Debbie Viggiano's Blog, page 10

A Cretan Affair

Four decades ago, during an Easter school trip to the Med, I fell in love with a beautiful island called Crete.  I can still remember standing on a mountain road that was edged with wild flowers, looking down upon clusters of tiny white-washed houses grouped around a golden bay, and delighting in the bluest ocean my twelve-year-old eyes had ever seen.  I was awestruck.  It was many years later before I returned, and when I did, the magic was still there.  Like a charming lover, Crete has disarmed me again and again.
          ‘Wow!’ I exclaimed, as we piled into our hotel room.  ‘This has got to be the swankiest room we’ve ever stayed in.  And look!’ I pointed with delight to a panel on the wall.  ‘This place is so posh, our room even has a burglar alarm.’
          ‘Those are the air-conditioning controls,’ said my husband rolling his eyes.
          The bell boy wheeled in the suitcases and we started to unpack.
          ‘Oh, no,’ groaned Eleanor, ‘you forgot to pack some sponges.  I can’t possibly have a shower without a sponge.  I won’t feel clean.’
          The following evening, Mr V – who was already suffering the proverbial ants in his pants – volunteered to buy some sponges.
          ‘Who fancies taking a bus with me into the old town?’ he asked, looking from daughter to wife expectantly.  But Eleanor and I were watching a mesmerising sunset, and didn’t want to budge from our basket chairs on the terrace.  ‘How can you just sit here?’ he complained.
          ‘Quite easily,’ I assured.
          Who needed to take a bus ride for entertainment when the most spectacular drama was unfolding before us?  The vast sweeping view from the long open terrace gave sight to the open sea with a backdrop of mountains.  Every evening a huge bonfire of orange would hover over the horizon before slowly sinking into the ocean, leaving a horizontal trail from left to right of peach melba, raspberry sorbet and giant pink wisps, while the heavens above overlit the whole thing in violet and indigo blue.  Never has the word mesmerising been so apposite.  Night after night, I’d sit and watch that sunset until the skies turned black and the vista became one of twinkling lights along the rugged coastline.
          On the flight to Crete, there were two new parents with a young baby.  The mum, exhausted no doubt by endless broken nights, was struggling to deal with a fractious infant confined to her lap for a four hour flight.  Eventually her husband took a turn, walking up and down the aisle with the colicky infant over his shoulder, and all the time he crooned, ‘Shush, shush, shush.’  As he shushed, I could feel my own eyelids drooping.  And as I stood on the beach the following morning, listening to an ocean that shush-shush-shushed, I was reminded of the young father placating his baby.  I loved the changes in the sea – how one day it would be as smooth as glass, making its lazy shushing noise as gentle ripples curled through the water producing the smallest of laps around paddling ankles.  And yet twenty-four-hours later, a breeze would descend, picking up speed, whipping the waves into a crescendo of whooshing and hissing so that they rose up six feet high before bursting forth in a mass of foaming froth, sloshing huge bubbling puddles onto the sand.  I always knew when it was around 5.30 p.m. because the sun would be at a certain angle.  Its rays would turn every wave and ripple to a shimmering mass of diamonds.
          But I digress.  Mr V returned from his trip to the old town grinning like a prospector who had found gold.
          ‘Ta da!’ he said, making a noise like a fanfare of trumpets.  ‘Here are the sponges you wanted.  They’re real ones too!’
          Eleanor leant forward to peer at them.  ‘Real ones?’ she questioned.  ‘What, you mean they’re still alive?’
          As a family, we have these ‘quirky’ exchanges.  For example, on another evening my husband suggested we have a chat about politics.
          ‘Is that a good idea?’ I asked.  An unspoken rule is to never talk about politics, or religion, on the grounds that it can lead to heated arguments.
          ‘Yes,’ my husband waved a hand dismissively, ‘come on, Eleanor, tell me what you know about politics.  This is an educational conversation. After all, you’ll be old enough to vote next year.  So, tell me, who are the main political parties?’
          ‘Oh, right.  Um, well, there’s the Lib Dems.’
          ‘Yes.’
          ‘And, um, Labour.’
          ‘Very good.  Who else?’
          ‘The Conservatories,’ said Eleanor, warming to her task.
          ‘The–?’
          ‘Ooh, and that alternative one, don’t tell me,’ Eleanor was in her stride now, ‘yes, got it, The Green Thumb.’
          ‘Isn’t that a lawn company?’ I asked.
          ‘Ah.  In that case it must be the Jolly Green Giant.  I’ve seen their poster somewhere.’
          ‘Yes, on tins of sweet corn,’ said Mr V looking horrified.  ‘Eleanor, one day you will be responsible for electing a future Government.  You need to be a lot more informed.’
          ‘Have you seen all the unusual handbags hanging on the wall in the hotel foyer?’ I asked, thinking a change of subject might be required.
          ‘Handbags?’ Mr V frowned.  ‘What handbags?’
          ‘Those rectangular things over there,’ I pointed.
          ‘They’re cow bells,’ said Mr V.  ‘Wooden cow bells, not handbags.’
          As I said, sometimes we have these conversations.
          And sometimes we don’t just say silly things, we also do silly things.  Like the time I offered to do the drinks run.  I set off from the beach, straw hat plonked firmly on head, and made my way to the bar.  It was a good trek as Mr V always liked to reserve sunbeds at the far end of the beach.
          ‘Hi,’ I greeted the barman.  ‘I’ll have a large bottle of carbonated water, three cups, one full of ice and, um, a Pepsi cola, a gin and tonic, and a Virgin Mojita please.’
          ‘Anything else?’
          I eyeballed the massive bowl of fruit on the bar top.
          ‘A banana.’
          ‘Here you are.’
          ‘Thanks.’
          I then realised that carrying this little lot back to our sunbeds at the far end of the beach was going to be tricky due to only having one pair of hands.  Undaunted, I picked up the banana and shoved it down the side of my bikini bottoms, before scooping up the three drinks in one hand – fingers in all the liquid – and then grabbed the carbonated water with my other hand.  I was just lowering my jaw down to bar level to pick up the plastic cup of ice with my teeth, when the most heavenly male accent spoke into my ear.
          ‘You look like a woman in serious trouble.’
          I turned, and nearly fainted.  Standing before me was an Adonis, well over six feet tall, with a washboard stomach and skin the colour of peanut butter.  He was also about twenty years younger than me.  In the grip of hormonal havoc, I flushed deep red, and assured the gentleman I could manage perfectly well.  The man arched an eyebrow before glancing at my bikini bottoms.  Automatically, I sucked in my stomach.
          ‘Any woman wearing a banana as a pistol in her bikini, is a woman who needs help.’
          There was a fleeting moment where I wondered if he meant psychiatric help, but instead he removed half the drinks from my hand and asked, ‘Which way are you going?’
          ‘Oh, no, really, it’s fine,’ I gabbled, ‘I don’t want to take you out of your way, I’m right at the end of the beach.’
          The Adonis gave me a smouldering gaze which nearly had my banana standing to attention and replied, ‘I just happen to be going that way too.’
          I gulped nervously.  Quite what Mr V and our daughter would make of me sauntering up to our sunbed with Rod the Bod in tow, I wasn’t sure.  As it turned out, Eleanor was plugged into her iPod with her eyes shut and my husband was knee deep in the Daily Mail’s sports pages.
          ‘Ah, lovely,’ said Mr V holding out his hand for his gin and tonic, eyes still firmly on photographs of footballers and oblivious to the big hairy hand offering him his drink.  ‘Thanks, darling.’
          This confirms that when you’ve been married a long time, your husband truly no longer notices you.  Which reminds me.  Marriage is an institution in which a man loses his Bachelor's Degree and the woman gets her Masters… 

Driving You Crazy

This week I have encountered quite a lot of impatient motorists.  There have been drivers who have pulled out on me.  Drivers who have cut in.  And then there was the driver who loudly objected when I gave way to a bus.  A glance in my rear view mirror revealed an apoplectic face and a hand gesture that definitely wasn’t a friendly wave.
          I haven’t fared much better in car parks.  Earlier on in the week, whilst visiting my accountant, some ‘thoughtful’ soul boxed me in.  Of all the empty spaces in the car park, apparently none were close enough to the door of the building he wished to visit.  Are people really in such a hurry that they can’t drive within the speed limit, or be considerate to other motorists?  It would seem not.
          I’m not a fast driver.  Indeed, the one and only time I ever received a speeding ticket was when mistakenly driving at 34 mph in an area I believed to be 40 mph.  However, the local Council, without any warning, had changed the speed on that stretch of the road to 30 mph.
          My husband didn’t believe me when I told him I’d been caught speeding.
          ‘You?’ he asked incredulously.  ‘No!  Where’s the proof?’
          And so I showed him.  And anybody else who doubted I’d been so daring as to break the law.
          It’s been a long time since I drove like a girl racer.  In fact I can pinpoint exactly when it happened.  It was the day after I took my driving test.  It’s the same phenomenon that happens to 99% of all newly qualified drivers.  Overnight, you turn into a lunatic.  Back then, in those heady days of singledom and being child free, I’d roar around in my ancient Morris Minor – a gift from my grandmother – thinking I was the bee’s knees, terrifying all the granddads on the road.  I was an arrogant know-it-all.
          Toot toot.  ‘Get out of the way.’
          Parp parp.  ‘Try studying the Highway Code!’
          Beep beep.  ‘Call yourself a driver?  You don’t know the meaning of the word!’
          The road was mine, and the Morris Minor was my Ferrari.  Unfortunately my car begged to differ.  Six months later it needed not just a new clutch but also a new engine.  Oh, and a re-spray where I’d driven into the garage wall not once, not twice, but three times a lady driver.  Parking had never been my strong point.  That and roundabouts.  Every accident I’ve ever had has been on a roundabout.  But I digress.  I can still remember the incredible guilt, as I looked at my beloved grandmother’s crestfallen face, telling her the car was ‘worn out’.
          ‘How strange,’ she’d said, brow puckered, ‘I can’t understand it.’
          ‘Mm,’ I’d nodded.  ‘It’s a mystery.’
          ‘I only ever drove it to Carréfours and back at twenty miles per hour, and twice a year to Kent at thirty miles per hour.  It always behaved perfectly.’
          Yes, until a twenty-year-old madwoman took over the controls.
          My reacquaintance of driving within the speed limit came the day after becoming a mother.  Another overnight phenomenon occurred.  Suddenly I was one of the slowest drivers on the planet.  Couldn’t get out of third gear for years.  I’d drive along, sweating profusely, as car after car overtook me, with my precious cargo strapped into a baby seat.  It was always a joy to pal up with another new mother and swap tales of manic drivers on the road.
          ‘I had a near miss today.’
          ‘No!’
          ‘Yes!  This madman blared his horn and overtook me on the Top Dartford Road.  He must have been doing at least 38 mph.’
          ‘How terrifying.  There should be a law against it.’
          Which reminds me.  Nothing confuses a man more than a woman driver who does everything right…

A Bit of a Work Out

Earlier this week, a lovely girlfriend invited me to meet up for a work-out at her gym.  When I say her gym, I don’t mean a rowing machine in the spare room.  Rather, the amazing gym that Fiona’s employer gives as a perk.  I’ve been to one or two gyms in my lifetime…okay, just the one…and thought it pretty good.  A big studio for the likes of Zumba, and crashing into other members, and a smaller studio full of bicycles that didn’t go anywhere.  Oh, and another room full of weights and machines that looked like instruments of torture.  And were.  However, nothing prepared me for Reebok Sports Club in Canary Wharf.  This is the gym of all gyms – the one that takes the crown.
          I signed in and was whisked through the security turnstile.  Clutching my bikini wrapped in a bath towel, Fiona said, ‘Oh dear, I forgot to tell you that you didn’t need to bring a towel.  Look.’  She pointed to a wall, possibly as long as Hadrian’s, which was stocked floor to ceiling with fluffy white towels.  ‘Nor do you need shower gel, hair conditioner, a hair dryer, or flat irons,’ Fiona said, ‘because it’s all here.’  I stared around in disbelief.  It was like Vidal Sassoon, except a zillion times bigger, and minus a mincing hair techie.  ‘Let me show you around,’ said Fiona.  And so I was shown.  All three floors.  All 10,000 square feet.  There was even a rock climbing wall, a golf lab and a boxing ring for heaven’s sake!  Think of something you want to do, and the Reebok Club have got it.  Not to mention 210 classes a week to do it in.  I felt exhausted just looking at everything. 
          Before I go any further with this blog entry, let me just mention that Fiona has been on a successful mission to lose weight and shape up through exercise and sensible eating.  She’s dropped two dresses sizes, and is fit.  Whereas lately I only seem to think about exercise, eat whilst thinking about it, and have possibly gone up two dress sizes.  As Fiona had worked out earlier that day with a personal trainer, and whizzed a medicine ball round and round her head – and possibly the personal trainer too – she was happy to do something a little gentler.  With a sigh of relief, we slid into the pool.  While we did a sedate breaststroke in the slow lane, guys in wet suits practised diving in the fast line, and in yet another lane twenty women were bouncing around for the water aerobics class.  Still, I must have worked off, ooh, at least fifty calories.
          Afterwards, we showered, dressed and strolled across the Thames to The Gun, a pub in the Docklands.  This place is a little piece of history.  Two-hundred-and-fifty years old, way back then the surrounding area at that time had iron foundries.  Here, guns were made for the Royal Navy fleets.  Under the pub is a labyrinth of tunnels, where all sorts of weapons were brought in on the black market.  Lord Horatio Nelson acquired a nearby property, and would regularly meet his lover, Lady Emma Hamilton, at The Gun.  The two of them would use a secret circular staircase to access an upstairs room.  We were lucky enough to be shown around.  All I can say is that folk back then must have been incredibly short.  Stooping, we went through a narrow aperture (folk must have been incredibly thin too!) and stepped into Lord Nelson’s ‘naughty room’.  Except today it is called The River Room, because of its spectacular view of the Thames.
          After our guided tour, we were taken to the restaurant.  At this point I’d like to mention what we were wearing.  Fiona was attired in a smart power suit accessorised with quality handbag.  I was wearing a summer dress accessorised with a bath towel.  Inside the towel was a very soggy bikini.  I clung onto it tightly as we were led to our table at the far end of the restaurant.
          ‘Now, ladies, enjoy your meals, but I must have the table back by ten-thirty.  Jonathan Ross has reserved it.’
          Fiona and I did a bit of hyperventilating.  Wow.  Wossywould be sitting here in two hours!  How trendy was this place, eh!  I kicked my bath towel under the table.  Clearly this was an uber cool location, and bath towels were definitely not uber cool.  I tossed my hair back, picked up the menu, and tried to look uber cool.  The words blurred before my eyes.  However, I didn’t want to whip out my reading glasses.  Firstly, they looked cheap.  Which is because they are.  £4.99 from Asda – bargain.  But, secondly, they are bright red with white spots.  I did consider whether to put them on and pass myself off as eccentric, but what with the bath towel, I think there’s only so far you can push it.
          The waiter took our order and, for a while, all was well.  It was as we were leaving that all attempts at being uber cool failed.  The waiter tripped over my towel.  Gathering it up, I belatedly realised it was no longer in a tight coil.  Standing up, the towel swiftly unravelled divesting itself of the bikini which came to rest in the remains of my strawberry sorbet.  Still, I don’t think too many people noticed.  Well, only ten or so.  Which reminds me.  Why did the blonde keep doing the backstroke?  She’d just had dinner and didn’t want to swim on a full stomach…

Feeling Ruff

I’d really like to write something cheerful, but right now I’m still absolutely furious about my elderly beagle being attacked by two Weimarinars on Saturday afternoon.  Sometimes you need to let rip.  This is one of those occasions so…everybody stand back!
          If you are thinking about getting a dog, or have recently acquired a dog, please take on board that it is your responsibility, no, DUTY, to teach your dog basic obedience, manners and respect.
          Over the years, I’ve owned many dogs and, with the exception of one, they were all rescue dogs.  I had no idea of their background or why they were no longer wanted.  It is a tough decision taking on a rescue dog when the animal is an unknown quantity.  Has the animal been badly treated?  Could it, as a result, bite?  If you have children, is the dog going to be good with them?  If you have a cat, will the dog be tolerant?  There are a number of questions you need to ask yourself and these are just a few.  Ironically, the only dog I ever had a problem with was one I welcomed as a puppy.
          Many years ago, our ancient family dog – an old Collie by the name of Bob – fathered a litter of twelve puppies.  He was immensely proud of himself, but the effort obviously took it out of him.  Not long afterwards he keeled over.  The owner of the bitch our dog had wooed was, understandably, aghast but blamed herself for not getting her bitch spayed.
          ‘Can you help me out here,’ she asked, ‘and offer one of these puppies a home?’
          So we did.  After all, it would be like having a little bit of Bob.  We named our pup Max.  And he was adorable.  Until a friend’s child, learning to walk, fell on him.  And from that moment on, Max couldn’t abide kids.  And when I say abide, I actually mean detest.
          When my son came along, I dithered about re-homing Max.  A number of questions ran through my head.  What if the re-homing centre in some way failed to properly pass on information, so that the new owner didn’t know this dog abhorred children?  What if his new owner let Max off the lead at a local park, and he bit a child?  I couldn’t risk it.  The alternative decision was to put him to sleep.  That said, the dog had never actually bitten a child.  It was a double dilemma because he was young and fit.  I decided to keep Max and make sure he never had an opportunity to be alone with my baby son.  He’d never been an ‘indoor’ dog.  I think his Collie genes just couldn’t cope with it.  Long ago we’d turned one of the stables into a heated kennel, and fenced off a large section of paddock as an outdoor run with external shelter.  So when my son was finally born, the house was a safe environment.  And whenever Max encountered my son outside, he was always on a lead.  Strangely, he never gave my son a second glance.  But with anybody else’s child, he was a nightmare.
          There was one heart-stopping moment when a mother, toddler in a buggy, ventured into our private stable yard unannounced while Max was loose.  The dog zoomed off, like a greyhound after a hare, skidded to a halt in front of the buggy, and gave one deep baritone bark before zooming back to me.  I was expecting hysterics from the mother and thinking, ‘This is it, I’m finally going to have to have him put to sleep.’  Fortunately the mother acknowledged she had come onto private property with a sign that screamed BEWARE OF THE DOG, and thank God her child was unharmed.  But it was a horrendous moment.  The whole ‘what should I do about this dog’ situation was resolved when Max was diagnosed with unexpected bone cancer, and had to be put to sleep anyway.  I would be a liar if I didn’t say that, despite the tears, there was also a sense of relief.
          If you know your dog is unpredictable, can’t stand the postman, the dustman, bike riders, and has issues with other dogs, cats, or children, then it is up to you to take every step possible to ensure that your dog doesn’t cause an accident or bring harm to others.  Letting your dog off the lead and ‘hoping for the best’ is just not on.
          The last time my current dog was attacked was by a traveller’s dog.  Afterwards, I went out and bought one of those tennis ball launcher dog toys.  The plastic handle is absolutely ace for bashing the cr*p out of an offending dog.  Regrettably, after moving to our new abode, I stopped carrying the tennis ball launcher out on walks with pooch stupidly thinking it was no longer necessary.  However, if my dog recovers from this attack, I most definitely will be arming myself with it.  So, owners of unpredictable dogs, WATCH OUT!  Which reminds me.
          Mrs Green was walking to the Post Office when her neighbour came up to her and said, ‘Hello, Mrs Green, how’s your dog?  I saw it yesterday chasing an old man on a bicycle.’  ‘That wasn’t my dog,’ said Mrs Green.  ‘Are you sure?’ asked the neighbour.  ‘Most definitely,’ said Mrs Green, ‘my dog can’t ride a bicycle…’
 

A Short Story

Yesterday my daughter offered me three pairs of her old shorts.  When I say old, I don’t mean ancient.  I use the word more in the context of ‘no longer required’.  And why are they no longer required?  Because, after a year of pole fitness and physical theatre, she weighs eight stone seven pounds and has a body slimmer than a pencil.  Well, not literally a pencil, but you know what I mean.
            ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I told her, ‘they won’t fit me.’
            ‘Yes, they will.  They’re huge,’ was her response.
            In this next context, please understand that huge still means ‘Size Small’, it’s just that they’re huge on her because she’s now Extra Extra Small.
            ‘Here,’ Eleanor held a pair out, ‘try them on.’
            ‘Do you think I should?’
            ‘Yes!’
            ‘Erm, I was thinking more along the lines of whether it’s acceptable to be seen in them.’
            ‘Hmm.  I get where you’re coming from.  Leopard print probably isn’t for you.’
            Indeed.  Not unless I wanted to look like a fifty-two-year-old hooker.
            ‘Well what about these?’ Eleanor offered.  ‘They cost a lot of money.’  She was holding a pair of black cotton hot pants covered in silver spikes and tiny metal skulls.  A reminder of her Emo phase.
            ‘I’m not sure they’re really me.’
            ‘Okay.  What about this last pair?  They’re boring as anything.  Just like y– .  I mean…they’ll totally suit you.’
            I gazed at the pale blue denim.  Levi Strauss.  And lovely fringed sawn off legs.  Oh, yes!  I stuck one foot through the leg hole, then the other, and pulled them up.  There was a pause as the denim hit my thighs.  A bit of a tug.  After all, you can ask your thighs to breathe in, but you won’t get a response.  A firm yank, and they shot upwards nearly garrotting my private parts.
            My son wandered in, looking vague.  ‘I’m in the middle of revision, and stuck.’
            ‘I’m in the middle of trying on a pair of shorts, and also stuck.’
            ‘I’ve gone blank on the definition of volatile.’
            ‘It means tense, uncomfortable, or uneasy.  A bit like me in these shorts.’
            ‘I’m talking about the word in chemistry terms.’
            ‘They fit!’ Eleanor exclaimed.
            ‘Well, they’re on,’ I said cautiously, pulling the waistband together to do up the stud button.  There was a gap of two inches.  Okay, I’m lying.  It was three inches.
            ‘Oh, I remember now,’ said Robbie, ‘it means a liquid that easily evaporates at room temperature.’
            ‘I wish my waist would evaporate at room temperature.’
            ‘Oh, shame,’ said Eleanor, trying not to look appalled at her mother impersonating a particularly porky sausage in the grip of a very tight bandage.  Or a pair of shorts in this case.  ‘Take them off and I’ll give them to the charity shop.’
            Removing the shorts was not an experience I wish to repeat.  As I went to pull them down, they jammed over my hips.  How on earth had I ever got them on?
            ‘Help,’ I wailed.
            ‘Keep still, I’ll tug with you,’ said Eleanor.
            So we tugged. Nothing happened.  Visions of reaching for the kitchen scissors danced through my mind.
            ‘One more try,’ said Eleanor.
            Thankfully the second attempt had the shorts coming down.  Along with my pants.
            ‘Do not ask me,’ I gasped, trying to protect my modesty, ‘to ever attempt trying on your clothes again.’
            ‘You could always go on a diet,’ my daughter suggested helpfully.
            Which reminds me.  I’m trying the new Pasta Diet.  The Italians have been using it for centuries. You walka pasta da bakery.  You walka pasta da sweet shop.  And you walka pasta da ice-cream shop…

 

Breakfast with the Bryants

Earlier this week, my daughter and I – due to an uncharacteristically early start to the day – ended up having breakfast at my parents’ house.
          My mother, unused to being awoken at what she calls the crack of dawn (it was nine in the morning), and recuperating from her recent operation, was still floating about in her nightie.
          ‘Put the kettle on, Debs,’ said Mother Bryant, ‘while I go and get dressed.  You know where everything is.’
          ‘Indeed,’ I replied, before turning to my daughter.  ‘What would you like?’
          ‘What is there?’ asked Eleanor.
          My mother immediately did a U-turn and shuffled back into the kitchen.  ‘I have ten different varieties of cereal, or there’s muffins, or bread for toasting – you can choose from brown, white, oatmeal or gluten-free – there’s also croissants…plain and almond, or scones with either currants or cherries, I’ve got teacakes, or you can have fresh fruit…bananas, blueberries and strawberries.’
          Only my mother can offer such an array of goodies.
          Eleanor pondered.  ‘Is there anything else?’
          Only my daughter can still remain indecisive.
          ‘Boiled eggs and soldiers?’
          Eleanor’s face lit up.  ‘Yes please!’
          ‘I’ll let your mother take care of it for you.  I must go and get dressed.’
          My father came into the kitchen.
          ‘Are you taking care of Eleanor’s breakfast?’
          ‘Yes.  I’m doing boiled eggs.  Do you want a couple?’
          ‘No, thanks, I’m going to have toast.’
          My mother immediately shuffled back into the kitchen.  ‘No you’re not, Tony, you’re going to finish off the yoghurt.  It’s two days out of date and needs eating up.’
          ‘Right, dear.’
          ‘Do you think it wise to eat dairy that’s out of date?’ I asked.
          ‘Certainly,’ said Mother Bryant, ‘when you’ve been through a war you’ll eat anything.’
          ‘Do you want to share some yoghurt?’ Father Bryant turned to Eleanor.
          ‘She’s not having any yoghurt!’ Mother Bryant cried.  ‘I’m not risking my granddaughter getting listeria.’
          ‘But it’s okay for me to get listeria?’ Father Bryant asked.
          My mother thought about it.  ‘Yes,’ she nodded her head.  ‘Now excuse me, because I must get dressed.’
          There then followed a couple of minutes where I side-stepped my father to reach the hob, and Eleanor danced around her grandfather to grab the kettle, and my father jiggled around the pair of us to open the fridge, and then my mother shuffled back in, still in her nightie.
          ‘Dear Heart,’ said my father (you can tell he’s irritated when he refers to her as Dear Heart), ‘there isn’t enough room in this part of the kitchen for all of us.  What are you doing?’
          ‘I want to warm the bowl for Eleanor’s eggs.’
          ‘Surely the eggs will go into eggcups?’ asked Father Bryant.
          ‘No, she likes them turned out.  Now get out of my way please, I want to warm the bowl.’
          ‘You don’t need to warm the bowl, Grandma,’ said Eleanor.
          ‘I’m warming the bowl!’ said Mother Bryant in a tone of voice that defied argument.
          There then followed a minute while we held our breath, Mother Bryant daring us to interfere, as the tiny woman with the stoop picked up a boiling kettle and, with a violently wobbling hand, slopped scalding water into a china bowl.
          ‘There!’ she said triumphantly as the kettle banged back down on the worktop.  We all exhaled with relief.  ‘Now excuse me.  I must get dressed.’
          I then watched the water boil in the egg saucepan, set the timer, and a couple of minutes later turned the eggs out into the warmed bowl.
          ‘Oh dear.’
          ‘What is it?’ asked Father Bryant.
          ‘The eggs aren’t cooked enough.  They’re all watery.’
          ‘Oh, Mum,’ Eleanor peered over my shoulder, ‘that looks revolting.’
          ‘Not to worry,’ said Father Bryant, ‘we’ll put them in the microwave.’
          ‘How does it work?’ I peered at the old-fashioned buttons.
          ‘Everybody out of my way,’ said Mother Bryant lurching back into the kitchen, grabbing hold of door handles and backs of chairs for support.  She was still in her nightie.  ‘I’ll set the timer for you.  Will ten seconds do it?’
          ‘I’m not sure,’ said Eleanor.
          ‘We’ll try it,’ said Father Bryant, pressing the start button.
          ‘Stop!  Stop!’ shrieked Mother Bryant.  ‘The timer says nine minutes fifteen seconds!’
          ‘No, it doesn’t, Dear Heart.’ (Dear Heart again, see.)
          ‘Yes it does.’  Mother Bryant pointed a knobbly finger at the digital display.  ‘See?  There!  Are you blind?’
          ‘That’s the clock, Dear Heart.’ (Said through gritted teeth.)
          ‘It isn’t.’
          ‘It is.’
          ‘It isn’t.’
          ‘It is.’
          ‘It isn’t.’
          ‘It is.’
          ‘Grandma,’ interrupted Eleanor, ‘I don’t think it can be the timer because nine minutes and fifteen seconds in a microwave would cause the eggs to explode.  Several times over.’
          My mother thought about this.  ‘Don’t you want the eggs well cooked?’
          ‘I think thirty seconds will suffice.  Why don’t you let me do it, and go and get dressed?’
          ‘Yes.  Good idea.  I keep meaning to get dressed, but everybody keeps interrupting me.’  My mother then shuffled over to the kitchen table and sat down.  ‘Actually, I’m too exhausted to get dressed right now.  I’ll do it in a little while.’
          The eggs came out of the microwave looking extremely unappetising.
          ‘Are they okay?’ Father Bryant asked Eleanor.
          ‘Um, yes, I suppose so.  They just look a bit dodgy.’
          ‘What about some marmalade?’ asked Mother Bryant hauling herself upright and shuffling across to a cupboard.
          ‘Not on eggs, Grandma.’
          ‘No?  Well what about something else?  I’ve got Nutella, Marmite, strawberry jam, or peanut butter.’
          ‘I think I’ll just have butter, Grandma.’
          ‘Okay.  I’ve got Lurpak, Olivio or Flora.’
          My daughter took the Lurpak before taking a mouthful of egg.
          ‘How is it?’ asked Father Bryant.
          ‘If I don’t look at it,’ Eleanor replied, ‘it’s passable.’
          I put my piece of toast down and glanced at everybody around the table. ‘I’ve just remembered the dream I had last night.’
          ‘Why, did it have micro-waved eggs in it?’ asked my father.
          ‘No, it had angels in it.’
          My father and daughter exchanged a look.  One that clearly said she’s away with the fairies again.
          ‘I’m listening to you, dear,’ said Mother Bryant indulgently, ‘even if these two aren’t.’
          ‘I went for a spin around the globe with these two massive angels.  And very nice it was too.  Oh, and they kept chanting three words as we flew.  Love, Mercy and Forgiveness.’
          ‘Probably in relation to your egg cooking skills,’ muttered Eleanor.
          Which reminds me.  What day do eggs hate the most?  Fry-day…
         
 
 

The Other Man

There is a man in my life who sees me in ways that only a husband should.  And a husband of longstanding at that.  And yet…he is not my husband.  This is a shameful thing to confess, but confess I do.  Every morning I wake up, minus make-up, hair dishevelled, and greet this man in the seductive attire of pyjama shorts and a mis-matched top.  This relationship is now in its eighth month.  Sometimes he leaves me little notes too.  There’s a parcel behind your wheelie bin.  Yes, I’m talking about my postman.
          Earlier this week, I greeted my postie possibly looking like his worst nightmare, and it dawned on me that postmen up and down the country must see an awful lot of ladies looking…well, not to put it too finely…rough.
          In fact, I know this is true.  Because I recently bumped into my postie in the local supermarket, said hello, and he didn’t know who I was.
          ‘It’s me,’ I beamed, ‘you don’t recognise me with my clothes on, do you!’ It was only then that I registered the flabbergasted woman standing next to him.
          ‘My postman!’ I explained.
          ‘My husband,’ she snapped.
          ‘Well, yes, of course,’ I gabbled, ‘and I’ve got one of those too,’ I assured.
          ‘Excellent. And I’m sure you wouldn’t want me greeting him in my birthday suit every morning.’
          ‘Oh, but I haven’t.  I mean didn’t.  I wear pyjama shorts you see.  And a top.  Obviously.  Well, apart from that time when he got me out the shower.  I had a towel around me on that occasion.’  Mrs Postie looked affronted.  This wasn’t what she wanted to hear.  ‘Absolutely lovely to meet you,’ I trilled.  ‘I’m just off to dig a big hole for myself under the tinned soup aisle.’  Well, I didn’t really say that last bit.  But I definitely thought it.  Why is it that the most innocent of things can sometimes become a minefield?
          In my old house, the door had stained glass windows.  So if the postie rang the bell, I was able to hide my pyjama shorts and mis-matched top behind the patterned glass and just poke out my head, as if on a lollipop stick, and take the proffered parcel.  In those days it was the dustmen I used to scare on a weekly basis.  There was many a Friday morning that I’d forget the bin men were coming.
          ‘Damn, the dustmen are here,’ I’d say to Mr V.  ‘Quick.  Go and put the bin out.’
          ‘I’m not dressed.  You put the bin out.’
          ‘I’m not dressed either.  I’m wearing my pyjama bottoms and mis-matched top.’
          ‘But I’m only wearing my underpants.’
          ‘I don’t care.  You’re the man of the house.  You do it.’
          ‘You’re always telling me that you run this house, so you do it.’
          ‘Oh for–’
          Followed by a crazed blonde catapulting out of the house and legging it after the dustcart with a wheelie bin bouncing in her wake.
          In my mother’s day, there was yet another man who used to find the ladies in a state of undress.  The milkman.  These days everybody buys their milk at the supermarket, but when I was a child the sound of the electric milk float was common place.  My mother would greet the milkman every morning, a vision in a nylon nightie and hair curlers.  Sometimes, if it was the weekend and she was hoping for a lie-in, she’d leave a note folded into the empties.
          ‘Dear Milkman.  Please leave an extra pint today.’
          On one occasion, her note was misunderstood.
          ‘Dear Milkman.  I missed you yesterday.  Do you have any strawberry yoghurts?’
          His reply:  ‘Strawberry yoghurts behind the planter.  And I missed you too.’
          Fortunately my father saw the funny side and recognised that our milkman had a sense of humour.
          One evening, my mother put the empties out and scribbled another of her hasty notes.  Never great at spelling, she didn’t realise that she’d asked him to leave an extra pint of paralysed milk.  Which reminds me.  Here are some genuine notes that have been left in milk bottles for the milkman:
          I’ve just had a baby.  Please leave another one.
          Cancel one pint after the day after today.
          Please close gate behind you as birds keep pecking the tops off the milk.
          Do not leave milk at Number 14 because he is dead until further notice.
          My child wants a milkshake. Do you deliver? Or do I shake the bottle?
          Please leave details about cheap milk as I’m stagnant…
 

Losing Your Marbles

Somebody once said, ‘Stress doesn’t kill.  What doeskill, is the way stress is handled.’  Currently I’m not sure whether my stress levels are being handled brilliantly or, thanks to some heart twinges, whether my life plan to live to one hundred is actually going to end in the next one hundred seconds.
          We all suffer stress, and many of us on a daily basis.  Most of us juggle work, kids, spouse, home, and chores on automatic pilot.  However, if you add too many extras into that juggling act, there is a danger of everything collapsing around your ears.  When my mother was taken into hospital as an emergency admission three weeks ago, all the balls I’d been juggling began to falter.  In order to find considerable time to visit her every day and see to her personal needs, something had to give.  The ironing was the first thing to go.  Like a rolling snowball, it quickly gathered momentum.  Within days a huge pile of crumpled clothes had accumulated.
          ‘I’ve nearly run out of shirts,’ said my husband, reclining against the sofa to watch his beloved football.
          ‘How shocking!’
          He gave me an uncertain look, decided I was being serious, and ploughed on.  ‘It’s true.  My wardrobe is nearly empty.
          The shopping was the next thing to slide.
          ‘What’s for tea?’ asked my daughter.  ‘I’m starving.’
          I peered inside the freezer.  ‘Brussel sprouts, peas and roast potatoes.’
          Eleanor looked confused.  ‘Isn’t there something to go with that?’
          I looked inside the freezer again.  ‘Yes.  Ice-cream.’
          The next thing to lapse was housework.
          ‘Mum, there’s cat hair everywhere,’ said my son when he visited last weekend.  ‘You haven’t vacuumed.  You know I’m allergic to Dolly!’
          The washing was the next thing to be abandoned.
          ‘I’m out of socks,’ said Mr V.
          ‘I’m out of pants,’ said Eleanor.
          ‘I’m out of anti-histimine,’ said Robbie.
          ‘And I’m out of patience,’ I said.
          It was at that point that everybody ran for cover.  The blue touch paper had been lit, and there was no holding me back.  Like a bottle of dropped Cola, stress fizzed up and exploded out of me.
          Suddenly my son was vacuuming as if his life depended on it, my husband was whizzing an iron backwards and forwards over the mountain of crumpled clothes, my daughter tidied her room and walked the dog, and then everybody took off to the local supermarket to do a mammoth trolley fill.  I left them all to it and rushed off to the hospital to speak to doctors about unchanged dressings, potential cellulitis, lack of bed bathing assistance, drug changes, care assistance and post-operative delirium.  At the end of it all my mother berated me for ‘interfering’.
          ‘My life won’t be worth living,’ she snapped.  ‘They taunt me you know.’
          ‘Who?’
          ‘Everybody.  And one of the nurses here is absolute poison.  And she hates your guts.  She’s reported you to all the national newspapers.  Do you realise everyone is reading about you?  Your name is mud.’
          ‘Yes, Mum,’ I said.  ‘You kindly told me all that yesterday.  And the day before.  And the day before that.  And the day before that one too.’
          ‘You’ve got to stop causing me trouble.’
          I knelt before my mother and cupped her face in my hands.
          ‘Listen to me, Mum.  Try and hang on to what I’m saying.  I care about you.  I love you.  And I’m interfering – as you call it – because I love and care.’
          She gazed back at me with vacant blue eyes.  The lights were on but nobody was home.
          The time when the tears actually fell was when I mislaid my mobile phone.  Silly how something so trivial can reduce you to floods, but that was the breaking point.  I needed my phone!  I couldn’t function without my phone!  Where was the ruddy thing?!  I dashed off to the hospital trumpeting into a packet of Kleenex, and minus the phone.  I met my father in the hospital foyer.
          ‘I’ve mislaid my mobile, Dad.  Can I borrow yours?  I need to text Eleanor to say I will be late picking her up from college.’
          ‘Of course,’ said my father.  ‘You can use my new mobile.’
          ‘What happened to the old one?’  It wasn’t that long ago my father had upgraded to a Smart phone.
          ‘I couldn’t get on with it.’
          ‘Really?  Oh, that’s a shame.  Well, never mind.  Give me the new one.’
          And with that my father placed a small clam in the palm of my hand.  It was, possibly, the very first mobile phone ever invented.  Oh, hang on, the first mobile phone had been the size of a brick.  Okay, this one was possibly the second mobile phone ever invented.
          ‘How much did you pay for this?’
          ‘Oh, it was a bargain,’ he assured.
          I bit my tongue and wondered what salesman had fleeced my father.  Now wasn’t the time to fight another battle.  I opened the clam and tried to remember how to use such a mobile.  Dear Lord.  Where was the internet?  It didn’t even have a camera!
          ‘Okay.  I need to text.  Do you know how to text on this thing?’
          ‘I’m still finding my way around it,’ my father said vaguely.
          ‘Right.  Not to worry.  Ah.  Found it.’  I started to stab out a message to my daughter.  ‘Blast.  How do you backspace?’
          ‘I don’t know.’
          ‘Damn.  All the words are joining up.  Do you know which key is the space bar?’
          ‘I don’t know.’
          ‘Doesn’t matter,’ I smiled, whilst inwardly screaming.  ‘I think Eleanor will understand the gist of this message.’  I hit the send button.
           Later that day Eleanor found my mobile phone, where I’d left it, on the study floor next to a brochure about a nursing home for my mother.  I stared at the phone’s screen.  There were thirteen missed calls, a voicemail and one text.  Twelve of the missed calls were from my mother.  So was the voicemail.  I pressed the button and listened to her quavering voice.
          ‘Please tell me.  Please, please, please.’
          I shook my head.  Tell you what, Mum?
          As if on cue, she continued.  ‘Tell me whether your private life is in all the newspapers and your name is mud.’
          I gave a weary sigh and deleted the message.
          The other missed call was from Eleanor, followed by a text.  It read:
          Grandad sent me a really weird message.  Please can you translate:
          Ellie
          hg
          i0hbv
          I…hav
          lost0my0mobile0wil0b0outside0colege0five0ishxxx
          Well it made perfect sense to me.  Which reminds me.  Did you hear about the two mobile phones that got married?  The wedding was terrible, but the reception was terrific…

Home Havoc

Following last week’s hospital havoc surrounding my mother, it would seem that havoc took it upon itself to spread to my home life too.  On the home front things have been…testing.  Mr V has attempted making the peace by presenting me with a dozen rose buds.  The cat – an understanding female – shredded them on my behalf.  And on top of that, my daughter’s two year ‘romance’ with her sweetheart came to an abrupt full stop.
          ‘I can’t understand it,’ she wailed.
          Unfortunately I could.  ‘You don’t think,’ I suggested cautiously, ‘that it could be anything to do with being a bit, um, bossy?’
          ‘Bossy?’ my daughter’s head rotated one-hundred-and-eighty degrees.  ‘Are you saying it’s all my fault?’
          ‘Okay, scrap that idea,’ I soothed.
          ‘No,’ Eleanor hissed, ‘that’s a really awful thing to suggest.  And from my own mother too.  I thought you’d be on my side.’
          ‘I’m not on anybody’s side, nor am I taking sides.  I’m simply pointing out that it’s good to speak to others in the same way as you’d like them to speak to you.’
          ‘I SPEAK TO EVERYBODY EXTREMELY NICELY!’ my daughter roared.
          ‘I rest my case.’
          ‘I’ve had enough of this conversation,’ said Eleanor as she flounced off to her room.  ‘Roll on Saturday,’ she called over her shoulder, ‘because there’s a party to go to with my college friends.’
          Saturday arrived, and with it my son who wanted company following his own recent relationship going down the plug hole.
          ‘I still don’t know where I went wrong,’ Rob lamented.
          As my children are two peas in a pod when it comes to temperament, I could again hazard a fairly good guess.  ‘Are you possibly a little, er, bossy?’
          ‘Bossy?’ Rob’s eyes widened incredulously.  ‘I can’t believe you could say such a thing!’  This was followed by an extremely bossy rant about his own mother not being supportive enough.
          On Sunday there was a shift in the household’s mood.  Rob was nursing a stonking hangover and Eleanor was tearful and subdued.  We sat around the table and had breakfast together.  I’ll rephrase that.  I tucked into a mound of toast, Eleanor took one mouthful and said she was too upset to eat another thing, and Rob told us both off for crunching too loudly.
          I looked at my daughter’s unhappy face.  ‘Didn’t you enjoy your party last night?’
          ‘Oh, yes, I actually had a lovely time.  It was good fun.’
          ‘So why the long face?’
          ‘Because we all played Spin the Bottle and I had to kiss H.’
          ‘I see,’ I replied, not seeing at all.  ‘So what’s the problem?’
          ‘Because now I feel so guilty!’
          ‘Why?  It was a game you were all playing.’
          ‘I know!  But I’ve been going out with M and never kissed anybody else before!’
          ‘But you’re not going out with M anymore.’
          ‘Yeah, but you don’t understand.  It seems wrong, even though it was just a silly game and meant nothing.’
          ‘Oh my God!’ Rob interrupted.  ‘My fingers have gone numb!’
          ‘I just can’t stop this ridiculous feeling of being in the wrong.’
          ‘Well you must.’
          ‘My fingers are tingling like crazy.’
          ‘So what shall I do about this guilt feeling?’
          ‘Ignore it.’
          ‘It’s spreading to my hands.’
          ‘Do you think I should tell M?’
          ‘It wouldn’t change anything.’
          ‘And now my hands have gone numb.’
          ‘I just feel I should tell him.  Then maybe this guilt will go away.’
          ‘Don’t be silly.  You’re a free agent, after all.’
          ‘It’s spreading up my arms. Help!  Help me!’
          ‘I feel so miserable.’
          ‘Time is a great healer.’
          ‘I’ve just Googled this and I think I’m dying.’
          ‘So what do you think I should do?’
          ‘Stop fretting.  I tell you, there is nothing to feel guilty about.’
          ‘Call the emergency doctor!’
          ‘Do you think we’ll ever get back together?’
          ‘I don’t know.  Right now you both need time apart.’
          ‘Call an ambulance!’
          ‘I feel like I can’t cope with anything right now.’
          ‘I’ve been feeling like that all week.’
          ‘I NEED MY HANDS FOR MY PROFESSION!’
          ‘I feel slightly hysterical.’
          ‘I’ve felt hysterical for weeks.’
          ‘THIS ISN’T FUNNY.’
          It was with a sense of relief that I greeted Monday.  Which reminds me. If you ever think everything seems to be going well, then you have obviously overlooked something…  

Hospital Havoc

This time last week my mother was rushed to hospital in an ambulance.  She required an operation, and was advised about the risks and complications.  However, if she hadn’t had the operation she would have eventually died, so she signed the consent form and we all kept our fingers crossed for her.
          ­­­Thankfully Mother Bryant survived the op and, physically, she is now on the road to recovery.  However, we are still awaiting the return of her mental faculties which – thanks to anaesthetic and morphine – have blurred the lines between reality and dreams.  It has also left her very paranoid.
          ‘Ssh,’ she said when I greeted her yesterday.  ‘The nurses don’t like me.  In fact, they don’t like any of us.  They know absolutely everything about my family.  There must be a hidden microphone somewhere.  I don’t want them hearing me repeat this to you.  Come closer.’  I leant in.  ‘They’re all in cahoots with each other.’  She stabbed a finger into my chest.  ‘And they think you’re a trouble-maker.  And at night, there is bedlam on this ward.  The nurses do terrible things.’  My mother leant back and gave me a conspiratorial look.  ‘You ask Iris.  She’ll tell you.’
          ‘Iris?’
          My mother jerked her head.  ‘In the next bed.  She knows what’s been going on.  She and I talk, you know.’
          I looked at the little old lady next door.  She was staring vacantly at the ceiling, mouth hanging open.  Dear Lord, had my mother had this effect on her?
          The thing is, I’ve been listening to this sort of nonsense throughout the entirety of the week.  Some of the things my mother has come out with would have been quite funny if we weren’t so worried.  To say she is confused is an understatement.  It is also quite astonishing how the energy of somebody’s confusion can rub off on you.  Let me give you an example.
          On Thursday I was accompanied to the hospital by my father and sister.  By the time visiting came to an end, all three of us had monumental headaches.
          ‘I don’t know about you girls,’ said Father Bryant as we stood in the hospital corridor, ‘but I need a cup of coffee and some Paracetamol.  Fancy joining me?’
          ‘Good idea,’ Janice and I chorused.
          We made our way to the hospital’s on-site Costa and joined the queue.  When our turn came, the young lady behind the counter asked us what we would like.
          Father Bryant: ‘I’ll have a black coffee.’
          Me:  ‘Tea, please.’
          Janice:  ‘Hot chocolate for me.’
          Me: ‘Ooh, that sounds nice.  Cancel the tea, I’ll have hot chocolate too.’
          Father Bryant: ‘Actually, something milky sounds appealing. Change mine to a latte, please.’
          Janice: ‘Can I have soya rather than milk?’
          Me:    ‘Yes, make mine with soya too, please.’
          Costa Lady: ‘So that’s two hot chocolates and a latte, all to be made with soya?’
          Father Bryant: ‘Milk.’
          Costa Lady: ‘Sorry, two hot chocolates and a latte, all to be made with milk.’
          Janice: ‘No, two with soya.’
          Father Bryant: ‘I’ll have milk, please.’
          Costa Lady: ‘So that’s two hot chocolates with soya, and you, Sir, are now having a hot milk?’
          Father Bryant: ‘No, coffee.’
          Costa Lady: ‘American?’
          Father Bryant: ‘No, I’m English.’
          Janice: ‘She means filter coffee, Dad.’
          Father Bryant: ‘Oh, I see.  Sorry, dear (turning back to Costa Lady), I’d rather have a latte.’
          Costa Lady, looking confused: ‘So that’s…one latte with soya and two hot chocolates with milk?’
          Me: ‘No. One latte with milk, two hot chocolates with soya.’
          Costa Lady: ‘Okay, I think I’ve got it!  What size?’
          Father Bryant: ‘I’ll have a medium.’
          Janice: ‘I’ll have a small.’
          Me: ‘Medium, please.’
          Janice: ‘Actually, stuff the diet, I’ll have a medium too.’
          Me: ‘Oh, that’s a point, I’m meant to be weight watching.  Make mine a small.’
          Father Bryant: ‘Exactly how big is a medium?’
          Costa Lady, waggling a paper cup about: ‘This big.’
          Father Bryant: ‘In that case, I think I’ll have a small.’
          Costa Lady: ‘To have here or take away?’
          Me/Janice/Father Bryant all at the same time: ‘Here/take away/um…?’
          Costa Lady, looking somewhat frazzled: ‘Go to the till and pay, please.’
          Lady on till: ‘I’ve tried to follow the thread of the conversation and I haven’t a clue specifically what you’re all having or where you’re having it.  So I’ll tell you what, just have it on us.’
          Father Bryant: ‘Well, that’s awfully generous of you.  Are you sure?’
          Janice: ‘Have we muddled you?’
          Lady on till: ‘Um, I think we’re all a little confused.  It’s going to be interesting to see exactly what the boy on drinksproduces.’
          We turned, expectantly, to a young lad who at that moment was setting a tray down on the counter with our drinks.  It contained one vast hot chocolate in a soup bowl, one tiny hot chocolate in a glass, and one medium sized latte in a paper cup.  All made with soya.  But by that point we didn’t care.  We just wanted something to take our Paracetamol with.  I noticed the staff looking longingly at my little box of pills.
          ‘Would you all like a Paracetamol?’ I asked.
          It’s probably the closest I’ve ever got to drug dealing.
          Which reminds me.  Did you hear about the duck with a drug problem?  He was a quack-head…