Debbie Viggiano's Blog, page 7

Oooh-ommmm

A couple of weeks ago, I decided – after much talking but no action – to take up yoga.  Properly.  So I rang my local gym.  They said they’d welcome me with open arms if I bought a membership which worked out to ninety quid a month plus nine pounds for each yoga class.  I thanked the kind person profusely…and turned to YouTube.
          A quick search turned up a nice young American lady telling me I could do yoga in my front room for free.  Eagerly, I prepared for my first ‘class’.
          ‘Cross your legs like so,’ she instructed.
          The last time I adopted this position was at primary school.  Forty plus years later, my legs were having none of it.  I looked at the nice American lady on my iPad.  She had assumed a perfect crossed-leg position with her knees almost grazing the floor.  My own legs were crossed, but my knees were pointing towards the ceiling.  Gently, I pushed them to the floor.  Down.  Down a bit more.  Nearly there.  Muscles twanged alarmingly, but nothing ripped.
          ‘And now, arms to the front, wrists together, entwine fingers and embrace the breath.’
          Copying, I brought my wrists together.  Immediately my knees sprang upwards.  Ignoring them I stretched forward, mimicking the instructor, and raised my arms up.  From my spine came the sound of several vertebrae popping.  Since when had sitting cross-legged and stretching become such hard work?
          For twenty-five minutes I did my best to emulate my on-line bendy instructor as she moved fluidly into position after position, stretch after stretch.
          ‘Don’t worry if you feel a little shaky,’ she assured afterwards, ‘it’s just prana energy moving.’
          Really?  I folded away my iPad and stood up.  My whole body was shaking like an aspen in a hurricane.
          The following day I awoke to find my legs had surely been filled with concrete by some invisible force during the night.  Every muscle ached.  It was a whole week before I could bring myself to do Day Two.  Do you ever get the feeling that sometimes you should have started something twenty years earlier?  However, having been inspired by one of Facebook’s viral videos where a ninety-year-old lady not only did yoga herself but spent her days in a studio as an instructor with her legs hooked over her shoulders, I shall persevere.  Which reminds me.
          Why did the yogi refuse anaesthesia when having his wisdom teeth removed?  Because he wanted transcend-dental-medication…

Flower Power

The recent UK Mother’s Day was, for me, something of an empowering moment.  Now, before you go thinking I’m some sort of diva, let me just say this is absolutely not true.  Well, not usually anyway.  But as Mother’s Day dawned it rapidly became apparent it was going to be just another day.  And somewhere deep within, a bit of feistiness made itself known.
          ‘Happy Mother’s Day,’ said my son, handing me a vast bunch of ribbon-tied tulips.
          ‘Happy Mother’s Day,’ trilled my daughter and gave me not one, but two, gaily wrapped prezzies.
          ‘Thank you,’ I beamed.  ‘The tulips are perfect.’  I eagerly tore at the pretty paper on the parcels.  ‘Ooh, a lovely mug and,’ I peered into the layers of paper, ‘a notebook and pen.’
          ‘For your shopping lists,’ Eleanor replied.
          ‘Indeed!’ I hugged the notebook to my heart.  It has to be said that my ‘shopping lists’ drive the family mad.  They are never written on one piece of paper, but rather dotted all around the house.  Urgent scribble for dishwasher tablets and cat food can be found on the back of an envelope…bread and milk on the bottom of a bank statement…butter and cheese on a random till receipt…and think of something exciting for dinner on my diary page.  So when the family try to add to my shopping list with their own requests, it can be something of a challenge.
          ‘That’s nice,’ said Mr V, admiring the mug and notebook.
          I straightened up.  Oh goodie.  The husband’s gift was due next.  I smiled in anticipation.
          ‘Oh yes,’ said Mr V as realisation dawned.  ‘It’s Mother’s Day.  Your card is in the boot of my car.’
          Naturally.  I always keep a stash of celebration cards in my car boot.  Not.  ‘Well go and get it!’ I made chivvying motions with my hands.
          ‘Ah, but I haven’t written in it yet.’
          ‘Then get writing!’ I cried.  ‘I want my card!  And present!’
          ‘Present?’ said Mr V looking alarmed.
          ‘Yes.  Present.  Can I just remind you, every Father’s Day I spoil you rotten.  Last year you were whisked off to your favourite restaurant. The bill came to several arms and legs and was paid for by Yours Truly.’
          ‘And I haven’t forgotten,’ said Mr V, lying through his teeth. ‘It’s just that the flowers I selected are…um…still at the florist.’
          ‘John Lewis’ florist?’
          ‘Er…no.  Tesco.’
          ‘Tesco!’
          ‘They do lovely flowers at Tesco,’ said Mr V defensively. ‘In fact, if you come with me, you can choose your own. Satisfied?’
          ‘I’ll have to be, won’t I!’
          An hour later, I surveyed what was left of our local supermarket’s motley flowers after a frenzied last-minute buy-out by terrified men all over the South-East of England.
          ‘These are nice,’ said my husband, brandishing a bunch of brown roses.
          ‘They’re dead!’
          ‘Okay, what about these?’ he touched the cellophane wrapped around some shrivelled chrysanthemums.
          ‘Everything here is on its last legs.  I know, let’s go to the garden centre.  They’ll have oodles of beautiful bouquets.’
          ‘Right-oh,’ warbled Mr V, clutching his wallet nervously.
          Outside it had begun to drizzle.  My husband, who’d insisted on coming out without a jacket, looked at the sky and shivered.  Ten minutes later we arrived at the garden centre. By this point the drizzle had turned to fine rain. We ran, dodging the raindrops, until under cover.  Everywhere were beautiful blooms – flowering pot plants, hanging baskets overflowing with a waterfall of riotous colour, and pretty pastel shrubs.  But no bouquets.  I went over to an assistant.
          ‘Hello.  Where’s your florist?’
          ‘Gone.’
          ‘Gone?’
          ‘Yeah…couldn’t compete against Tesco.’
          Oh.
          ‘I know,’ said Mr excitedly. ‘We’ll go to one of those roadside stalls that you see all over the place on occasions like today.’
          ‘Good idea.’
          Outside the rainfall had increased.  We legged it to the car.
          ‘It’s chuffing freezing,’ said my husband through chattering teeth.  He hit dials, flicked switches, and ramped up the car’s temperature.  ‘Let’s find these flowers and get home.’
          As you can see, he’s incredibly romantic.  I’m being ironic by the way.  So we drove.  And drove.  And then we drove some more.  After about thirty miles we still hadn’t found any roadside stalls selling bundles of Mother’s Day bouquets.
          ‘I don’t think I’m going to get my flowers,’ I sighed.
          It was at that precise moment my husband did an emergency stop.  As we ricocheted forwards and backwards in our seats, Mr V pointed in wonder to the vision before us.  The Co-Op.  And outside the shop’s door were numerous buckets of water containing umpteen bunches of flowers.
          ‘Wait here,’ commanded Mr V.  Flinging open the driver’s door, he dashed across the road and disappeared into the shop.  I waited, squirming in my seat with pleasure.  At last!  Flowers!  Romance!  I closed my eyes in anticipation and kept them closed until he returned.  The door opened and suddenly blooms were being pushed into my face.  All seven of them.
          ‘Oh.’  I turned to him in disappointment.
          ‘No good?’
          ‘They’re lovely.  I was just…expecting more.’
          ‘More?’
          ‘Yes.  Please can I have some more?’  We seemed to have dropped into an Oliver Twist moment.
          ‘More flowers?’
          ‘More flowers.’  It was Mother’s Day dammit!
          ‘Okay.’
          Outside, the steady rain chose that moment to turn into a torrential downpour.  But back to the shop Mr V went.  Moments later he reappeared and I swear everything went into slow motion.  There was my husband, arms full of blooms, white shirt sticking to his man boobs…I mean taught body...as the rain drenched him from head to toe, striding towards me with a triumphant look upon his face.  I don’t think he’ll forget to buy flowers next year.  Which reminds me.
          What did the bee say to the flower?  ‘Hello, honey…’

Driving Her Crazy

My daughter has started driving lessons.  By the time most kids have their first professional lesson, a fair proportion of them have had a bit of tuition with a parent.  At this point, I would like to congratulate such parents who clearly don’t have a faint heart – although such parental tuition can be fraught, I’m sure.  Like the time when my daughter’s boyfriend drove his mother’s car into the garage.  And didn’t stop until it hit the wall.  Or when I was passenger to my son’s early attempts in our field and screamed, ‘THERE’S A FENCE,’ as we bounced towards our boggle-eyed pony trembling behind its post-and-rail.  I just didn’t have the required nerves of steel to repeat all this with my daughter.  She’s booked a week’s intensive course of driving lessons starting next month, so I thought it might be prudent to get some basic acquaintance with clutch control etc in order to be a little more prepared.  So last Wednesday Eleanor had her first independent lesson.  By the time cabin controls and basic safety stuff had been covered, she only had ten minutes of actual driving time.  Nine minutes of this was spent bunny hopping forward and stalling the vehicle.
          ‘I see,’ I listened to her account afterwards and nodded encouragingly.  ‘So how did the remaining minute go?’
          ‘Well I didn’t manage to get out of first gear, but I was very proud of myself, Mum,’ Eleanor beamed.  ‘I overtook a car.’
          ‘You overtook a car?’ my eyebrows nearly shot off my forehead.  ‘What, in first gear?’
          ‘Well, it was a parked car, but I still overtook it.’
          ‘Ah.’
          ‘And I drove at twenty miles per hour too!’
          ‘Still in first gear?’
          ‘Yes.  The engine note was a bit loud, but my driving instructor didn’t say anything.  He was too busy leaning across and grabbing the steering wheel.’
          I felt a tad queasy listening to that bit.  ‘Why was he grabbing the wheel?’
          Eleanor regarded me with wide eyes.  ‘Because it’s so hard to steer a car, isn’t it?  I mean, I was busy looking at the speedometer and thinking how amazing it was that I was driving at twenty miles per hour.’
          ‘Mmm, quite.’  I take my hat off to her driving instructor.  ‘But you are actually meant to keep your eyes trained on the road ahead.’
          ‘Oh I did glance at it now and again,’ Eleanor assured, perfectly serious.
          ‘Glance at it?’
          ‘Well I had to see where my feet were on the pedals, and then find the gear stick, and then peer in the rear-view mirror, then look for the lever to signal and then somehow look over my shoulder.  I mean, I can’t look everywhere can I?  There’s just soooooo much to think about.’
          ‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘but it’s quite important you check there’s nothing in front of you too.  Difficult I know,’ I assured, ‘but you know…somewhat essential.’
          The next driving lesson is Tuesday.  Let’s hope progress is made into second gear and more attention given to what’s on the other side of the windscreen.  Which reminds me.
          A man saw an advertisement for a driving school that claimed it could teach anyone to drive a car in ten minutes. He telephoned the school and asked, ‘How can you possibly teach anyone to drive in just ten minutes?’  ‘Easy,’ replied the driving school’s telephonist, ‘it’s a crash course…’

Driving me Crazy

It’s been one of those weeks where everything has felt a bit hectic. Today, Sunday, I’ve been able to stop and take a deep breath.  My daughter has had a string of auditions recently, two this week alone. The driving has been tiring, the routes unfamiliar, conditions awful and the journeys somewhat hairy.
          I’m a slow and steady driver. You will rarely find my car in the outside lane of a motorway unless there are lorries blocking lanes one and two.
          On Tuesday’s excursion to Loughton, the traffic was slow and heavy.  At the Dartford Tunnel, all umpteen lanes to the toll barriers were chock-a-block with traffic.
          ‘Do something, Mum,’ said Eleanor.
          ‘Certainly. Pass me my handbag.’
          ‘What for?’
          ‘It’s where I keep my magic wand.’
          ‘Oh, very funny.’
          At a snail’s pace, we attempted to filter onto the M25.  I signalled to show my intention to flow into crawling traffic. In front of me was a lorry. To the right of me was another lorry. Behind me – you’ve guessed – a third lorry. My car is about the size of a 4 x 4 so I don’t usually feel insignificant, but at that moment, surrounded by huge vehicles, there was a definite sense of being hemmed in.
          ‘Are you going to let me out?’ I muttered to myself whilst looking over my shoulder at the huge HGV. The driver’s face was just about visible. His expression said it all:  Bog off woman driver.  Squaring my shoulders and offering up a silent prayer, I barged my way out and squeezed in front of him. From behind came the blast of an HGV-sized horn which nearly sent Eleanor and me rocketing into orbit. A glance in my rear view mirror revealed the lorry’s engine grill a hair’s breadth from my boot. ‘Why don't you just climb into the back of my car?’ I said under my breath.
          In situations like this, I always wonder about the mentality of certain drivers. Is one vehicle getting in front of them truly going to impact upon their journey time?
          My mind travelled back a few weeks previously to a similar situation when I was taking my daughter to college. Crossing a roundabout, I filtered into the correct lane only to have a lorry try and carve me up. That particular driver’s attitude was, ‘I’m bigger than you, so get out of my way.’ He might have been bigger, but his vehicle wasn’t as nippy as mine, so his attempt to squeeze me out failed. His outrage was obvious. All the way down the London Road I was subjected to blasts of horn and flashing headlights. I retaliated by driving slowly on an approach to traffic lights, caught them on the change, and then accelerated through so that he had no choice but to stop for the red light. I then took it to the next level by buzzing down the window to gleefully wave him farewell as I zoomed off.
          I love small victories and chortled all the way to the next set of traffic lights.  Things weren’t quite so funny five minutes later when I caught sight, in my rear view mirror, of Mr Lorry Driver bearing down on me.  Uh-oh.
          ‘Come on traffic lights…change!’
          But they didn’t.  Moments later Mr Lorry Driver was parallel to my vehicle.  His window buzzed down and the air turned blue.  His finale was a two-fingered salute. Not to be outdone, I stuck four fingers up at him and waggled them about for good measure.  I haven’t a clue if it means anything, but it felt good.
          Yesterday’s journey wasn’t much better. We were travelling to Surrey University’s Guildford School of Acting. We set off in miserable weather.  The air was full of fine drizzle. By the time we were on the motorway, lashings of road spray gave an illusion of fog. Just as I was steaming past a line of lorries, one of them decided to pull out on me. No signals. Just the usual attitude of, ‘I’m a lorry, therefore I’m King of the Road’.
          ‘Yikes,’ Eleanor and I chorused.
          Actually we didn’t really say that. We said something a little more colourful which I will leave to your imagination.  Once I’d put comfortable distance between the lorries and us, we exhaled in relief.
          ‘That’s one thing I’m not looking forward to when I start driving,’ said Eleanor.
          ‘What, motorways?’
          ‘Mm. I mean, my car is tiddly. What if I get squashed?’
          ‘Just keep your distance from big vehicles.’
          Eleanor stared ahead thoughtfully. ‘It feels very odd knowing my driving test is booked and that I haven’t yet had a single lesson.’
          Like her brother last year, Eleanor has booked a week’s intensive driving course over the Easter break. It’s bad enough being passenger to my twenty-two year old son, but the thought of sitting next to a newly qualified seventeen year old is one that fills me with more fear than taking on a lorry driver. Which reminds me.
          The following are apparently true answers given by women drivers in the California Driving Test:
          Q: What is the difference between a flashing red traffic light and a flashing yellow traffic light?
          A: The colour.
          Q: When driving through fog, what should you use?
          A:  Your car.
          Q: What changes would occur to your lifestyle if you could no longer drive lawfully?
          A: I would be forced to drive unlawfully...

 

Musical Chairs and Other Things

February always sees us celebrating several birthdays in my family.  A recent one was my sister’s.
          ‘What would you like for your present?’ I asked Janice.
          Most ladies would suggest things like perfume, or chocolates, or a particular bit of make-up or a collection of nail polishes.  My sis eats only a certain type of chocolate, says perfume is bad for you, is fussy about her make-up, and hates nail polish.
          ‘What about some gift vouchers?’ I asked, playing it safe.  ‘And please don’t suggest Halfords.’  Last year Janice wanted a voucher for an inner tube, or something equally daft, for her bicycle.  ‘I want to buy you something gorgeous and feminine.’  Trouble is, when you take chocolates, perfume, make-up and nail polish out of the equation, things start to get trickier.
          ‘What about a nice pair of earrings?’ I suggested.
          ‘I have loads of earrings and don’t wear half of them as it is.  I could do with some new plastic food containers.  I think there’s a sale on at Lakeland.’
          ‘No!’ I said in exasperation.
          In the end she settled on me taking her out for a meal followed by a trip to the cinema.  Hurrah!  So early Friday evening, we met outside a well-known restaurant with a five star rating.
          ‘Come in,’ said a smiley-faced waitress.  ‘Sit down.’  She indicated a table for two next to their main staircase.  We had barely parked our bottoms when Janice put her head on one side, as if thinking about something.
          ‘What’s up?’ I asked.
          ‘It’s a bit public here, isn’t it?  With the staircase.  Everybody is traipsing past us.’
          ‘Okay.  We’ll ask if we can be moved.’
          So our smiley-faced waitress invited us to follow her to the other end of the restaurant, far away from the staircase.  Once again we re-arranged handbags, coats and bottoms.  I picked up the menu with a sigh of pleasure.  Food!  Feed me!  I was starving.  But…wait a moment.  I looked at my sister across the table.
          ‘Everything all right?’
          ‘Don’t you find these lights very bright?’
          ‘What…you mean the lamps dangling over the table?  I think they’re meant to give a sense of…you know…atmosphere.’
          ‘The only thing they’re giving me is a headache.  They’re right over my line of vision. Doesn’t it bother you?’
          I stared across the table at my sister.  The lights hadn’t been bothering me, but now she’d mentioned it, naturally I couldn’t stop seeing them bobbing about in my peripheral vision.  And she was right.  It was headache inducing.  Well, something was giving me a headache anyway.
          ‘Okay,’ I nodded.  ‘We’ll move tables again.’
          The smiley-faced waitress was summoned, this time looking a little surprised, but she beamed away and showed us to a third table.
          ‘Thank you,’ said my sister.  ‘I’m not a diva, honest.’
          ‘Ha ha,’ I laughed.
          ‘Ha ha, laughed the waitress.
          Once again we re-arranged ourselves and settled down with the menus.  And a whole thirty seconds passed before my sister once again put her head on one side.  But…oh dear…what now?   I looked over the menu at her.
          ‘Something wrong?’
          ‘Look above us.’ My sister pointed upwards.
          I followed her gaze and stared at a huge Bose speaker directly above our heads.
          ‘Well, it’s only playing soft music.  We’re perfectly able to hear ourselves talking.’
          As if on cue, somebody ramped up the volume.  It was wonderful music.  Took me right back to my teens.  White Cherry’s Play That Funky Music, Electric Light Orchestra’s Mr Blue Sky and Chic’s Le Freak.  By the time the last tune was playing I was torn between whether to order dinner or dance around my handbag.
          ‘DO YOU THINK WE SHOULD ASK TO BE MOVED? Janice shouted.
          ‘UP TO YOU.  IT’S GREAT MUSIC THOUGH, EH!’
          The smiley-faced waitress came over.  ‘ARE YOU READY TO ORDER?’
          ‘NO.  CAN YOU TURN THE MUSIC DOWN?’
          The smiley-faced waitress looked disconcerted, but nodded and disappeared.  Seconds later the volume went down.
          ‘Oh thank goodness,’ said Janice. ‘I couldn’t hear myself think.’  In that moment she sounded exactly like our mother.  ‘Oh dear, I sounded exactly like our mother.’
          ‘I know.’
          ‘Not good.’
          We both digested this horror.  Turning into our mother was something we’d always sworn never to do.  At least my sister was ahead of me.  And she’s four years younger!
          ‘What would you like to drink?’ asked the smiley-faced waitress.
          ‘Water,’ my sister replied.
          ‘Prosecco,’ I said.  ‘A large one.’
          ‘Am I driving you to drink?’ asked my sister.
          ‘Yes,’ I smiled sweetly.  Several table changes, a complaint about a staircase, lighting, speakers and volume of music.  We’d been there half an hour so far and achieved nothing other than a lot of other diners wondering if we were doing a Dom Joly and winding up the waitress.
          Finally we were ready to order.  Weren’t we?
          ‘I’m gluten free,’ said my sister.  ‘Do you do gluten free pasta?’
          ‘Yes,’ said the smiley-faced waitress looking slightly wary.
          ‘Me too,’ I nodded.
          ‘And vegetarian,’ said my sister.
          ‘Me too,’ I said again.
          You’d think that would be enough for the waitress to worry about, wouldn’t you?  But…wait…my sister was saying something else.
          ‘And I don’t eat garlic.  Or onions.  And ideally no dairy.’
          The smiley-faced waitress looked like she wanted to burst into tears.  ‘Um, I’m not sure what’s left on the menu.’
          ‘What about fish?’ I suggested.  ‘You eat fish.’
          ‘Hmmmm.  What sort of fish do you have?’
          The smiley-faced waitress looked relieved.  ‘We do a fabulous coley pasta with mussels and prawns.’
          ‘Ah, I’m allergic to mussels and prawns.  Can you do it with just the fish?’
          The smiley-faced waitress looked stricken.  ‘Oh dear.  No, it’s pre-prepared.’
          ‘What about a big salad?’ I prompted.
          ‘Yes, that could work.  What sort of leaves do you do?’
          The smiley-faced waitress was definitely starting to look traumatised.  I’m fairly sure she’d never been asked about salad leaves before.  ‘Well,’ she quavered, ‘we do a really nice rocket salad with parmesan shavings.’
          ‘Oh dear.  Of all the salad leaves there are, I hate rocket.  It’s so hot and peppery.’
          ‘Could you hurry up with that wine,’ I muttered to the smiley-faced waitress.  I think she could have done with a glass herself by this point.
          Anyway, to cut a long story short, my sister settled on a carbonara without garlic and minus the bacon, and took a chance that the dairy wouldn’t upset her sinuses.  The food was superb and the smiley-faced waitress didn’t burst into tears.  Afterwards we headed off to the cinema to watch Kingsman.
          ‘We need some chocolate to munch in the cinema,’ said my sister.
          ‘Good idea.’
          We headed into a nearby confectioner’s.
          ‘Can I help you?’ asked the assistant.
          ‘Yes,’ beamed my sister.  ‘I want some chocolate.’  But…wait.  What was she asking for?  ‘Organic…dairy-free…no gluten…and preferably no soya substitute…’
          Ever get that feeling of déjà vu?  Which reminds me.  A guy went to a fancy French restaurant called Déjà Vu.  The head waiter came over and said, ‘Don’t I know you…?’

Valentine's Day

So did you have a wonderful Valentine’s Day?  For those of you who are newly married, or about to be married, or have recently got engaged, or just found the love of your life and walking around in a happy haze…no doubt you were all swamped with your favourite perfumes, bouquets, satin undies, and possibly even a romantic weekend away.  If so, that’s fabulous, and long may it last.  For those of you who have husbands who regard February 14th as just another day, come closer because I want to give you a hug.  And if you are single, I’ll hug you too.
          Actually, I shouldn’t do Mr V down.  To be fair to him, he did remember it was Valentine’s Day.  And I nearly fainted when a box was delivered containing a dozen red roses.  Regrettably they turned out to be for my daughter.
          ‘Oooh, aren’t they lovely,’ I said admiringly.
          ‘That reminds me,’ said my husband, and he presented me with a card in the traditional red envelope.
          ‘Thanks,’ I grinned.  ‘And, um, is there anything else?’
          ‘Anything else?’ he frowned.
          Ah, bless him.  He was pretending.  Any second now he’d take his hands from behind his back and trill, “Da-daaaaaa!”  And he’d put two bunched-up fists in front of me before playfully saying, “Guess which hand?”  And I’d touch the left one and he’d say, “Correct!” And there, nestling in the palm of his hand would be diamond earrings.  All right, pearl earrings.  Okay, cubic zirconia studs.  I’m not fussy.  If it sparkles, it will still make me happy.
          ‘What time do you need a lift to the station?’ asked my husband, yawning widely.  Clearly the card and the card alone had been the big romantic gesture.  Meanwhile my daughter had another audition to attend in her bid for entry into a drama school.  I looked at the clock on the oven.  Another two minutes and we needed to dash off to London.  I grabbed my handbag and coat.
          At the station, I got out of the car and then, as an afterthought, leant back in.
          ‘Flowers,’ I murmured seductively.
          My husband looked startled.  As well he might.  The last time I spoke in a seductive voice to him was…ooh…I can’t remember.
          ‘Pardon?’
          ‘I’d like some flowers.’
          ‘Flowers?’
          ‘Yes. You know. Those things with long green stems and lots of petals at one end.’
          I hastily shut the car door before my husband could splutter any further incredulities.  Forty-five minutes later we were heading out of Barons Court tube station (no, I’ve never heard of it before either) and suddenly I was plunged into the most romantic moment I have ever witnessed.  A distraught man, his arms full of blooms – and when I say ‘full’ I mean full to the point where he was almost staggering under the sheer weight of them – was hurrying towards the platform.
          ‘Wait!’ he called to somebody.
          I craned my neck.  Oh my goodness.  Had he had a lover’s tiff?  Was this a moment full of red hearts and love declarations in order to win back the woman he simply couldn’t live without?  I watched in fascination as a charged towards the tube.  It turned out there was no woman and he just hadn’t wanted to miss his connection.  But nothing could take away the fact that later some lucky lady was going to be absolutely ecstatic with two hundred quid’s worth of flower power.
          Three hours later Mr V greeted my daughter and me at the station.  I opened the passenger door and slid in.  Just as I was reaching for my seatbelt, my husband thrust six red roses into my free hand.
          ‘Flowers,’ he beamed.
          ‘Awwww, how romantic,’ I cooed.  Well you have to milk the moment. After all, it doesn’t happen very often.
          ‘Enjoy them.’
          ‘Oh I will, I will,’ I said, plunging my nose into the petals and sniffing in delight.
          Naturally the romance didn’t last further than five seconds.  ‘They certainly cost enough,’ said Mr V sounding irked.  ‘Twelve quid! Absolute daylight robbery. A total rip off.’
          Viva la romance!  Which reminds me.
          A husband and wife had been married for seventy years and had no secrets – except for one.  In the depths of her wardrobe, the wife had kept a shoe box that she’d forbidden her husband to ever open.  On her deathbed, the woman gave her husband permission to open the box.  Inside was a crocheted doll and one hundred thousand pounds.
          ‘My mother said the secret of a happy marriage was to never argue,’ she explained, ‘and that instead it was better to keep quiet and crochet a doll.’
          Her husband was touched.  Just one doll in the box!  So his wife had only ever been cross with him once.
          ‘But where did all this money come from?’ he asked.
          ‘Oh,’ she explained, ‘that’s the money I made from selling the dolls…’
 

I've Got a Lovely Bunch of...Carrots!

Over the years, thanks to my lovely beagle, I have made friends with many fellow dog walkers and doggy neighbours.  However, having recently bid a sad farewell to my golden oldie, walkiespromptly ground to a halt.
          Currently I’m in limbo land.  We’re considering a house move later this year, plus there are other personal matters up in the air.  We want another dog, but the timing is not yet right.  So for now, I’ve resumed walkies – minus the pooch – with a lovely neighbour and her dear little terrier.
          In the beginning it felt most odd pulling on layers of clothing and Wellington boots, and setting off without hanging on to a lead.  My arms felt surplus to requirement, hands dangling by my sides.  Now I stuff them deep into my pockets.  The hands, not the arms.
          Most lunchtimes my neighbour and I venture across nearby Cotton Lane to a vast expanse of land where hundreds of travellers’ horses illegally graze.  The horses seem to be in their own social cliques with mini herds dotted all over the hills.  Mostly they ignore dog walkers unless, of course, you happen to be harbouring about your person some old apples or carrots.
          Considering I spent many years around horses – all of my childhood until right into my early thirties both riding and handling them, my confidence goes to pot around these particular horses.  Maybe it’s because these are travellers’ ponies and not used to being handled?  Or perhaps it’s because many of them are stallions and can be feisty.  Whatever it is, I have a deep sense of self-preservation and a desire to give them a wide berth!
          Earlier this week my neighbour had some old carrots she wanted to throw out, so kindly decided to give them to the travellers’ ponies.  The poor things are never fed, intermittently watered, and are currently weathering out in bitterly cold temperatures.  Walking along companionably, we came across a little herd busily tugging at winter grass.
          ‘I won’t go up to them,’ said my neighbour producing a rustling carrier bag full of carrots.  ‘I’ll throw these at them instead.’
          ‘Good idea,’ I replied, shrinking into a bit of gorsy hedge.
          Suddenly six shaggy heads shot up, eyes swivelling our way.  Twelve ears flicked forward – just about as far forward as long ears can go.  We had their attention.  My neighbour began lobbing carrots which prompted the herd leader to give an excited whicker to the others.  Now I don’t profess to be Dr Doolittle, but I know exactly what this horse said to his mates.
          ‘Look lively, chaps. It’s raining carrots.’
          Delighted, they began to walk towards my neighbour’s trail of veg.  The leader, anxious to eat the most, broke into a trot.  The others, keen not to miss out, also picked up pace.  However, the leader was having none of it.  With nostrils flaring, he broke into a canter.  Now there’s something about a group of shaggy wild ponies coming towards you at a fair pace that doesn’t generate a feeling of…calm.  It was at this point I abandoned my bit of gorsy hedge and fled in the opposite direction.
          ‘Don’t worry,’ my neighbour assured as she scampered behind me, ‘they won’t come after us.’
          I wasn’t so certain.  Looking back over my shoulder, the leader had munched up all his share of carrots and was conferring with the rest of the herd.
          ‘Follow the blonde.  She might have more carrots.’
          ‘But both of them are blonde.’
          ‘Fair point.  Follow them both.’
          ‘Okay. Tally ho!’
          Fortunately they lost interest the moment my neighbour shoved the carrier bag back into her coat pocket.
          My next encounter with them was when I came out of my house late one evening to collect my daughter from a show at her Theatre.  There, standing directly behind my car, were a group of ponies all having a late-night chat.
          ‘I think the blonde with the carrots lives somewhere round here.’
          I promptly turned on my heel and went back indoors to ring the police.  Sorry, but I’m not being mugged by a bunch of horses!
          ‘Yes, officer, that’s right, you heard me correctly.  Loose ponies. No, of course they’re not wearing balaclavas.  What are they doing?  Well one of them has just used his hoof to smash an icy puddle and they’re currently hoovering up the water.  Oh, wait.  They’re off again, heading towards Chapel Drive.’
          When I returned home forty-five minutes later there were two police cars outside our electric gates, blue lights flashing dramatically.  In the darkness I could make out four policemen charging here, there and everywhere.  Were they after burglars?  Muggers?  Hoodies up to no good?  Nope, none of these.  Just lots of ponies having a wonderful time leading our local force a very merry dance.  Did the boys in blue catch them?  Of course not.  They didn’t have any carrots.
          Which reminds me.  A trainer was giving last minute instructions to his jockey.  He appeared to slip something into the horse’s mouth just as a steward walked by.
          ‘What was that?’ asked the steward.
          ‘Just a Polo mint,’ said the trainer, popping one in his mouth. ‘Would you like one too?’
          After the suspicious steward had moved away, the trainer continued with his instructions to the jockey.’
          ‘Just keep on the rail. You’re a certainty. The only thing that could possibly pass you down the home straight is either the steward or me…’
 

The Fishwife

I think we all know the meaning of fishwife.  The archaic definition is a woman who sells fish.  The modern meaning is a coarse-mannered woman who is prone to shouting.
          Naturally I’m not a fishwife.  And nor are you!  Of coursewe’ve never shouted at our kids…our partners…our cats…dogs…or the goldfish.  We all have nice shiny halos over our heads that never slip.  Well hardly ever.  Apart from the time my dog scampered over a newly washed floor. Or my cat peed over the edge of her litter tray causing urine to leak into the circuit board of the nearby tumble dryer and blow the electrics.  Or the kids turned their noses up at a meal I’d laboured over.  Or the husband didn’t even turn up for the meal I’d laboured over on account of work being more important.  Or the goldfish deciding it was time to go to the great pond in the sky after a small fortune had been spent on a bigger, posher tank with lots of mermaid decorations.  Indeed, I’m mostly innocent of these things, and what’s more can prove it.  I’ve never owned a goldfish in my life, see?  As for the other stuff, okay, I put my hands up.
          It would be fair to say that when my children became teenagers, I frequently lost my voice from shouting.  But where there’s a will, there’s a way.  Thanks to years of being a Blue Peter fan, I simply made myself a tannoy.  Firstly, take a defunct cardboard tube that once held tin foil, or wrapping paper.  Secondly, place one end of the cardboard tube against your mouth.  Finally, speak directly into the tube.  Whether you want to decorate it with sticky-backed colourful shapes is entirely up to you - the end result will be the same.  Your cardboard tannoy is guaranteed to make offenders jump.
          There may be some days where all you seem to do is bark orders through your tannoy in an attempt to penetrate the very different brains of teenagers.  This is perfectly permissible so long as you remember to put the tannoy down before trotting off to answer the summons of your doorbell.  Flinging open the front door and demanding, ‘Yes?’ through a cardboard tannoy is likely to upset the postman.  And the local Avon lady.  And also the odd bod from the local new-fangled ‘church’ canvassing for recruits. On second thoughts, it is perfectly acceptable to use your tannoy on the odd bod – just so long as you don’t whack him over the head with it.
          Anyway, I digress.  There is actually a third meaning to the word fishwife.  It’s a married woman who has a particular fish allergy and turns into a spotty nightmare hours later.  This is what happened to me earlier this week.  So I literally became a ‘fish wife’.  Get it?  Okay, maybe a poor play on words.
          Which reminds me.  My desire to be a dermatologist was only ever skin deep…

National Television Awards 2015

Hooray! I was lucky enough to be at the twentieth National Television Awards earlier this week.  Thanks to a lovely drama contact, the chance of being a seat filler and sitting amongst the celebrities is something I and my family jump at.  There’s always the faint hope that a little bit of their stardust might rub off on us.
          As we waited for direction in the wings of the O2, cold gusts of air whirled around our ankles.  A side door suddenly opened letting in another icy blast and a woman bustled past us gabbling into a walkie-talkie.  ‘Heads up. Simon Cowell has finally arrived. Traffic was awful. Get him in and make it quick.’
          ‘Oh my goodness!’ I squeaked to nobody.  ‘Simon Cowell is going to be here.’  Yes, I admit it.  I used to have a crush on him.  Please note the past tense.  I promise I’ve now outgrown lusting after a man who dyes his hair, has teeth whiter than my Persil-washed shirts, and has so much botox in his forehead that his eyes are in danger of relocating around his chin.  Nonetheless, you can’t deny being a little bit in awe of such a giant in the music industry.  Suddenly there was a frisson in the air as Mel B, right arm heavily tattooed and minus hair extensions, stalked past.  I was amazed how small she was.  Even in her high heels, I still towered over her, and I’m only average height.
          A techie dressed in head-to-toe black and wearing a headpiece suddenly materialised by our sides.  ‘Follow me when I say “Go”,’ she said in a harassed voice.  ‘Okay…GO!’
          The television cameras had started to roll and it was vital we ducked down.  Tripping over camera cables, and resisting the urge not to wave at Alan Carr, I scampered after the techie with my family trailing closely behind.  Trying not to tread on celebrity toes, we threw ourselves into the central part of a row, one in front of the Emmerdale cast, and two behind the Celebrity Juice crew.  Suddenly hundreds of colourful spotlights were whirling about as the audience exploded into rapturous applause.  I leant back into my seat and tried to act oh-so-very-cool.  A sneaky glance to my right revealed the cast of EastEnders out in full force, and to the left a very depleted number of Coronation Street actors following the sudden and very sad death of Anne Kirkbride.
          The spotlights merged into a single beam and there was our host for the night, Dermot O’Leary.  The entertainment was brilliant.  The celebrities plentiful.  Even though I didn’t recognise half of them – not being a telly watcher as such – it still a thrilling night.  Television must add an awful lot of weight to your figure, because celebrities I’d always thought a little, well, dumpy, were actually perfectly normal shapes.  And the ones who you believed to be a normal shape are actually pin thin.  Television certainly adds height to people.  I think the only celeb taller than me was David Tennant.  I swear everybody else was 5’6” and under.  It’s also amazing how some smile and beam away at camera and act so very, very jolly, but the moment the camera is off them they’re really rather scowly.  The cast of Emmerdale tutted and chuntered and rubbished other actors when they didn’t win anything themselves, as they’d consumed rather a lot of wine (judging from the bottles around their feet), and weren’t too quiet about it either.  I won’t mention names, but my daughter’s boyfriend accidentally bumped into one half of a famous duo going through a doorway.
          ‘Oops, sorry,’ said my daughter’s boyfriend.  ‘After you.’  And he politely held the door open for the celebrity.
          ‘Oh no, really,’ said the celeb sarcastically, ‘after you, mate,’ before rudely shoving past him.  As I said, I won’t mention names, but his forehead is enormous.  Clearly to accommodate the size of his big head.
          ‘And you want to go into this industry!’ I murmured to my daughter, as we moved out into the cold night air.  ‘Promise me you’ll never get a massive ego.’
          ‘I won’t,’ Eleanor assured.
          Seconds later she was being tweeted by a dress designer who had spotted Eleanor’s own photographed tweets of her wearing one of their dresses.  Suddenly an offer was on the table of promoting their dresses at celebrity functions.
          ‘Oh.  My.  God.’ Eleanor squeaked ecstatically.
          ‘Careful,’ I teased, ‘your head appears to be expanding.’
          Which reminds me.  Everybody has an ego.  It’s just that some celebrities have one that’s bigger.  And better…

Birthdays

At the start of the New Year my diary flags up a row of names.  These are the birthdays of friends and family members. The first birthday is my mother-in-law’s.  Days later, it is my mother’s.  Trying to buy for these two special people is a challenge which we fail every year.
          ‘What shall we give your mum?’ I asked Mr V.
          ‘Gosh, I don’t know.  Flowers?’
          ‘But we gave her flowers last year.  And the year before that.’  And, I suspect, every year for the last decade.  It’s not that flowers aren’t a nice present – far from it.  But they don’t last.  ‘What about Marks & Sparks vouchers?’ I suggested.
          ‘But what will Mum buy with them?’ my husband countered.
          ‘I don’t know.’ I puffed out my cheeks in thought.  ‘Clothes?  A visit to the Food Hall?’
          ‘She has lots of clothes.  And she always cooks her own food.’
          Ah, yes.  Unlike me who relies on the cuisine of good old Markies.
          ‘Flowers it is then,’ I sighed, bringing up Interflora’s website.
          Yesterday my phone rang with extra urgency which told me it was my sister on the other end of the line.
          ‘It’s Mum’s birthday next week,’ she gabbled hysterically, ‘and I haven’t a clue what to buy her.’
          ‘Join the club,’ I responded.  I hadn’t long since returned from Bluewater with my daughter where we’d traipsed the length and breadth looking for inspiration.
          ‘Ooh, look, you can buy experiences in Boots,’ Eleanor had pointed to a shelving system sporting fancy boxes with exciting photographs plastered all over the packaging.
          ‘Marvellous,’ I replied picking up a random box.  ‘I’m not sure your grandmother would appreciate a day in woods dressed in camouflage playing Paint Ball.’  After all, Mother Bryant will be eighty-two.
          ‘Ooh, look, a helicopter lesson!’ Eleanor read the blurb avidly.  Her boyfriend is eighteen in a few weeks and I could see the cogs of her brain whirring.
          ‘Think of something different,’ I smiled, taking the box from her.  My mind whooshed backwards to a year when I’d purchased the very same gift for Mr V.
          ‘I’m a bit of an action man,’ Mr V had boasted on our fourth date.
          ‘Really?’ I’d gasped in admiration.  ‘What, you mean you love doing crazy things, like bungee jumping off bridges?’
          ‘Well I haven’t done anything like that, but I’d certainly be up for it.’
          And so an idea was born.  Unfortunately I couldn’t find any gifts that involved hurtling from a great height on a piece of elastic, but I did find hot air balloons, rally driving at Brands Hatch, and Ferrari Racing at Silverstone.  Mr V seemed to embrace them all with a big smile.  Little did I know he was also clenching his teeth.  But I didn’t unearth that little gem of information until presenting him with a gift to celebrate his thirty-eighth birthday.
          ‘Dah dah!’ I trilled, handing over the tell-tale package adorned with trailing ribbons.
          ‘Ah ha!’ Mr V grinned gamely.  I failed to notice the beads of sweat forming on his brow. ‘I think I know what this is.’
          ‘Bet you don’t!’ I whooped, fidgeting from one foot to the other in excitement.
          ‘It’s jumping out of a plane, isn’t it?’ he chortled, looking slightly green about the gills.
          ‘Nope!  But I’ll remember that for next time!’
          ‘Please don’t,’ he muttered, tearing at the box and looking more and more like a man awaiting to hear the date of his execution.  ‘Oh.  Goodie.  A helicopter lesson.’
          ‘YESSSSS!’ I squealed with excitement.  ‘Do you like it?’
          ‘Y-yes.  I love it.  I-I’ve always wanted to fly an h-helicopter.’
          The great day dawned and my husband squeezed into a helicopter that, it has to be said, wasn’t much bigger than a goldfish bowl.  So small was the cabin, he was practically sitting on the lap of the pilot.
          ‘Isn’t anybody else coming with us?’ asked my husband anxiously, as he strapped himself in.
          ‘Nope,’ said the pilot.  ‘There’s not enough room.’
          ‘So if you have a heart attack,’ Mr V quavered, ‘I’ll be left on my Jack Jones to fly this thing.’
          ‘If I have a heart attack,’ said the pilot cheerfully, ‘you’ll be a dead man.’
           A few feet away I was avidly filming everything on an ancient camcorder, zooming in and out, darting backwards and forwards, and holding the camera at different angles for effect.  In my imagination, Stephen Spielberg had nothing on my camera technique.
          ‘Wave!’ I shouted, as the rotor blades whipped into life.  My husband lifted his hand limply.  Far from looking like Action Man, he appeared positively petrified.  ‘I have amazing footage!’ I yelled.  I gave the thumbs up as the helicopter shot upwards.  Later, when we watched the film, the helicopter plummeted downwards because I was holding the camera upside down.
          When Mr V returned an hour later, he had to be assisted from the helicopter into the hangar’s waiting area.  This was on account of his legs being unable to support him.  Apparently they’d turned to rubber the moment the helicopter’s joystick was placed in his shaking hand.
          On the approach to his next birthday, Mr took my hand.  ‘Can I be absolutely honest with you?’ he asked gently.
          ‘What is it?’ I asked, thoroughly alarmed.
          ‘Can we just celebrate my birthday quietly?  Preferably in a restaurant with both feet firmly on the ground?’
          So that is what we do now.  Meanwhile, I still can’t think of anything for my mother’s birthday.  Pass me that phone.  I need to place an order with Interflora.  Which reminds me.  A long time ago, my father discovered the most effective way of remembering Mother Bryant’s birthday, was to forget it once…