Debbie Viggiano's Blog, page 4

My Secret Valentine

Did you survive the recent Valentine’s Day?  Are you currently loved up and enjoying a room still full of fading blooms or, like me, just very grateful to be presented with a bunch of supermarket roses that died twenty-four hours later?
          Actually, this Valentine’s Day was extra special for me.  It marked the publication of my sixth novel, Secrets.  Part of the book is set in Canada.  It was a joy to research in Montreal, Toronto and Vancouver.  Do the hero and heroine get their happy ending?  Well, without giving too much away, I always like my novels to have a happy ending, even if the characters do suddenly nip off and do things they really weren’t meant to.  I spent the morning of Valentine’s Day doing a bit of tweeting about Secrets, then switched off the computer and took my patient pooch, Molly Muddles, for a long walk.
          ‘Wait for me,’ said Mr V.  ‘It’s Valentine’s Day. I’ll be romantic and join you.’  Apparently not staying at home, glued to the football, is a gesture of romance.  I’m not complaining.  I’ll take whatever romance is on offer!
          We live in Fairseat, by the North Downs.  There are many wonderful places to walk. A favourite is Trosley Country Park. It’s only a few minutes away.  However, the brief stroll to the actual park isn’t without fraught moments.  Molly’s training has been continuous.  She is very obedient – until a major distraction comes along.  The biggest distraction on the walk to Trosley is a huge German Shepherd guarding a country pile.  Molly has to walk approximately three hundred feet past this guard dog who, on the other side of sturdy spiked railings, snarls and growls throughout our passage.  Molly, built like a whippet, puffs out her puny chest to make herself look bigger.  She then takes the “I’m bigger than you” thing to the extreme and stands up on her gangly hind legs, extending her long neck and even longer back.  Switching to kangaroo mode, she then bounces down the road on two legs, front paws paddling the air for balance, which sends the German Shepherd into a complete frenzy.
          Once in the safety of the country park, Molly comes off the lead.  She always bounds off with alacrity, then bounces back to check where we are before disappearing again.  This is pretty much how she behaves on a walk…exploring but needing to check in every minute or so to make sure you are still around.  The trails at Trosley are colour coded.  We opted for the blue trail thinking it might be comparable to a blue ski run.  Wrong!  At Trosley the red trail is shallow, whilst the blue is horrendously steep.  If you were a skier, it would be a black run, as my husband can attest when his size nines took off down an almost vertical path.
          Two hours later, wind-blown and starving, we had completed the circuitous route.  It was debatable, as the finishing line came into sight, which was the most fabulous view: the North Downs to the left, or the café straight ahead.  Molly Muddles had no doubts.  She zoomed off towards enticing smells of sausage, egg, bacon, and freshly brewed coffee.
          ‘Three all-day breakfasts, please,’ said Mr V to the serving lady.
          The lady looked between me and my husband.  ‘Three?’        Molly promptly plonked her paws on the counter and gave the serving lady a big grin.  ‘Three it is!’ the lady laughed.
          Dogs aren’t allowed to stay in the restaurant, but we didn’t mind at all.  Eating hot food outside in the bracing cold air somehow makes everything taste twice as scrumptious.  Molly certainly gave it her approval and licked all the plates clean.  Which reminds me.
          What’s a dog’s favourite pizza?  Pupperoni…

Curtain Call

Earlier this week our new house finally got its curtains and blinds.  What a difference it has made.  Dressing a window definitely turns a house into a home.
          Having never paid attention to needlework and dressmaking at school, the matter of running up some fabric for our windows was a total non-event.  I am a deep admirer of anybody who can knit cable sweaters, crochet lacy cardigans or drape fabric over a mannequin and knock-up an amazing trouser suit.  At school it took me three terms to make a pinafore dress which, at the end of the year, I’d outgrown and failed to put a hem on.  I remember my school report saying, ‘The only thing Deborah is good at is talking.’  Anyway, I digress.  I got in touch with a well-known curtain franchise company and made an appointment.
          When the rep turned up, I was expecting a lady.  Whenever I’ve had dealings with this company before, it’s always been a woman.  So I was somewhat taken aback to see a young man on the doorstep.  In fact I’ll tell you how young he was – nineteen.  And I know this because he chattily told me so over the cup of tea I made him.
          ‘So, er, how long have you been doing this job?’ I asked casually.  Yes, I confess there was anxiety about an inexperienced teen putting up wonky curtain poles and taking incorrect measurements, and the thought of him messing up with a power drill all over the house mentally had me hyperventilating.
          ‘Nearly a year.  I didn’t know what I wanted to do after leaving school, so my mum persuaded me to come into the family business.’
          ‘Right.  And, um, “Mum” isn’t about at the moment?’
          ‘No,’ the lad smiled.  ‘It’s just me.  But don’t worry. I mostly get jobs right now.’
          ‘Oh, that’s…reassuring.’
          Tea finished, the lad confidently strode about measuring bi-folds and windows, offering advice here, holding up fabric swatches there.  We then settled down to talk prices. Haggling over, I signed the paperwork. I wasn’t quite sure what “Mum” was going to say about the lad’s quote, but I for one was absolutely delighted and almost snatched the pen out of his hand.
          Three weeks later, the young man returned with the materials.  He set down a number of cardboard and plastic boxes, opened a case of tools, and got to work.  And this was where the teenager clearly came to the fore.  Never have I seen such a spectacular mess from simply putting up curtains.  Rather than clearing up as he went along, boxes and cartons littered every available piece of floor space throughout the house.  It was chaotic.
          ‘Don’t worry,’ he said cheerfully.  ‘I’m the sort of person who clears up right at the very end.’
          ‘Right,’ I said uncertainly as the cat joyfully crash landed into a carton and the dog tore off with curtain rings hanging off her teeth.  And then there was the drilling.  Don’t get me started about the drilling.  Previous dealings with the lady of this company had seen each room being cleared up and vacuumed individually.  You’d never have known anybody had been in the place.  But by the time this young lad had finished, aside from the debris, furniture was covered in plaster dust.  It also took him double the amount of time he’d originally thought, so by the time the last curtain was hanging he was in a complete panic about his next appointment.
          ‘I’m so sorry,’ he apologised, tripping over a discarded pole and almost falling into a pile of boxes, ‘but I don’t have time to tidy up.’
          It took me three hours to clean up the plaster dust, gather the debris and restore order.  But the job is done.  We have a dressed house.  Hooray!  Which reminds me.
          A blonde goes into a computer store.  ‘Where do you keep the curtains?’ she asks a sales assistant.  ‘You won’t find curtains in here,’ he replies, ‘this is a computer shop.’  Annoyed, the blonde puts her hand on her hips and says, ‘Hellooo, my computer has windows…’

The Great British Rip Off

Having moved house recently, there were a few bits that needed doing.  Nothing mega.  The house is a new-build after all.  But little things – like getting an electrician to put up outside lights (it’s pitch black at night), and finding a chippie to put up some shelves, were essential. Regrettably my husband thinks a jigsaw is something that slots together, and a spur is only applicable to riding boots, so outside help is essential.
          The old adage of obtaining three quotes is a good one.  So on three different days, three electricians and three carpenters came to the house.  Well actually that’s not strictly true.  The first electrician and the first carpenter didn’t bother to show up.  The second electrician paced about, hummed and hawed, removed a pencil from behind his ear and assured me he’d do the job as cheaply as possible.  For cash. Naturally.  As we walked around the outside of the house, he told me all about his thirteen-year-old daughter’s dream to be an Olympic water skier and how expensive is was funding it all.  I wasn’t surprised when his bill to put up five lights totalled £1,045.  A bargain, he assured.  I thanked him and waited for the third electrician.  He quoted me £150.  You don’t need to be Einstein to work out who got the job.
          The second carpenter strode in, listened to me talking about putting up an MDF shelving unit in the hallway so there was a library area.  Nothing flash, simply functional.
          ‘I’ll do my best for you,’ he said.  ‘For cash.’
          ‘Naturally.’
          I wonder what my husband’s boss would say if he went to work and said, ‘I’ll do my best for you today, Mr X, but it has to be for cash.’  I have a feeling Mr V would be clutching his P45 within seconds.  What is it that makes some people think they are doing you a massive favour “for cash” when, frankly, their prices are beyond astronomical?
          The third carpenter sucked on his pencil, spent ages fiddling with his tape measure, and drew a “complicated” sketch to illustrate the “complications” of the job.  When we compared drawings, his “detailed” sketch looked exactly like mine.  Frankly I was at the point of going to Homebase, asking them to cut the MDF pieces, and having a stab at putting the wretched thing together myself.
          And their prices?
          Carpenter Number Two:  £1,345.  For cash.  Naturally.
          Carpenter Number Three: £2,845.  For cash.  Naturally.
          Something struck me here.  Do tradesmen think that by sticking forty-five quid into the mix it makes their cash quote look more realistic?
          Anyway, I turned to eBay.  Triumph!  As we speak, some kind soul is beavering away making a custom-built oak bookcase six feet wide and seven feet tall for five hundred pounds. Meanwhile, I’m now sourcing a handyman to do some wardrobe rails.  For cash.  Naturally.  Which reminds me.
          A man went to prison for three years.  During that time he was a model prisoner.  He studied carpentry and accordingly had his sentence reduced.  On the day of leaving jail, the governor – impressed with the guy’s work – asked him to design and make his wife a new kitchen.
          ‘Sorry, Sir,’ the ex-con replied. ‘But that’s how I ended up in prison.’
          ‘What do you mean?’ asked the Governor.
          ‘I went to prison for counter fitting…’ 

Molly Muddles (Loves Cuddles)

After all the frantic activity of packing up the old house and unpacking in the new one, I haven’t properly written about the arrival of my little pup from Crete.  I greeted Molly with much enthusiasm, even though she was covered in vomit and stank to high heaven.
            ‘She’s not a good traveller,’ said her escort, leading her out of the car.  ‘She began puking within three minutes of setting off and hasn’t stopped since.’
            ‘Oh dear.  Well I’m sure she’ll feel much better when she’s had a nice bath.’
            The escort gave me a look.  ‘This is a dog.  Not a human.  Forget the bath idea.  She’s endured fourteen hours of travelling hell.  Right now she is very stressed.’
            I looked at Molly, a mixture of tan and white blobs with a green face.  She wagged her tail at me and gagged. Waving off the escort, I led the new family member into the house.  She stood in the hallway and shivered.  England in mid-November is nothing like Crete.  Within seconds the entire house whiffed of vomit.  Mr V chose that precise moment to arrive home from work.
            ‘What in God’s name is that smell?’ he asked.  His eyes fell upon the pooch trembling at my feet.  Now it has to be said Molly was a sore subject between me and my husband.  After saying a tearful good-bye to our old pooch three days before Christmas 2014, Mr V was emphatic he would never love another dog again.  I’d forced his hand with Molly.  Spotting a tiny puppy on a Cretan beach that looked a dead ringer for a beagle, I’d had fanciful ideas Molly was our old pooch reincarnated.  Needless to say, the dog now at my feet looked nothing like a beagle and more like a leggy whippet.
            ‘Hasn’t she grown!’ I attempted light banter whilst inwardly quaking.  Just how big was this puppy going to get?  I’d already had recurring nightmares about greeting a six-foot high dog that had to stoop to get into the house.
            ‘I’m going out,’ my husband promptly announced.
            ‘But what about your dinner?’
            ‘Give it to the dog,’ Mr V snapped.  I let my husband stomp off.  As every woman will know, there are times when it’s best to keep quiet.  This was one of them.
            I turned to Molly.  ‘I’m very sorry, little girl.  I know you’ve had a terrible day but we might as well go all out and make it horrendous.’  Ignoring the escort’s words, I ran Molly a bath.
            Mr V ignored the new arrival for three whole weeks. In order to keep domestic peace, I didn’t make any comment and pretended this was completely normal. My husband’s refusal to interact with Molly actually achieved a well-mannered pup intent on befriending this aloof human being.  Every evening she would quietly greet him, stand back when rebuffed, then walk with him to the table where he ate his dinner.  She’d sit politely, all the time trying to catch his eye, undeterred by being steadfastly ignored.  When my husband moved to the sofa, Molly would move with him, sitting at his feet and gazing at him beseechingly.  Night after night this was the pattern.  When my husband did accidentally make eye-contact with her, she wagged her tail joyfully.  Out of my peripheral vision I saw my husband’s expression soften.  Inwardly I breathed a sigh of relief.  The icy heart was thawing.  Since then she’s enjoyed walks with her master, belly rubs and the occasional pat.  When I heard my husband accidentally call her Trudy, I knew that the last hurdle had been overcome.
            The requests for cuddles on Molly’s part sometimes backfire.  Recently I took her with me into a public loo at the local woodland park.  The wobbly dividing partitions were about six inches off the floor and big enough for Molly to stick her head underneath.  Within seconds of closing the toilet door, I was aware of another person going into the cubicle next to me.  Trying to deal with both a dog lead and my trousers at half-mast meant my hands were full, so when Molly stuck her head under the neighbouring partition, naturally a scream went up.
            ‘Hellooooo!’ Molly effusively greeted the person trying to quietly relieve themselves.
            ‘So sorry,’ I bleated grabbing hold of toilet paper, hoisting up my pants and trying to reel in the leash.  The lead promptly tangled with the spinning toilet roll.  Within seconds yards and yards of tissue began to ribbon back and forth across the floor.
            ‘Get your ruddy mutt out of my toilet!’ said an outraged voice.
            ‘Heel!’ I commanded. Yanking up my trousers, I crouched down and grabbed hold of Molly’s back legs, which were all that remained of her in my cubicle.
            ‘This is preposterous,’ the voice spluttered.
            ‘She’s just a friendly puppy,’ I gasped, hauling on my hound’s tail for good measure.  Molly promptly shot backwards banging her head on the bottom of the flimsy partition.  The partition reverberated causing the industrial-sized toilet dispenser to clank alarmingly.  Seconds later it fell off the dividing wall with a crash causing another scream to go up from next door.  This was one occasion where I didn’t wash my hands.  I simply opened the cubicle door and fled.
            Two months later it is as though Molly has been a part of our family forever.  It is a joy to have another four-legged friend, especially when my husband is away on business.  Living out in the middle of nowhere, I feel totally safe with my loyal hound curled up at the bottom of the bed.  She’s a quick learner, keen to please and incredibly loving.  Although I haven’t ventured back into any public toilets with her.  Which reminds me.
            A friend was in a public toilet and had just sat down, when a voice from the next cubicle said, ‘Hi!  How are you?’
            Embarrassed, my friend said, ‘I’m doing fine.’
            The voice said, ‘So, what are you up to?’
            My friend said, ‘The same as you.  Just sitting here.’
            From next door, ‘Can I come over?’
            Annoyed, my friend said, ‘Well I’m rather busy right now.’
            The voice said, ‘Listen, I’ll have to call you back.  There’s an idiot next door answering all my questions…’

Moving House

Do you know, those two little words once filled me with such joy.  That first flush of house-hunting is almost a magical experience.  You check out fabulous properties, ooh and ahh at each room, become mesmerised by acres of granite work tops, enthralled at expanses of oak flooring, and almost faint at marble tiling.  I do anyway.  When we viewed what was to eventually be our new house, I wandered around with my mouth hanging open.  The icing on the cake was discovering a dressing room leading off the master bedroom (a dressing room!) and, a little further on, a huge en-suite which contained a bathtub shaped like a giant open Easter egg.  It was too much.  I jumped in fully clothed.  Fortunately there was no water in it.
          Mr V hummed and hawed and looked at the whole “Moving House” thing from every conceivable angle.  Finally he agreed the house was perfect and we should go ahead.  I gave my husband a big smacker on the mouth, nearly did the same to the sales lady, and promptly burst into noisy tears of joy.  I spent the rest of the day weeping with happiness.  But then Mr V got cold feet.  Suddenly it was a bad decision.  The deal was off.  This time I cried with disappointment.  After a few days, he changed his mind again.  Suddenly it was a great investment.  I cried with happiness once more – albeit cautiously.  I wasn’t truly surprised when my husband yet again got cold feet.  It was overpriced.  It wasn’t a buoyant market.  It was the wrong time of year.  We weren’t young anymore (speak for yourself, thanks very much, because I feel perfectly young).  Every and any reason was trotted out as to why this house should be pushed to one side.  I wept for twenty-four hours solid.  When my husband changed his mind again, I had little enthusiasm left.  It was also fair to say the atmosphere in the marital abode was pretty frosty.  And they say moving is stressful.  We hadn’t even got to that bit. How more stressful could it get?  As it turned out, much muuuuuuch more stressful.
          Santander – yes I’m going to name and shame, to hell with it – sent out an incorrect mortgage offer not once, not twice, but three times a wally-brain.  Seriously, how many attempts does an employee at Santander need to get the paperwork right?  Is there some moron sprawled across his (or her, I’m not sexist) desk, bored out of their skull and thinking, ‘Dear oh dear, it’s only Tuesday.  I have the rest of the week to crawl through.  Yawn.  I know what I’ll do to brighten up my day!  I’ll send out a Mickey Mouse mortgage offer and titter at the pandemonium it causes. And then, even better, I’ll do it again.  And again.’  Sort yourselves out, Santander.
          Halifax Bank – yes, you are next on my rant list.  For years this bank was synonymous with Howard.  Remember him?  An adorable black guy with big specs and a natty suit, our Howard warbled away as he welcomed us through the bank’s big glass doors.  Your money was safe!  Oh it’s safe all right.  So safe you can’t get at it.  Yesterday I needed to cancel a direct debit and set up a new one.  I picked up the phone.  After five minutes of listening to six million, four thousand and seventy-three different options – none of which were applicable – a real person greeted me.
          ‘Hello, Mrs Vag…ina.’  Truly, it’s never a good idea to call me that.  Ever.  ‘You’re talking to Richard today.’
          ‘Hey, Dick.’  I was just being friendly.  Honest.
          *Uncertain sound of laughter.*  ‘How can I help you?’
          ‘I need to cancel a direct debit and set up a new one.’
          ‘Sure.  First, I need to take you through Security.’
          ‘Go ahead.’
          Now at this stage I’d just like to say my other bank is NatWest.  NatWest are sane and sensible.  They ask simple security questions like, ‘What is your mother’s maiden name?  Where were you born?  What is the third and fourth digit of your password?’  But Halifax are different.  Very different.
          ‘Yesterday you spent an amount of money.  Can you tell me what the amount was?’
          ‘I spent several amounts of money yesterday.  You haven’t sent me December’s paper statement, and I’m not set up for on-line banking with you. Therefore I can’t say what I spent yesterday.’
          ‘That’s the wrong answer, Mrs Vageen.’
          ‘How can it be the wrong answer?  I’m asking you to define a particular transaction.’
          ‘Okay.  I’ll do that.  Here’s the next question.  Ready?’  I felt like I’d suddenly dropped into a quiz show.  ‘Take your time, Mrs Virgo.’  I licked my lips nervously.  ‘Do you have an overdraft?’
          ‘Yes.’
          ‘Sorry, that answer doesn’t count.  You have to tell me how much your overdraft is for.’
          I frowned.  ‘I haven’t the faintest idea.  It’s probably for a thousand pounds.’
          ‘Sorry, I have to take your first answer.’
          ‘Eh?’
          ‘You said you hadn’t the faintest idea.’
          ‘No, I said it was probably a thousand pounds.’
          ‘But that wasn’t your first answer.’
          ‘This is getting ridiculous.’
          ‘Don’t worry, Mrs Vagano.  There is one more question I can ask before Security locks you out.’
          ‘What do you mean “locks me out”?  I’m moving, for goodness sake, and I’m moving THIS FRIDAY.  I need to sort out my direct debit.’  I took a deep calming breath.  Hyperventilation has been frequent of late.
          ‘Earlier this week, you spent a sum of money with a removal firm.  Please tell me the amount.’
          ‘Can I ring a friend?’
          ‘Is that your final answer?’
          ‘No!  Just…wait…wait a minute.’  I rummaged through my memory.  Yes, it was coming back to me. ‘Nine hundred…’
          ‘Yes?’
          ‘And sixteen pounds…’
          ‘Yes?’
          ‘And something pence.’
          ‘I’m sorry, but you failed to specify the number of pennies.  You are locked out of Security.’
          ‘Don’t be absurd!’ I spluttered.  ‘Why don’t you ask me my date of birth?  Or my mobile phone number?  Or my dog’s name?’
          ‘Because you could be anybody, Mrs Vegan.’
          ‘You’re right.  I’m none of the people you’ve called me.  I’m Mrs Viggiano.  And now I’m going to tell you exactly what I think of your bank–’
          ‘Do you want to be abusive?’
          ‘Thank you, I would love to be abusive.  Please tell your manager, your board of directors, your CEO, indeed all your shareholders, and anybody else who cares to listen …’
          ‘Good-bye Mrs Veggie.’
          I was left addressing a whirring handset, but no matter.  When you have to offload, you have to offload.  I told the handset exactly what Halifax’s security could do with itself which involved a massive rectum and a definite lack of sunshine.
          Which reminds me.  If banks are so friendly, how come they chain down the pens…? 

Black Friday

So, did you venture out?  Did you dare to set foot in your local shopping mall for fear of being flattened by Black Friday lunatics desperate to save some cash? I mean, let’s face it, in not too many weeks the sales will be on with half-price-this and mega-discount-that.  Is Black Friday really worth all the huff and hype?  All I can say is it suited me to go Christmas shopping Friday evening – and it just happened to be Black Friday.  Did I get squashed by a stampede of rioting people?  No.  Bluewater, my local stomping ground, was no busier than any other day of the year.  Did I save money?  Yes, quite a bit actually.
          I met up with my daughter and sister for some girlie company.  Eleanor isn’t the greatest of shopping companions unless you are up for buying make-up, clothes, or jewellery.  Fortunately two out of three items ticked my Christmas shopping list.  Eleanor was like a bloodhound sniffing out discounted goodies.  However, she hadn’t counted on her aunty wanting to buy different things to her.
          ‘Ooh, look, a steam cleaner,’ Janice beamed.  She hovered outside Lakeland, clearly in raptures.  ‘It’s reduced from four million and sixty-three thousand pounds to just tuppence.’  No, it wasn’t really, but I’m trying to convey my sister’s excitement over a substantial saving.
          Eleanor looked unimpressed. ‘Are you going to buy it, Aunty Janice?’
          My sister dithered.  ‘Well, um, I don’t know.  It’s certainly a bargain.  But, I’m not sure.  Do I really need a steam cleaner for my floor?’
          ‘No,’ said Eleanor decisively.  ‘So let’s check out Russell & Bromley instead.  They have some brogue boots massively discounted and–’
          ‘But, hang on. Oh dear. I’m not sure what to do. If I walk away, I might later regret it.’  My sister paused, clearly torn.
          ‘Shall we go inside and check it out?’ I suggested.  Eleanor gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head. I warmed to my task.  ‘Perhaps you should get the contraption out of its box.’  Eleanor scowled.  I smiled mischievously.  There’s nothing like winding up a teenager in a public place where they’re unable to have a hissy fit.  ‘I think you should read the instructions too, just to be sure you’re buying something that’s easy to work.’
          ‘Good idea,’ Janice beamed.
          ‘M-u-mmm,’ Eleanor begged nearly an hour later.  ‘Pleaseget Aunty Janice out of here.  She’s worse than you when it comes to shopping.’
          ‘What do you mean?’ I frowned.
          ‘She’s buying really boring stuff.  I mean, like, really boring.  She’s not only bought the steam cleaner, but also a huge machine that shreds raw veg, and now she’s looking at casserole pots and kettles and toasters.  I can’t take any more.’
          I had to admit, there’s only so long one can delight over a set of saucepans.  Five minutes later we were out in the shopping mall again.
          ‘Where to now?’ my sister asked. She looked different. Odd.  Her eyes were alight.  Cheeks glowing.  She was clearly experiencing an adrenalin rush induced by so much spending and saving.  I’d seen that look before – on our mother’s face when armed with my father’s credit card.  We then spent a further couple of hours demolishing every shop with a substantial discount.  Finally, weighted down with boxes and bags, we staggered into House of Fraser.
          ‘Oooh, designer sunglasses,’ my sister smiled, ‘and there’s fifty-per-cent off!’ Janice then proceeded to try on three-hundred-and-twenty-five pairs of black shades.  ‘What do you think?’ she asked, price tag bobbing over her nose.
          My daughter studied her aunt.  ‘I think this pair looks exactly like the other three-hundred-and-twenty-four you’ve just tried on.’
          ‘Can we move away from the sunnies?’ I implored.  ‘Jan, you said you wanted a handbag for Christmas.  Can we head over to bags?  After all, the time is getting on.’
          ‘Okay.’  My sister reluctantly whipped off a pair of shades that made her look like a brunette Lady Gaga.
          As we walked past leather bags by Mulberry and Vivienne Westwood, Eleanor began to hyperventilate.  ‘I want them all,’ she breathed.  Ignoring her, I began to search through House of Fraser’s own brands.  I turned to my sister.
          ‘This one’s nice.’
          ‘Very nice,’ my sister enthused.  ‘And look – there’s a matching purse to go with it!’
          ‘Would you like them both?’
          ‘Yes…I think so…let me just have a little explore.’  Her fingers whizzed across the bag and the purse, checking out pockets, flaps, zipping, unzipping, fastening, unfastening.  ‘I’ll have them both!’ she declared.  Shoving the purse into the handbag, she passed the whole thing over to me.
          ‘Right, I’ll just see how Eleanor is getting on over there, and then I’ll go and pay for the handbag.’
          My daughter couldn’t decide which bag she liked and began to get flustered.  ‘You’re stressing me, Mum.  This is such an important decision. Don’t rush me.’
          ‘Don’t rush you?’ my eyebrows nearly shot off my forehead.  ‘Between your aunt in the sunglasses department, and you in the handbag department, we’re almost out of time.  The shops will be closing any minute.  While you’re choosing, I’m going to pay for Aunty Janice’s Christmas present.’
          Trying to find a pay station that was still open was difficult.  Hardly anyone was about.  Craning my neck, I spotted one last open cash till in the next department.  Bracing myself, I half dragged and half carried my shopping over to the pay station.
          ‘Had a successful night?’ asked the young sales lady as she took the handbag from me.
          ‘Yes, thanks.’  My mobile began to ring.  ‘Excuse me,’ I apologised and took the call.
          ‘Where are you?’ asked Eleanor sounding peeved.
          ‘In the next department.’
          ‘Well the bad news is I’ve lost Aunty Janice.’
          I turned away from the sales lady and scanned the shop floor.  No sign of my sister.  ‘She’s probably trying on sunglasses again.  I’ll see you outside the store in two minutes.’  I rang off and did the chip-and-pin thing.  ‘Thank you,’ I smiled taking the wrapped bag and receipt.  Rearranging packages and carriers, I took a deep breath and, like a weightlifter, raised my arms.  Everything was so heavy.  Indeed, after hours of carting stuff about, my arms had started to shake. I clanked and rattled towards the exit, lurched past the security guard…and all hell broke loose.  Alarms sounded, bleepers bleeped and lights flashed.
          ‘Hold it right there, Madam,’ boomed the security guard.  You could tell from the glint in his eye that he’d had a tremendously boring day but – hurrah! – the final second before shut down one shopper had set off alarms and bells thus relieving him from crippling inertia.  ‘Have you paid for your shopping?’
          ‘Of course,’ I replied.
          ‘Show me all your receipts.’
          ‘No problem,’ I replied and dumped everything around my feet.  As my arms yo-yoed back into their shoulder sockets they began to visibly tremble.  The security guard observed them suspiciously. A shopper with the shakes.  Guilty as hell.
          ‘I’m going to have to go through all this shopping and closely inspect every single receipt.’
          ‘Be my guest,’ I invited whilst willing my arms to behave.  They’d gone from stretched spaghetti and swinging somewhere around my knees, to shrinking forty-eight inches in a split second.  In fact I was pretty sure my hands had relocated into my armpits.
          ‘Hmm,’ the security guard declared.  ‘Something isn’t right.’
          ‘I know,’ I said, worried.  ‘Look at my arms.’
          The security guard ignored me and proceeded to wave every piece of shopping in front of the alarm detector.  Finally one offending item sent the alarm into orbit.  My sister’s handbag.
          ‘You haven’t paid for this,’ he accused.
          ‘I most certainly have,’ I retorted.
          He began checking out the bag’s pockets and flaps, as my sister had done earlier.  I had a sudden feeling of déjà vu.  As he zipped and unzipped, fastened and unfastened, a nasty memory rose to the surface just as the guard hauled out the matching purse my sister had shoved deep within the bag.  Clearly the sales assistant hadn’t spotted it and Eleanor’s ill-timed phone call had distracted me from pointing it out.
          ‘Was it your intention not to pay for this, Madam?’ the security guard accused.
          I had an uncontrollable urge to reply, ‘Indeed.  I have spent umpteen hundred pounds this evening but the thought of sneaking past your security barrier with a two bob purse was absolutely crucial to my sense of wellbeing.’  Instead I just shook my head and sighed.  ‘Clearly an oversight.’
          He gave me a look that begged to differ.  ‘I’ll have to escort you back to the cash till, Madam.’
          As I walked back into the store with a security guard hot on my heels, I met Janice and Eleanor coming in the opposite direction.  My daughter’s jaw dropped as she took in the situation.
          ‘Oh cringe, Mum.  This is sooo embarrassing.  I’m sooo glad it’s closing time and nobody else is around to see my mother caught for shoplifting.’  Which reminds me.
          There’s a gang going through Bluewater systematically stealing clothes in size order.  The police believe they’re still at large…
         

I’m a Celebrity – Give Me Publicity

My daughter is a huge fan of most reality shows.  When she’s watching ‘the jungle’, I do sometimes pause – mostly in gobsmacked amazement – to see what people do to up their fame game.  Apparently this year’s cast of characters includes Lady Colin Campbell, whose is a crashing snob and prone to bonkers outbursts.  I watched her pop her hands into a box of concealed snakes.  Her task was to identify the objects.  She has such a plummy accent, one presumes she swallowed the whole plum pie.  ‘I huven’t felt thaat texture befaww,’ was her comment.
          The bush tucker trials are always disgusting.  There is a soft-centred part of me that doesn’t like creatures being eaten alive, never mind being used to provide TV entertainment.  Tequila Bumrise was apparently one of the cocktails ‘celebrities’ had to drink.  Well you don’t have to have too many brain cells to work out that an animal’s backside is somewhere in the blend.  I mean, really?  That’s the ultimate bum lick – how desperate can somebody be for publicity to do such a thing?
          I’ve looked up the other contestants on the internet because, despite them being celebrities, I wasn’t sure who they were.  I remember Spandau Ballet’s Tony Hadley.  Regrettably I’m not a fan of his singing due to being traumatised by Mr V yodelling his own cover versions over the years (yes, beyond dire).  I do, however, remember eccentric Chris Eubank, who clearly shops at the same plum pie place Lady C goes to.  Susannah Somebody, Yvette Wotsit, Kieran I-haven’t-a-clue…the names go vaguely on…but I most definitely have heard of Duncan Bannatyne.  My husband is an avid fan of Dragon’s Den. Many a time have I heard Duncan’s dulcet tone declaring, ‘I’m out.’  And he was indeed out when he tried to get into Lady C’s bed one night in the jungle.  ‘I lost my bearings,’ he later explained, smiling sheepishly.  I like Duncan.
          I’m not so keen on Ant and Dec.  Having seen them several times, the moment the camera stops rolling their smiles are a non-event.  Especially the one with the big forehead who has a penchant for both rudeness and sarcasm.  His standard facial expression matches the celebrities who have chewed on one of the bush tucker bugs.  Which reminds me.
          After one female celebrity’s jungle trial which took place in a room with an ostrich, Ant and Dec asked how it felt to come face to face with a strange looking bird with a tiny brain.  ‘Absolutely terrifying,’ replied the ostrich…

An Exchange of Dialogue

As anybody who knows me will vouch, I love to talk.  I call it conversation.  Others, less kindly, say rambling.  I particularly enjoy chatting to my sister and daughter because they, like me, go off on tangents before asking, ‘What point was I trying to make?’
          Conversation with my son is a bit different.  A sharp wit and screaming intelligence, he is up to date on all things scientific and political.  Can I talk with astuteness to him and others like him?  Not really. I flounder and feel stupid.  My inability to talk about current affairs is because I deliberately never watch the box or read a newspaper.  Is watching the news or reading a newspaper an uplifting experience?  No!  Consequently I live in a bubble where the sun mostly shines and, even if the heavens open, there is a rainbow not too far away.  Ignorance can indeed be blissful.
          Thanks to social media, when really nasty things happen, there is no escaping what is going on in the world.  Twitter and Facebook will suddenly be ablaze with chit-chat.  This week’s dreadful acts of terror in Paris had everybody saying exactly what they’d like to do to the culprits and it wasn’t long before hashtags were trending.  I logged into an on-line daily newspaper and recoiled in horror.  On Facebook, rather than posting a funny picture of my cat captioned with an inane comment, I felt prompted to write a Status from the heart.  My presence on social media is primarily as an author platform, therefore I mostly remain silent on tricky subjects like politics and religion.  But yesterday I spoke.  I posted about my concept of God being one of love…that He loved us all and, in turn, we should love each other.  Within seconds the sentence had sparked a lively thread of debate.  Comments ranged from the sublime to the ridiculous.  But everybody is entitled to their opinions, and I won’t spark another barrage of remarks by talking about it any further here.
          I particularly like conversation where a gaff is made.  For example, yesterday afternoon we took my parents to see the new house we are buying.
          ‘It’s lovely,’ said Mother Bryant as she creaked into the hallway, the floor of which was covered in white stone tiles.  ‘Does it have underground heating?’  No.  Sadly it doesn’t have underfloor heating either.
          Or out shopping.  ‘I love this sparkly sweater.  What’s this material called?  Oh, I remember now, Durex.’  For those still puzzling, Mother Bryant meant lurex.
          Even better is conversation where somebody trips over their words so they sound like a blithering idiot.  We’ve all done it.
          ‘What would you like for breakfast?’ I asked my daughter.
          ‘I’ll have some pain au cheu-cheu-cheu-cheu…’  I appreciate it’s very difficult saying pain au chocolatbefore nine in the morning when you’re a teenager with a hangover.
          And then there are those who mishear things and take the conversation down a completely different path.  A friend worked in an art supply store. She sold artists’ canvas by the yard. It could be bought in two widths – thirty-six and forty-eight inches.
          Customer: ‘Can you cut some canvas for me?’
          Friend: ‘Certainly. What width?’
          Customer (confused and slightly annoyed): ‘Scissors?’
          Even better, is when we read one word but say something different.  I can still remember addressing a Mr Stipples as Mr Nipples.  Fortunately he laughed, but then spoilt it by pretending to mispronounce my surname for something too rude to mention here.  Gosh…not heard that one before…yawn!  Which reminds me.
          What do you call a one-legged female pirate?  Peggy.
          What do you call a lady with one leg shorter than the other?  Eileen.
          What do you call a man standing on top of a hill?  Cliff.
          What do you call a man with expensive tastes?  Rich.
          What do you call a man with a shovel?  Doug.
          What do you call a man who has lost his shovel?  Douglas…
         

Retail Therapy

I love shopping.  Well, not supermarket shopping.  Proper shopping.  You know, clothes…and handbags…and shoes…and more clothes and handbags and shoes.  You’ve got the picture.  Yesterday I decided to go lingerie shopping.  Having spent the last twelve months in a sports bra due to injury following my argument with a Dyson vacuum cleaner (never row with a Dyson, never), after two operations I decided it was time to try wearing a normal bra again.  My daughter materialised by my side.
            ‘Did you say you’re going shopping?’
            ‘Yes.’
            ‘Food shopping?’
            ‘No, lingerie shopping.’
            I should have lied.  Too late, I saw the error of my ways.
            ‘Oooh, wonderful.  Wait for me.  I’ll just slick a bit of lippy on and I’ll be with you.’
            ‘I could be some time,’ I warned.
            ‘Excellent.’
            Wrong response!
            ‘I mean, er–’ Quick! Think of a real put-off excuse!
            ‘Ready!’
            ‘Fab,’ I replied weakly.
            ‘Are we going to Victoria’s Secret?’
            ‘No we are not,’ I scowled.  Between you and me, that had been my intention, but not now my spending budget had halved thanks to the company of my shopping plus-one.
            ‘So where are we going?’ asked Eleanor, undaunted.
            ‘M & S.  We shall buy something boring and sensible.’
            Actually, have you visited the lingerie section of M & S?  It’s gorgeous!  My daughter was in seventh heaven collecting armfuls of lacy this and leopard that.  Not to be outdone, I grabbed something that promised to give a bigger cleavage than Dolly Parton, and more lift than a helium balloon.  Uplifted (no pun intended), I went off to the changing room.
            ‘Wait for me,’ said Eleanor.
            ‘Go in your own changing room,’ I protested.
            ‘The others are full.  Come on, Mum.  We can share.  All girls together.’
            Actually, that’s where she was wrong.  We were not all girls together. We were one girl and one middle-aged woman, the latter with surgery scars and a mid-riff that looked like dropped knicker elastic.  There is nothing more demoralising than stripping off next to an eighteen-year old that weighs eight stone with curves in all the right places.
            ‘Oh yes, this is fabulous,’ said Eleanor as she worked her way through a selection of figure-enhancing items.  ‘How are you getting on, Mum?  Oh dear.’ Yes, oh dear indeed.  I surveyed my reflection in dismay.  Think of a trussed up chicken.  Apart from anything else, it was beyond uncomfortable.  ‘It’s still early days after your surgery.  Why don’t you go for something wireless?’
            I stared at my daughter in confusion.  Wireless?  Had they invented a bra that picked up the internet?
            To cut a shopping tale short, we left the store with half-a-dozen fancy bras for Eleanor, and a sensible cotton jobbie for me.  Sigh.  Which reminds me. Designers have invented a new bra for women of a certain age.  It’s called The Sheepdog.  It rounds things up and points them in the right direction…
           

For Better or Worse

My daughter, home from drama school for half-term, announced she was bored.
            ‘Fancy watching a DVD together?’ she asked.
            ‘Okay,’ I replied.  ‘What shall we watch?’
            Eleanor opened the drawer under the coffee table and peered within. Inside were a number of DVDs that have been languishing for years.  When I say the Teletubbies are in there, you’ll realise just how many years I’m talking about.  ‘Ooh,’ she grinned.  ‘Your wedding DVD! Come on, Mum.  Make us both a cup of tea and I’ll set it up.’
            I was expecting the next hour to be spent companionably with my daughter as we sipped tea and smiled indulgently.  Instead we alternated between crying a river and doubling over with laughter.  The laughter came first.
            ‘Oh my goodness, the quality is tragic,’ Eleanor announced.  On the screen, colours blurred and bled into each other.
            ‘This was state-of-the-art stuff back then,’ I protested.  As you’ve probably gathered, I got married when cameras contained thirty-six exposure film and a mobile phone was just a mobile phone.  Tell a lie, I do remember one wedding guest proudly holding a mobile phone that actually housed a camera with a ridiculously small amount of pixels.
            ‘Look this way, Debbie!  Smile!  Fantastic. Want to have a look?  See here, this white blob with a smaller blob is you in your wedding dress holding your bouquet. Amazing, eh!’
            ‘Oh my goodness, so it is!  Your camera phone is just…appalling.’
            At least he wasn’t doing the wedding pics.  There was a professional photographer for that, and also a professional videographer.  The latter had a huge camera on his right shoulder.  He was wearing a jacket which appeared to be weighted down with bricks. In fact they were battery packs.
            The film continued to roll.  The television screen was filled with various shots of Rowhill Grange, the glorious hotel where Mr V vowed to take me and my cooking for better or worse.  Then the titles scrolled up.
            Starring the bridesmaids…followed by two posed shots of my daughter and step-daughter.  Eleanor, aged five, was thrilled to be wearing a princess dress and far more interested in whizzing round and round so the skirts spun out.  Rianna, my step-daughter, grinned self-consciously into camera.  She revealed a pair of newly-popped grown-up front teeth too big for her small face.
            Co-starring the pageboy…followed by my son Robbie in the grip of nerves. His smile for the camera was like somebody in intense pain.
            From our vantage point on the sofa, Eleanor and I slapped our thighs and chortled with laughter.  The next title faded in and took our breath away.
            We remember our dear friend, the best man… Eleanor and I burst into tears.  My husband’s closest friend was to have been the best man.  He died in a tragic accident weeks before our wedding.  Nobody could take his place, but we’re pretty sure he came along and we raised a glass to him.
            The camera panned to guests.  My mother, tall and straight, wearing stilettoes and looking incredibly young.  These days she’s eight inches shorter after bungled back surgery, walks on crutches and wears a caliper.  Eleanor and I howled some more.
            And finally, the arrival of the bride and groom – it was a second marriage for me so we arrived together.  The tears turned to laughter again.
            ‘Oh cringe, Mum. Your hair!’  Yes, let’s not forget THAT hairstyle.  I was born with curls and big hair.  Without a doubt my finest decade was the eighties.  Back then, women all over the land were perming their hair and fluffing it out.  Not me.  My hair did it all by itself.  As I exited the limo, I was preceded by a billowing cloud of blonde curls so wide it was a wonder I could walk through doorways.
            As the wedding unfolded, Eleanor burst into tears again.  ‘I looked so carefree,’ she lamented.  She’s had a few troubles recently, bless her.
            All three children were undeniably cute.  A part of me momentarily longed to return to that faraway time where the only thing our kids had worried about was where the next Barbie doll or Action Man was coming from.  These days they have nervous breakdowns about spots, body shape or the dating game where inevitably somebody gets dumped.  On the other hand, I don’t know how we got through those days juggling the jobs we had with small children and very little sleep.  As I watched myself on the screen walking into the hotel followed by three beautifully turned out children, I marveled at what the camera hadn’t caught an hour earlier…a harassed woman helping two little girls into cream tights, frocks and ballet shoes, and a little boy needing assistance with his tie whilst the same harassed woman clock watched and wondered if it was possible to do full bridal make-up in four minutes and thirty-nine seconds before the limo arrived.
            Eleanor and I laughed again as Mr V fluffed his vows.  ‘I take thee to be my awful wedded wife…’
            I’d booked a table magician to entertain throughout the wedding breakfast.  The videographer had captured everybody’s requests for balloon poodles, balloon bicycles, balloon flowers and so on.  It had also captured one guest who fancied himself as a bit of a wag.
            ‘And what would Sir like?’ asked the magician.
            ‘I’ll have a blow-up doll please.’
            To use one of my daughter’s favourite words…CRINGE!
            Following on were the speeches. I made one too.  Trying to ignore the camera, I nervously thanked everybody for coming and turned to Mr V.  ‘I’m delighted to be your husband and honoured you’re now my wife.’
            By the time the DVD came to an end, Eleanor and I had trumpeted our way through half a box of tissues.  When Mr V came home from work, he asked why we had bloodshot eyes.
            ‘We’ve been watching the wedding DVD,’ said Eleanor.
            ‘Put it on again,’ said my husband as he settled himself down on the sofa.  ‘What’s that for?’ he asked as Eleanor placed the remaining tissues next to him.
            ‘You’ll need them.’
            ‘Don’t be daft,’ Mr V laughed.
            He pulled the first tissue thirty seconds into the film.  Which reminds me.
            A man placed an advert in the classifieds: Wife wanted.  The next day he received a hundred letters. They all said the same thing. You can have mine…