stick.
          The other end of the path was about a mile away! It was cold, the winter light was starting to fail, and I had a rising sense of panic for two reasons: firstly, being stuck in woods in darkness, secondly not getting enough work done.  Ignoring the dog training advice to stay put, I strode to the other end of the wood.  Eventually my ears picked up the sound of her jingle bell, and she dashed out in front of me, skittering after a squirrel that shot up a tree. Molly took a flying leap and went six feet up the trunk before gravity brought her crashing down in a pile of wet leaves.
          Grabbing her before she could whoosh off again, I stomped back through the woods, all the while chuntering that there would be no more off-lead walks until my deadline was well and truly met.  And I was as good as my word, which didn’t please Madam one little bit.  She’s a terrible Houdini and lead walks always involve a harness plus halti (headcollar) and second lead.  If she manages to get one off in an excitable moment, I have back-up.  Off-lead Molly is very sociable with other dogs.  On-lead, she turns into a raving lunatic.  So I made a point of taking a different walk through the woods to avoid encountering other dog walkers.
          The on-lead walks went well until Thursday morning when everybody else had the same idea of walking their pooches at the same time as me, and the same route. Four times Molly turned into a snapping, growling she-devil as I pulled her into the woodland, and waited patiently for others to pass. On the fifth encounter with another dog, Molly managed to duck out of her collar, pull off the halti and wiggle out of the harness, until I was hanging on to her by her wrap-around coat.  My temper was running on fumes by this point.  To be fair, so was Molly’s, and as if to demonstrate her frustration and anger, she looked at me disdainfully and pooped.  I dutifully scooped using one of the little black bags always kept in my pocket.
          And then along came Cindy the Bull Terrier.  Usually she and Molly exchange a few words, wag tails, do the obligatory sniff and go their separate ways.  But, now thoroughly irked, Molly gave it to Cindy with both barrels.
          ‘Woof-woof-woof-snarl-grrrrrrrrowl-snap-snap-snap.’
          Cindy looked affronted, as well she might. So she retaliated.
          ‘Bark-bark-I-can-snarl-better-than-you-I-thought-you-were-my-friend.’
          I got between the two of them and yelled at Molly for quiet.
          ‘Grrrrrrowl-snarl-I’m-having-a-tantrum-and-you’re-not-stopping-me.’
          It’s not in the dog training book, but if you want to defuse a situation in an emergency, I can vouch for bopping your dog on the nose with a full pooh bag.  It shut Molly up instantly.  However, Cindy was squaring up for a fight.  I felt my stomach knot.  Dear Lord, where was Cindy’s owner?  I couldn’t let go of Molly because we were too near the road.
          ‘Enough!’ I warned Cindy.
          She bared her teeth.  So I bopped her too.
          By this point Molly had recovered from the shock of being bopped by a pooh bag, and began snarling again.
          Bop.
          Instant quiet from Molly, but fresh growls from Cindy.
          Bop.
          Cindy’s owner finally came puffing into view, whistling his pooch to heel, but she was too enraged to comply.  As the two dogs began rumbling again, it looked like fur was about to fly.
          Bop bop bop bop bop bop bop bop.
          Unfortunately there is only so much bopping a pooh bag can take before the inevitable happens. Cindy’s owner grabbed her just as the bag exploded. Something unmentionable shot over our heads, and landed in a thorny bush.
          ‘Sorry,’ I whispered to Cindy’s owner.
          ‘It’s that day of the week,’ he said, mouth twitching. ‘Turdsday.’
          Which reminds me.  A guy died, went to Hell, and was greeted by the devil. The devil led him to a hallway and told him to choose one of three rooms to spend the rest of eternity in.  The guy opened the first door to find a group of people standing on their heads on a wooden floor.  He thought that looked extremely uncomfortable, so he opened the second door. Here he found a group of people standing on their heads on a concrete floor. Then he opened the third door and found a group of people standing in dog whoopsies drinking coffee. He thought this looked better than the first two rooms, so he chose the third room. After a few minutes of standing in the whoopsies drinking coffee, the devil opened the door and said, ‘All right, chaps, the coffee break is over. Back on your heads...’

Surviving Christmas Planning

Even the best laid plans can turn to ashes.  And even the worst laid plans.  I’ve been nagging my husband since approximately June to tell me what plans he might have in mind for visiting Northern family this Christmas.
          ‘Are you kidding?’ he scoffed.  ‘It’s six months away.’
          Any woman worth her salt will know, when it comes to planning, that six months can pass in the same time frame as six weeks.  So when we got to six weeks from Christmas, I asked Mr V the same question again.  My husband blew out his cheeks.
          ‘I don’t know.  Mum’s not been well.  She’s having an angiogram.  Let’s wait and see what the results are first.’
          So we waited, got the thumbs up, and just two weeks from Christmas made hasty plans to travel to Manchester.  Except, not surprisingly, hotels were booked up, and train ticket prices had been pushed up.  I’ve been galloping towards the deadline on a book, so surfing the internet for hotels was not on my list of priorities.  It’s been as much as I can do to finish writing the Christmas cards. I cleared last week’s ironing at midnight, by which point this week’s ironing was slung over a chair giving me reproachful looks.  The following morning I got up bright and early, ready for a writing marathon, whereupon my son rang me every five minutes to ask questions about his conveyancing, his mortgage, his budget, his earnings, and finally his anxiety about whether he was doing the right thing buying a property.  I’d barely finished talking to him through gritted teeth when my husband telephoned to ask what joy I’d had on finding a bed and breakfast, and booking train tickets, by which point I was talking in terse monosyllables.  Hanging up the phone, I returned to my laptop, re-read the same sentence that I’d been re-reading for the last two hours, when the telephone rang again.  No surprises, it was my anonymous caller (who has been ringing for months now) wanting to talk about his trouser banana (let’s not go there). By this point I had more steam coming out of my ears than a boiling kettle.  Flinging my hands up in the air, I left my characters in the middle of a slanging match, and took my pooch off for a walk to clear my head and calm down.
          ‘Hellooo!’ said a familiar face as I walked through the woodland, Molly bouncing along at my heels.
          ‘I haven’t seen you for ages,’ I said to my fellow dog walker.  She always has a huge and very beautiful German Shepherd with her, and various other dogs that aren’t hers but which she regularly walks on behalf of dog owners stuck in an office.  Today’s pack were a couple of extremely obedient border collies, and a very unruly Labrador-cross that rolled its eyes naughtily before charging off after a squirrel with Molly.  ‘Who’s that?’ I asked, as the golden dog followed Molly around.
          ‘Buster,’ she replied.  ‘He’s the lowest of the low in this pack.  Looks like he’s going to try and dominate Molly any second now in order to raise his self-esteem.
          ‘Dominate Molly?’ I asked, puzzled as, seconds later, it appeared that it wasn’t just Buster’s self-esteem that was rising by the second.
          In that moment I wasn’t quite sure what to do.  Whether to scream “RAPE!” on my dog’s behalf, chuck doggy chews about as a means of distraction, or to continue uselessly hopping from one muddy foot to the other as Buster slammed a golden paw on Molly’s back, shoved her to the ground and attempted mounting her.
          ‘She’s a virgin!’ I squeaked, sounding like one of Barbara Cartland’s fictional characters having the vapours.
          ‘Possibly not for much longer,’ came the reply.
          But Molly Muddles was having none of it.  Her street dog genes kicked in and suddenly she was a snarling mass of pink gums and snapping white teeth as she twisted round and nipped Buster firmly on the nose.  Within seconds everything deflated and Molly shot off on a scent.
          Ninety minutes later I was still waiting for my dog to come to heel.  This is the second time she’s had a doggy tantrum on me and refused to come to heel, instead attempting to shimmy up tree trunks after squirrels and then barking in frustration at them to please come down right now so she can eat them as an afternoon snack.
          ‘Come!’ I said, as per the training book and how Molly has been taught.
          Molly had other ideas.  I was starting to panic now. My characters were waiting, a deadline was looming, and quite apart from anything else, the light was fading.
          When I finally ran her to ground, I was in no mood for nonsense.  Back home, I got to grips with the arguing characters, picked up the shrilling telephone and told my anonymous caller where he should put his trouser banana and then finally, finally, got to grips with sourcing a hotel for our trip to Manchester while my daughter booked the train tickets and we tried not to faint over the cost.  Back to the laptop, a few more thousand words and, hurrah, I typed THE END.  I celebrated by unfolding the ironing board and polishing off the second pile of ironing.  It was nearly one in the morning, but I could relax.  Everything was coming together.  Christmas was now welcome to visit the Viggiano household, peace would rule, and there would be goodwill to all men, mad dogs and even anonymous telephone callers.  Except … except …
          ‘Cancel the hotel and get a refund on the train tickets,’ said my husband.
          ‘Eh?’ I said, wondering if I’d heard correctly.
          ‘Everyone is in bed with flu.’
          So, there you have it.  This is how both the best and the worst laid plans turn to ashes.  Which reminds me.
          There was a doctor, a civil engineer, and a planner all sitting around late one evening.  They began discussing who had the oldest profession.  The doctor pointed out that according to biblical tradition, God created Eve from Adam’s rib. This obviously required surgery, so therefore that was the oldest profession in the world. The engineer countered with an earlier passage in the bible that stated God created order from chaos, which was most certainly the biggest and best civil engineering example ever, thus proving his profession was the oldest. The planner leaned back in his chair and with a sly smile said, ‘Yes, but who do you think created the chaos…’

Home Sweet New Home

I absolutely LURVE looking at property, whether it’s scanning the popular Rightmove website, flipping through magazines full of country mansions with acres of land, or gazing at celebs’ houses in gossip mags.  Why?  No idea!  But when my son invited me to go apartment hunting with him, I didn’t need asking twice.  I was in the car, programming the Satnav before he even had confirmation of his first viewing appointment.
          As a first-time buyer, his budget is tight. Dreams about buying a brand-new apartment off-plan fell by the wayside when the builder’s designated mortgage lender wrinkled their noses at my son being self-employed, and demanded one-third of the purchase price as a deposit.  We gave each other a stunned look, and went off to view older properties where a bog standard ten-per-cent deposit was acceptable.  It’s taken a long time for him to save that money, and after the recent stamp duty revisions, Rob wanted to get cracking.  Property prices in the South of England always seem to be going up, despite the forecast about Brexit impacting, and the market slowing down, and the bottom falling out … well, you know how the doom and gloom scenario goes. However, when we went looking there was no sign of this. Properties were going Under Offer faster than us making appointments to view.
          Many apartments for sale were owned by landlords looking to realise their investment.  A few apartments had tenants in situ.  My son was instantly put off seeing not just an untidy house, but very often filthy rooms!
          ‘Try and look beyond those rather suspicious brown marks on the wall,’ I whispered, ‘and imagine the place freshly painted with new carpets.’
          ‘I can’t,’ said Rob.  ‘All I can see is grot.’
          Maybe it’s a male thing, because my husband was the same when we were house hunting a couple of years ago.  Many a time we viewed a beautifully large lounge with feature fireplace, floor to ceiling windows with plenty of light and dazzling views, but Mr V couldn’t see beyond the tatty carpet, moth-eaten curtains and exploding sofas.
          In another apartment with a top-end price tag, my son was immediately put off by the smell of tobacco embedded into the very essence of the walls.
          ‘But it has a great balcony and you’re not overlooked.  You could walk around in the nuddy here and nobody would see you.’
          I forgot the estate agent was in the room.  He raised an eyebrow, clearly thinking I was some sort of eccentric who liked wafting around in her birthday suit.
          ‘For heaven’s sake, Mum,’ whispered Rob, ‘you’re making yourself sound like a weirdo.’
          Well, maybe I am.  I get up early every morning, switch on my computer whilst still in my pyjamas thinking, ‘I’ll just do a couple of tweets and then get dressed.’ However, we all know that social media is majorly distracting.  Two hours later I’m still in my jammies.  It is always the Law of Sod that somebody comes to the door, which is embarrassing.  This has never been truer than in the run-up to Christmas with my kids buying their gifts on-line.  For the last fortnight I have greeted the same courier every morning with a bare face, hair in a scrunchy and wearing ancient PJs.  Mortifying.  One morning my routine changed due to having to be somewhere very early, so by the time I sat down at my computer I was properly dressed.  When the same courier turned up on the doorstep, he actually started laughing and said, ‘In all my career I’ve been waiting to say to someone that I didn’t recognise them with their clothes on, and today I can say that, ah ha ha ha,’ he chortled.  I smiled politely, vowed never to slop around in my PJs again, and promptly got caught out once more the following morning.  Such is the life of some writers.  Yes, okay, I’m a weirdo.
          The viewings continued.  And then last week we found ‘The One’.  As soon as we went through the front door, it felt right.
          ‘I can see myself here,’ said Rob.
          ‘That’s a good sign,’ I said. ‘Do you think it feels like home?’
          ‘Yes, it does,’ said Rob, unlocking the French doors and stepping out onto a balcony that overlooked a silver ribbon of the Thames.
          ‘Great view.  Very peaceful.’
          It needs smartening up, but nothing more than a paintbrush and tweak.
          ‘Will you help me furnish it?’ asked Rob.
          ‘Of course,’ I beamed.
          Ikea here we come!  Which reminds me.  We won’t be asking Father Bryant to help.  He totally messed up last week.  Mother Bryant asked him to do some odd jobs.  She gave him a list of ten.  He did one, three, five, seven and nine…