Debbie Viggiano's Blog, page 8

Happy New Year!

It’s probably a bit late to wish everybody a Happy New Year, after all the new year is well and truly under way.  But I’ll do so anyway.  Happy New Year!
          After the sadness of having our darling pooch put to sleep and then a family member’s Christmas tantrum, it was good to put the lid on 2014 and embrace 2015 with optimism for better things.  This is the year we hope to move.  Again.  Yes, I know we only moved house fifteen months ago, but our current abode was only ever a stop-gap. It was primarily chosen for the youngest daughter’s convenience in order for her to hop on a bus to college, hop on another bus to her Sunday job, and hop on yet another bus to visit her boyfriend.  The fact that Eleanor’s forays into public transport happen once every blue moon is something of a bone of contention.
          ‘We moved here for you to be independent,’ I moaned, after sitting in a freezing cold car for an hour and a half while Eleanor ‘popped in’ to a nail salon to have her Christmas nails professionally seen to.  ‘We’re no longer surrounded by farmers’ fields and a distinct lack of public transport.  Indeed, there is a bus stop at the bottom of the road and a huge red vehicle roars past every ten minutes.’
          ‘But it’s cold,’ Eleanor pointed out.
          ‘Yes, don’t I know it?’ I retorted.  ‘My hands are like blocks of ice!’
          ‘Well you didn’t have to sit in the cold,’ Eleanor replied. ‘You could have started the car up and had the heater on.’
          My seventeen-year-old has yet to grasp the economics of a vehicle using fuel for ninety minutes whilst travelling precisely nowhere, and has probably never heard of the carbon footprint.
          ‘It’s high time you got on with your driving test and gained some independence,’ I remonstrated, starting the car up and waiting for the heater to kick in.  Years of being an unpaid taxi driver is wearing thin.  ‘How are you going to get about when you go to uni and I’ve moved away?’
          I was greeted with a wall of silence.  This is par for the course.  Both my children are absolutely against any house moving.  They would much prefer we stay put in our stop-gap house which is conveniently situated close to everything.  Want to go shopping?  Down the road.  Want to catch a train?  Up the road.  Want to catch a plane?  Turn left to Gatwick Airport.  Want to run away?  Ahhh, now this is the true crux of which direction to go in.  For I am very aware that an invisible part of me has already embarked upon this journey, and the route is a long and very straight line but I won’t, for now, reveal precisely where this road leads to.  Let’s just say it’s a bit of a trek.  And it’s not my usual stomping ground.  I have wondered, in my moments of trying to be analytical, if the appeal of settling in this unfamiliar location is some sort of psychological thing where I put as much distance between me and those who pull me this way and that, constantly demanding their pound of flesh.  I love my family, but by God I crave peace!
          I have ventured off to this secret place twice now exploring nearby villages built in unfamiliar stone and a landscape that’s rugged and, in winter, bitterly cold.  In my head I’ve bought the house, joined a local rambling group, and even have a new hound at my heels as we trek for miles with nothing but the wind for company.  No doubt I’m looking at the whole thing with rose-tinted spectacles, and the reality could be very different.  But we all need to have our hopes and dreams, and right now I’m enjoying this particular dream.
          Whatever your dreams are for 2015, I hope they become your reality.  Which reminds me.  Jemima was taking an afternoon nap on New Year’s Eve so she was fresh for the festivities. Upon waking, she said to her husband, Max, ‘I had a wonderful dream that you gave me a diamond ring as a New Year’s present.  What do you think it all means?’  Max smiled indulgently.  ‘Aha!  You’ll know later tonight,’ he assured.  At midnight, Max gave Jemima a small package.  Delighted, she quickly opened it.  And there in her hand was a little book entitled The Meaning of Dreams… 

Christmas Tantrums

So, how was your Christmas?  Was it the perfect festive moment?  Or, did it suffer a blip or two?  I have yet to meet anybody who has had the perfect Christmas.  If you know somebody who has said it was perfect, they’re either lying through their teeth, or else they’re very lucky.  And if YOU happened to have the perfect Christmas, treasure it forever, because the perfect Christmas doesn’t happen very often.
          Regarding my latest Christmas, for the purposes of diplomacy and not falling out with anybody, all names shall be changed.  In fact, I’ll even change my own name.  Tell you what, I’ll go one step further and convert the whole experience into a short story.  Are you sitting comfortably?  Then I’ll begin.

For Laura and Tom it had been a fairly decent year.  The kids were grown-up and almost off their hands.  The eldest, Sarah, was at uni.  The youngest, Jake, was still at home but revving up to leave the nest.  Periodically he’d treat his parents to a spectacular display of hormonal havoc that constantly fizzed and popped beneath the surface, but apart from that life was good.
          ‘I can’t wait for Christmas and some time off work,’ said Tom one evening.  He flopped onto the sofa.  ‘If you don’t mind, love, I’ll have dinner in front of the telly.’
          ‘Sure,’ said Laura.
          Moments later Tom was happily risking his teeth on cremated sausage and concrete chips.  Laura sighed.  Thank goodness she wouldn’t be doing the cooking this Christmas.  Instead the family were descending on her sister-in-law, Jemma, and Jemma’s husband, Alf.  Laura couldn’t wait. But then disaster struck.  Three days before Christmas the family pooch was suddenly taken ill and had to be put to sleep.  The family were devastated.
          ‘I’m so glad we’re going to Jemma’s and Alf’s for Christmas,’ Laura sobbed.  ‘Dishing up a turkey dinner at home without the dog salivating and trying to mug everybody just wouldn’t be the same.’
          The big day dawned and the family set off, glad to shut the door on their too-quiet house devoid of a waggy tail and doggy parps.
          ‘Happy Christmas!’ Jemma greeted the family.  Her face was flushed from standing over a vast range on which every vegetable known to mankind was steaming away. ‘Come in, come in.  Alf?  ALF!  Get that champagne uncorked.’
          Alf appeared in the hall doorway, a paper crown from a Christmas cracker upon his balding head.  ‘Hello,’ he squeaked.  Laura often wondered if Alf’s voice had ever completely broken.  ‘Come through into the lounge.’  Alf proceeded to pass around glasses of chilled bubbly.  ‘Now you know everybody here, don’t you?  Great-Aunty June and Great-Uncle John. And the in-laws, George and Muriel.’
          ‘Did you say something, Alf?’ Great-Aunty June boomed.
          ‘God, she’s deafer than ever,’ Alf muttered to Laura and Tom.  ‘I was just saying,’ he turned to Great-Aunty June, ‘that it’s Laura and Tom who are here, Aunty.’
          ‘Yes, I can see that,’ Great-Aunty June tutted.  ‘There’s nothing wrong with my eyesight you know.’
          Laura smiled and gravitated towards Great-Aunty June.  Like her, June was a doggy person, and Laura found it of some comfort to listen to the old lady waxing lyrical about her two terriers, Jock and Vikki.
          ‘I’m so sorry, dear, to hear about your poor little doggy.’ Great-Aunty June patted Laura’s hand.
          ‘Thank you,’ Laura whispered, and took a slug of champers.  Booze was great at numbing the pain.  ‘How’s Jock and Vikki?’
          ‘Oh same as ever, dear, same as ever.’
          ‘Still good at playing Fetch?’
          ‘Absolutely,’ Great-Aunty June nodded.  ‘Jock in particular loves playing with his balls.  He has quite a collection now.  He sits in his basket licking them, much to Vikki’s annoyance.’
          Laura nearly choked on her champagne.  Great-Aunty June had a way with words.
          ‘Everybody sit up,’ said Jemma.  She set upon the table a huge turkey cooked to perfection.
          ‘You must have been up since dawn cooking this lot,’ said Laura admiringly as she sat down at the table.
          ‘I made the gravy,’ said Alf importantly.
          The teenagers exchanged furtive glances.  They secretly thought Alf a prize berk.  
          ‘Oh, Muriel, no, no, no!’ said Alf petulantly.  He looked extremely put out.  ‘You can’t sit there.’
          ‘Why ever not?’ Muriel asked.  It had taken her ages to creak over to this particular chair and now she was ensconced, she didn’t want to get up.
          ‘Leave her,’ Gemma said, ‘she can sit there if she wants to.’
          ‘But it’s not a comfortable chair,’ protested Alf, switching on the smarm.  ‘I’m just thinking of you, Muriel,’ he smiled patronisingly, ‘and your dear little bony bottom.’
          ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ said Muriel stiffly.
          ‘I want you to move,’ said Alf, asserting himself.
          ‘But I don’t want to,’ Muriel protested.
          ‘Move!’ Alf’s squeaky voice shot up an octave.  ‘I mean it, Muriel.  Just do as you’re told.’
          ‘I really don’t want to,’ Muriel repeated.  ‘I’m fine sitting here.  Honest.’
          But it seemed to have turned into a battle of wills and Alf was having none of it.
          ‘For the last time, Muriel, get off that chair!’
          ‘Here,’ said Jake jumping up.  ‘Have my cushion, Muriel.’
          Suddenly Alf was incandescent with rage.  ‘Back off, Jake!’
          ‘Eh?’ said the hapless teenager.
          ‘I said back off!’
          ‘But I only wanted to give Muriel a cush–’
          Suddenly two hands were pushing Jake backwards.
          ‘I said BACK OFF!’
          Jake, irked at being shouted at in front of an audience, not to mention pushed, experienced a rush of teenage hormones.  What he really wanted to do was shove Alf into the turkey and pelt him with Brussel sprouts.  Instead he glared at Alf and hissed, ‘Don’t touch me.’
          ‘How DARE you speak to me like that,’ squeaked Alf.  He glared at both Jake and Muriel before turning on his heel.  Grabbing Jemma by the wrist, he tried to drag her into the kitchen.
          ‘Stop it!’ Jemma cried, pulling away.
          ‘TO HELL WITH THE LOT OF YOU!’ roared Alf.  It was at that point that Laura wondered if Alf’s voice had finally broken.  Picking up a paperweight, Alf hurled it at the dining room door before stomping out into the cold afternoon air, slamming the door behind him.  There was the sound of an engine turning over, followed by an embarrassed silence.  Great-Aunty June was the first to break it.
          ‘As I was saying, Jock loves his balls.  And he’s certainly got more than that chap.’
          Nobody saw Alf for the rest of the day.  Which brings me to the moral of this tale.  You can choose your friends, but you can’t choose your family. Which reminds me.  What do you call an obnoxious reindeer?  RUDEolph…

It's a Dog's Life

As we gallop towards the New Year of 2015, I need to have some sort of emotional closure regarding the passing of our beloved pooch, Trudy Beagle.  So, if you are not a dog devotee, you might want to click off this blog right now.  However, if you are a pup person, then I hope you’ll stay and read to the end.
          Trudy Beagle was a rescue hound.  When she came into our lives she was two-and-a-half years old.  She was completely untrained, and as mad as a hatter.  Back then our children were six, eight and ten.  Fortunately they were borderline crazy too, so Trudy instantly merged with her ‘pack’.
          We decided to plunge straight into the deep end with our new family member and, as we waved good-bye to the anxious kennel owner, set off to Greenwich Park.  Upon arrival, my son insisted he was responsible enough to hold the lead.  He was carted along for a couple of minutes by a deliriously happy baying hound whose sole intent was to cover as much of Greenwich Park in the shortest time possible.  You could almost hear our beagle’s mind computing all the possibilities of this adventure: squirrels to chase…other dogs to bark at…picnickers and food.  Oh yeah – FOOD!
          And with that Trudy Beagle lugged my son under a horse chestnut tree.  The ground was littered with conkers, many still in their prickly green cases.  Trudy Beagle’s soft paddy paws encountered a zillion needles.  She shrieked in pain startling my son who promptly dropped the leash.  Within a nano-second all hell broke loose.  Unrestrained, our latest family member shot off, grabbing unguarded sandwiches from picnickers and delighting in her new found freedom.
          ‘Stop that dog!’ my husband shouted as he launched into an Olympic sprint and gave chase.
          But nobody could catch her.  Trudy Beagle was like an unguided missile, zig-zagging through trees, ducking under bushes, and only breaking cover to bat her sandy eyelashes at a handsome spaniel walking obediently to heel with its master.
          ‘Stop…dog…!’ gasped my husband, now totally puce in the face.  Fortunately, while the spaniel and our beagle got acquainted via the art of bottom sniffing and waggy tails, the spaniel’s owner bent down and grabbed our hound’s lead.
          ‘Oh, thank God,’ I cried, finally catching up, three bawling children in tow.  ‘We thought we’d never retrieve her.’
          ‘What a lovely little dog,’ said the spaniel’s owner. ‘Had her long?’
          ‘About an hour,’ my husband replied.
          In 2003 I took delivery of a top of the range Nissan X-Trail with sumptuous cream leather seats.  We were only just back from our annual summer holiday and our pooch needed collecting from the kennel.  As I rolled up, the owner eyed my car incredulously.
          ‘You’re going to allow your beagle in that?’ she asked, goggle-eyed.
          ‘Absolutely,’ I assured, ‘Trudy will go in the boot and be just fine.  Look, there’s a dog guard firmly in place.’
          At this point I would like to give a tip for anybody looking to have a beagle.  Dog guards don’t work.  Instead, invest in a dog crate.  Our beagle had the dog guard down within five minutes.  By this point I was driving along a duel carriageway with no hard shoulder to pull over on, while a black-tan-and-white-blur bounced around the interior and hurled herself at the glass.  I had electric windows going up and down, the seat belt alarm bonging away and my vision obscured as a hyperventilating canine lunatic finally settled on my lap with two paws on the steering wheel.  Not long afterwards, I exchanged my posh car for a not-so-posh dog-proof Citroen Picasso.
          Over the years, many, many excursions took place with Greenwich Park being a firm favourite.  Our children would run down steep hills yelling with delight, a small tri-coloured dog barking joyfully at their heels.  There would be picnics and bike rides and scooter fun and races, and always always always Trudy Beagle would be in the thick of it.  On one occasion we came across an artificial lake with little boats for hire.  Our children, older now, jumped in a boat and began to row while Mr V and I stood on the side hanging on to our pooch.  But Trudy Beagle was having none of it – she wasn’t being left out of her pack!  Seconds later she’d slipped her collar and jumped into the water.  All we could see was a tan head and black nose swimming in a straight line towards our children.  Minutes later she was on board and causing squeals of protest as a million drops of water were sprayed everywhere.
          Trudy Beagle endeared many.  She also managed to annoy a good few too.  One rather brisk and breezy day we went for a proper boat ride on the Thames.  Thoroughly over-excited, our beagle sat ram-rod straight, ears floating out horizontally as the wind whipped about.  She barked non-stop.  As we sailed past the Houses of Parliament, Big Ben and the Tower of London, none of the tourists could hear any of the history coming over the tannoy thanks to incessant yaps and woofs.
          ‘Somebody shurrup that dang dog,’ drawled a pissed off American.
          As our children grew and grew, so did our beagle.  But whereas our children grew upwards, our beagle grew outwards.  Beagles are obsessed with food.  I can always remember my brother-in-law visiting and staring at the dog.
          ‘Has Trudy’s head shrunk?’ he asked.
          It was at that point I knew she had to go on a diet.  Over the years our pooch stole many a breakfast, dinner and tea at any given opportunity.  By the age of seven, she’d finally learnt the words sit, stay and down.  Training a beagle is a lifelong task and there’s no guarantee you will crack it.  But for a beagle, ours was very well behaved.  She had pretty good recall, provided there wasn’t a rabbit about.  She was also incredibly sweet natured and tolerant enduring three young children man-handling her, including having her claws painted by our daughters and being dressed in doll’s clothes and put to bed in a dolly cradle.  When our children turned into teenagers, Trudy Beagle was more than happy to loll around listening to a mash of Lady Gaga, Florence and the Machine and Heavy Metal.  Possibly the din contributed to her deafness in later years.
          We didn’t realise how deaf our pooch had become until a couple of years ago.  We were back at our favourite haunt, Greenwich Park, and had permitted Trudy off the lead for a little while.  Our calls completely failed to attract her attention.  I can still remember her standing stock still and looking around as if to say, ‘Where have Mum and Dad gone?’  It was then that we realised her eyesight wasn’t so hot either.
          Indeed, the only hot thing about Trudy Beagle in her later years was her ability to parp and empty a room in seconds.  Just last Christmas my brother-in-law (never a dog lover and in particular not a Trudy Beagle lover) was reduced to pinching his nose with his thumb and forefinger and saying, ‘Somebody do something about that dog’s bottom.’
          My children were secretly delighted as they weren’t particularly fond of their uncle.
          Of course, a dog’s parp is very useful if you happen to parp yourself and need somebody to blame.
          ‘Gosh, that dog’s parping again,’ said Mr V on one occasion, flapping his hand about but looking decidedly guilty.
          ‘Funny that,’ I remarked, ‘because she’s out in the garden.’
          ‘Ah.’
          And then, just days before this Christmas, our pooch had what I can only describe as a funny turn.  She was instantly whisked off to the late night animal hospital.  They were a bit baffled but decided she’d had a bad arthritis attack.  Indeed, Trudy Beagle did seem to recover and within forty-eight hours was back to demanding food, scenting out Christmas presents and unwrapping them, and even rootling out her doggy Christmas stocking.  I can still remember inwardly smiling before putting on my stern face and saying, ‘Not until Christmas Day!’
          How I wish I’d let her have that stocking there and then.  Our darling golden oldie never did get to open it.  Two days before Christmas she had another funny turn resulting in some sort of seizure.  Suddenly we were back at the animal hospital, this time with our children.  The vet suspected a brain tumour.  Our girl was thirteen-and-a-half years old.  That’s meant to be ninety-four in human years.  It was time to say good-bye.
          We couldn’t stand the idea of having her put to sleep in the exam room with all its antiseptic smells, although to be honest our beagle looked beyond caring.  As the vet said, the lights were on, but nobody was home.  We went through to a little sitting room where Trudy Beagle was made comfortable on a blanket at our feet.  We patted her head and stroked her faded tri-coloured coat, but she didn’t engage, instead staring vacantly at the wall.  As the vet began to inject pink liquid into our pooch’s paw, we all began to cry.  The pats and strokes became more urgent, tears plopping onto fur.  Within seconds our beagle’s head drooped, her chin finally resting on her front paws as she went to eternal sleep.
          ‘I’ll leave you all together for a little while,’ the vet murmured, and disappeared through a discreet door at the back of the room.
          We spent ten minutes with our lovely girl, who simply looked as though she was resting.  We continued to pat and stroke her, and reminisced about the day we first got her.  Finally we stood up to leave.  It was at that point our dog parped.  And despite our tears, we laughed.  It was as if Trudy Beagle was saying, ‘I might be gone, but I’ll never be forgotten.’
          And she never will be.

A Lurgy Lament

Christmas is almost upon us.  Everybody wants the day to be perfect.  In our quest for perfection, we plot, plan, scheme (if necessary) and manipulate (no? You’ve never manipulated? What’s wrong with you!) to get everybody in the right place, at the right time for this perfect moment.
          It is Sod’s Law you will come down with the lurgy twenty-four hours’ beforehand.  If not you, then your kids.  Or your husband.  Or, if none of these, the person who was due to roast the turkey develops a temperature that roasts them instead.  And this lurgy-fest comes about by being sneezed upon by other lurgy-infested souls.  The lurgy is everywhere.  On the bus.  The train.  In the queue at WH Smith.  And especially the supermarket.
          Last week I saw a female shopper –without a word of a lie – lean against the fish freezer as she coughed for England.  She then pulled an overworked tissue out of her pocket, and trumpeted into it until it was a soggy mess.  But the real ewww factor was watching her open the fish cabinet with snotty fingers.  And it didn’t stop there.  She then touched several food boxes as she ummed and ahhed whether to have haddock, cod, plaice or pollock.  So when the next unsuspecting shopper came along and grabbed a box of Captain Birds Eye, it would be pretty much a foregone conclusion that the consumer would be dining on fish fingers, chips and a big fat virus infection.  Some people’s cluelessness at how not to spread germs is mind-boggling.  Either they are very naïve, or don’t give a stuff.
          I’ve been very smug about staying virus free.  Indeed, my entire family are currently all wonderfully fit.  However, the Law of Sod was lurking and decided that instead of the family and me getting poorly, it would be the dog instead.
          My poor darling pooch.  One minute she was enjoying walkies, swiping toast and barking at the postman, the next she was lying on the floor with all four paws in the air. She was so bad, we didn’t just think it was the Law of Sod who’d come calling, we also worried it might be the Grim Reaper.  The emergency vet was baffled and decided to treat her for a severe arthritis attack.  My sister – an ace kinesiologist – treated her for a nasty bacterial infection.  Within hours our pooch was responding and seems to have thankfully turned the corner.  It will be a little while before she’s back to swiping toast and hassling the postman, but the main thing is, she will be with us for Christmas.
          So whether you’re gargling with TCP, popping Paracetamol, prostrate on the sofa with lurgy, coughing until your eyeballs stream, or nursing a poorly pet, let’s all agree that it’s not going to stop us having a great Christmas.  And the Law of Sod can chuff off because Christmas is what we make it!  So I wish everybody a very Merry Christmas.  Oh, and could you pass me that box of tissues?  I think I have a sniffle.
          Which reminds me. What do you get if you cross a comedian with a germ?  A sick joke…

It's a Wrap

Last week a friend told me she would be spending the weekend wrapping all her Christmas presents.
          ‘Goodness, you’re organised,’ I said, privately wondering why the rush.
          ‘After all, Christmas is only a couple of weeks away,’ she added.
          And in that moment I froze.  A couple of weeks?  Surely not!  I grabbed my desk diary and peered at the date.  Dear Lord.  She was right.  Who stole December?  In fact, who stole the entire year?
          That evening I was a whirling dervish of activity.  Delving into the drawers under the bed, I pulled out six rolls of assorted gaily-patterned Christmas wrap.  They bounced onto the carpet along with a zillion colourful bows and a jumbo-sized roll of Sellotape.  The next three hours were spent crouching, leaning, stretching, and hunkering back on heels as I wrapped, scissored, taped and stacked gifts for my family.  My concentration was briefly interrupted by the cat playing with curly decorative ribbon and the dog thinking this was a cue to unwrap all my hard work.  By the time I’d finished, my legs were shaking.  I kid you not. My present-wrapping contortions had to be the equivalent of a work-out.  There was even the sweat on my brow to prove it.  Although that could have been induced by the realisation of exactly what I’ve splashed out this year.  No wonder the money tree at the bottom of my garden is always stripped bare.
          But at least I can honestly say I’m now ready for Christmas.  Hurrah!  I just hope everybody likes their presents.  Which reminds me.
          The Father Christmas at the local shopping mall was somewhat surprised when Mary, a young lady, walked up and sat on his lap.  Now we all know Father Christmas doesn’t usually take requests from adults, but she smiled really politely, so he asked her the same question all the children were asked.
          ‘What would you like for Christmas?’
          ‘Something for my mother, please,’ Mary replied.
          ‘Something for your mother, eh?  Well, that’s very thoughtful of you,’ smiled Father Christmas.  ‘What would you like me to bring her?’
          Without missing a beat Mary replied, ‘A son-in-law…’

A Wheelie Good Deal

I have a beautiful car.  Well, it looks beautiful when it’s clean and vacuumed.  However, within twenty-four hours of being valeted you can guarantee the sun will go into hiding, dark clouds will gather, and my car will get caught in a cloud burst of biblical proportions leaving it muddy and generally disgusting.  Thanks to dire weather in recent weeks, I’ve been driving a filthy Mercedes about.
          ‘Mum, isn’t it about time you cleaned your car?’ asked my daughter as she gingerly climbed in, avoiding the grubby sills.
          ‘Yes,’ I agreed as we set off on the college run, ‘but I’m too tight to pay ten quid and then watch the heavens open and make it dirty again.’
          That evening, as I was driving home under a starless sky, a motorist flashed me.  I checked my lights.  Nope.  Not on full beam.  A few minutes later, it happened again.  Once home, I looked at the headlights.  No bulbs out.  I decided to book the car into the garage and get the headlight alignment checked.  The following morning I rang Mercedes.
          ‘Hellair?’ said the posh woman on the other end of the phone.
          ‘Hellair,’ I replied.  (I can be posh too.)  ‘I need my lights sorting.’  (Sometimes my poshness slips.)
          ‘Yarse, okay. I’ll book an appointment for you, Madam. We’ll also do a courtesy vehicle health check followed by a free valet.’
          ‘A free valet?’ I beamed.  Deep joy.  My car was going to be cleaned inside and out at long last, and it wouldn’t cost a penny.  ‘Yer on.  I mean, yarse please.’
          In due course I visited the garage.  Ninety minutes later the mechanic sought me out.  ‘I’ve dun yer lights, luv.’  (He wasn’t posh.)  ‘And I’ve dun yer visual health check.  Three of your tyres are knackered.’
          ‘What do you mean, knackered?’ I gulped in alarm.
          ‘I’m amized the Old Bill ain’t pulled yer over with the front one, and the two at the back are cracked to buggery.’  (Like I said, he wasn’t posh.)
          ‘Cracked to–?  Right.’  I pondered.  On the bright side, at least I was having a free valet.  ‘How much for the new tyres?’
          ‘If yer let me do it now, it’ll only be four ’undred an’ fifty quid.’
          I nearly fell off my chair.  ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll get a second quote.’
          ‘Oh.’  The mechanic looked put out.  ‘Okay. I’ll bring yer vehicle round to the front for yer.’
          Needless to say, when I was reunited with my car, it hadn’t been valeted.  Marvellous.  But you know what?  Every cloud has a silver lining.  The following day, whilst driving through an unlit country lane, I hit a deep pot hole and had an immediate tyre blow out.  Thank the Lord it wasn’t one of the brand new tyres the mechanic had wanted to fit.  I limped home and called a local tyre company who promptly came out and fitted three new Firestones at half the price.  The new tyres look beautiful.  All black and shiny.  Shame about the rest of the car.  Yes, it still needs cleaning.  Which reminds me.  What part of a car is the laziest?  The wheels, because they are always tyred.,, 

At the Car Wash (Woooh!)

Having bought my son a car three months ago, we decided that it might be time to give it a clean.  So we set off for the car wash.  I don’t mean the local automated jobbie with the whirring brushes.  No, I’m talking about visiting one of the numerous ‘foreign’ outlets that have sprung up in every other car park all over the UK.
          ‘Take a right here,’ I said to Rob.
          We bounced gently over a concrete ramp and formed an orderly line.  I immediately had the soundtrack to Car Wash go off in my head.  And no I don’t mean Christina Aguilera’s and Missy Elliot’s cover.  I’m old enough to remember the original version by Rose Royce. 
          ‘Blimey, this place must make a fortune,’ said Rob.  ‘We’re ten cars behind and they’re all paying cash.’
          ‘Excellent place to do a spot of money laundering if you’re so inclined,’ I observed.  Not that I am.  I don’t have thousands of pounds of ‘dirty money’ that needs cleaning.  I don’t even have any semi-dirty money.  In fact, much of the time I don’t have any money at all.
          ‘Can you pay for this?’ asked Rob.
          ‘Sure,’ I replied, reaching for my purse.  ‘After all, I pay your car insurance, tax and petrol.’
          ‘Ooh, I’m glad you said that word.’
          ‘What word?’
          ‘Petrol.  Look.  The tank’s down to a quarter.’
          See?  No wonder my purse is always empty.
          Behind us a sudden duet of horns broke out.  I craned my neck around.  Two drivers were having a row about who was next in line.  One of them was giving it some verbal too.
          ‘Don’t you give me a hard time, mate,’ yelled a balding fatty to an indignant little man in specs.  ‘I had a belly full of it yesterday with the Missus and dealing with Black Friday.’
          Okay.  So the balding fatty was clearly all queued out.  The little man in specs buzzed up his driver’s window to mutter unheard oaths behind the safety of his locked door.
          ‘Gosh, is it always like this at the car wash?’ asked Robbie, eyes wide.
          ‘No.  Usually I drive straight in.  But then I’ve never come at the weekend before.’  Clearly at the weekend it’s the world and his wife visiting the car wash.
          At that point my son’s car was drenched by the pressure wash.  Moments later two giant sponges were whizzing over the windscreen making soap trails.  Behind us more horn blowing had broken out.  Clearly it wasn’t just the sponges getting in a lather.
          ‘Wow, there’s some really impatient motorists about,’ said Rob.
          ‘There certainly are,’ I observed.
          Needless to say my son’s car is now spotlessly clean and I’m sure it will be well into the New Year before we visit the local car wash again, but preferably not on a weekend.
          Which reminds me.  What did the impatient helicopter say to the mechanic?  Chop-chop… 

Ho Ho Ho

Have you started your Christmas shopping yet?  ‘Oh yes,’ I hear you say, ‘I did it weeks ago and it’s all wrapped up and stowed safely away.’  Well three cheers for you!  Other folk, like me, have only just got off the starting block.  I know this because Bluewater, my local shopping ground, is full of similar people all adopting the same pose.  Head down, tail up, barging their way through the precinct and shopping aisles, arms slowly amassing shopping bag after shopping bag of gifts, before struggling to the car park with arms like stretched spaghetti.
          Do you know, this time of year is probably my most favourite part of the whole Christmas shebang.  The actual anticipation of it all.  Because let’s face it, the reality is usually totally different.  Every year I hope for a white Christmas, but the reality is lots of cold rain.  Every year I look for red-breasted robins in hedgerows hung with frosted berries.  Instead I see magpies with beady eyes hopping around wet tree trunks.
          I love the approach to Bluewater with its umpteen roundabouts covered in giant reindeer lit up with fairy lights, and all the lavish decorations twinkling along the walkways.  Marks and Spencer is a particular favourite right now with its displays of festive bedding and holly covered cushions.  But would I buy any of it?  No, not really.  It would look a bit daft having sleighs all over your duvet come June.
          ‘Do you still want a Christmas stocking?’ I asked my son.  After all, he’s twenty-one.
          ‘Most definitely!’ he looked horrified at the thought of Father Christmas not paying a visit.
          ‘What sort of stocking prezzies do you want?’ I asked.
          He looked thoughtful for a moment.  ‘Actually, there’s nothing I really want.’
          ‘So what’s the point of having a stocking?’
          ‘You could always fill it with money,’ he beamed.  ‘Pound coins or notes.  I’m not fussy.’
          Ha ha.
          I asked my daughter if she wanted a stocking too.
          ‘Oh yes,’ she assured, ‘and I have a list as long as my arm if you’re looking for ideas.’
          ‘Excellent,’ I said, taking the list.  I was expecting to see slipper socks, new undies, smellies, and the odd bit of make-up.  ‘Ah.  Pandora charms.  Diamond earrings.  A Ted Baker purse.  The entire contents of House of Fraser’s Mac make-up counter.’
          ‘What do you want for Christmas?’ Mr V asked me.
          ‘Do you know, I haven’t the faintest idea.  There’s nothing I really need or want.  What about you?’
          My husband thought.  ‘Nope, can’t think of a single thing.’
          So we’ve decided to put an equal amount of money into the kitty and have a long weekend away somewhere nice as a Christmas present to ourselves.
          Meanwhile I’ve started writing out the Christmas cards.  This year’s selection depicts various snowy woodland scenes smothered in silver glitter.  Every year I tell myself not to buy cards covered in glitter because the wretched stuff gets everywhere.  Sadly I only remember this when I’m half way through and my entire desk is covered in gritty twinkles and looks like something out of a craft studio.  By the end of the task the cat is also covered in glitter because she insists on sitting on the desk amongst the cards patting my scribbling pen as I write.
          This year we are going to my sister’s for Christmas dinner.  I’m really looking forward to it.  Like me, she’s an ‘awkward’ vegetarian with dietary issues, but unlike me she’s a fabulous cook.  So there will be nut roasts and gluten-free this and dairy-free that with an adapted Christmas pudding which was my beloved grandmother’s recipe.  The meat eaters will tuck into a turkey that was brought up to roam free, ate an organic diet and, as my brother-in-law likes to point out, was sung to when its time was up.  Which reminds me.
          What do you get if you eat Christmas decorations?  Tinsellitis…


 

Supermarket Sweep

Due to recovering from an operation earlier this week, I’m still on a driving ban.  Consequently as the week progressed, the larder reduced.
          ‘What’s for dinner?’ asked Eleanor on Friday.
          ‘Jacket potato and baked beans,’ I replied.
          ‘I don’t like that.  What else have we got?’
          ‘Jacket potato and cheese.’
          ‘Are you trying to be funny?’ my daughter frowned.  ‘I’m absolutely starving.  I need feeding decent food.  And lots of it.’
          ‘Jacket potato, beans and cheese?’
          ‘No!’ Eleanor glowered.  ‘What about a nice roast?’
          ‘Due to nobody else doing any shopping, there is nothing else to eat.’
          ‘What’s this?’ asked Eleanor eyeballing a container of minced lamb and steamed vegetables.
          ‘That’s the dog’s dinner.’
          ‘It’s quite something when the dog eats better than me!’
          ‘Okay, I’m sure she won’t mind sharing it with you.’  I reached for a clean dog bowl.  ‘How much do you want?’
          ‘You are trying to be funny!’ Eleanor’s eyes narrowed.
          ‘Look,’ I snapped, ‘I haven’t been able to go shopping.’
          ‘But I’m hungry!’ Eleanor wailed.
          ‘Oh for heaven’s sake.  Order a take-out pizza while I do the shopping on-line.’
          I probably should have done the shopping on-line earlier.  But the thought of sitting down and doing a virtual shop had the same lack of appeal as actually going into the supermarket itself.  Sighing, I settled down in front of the computer.  Forty-five minutes later, I clicked the check-out button.  Up came an instruction:  Choose your slot.  So I chose an evening delivery for the same day.  Perfect!  I fed in my card details and congratulated myself on whizzing down the virtual aisles in a reasonable time.  Up came another automated instruction.  We will send you a confirmatory email.  You know, I nearly didn’t bother to check the confirmatory email.  But a little voice in my head suggested it might be wise.  There, in my inbox, was the supermarket’s reminder about my shopping delivery.  Except…except…what was this?  Thank you for shopping with us.  You can collect your shopping from the back of our store any time after 6 pm.  What?
          There then followed a hunt for Customer Services’ telephone number.  You know, considering we’re talking about such a vast chain of supermarkets, you’d have thought a contact number would have been HIGHLY VISIBLE on their website.  Unfortunately it wasn’t. In fact, I had to have a chat with their virtual on-line customer service lady who beamed away at me while I typed in: I have a delivery problem.  What is your phone number?
          Naturally this phone number was in India.  Which I’m pretty sure is absolutely nowhere near this particular Swanley supermarket.
          ‘Hello?’
          ‘Hello!  What is your name, please?’
          ‘Debbie.’
          ‘Thank you.  Can I call you Debbie?’
          ‘Well, it’s my name, so I think that would be okay.’
          ‘Excellent!  Thank you for that, Debbie.’
          ‘I’m calling about a problem with my shopping delivery.’
          ‘I’m very sorry to hear that, Debbie.’
          ‘I requested a delivery slot this evening but the confirmatory email told me to collect my shopping from the store.’
          ‘I’m very sorry to hear that, Debbie.’
          ‘Yes, you’ve already said that.  Can we rectify this please?’
          ‘Of course.  There are no further evening slots available.  What about tomorrow morning?’
          ‘Okay. Is ten all right?’
          ‘Indeed, Debbie.  I’ll send you a confirmatory email.’
          Which came through very promptly advising my shopping was now available to collect from the store.
          Can you believe that I then phoned Customer Services in India four more times?  Finally, I received the email I’d been waiting for.  Your shopping will be delivered between nine and ten tomorrow morning.  Hurrah!  But that cry of victory came too soon.  Five minutes later the telephone rang.
          ‘Hello, is that Debbie Vij…Viji…in…ee…oo…ahem?’
          I always have a sense of wickedness when people trip over my surname.  ‘Indeed it is, and may I just say that was perfect pronunciation.’
          ‘Oh, thank you!  It’s the Swanley store here, Mrs VijVijiineeooahem, and I’m just calling to say your shopping is ready for collection from our store.’
          So there you are.  It’s official.  Shopping on-line drives you nuts.  Which reminds me.  In the supermarket a young mother was pushing a trolley which contained a screaming little girl. As they passed the confectionary aisle, the little girl demanded sweets. When the mother said no, the toddler redoubled her tantrum. The woman kept repeating softly, ‘Don’t get excited, Jessie.  Don’t scream, Jessie.  Don’t be upset, Jessie.  Don’t yell, Jessie.  Keep calm, Jessie.’ A woman standing nearby said, ‘I can’t help noticing how patient you are with little Jessie.’  The mother replied, ‘I am Jessie.’

A Bit of a Boob

Five weeks ago, whilst doing the housework, I hit my chest…okay, left boob…on the Dyson.  How did this happen?  Well I blame my daughter actually.  In times of trouble, it is always soothing to have somebody to blame.  So Eleanor can take the rap.  I was cleaning her shower room and vacuuming the floor in a confined space.  Common sense should dictate removing the vacuum cleaner when finished so there is space to manoeuvre whilst cleaning the smallest room in the house.  Except my common sense apparently did a runner.  Stupidly I carried on cleaning around my Dyson. Perhaps I should also blame the builder of my house for not making the shower room bigger.  Yes, I’ll blame Eleanor and the builder.  So there I was, polishing away, hair flopping over eyes and not properly seeing what I was doing.  I’d failed to tie my hair up because I’d lost my hair scrunchy.  The cat stole it, and it’s never been found.  So I’ll blame Dolly too.  Three culprits.  The daughter, the builder, and the cat.  Anyway, blinded by hair and working in a confined space, I accidentally stood on the back of the Dyson sending the upright pole ricocheting backwards into my left boob.
        Now it's been said that if you accidentally catch a man in a certain place, he will writhe in agony.  I can only assume that where I was smacked was the female equivalent.  I screeched, clutched my boob and shouted words that haven’t been uttered since giving birth.  Not that I actually said anything out loud when I was giving birth.  I said it all in my head.  And even then it was directed at the midwife, because she was the midwife from hell.  But I digress.
        Two hours later my left boob was rivalling the chest dimensions of Katie Price.  In fact, agony aside, I was quite amazed with the overall look.  A firm buoyant boob as round as a watermelon was blooming from my chest.  Shame it was just on the one side.  I presumed Mother Nature would step in and the healing process would eventually reduce it.  Apparently not.  My GP sent me for an ultrasound.  I was also put on antibiotics.  Eventually I was told it needed draining.  However, when a breast consultant stuck a tube in to aspirate it, out came a lot of blood.
        ‘You’ve torn something.  And you’re still bleeding.  And all this voluptuousness is in fact a massive hematoma.  You need an operation.’
        So there you have it.  Vacuuming is bad for your health.  I think in these days of hype and tripe I should lobby the Government to issue hard hats and body vests to all women when cleaning their homes.  I could - thanks to a compensation society being the norm - probably sue Dyson, my daughter, the builder, and the cat for contributory negligence.
        Meanwhile I’m packing my overnight bag in readiness for hospital and getting deflated.  Wish me luck.  Which reminds me.  What do you call identical boobs?  Identitties…