Saint Knickerless

My elderly neighbour phoned in some distress yesterday, asking me to come over.  She had slipped on an icy pavement and lost her glasses.  After the required feel of the monster bump on her head, she sent me off in search of her specs.  It was early, so it was fortunate that I was even dressed.  Mrs S is an amazing woman: in her eighties, and having broken her hip a couple of years ago in another fall, she goes out every day, often first thing, and several times in one day at least three or four times a week.  It’s shopping and bingo and lunching and visiting, and she very often walks to wherever she’s going.  The Hub is quite envious of her stamina; and so am I, come to think of it.  Just yesterday, as a result of her accident, she had to cancel the hairdressers, lunch at the Salvation Army, a visit to her great-grandtwins and bingo night.

It was unusual for her to be upset because she’s a feisty little thing – and I say that with all due respect.  I have such respect for the elderly that I can’t call her by her first name despite her repeated requests.  Though I did almost laugh in her face once: she gave me her daughter’s details and when I heard her married name was Elizabeth Bennett I almost choked on my copy of Pride & Prejudice.  However, she has the extra ‘t’ so I am able to maintain my composure when I see her.

Anyway, off I went in search of Mrs S’s sight, wearing my old pink sweater, polka dot pants and bright blue slippers.  This is my default outfit: I wear old clothes at home, only changing into something nice when I go out.  I would have changed or at least covered up with a coat and trainers, but Mrs S was so upset I thought I’d better go straightaway and find them, which I did, lying forlornly on the pathway, prey to any hooligans who might have passed that way and stomped on them; luckily, it was too early for thugs to be out.  Thank goodness I didn’t have to spend too long looking, because halfway to the accident spot a twang informed me that my knicker elastic had just gone.  Has that ever happened to you?  It was my first time; though I did have a first cousin once-removed who yelled at me in a packed restaurant, ‘Oh no!  Your knickers are on the floor!’  She thought it a great joke that I not only looked for them in a panic, but that I was wearing trousers and sitting down, so I couldn’t have lost them if I tried.  We don’t talk to that side of the family any more.

The twang acted like a dose of adrenaline to my Friday morning sluggishness and I immediately opted for the thighs-in-knees-out shuffle over the hand-down-the-pants-in-a-manner-likely-to-get-me-arrested stroll; scuttled to the glasses locale; and then back to our street in less time than it takes to say This is a really embarrassing situation for me to be in.  Mrs S was chuffed to have her specs back and gave me my Christmas present early: a huge tin of expensive biscuits.  Just what I need – more knicker-busting food.

But you know what the really embarrassing part of it all is?  Having chatted to Mrs S for a while to make sure she wasn’t concussed and that she had called her son to let him know what had happened, I got home and decided to go for the paper.  It was only once I was halfway there that I realised I had forgotten to replace my underwear….

Die Before E

Last night’s creative writing class exercise was to write a short story without using the letter ‘e’.  I have to confess I cheated by using them in the title, but not in the tale.  Here’s my effort – be warned: an e-less world does not a good story make.

Die Before E

A man laughs at his girl, who is sitting in a bath of milk.

‘Why do you laugh?’ his girl frowns.

‘I think you might churn into a yoghurt with all of that wriggling and splashing around.’

‘I must lark about for, if I climb out without drizzling my skin in all of this milk, I will dry up.’

Unaccountably wound up, our protagonist abruptly has no thought for his lady.  Alas, I am afraid to admit that this appalling chap sat on his girl’s phizog to banish all air.  Worst of all, our awful man drank milk as a toast to his abysmal sin. 

I can affirm this account’s truth, for I am that atrocious man.

NB I can kill in good form, but writing about it all right is not in my particular skills list.

Crit

This was difficult.  It won’t study good, I’m afraid, but it was worth doing.  I had first-class fun trying.

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It’s Christmas – Official

Which one is the angel?

Clue: Not the one on the right.

We put the tree up last night.  It was surprisingly quick – only three hours this time.  Odd really, because, for the first time ever,  Tory Boy wasn’t here to help <pause for Mother’s weeping>.   He is busy with end-of-term essays and end-of-term parties. 

The Hub and I put the tree together while Spud finished his homework.  The tree is six feet tall and about that wide at the bottom.  It has branches that have to be individually attached, and each of the branches has about twelve pieces, so it’s lovely and thick.  We bought it at a car boot sale one June, a couple of years ago.  The seller had only used it once and couldn’t be bothered with the hassle.  She was asking £12 and the Hub knocked her down to £3.47, which was all I had left in my pocket.  It was a real bargain. 

Once the tree was up the Hub draped the lights, after much discussion over how many sets of the seventeen we own we should use.  The Hub: three.  Me: all of them.  As far as I’m concerned, when it comes to Christmas lights, more is more.  We settled on four.  Spud came down as we were negotiating and remarked, ‘Now it feels like Christmas: Dad’s shouting.’

After the lights came the tinsel.   The Hub reckons there is an art to draping tinsel – it has to look like snowfall.  Pink and red and gold and blue and green and purple and silver spangley snowfall, but snowfall nonetheless.

Finally, it was the decorations.  We have decorations going back to our first married Christmas in 1985.  We have all of those the children made over the years, and a couple I have made.  We have them from Germany, Kusadasi, South Africa, Disneyland and the States, including an official White House one; we have little paper decorations and some made from seeds and some from plastic.  We have expensive baubles bought at bargain prices that the Hub believes will be family heirlooms one day, assuming I haven’t brained him with them by then; we have cheap but pretty ornaments bought in the after-Christmas sales; we have some that were gifts.  We have them bought from all over and made from all kinds of materials, but the one thing they all have in common is that they each come with a happy memory; and as I unpack them and we put them on the tree, I bore the boys with the story of each one.   They don’t know it now, but one day when they have inherited them, they will bore their own children with the stories, and smile at their own happy Christmas memories.

The missing link:

The Twilight Zone

Is there anybody there...?

I have had an odd few days; strange things keep happening, whether it’s the phone activating itself, or opening the fridge to find the Titanic hitting an iceberg.  Okay, I can explain that last one: the Hub drew a picture of a cruise ship on a lettuce packet for a joke; but the rest of the things are weird.

I told you I accidentally locked the dog in the kitchen.  I’m not now convinced that I did because I was certain I left it ajar, and only took the blame because I was the last person in the kitchen before we went out that day.  I wouldn’t have thought any more of it if it wasn’t for the other strange incidents.  Let me explain:

We came home the other night at 10:20 (the day anyone/anything but me locked the dog in the kitchen), having collected Spud from a party.  At 10:40 I saw the phone light flashing to say it was in use; I checked it but there was no-one on the line.  The phone showed a time elapsed of 34 minutes, which means the call started at 10:06 – when the house was empty. 

I woke up on Sunday morning to find my wristwatch on my bedside table: I wear it in bed and never take it off.  The Hub swears it wasn’t him. 

I found coffee splashes on clean dishes in my cupboard – the Hub is the only one who drinks coffee but he never drinks it inside kitchen cupboards, not being small or agile enough to curl up in them. 

Just as I was beginning to think the Hub was playing tricks on me, I dreamt, one night over the weekend, that we caught a rat and ate it for dinner.  Next morning I woke to the news that some of the I’m A Celebrity contestants were to be prosecuted by the Australian authorities for catching and eating a rat.  Unless the Hub was whispering the story in my ears while I was sleeping, I don’t think he can be blamed for that one. 

And he definitely can’t be blamed for this morning: my Little Brother phoned (not odd in itself; we speak once a week).   I was surprised because I spoke to him on Saturday morning and it’s only Tuesday.  In fact, he was a little off with me that day, and I wondered if he was phoning to make amends.  When I mentioned my surprise, he mentioned his surprise because he swears we haven’t spoken since his birthday, ten days ago.  Yet I distinctly remember Saturday’s conversation. 

I’d like to blame my husband, because that’s what they’re for, but I really can’t.  Tell me, am I demented, stressed, hallucinating, psychic or haunted?  I have always been a bit of a normal Norman and this is freaking me out a little.  It is sterling work by who/whatever is doing it to me.  I can’t see the wood for the forest: please, someone, offer me a ray of light.  Tell me I’m going to wake up back where I belong, on the Enterprise.

I Have Saved Myself £12billion

I can’t say I’m impressed by the government’s plans to save £12billion: if I understand Sky News correctly, they simply have to stop spending.  If it’s that simple, why has it taken so long to do?  I’m really not convinced by the argument; after all, when I cut up my credit cards last week, did that mean I had saved £12billion myself?  No, I didn’t; I’m not going to see that money in my savings account anytime soon, am I?  I’m just not going to spend any more, and I’m going to be paying off past debts for a long time to come, just like my government.  And neither of us has any gold reserves with which to make the process easier.

But on to the REALLY important news: Joe McElderry is in the X-Factor final.  Another two flawless performances this weekend.  I was glad to see Olly Murs and Stacey Solomon in the final as well, though sorry that Danyl had to go; I loved his rendition of And I Am Telling You in the first live show.  It was a strong contest this year.  Oddly, however, there were no obvious standout performances as in other years: Leona Lewis and Alexandra Burke, for example, had some cracking shows in which they were clear frontrunners; and Ray Quinn was brilliant when he sang My Way in Leona’s year.  Joe has been consistently good, but not electrifying.  But I’ll still be voting for him to win next week: I can afford it now that I have £12billion to spare.

Retail Therapy

Retail therapy – why do they call it that?  Why not call it what it is?  A purse lobotomy.  I hate shopping.  I’ve hated it ever since our honeymoon in 1985.  We went to Cape Town in winter and there wasn’t much else to do, once we’d been to the Castle and up Table Mountain.  The beaches were too cold to visit, though we did accidentally stumble upon a shrivelled little fellow on a nudist beach.  That was fun.

I’m a little grumpy because yesterday I had my fortnightly trek into Stockport to pay bills.  I usually go in on a Thursday but went Friday instead: it was awful.  Christmas season is horribly upon us.  Add to that a cupboard bare of anything except a stale packet of pretzels and three bags of sugar, and I had to go grocery shopping last night.  I hate shopping; and I hate shopping twice in one day squared.

I’m aching all over from walking and pushing shopping trolleys.  I’m undernourished because I didn’t eat properly with being in and out.  And I’m hung over with guilt for accidentally abusing my dog. 

Post Traumatic Stressed Dog

As I left the house yesterday, I accidentally shut him into the kitchen.  Not a big deal for most dogs, but ours was kept locked up for about twenty hours a day in a freezing-in-winter- boiling-in-summer conservatory for the first eight months of his life, by his previous owners.  As a result, he gets terribly distressed if he’s locked in.  We came back to find he had scratched paint off the door from trying to dig his way out; pooped, which he stopped doing indoors once he realised we meant him no harm; and vomited, which is another sign of his distress.  We stuffed him full of treats and gave him a new toy that was supposed to be for Christmas.   I have to say, we are the soppiest pair of dog owners I’ve known since my in-laws; but he was genuinely upset. 

I have to stop feeling guilty because Cesar Millan, the Dog Whisperer, says they live in the now; and Toby doesn’t seem any the worse for his misadventure – at this moment in time he is stretched out on a chair, snoring away.  Just like the Hub.

Like A Moth To A Blame

Christmas 2004 was a bad one for me: I was in the dog-box with the Hub for letting slip that I was a moth murderer: ‘ I can’t believe how many moths are about at the moment; I’ve killed at least three this week…oops.’  I now stand forever accused of insecticide.  I’ve never been allowed to forget it and I am no longer permitted near insects in this house.  Fine by me – a good excuse not to dust: spiders make cobwebs – spiders are insects, therefore – um, actually, spiders are not insects; spiders are freaks with a category all their own….

Pass me the duster.

The Host Of Christmas Past

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

Look what I got in my stocking

I couldn’t sleep last night – I ran out of decaffeinated Earl Grey on Monday and I don’t shop until tomorrow – and I lay awake thinking of past Christmases, so I thought I would share one with you; it’s an easy way to fill a blog.  Christmas 2006 was not a vintage year.  We got our turkey on Christmas Eve and it showed -  I have never been so disappointed in a frozen bird; it was as if that particular turkey didn’t want to be someone’s Christmas Dinner.  No meat on it at all.  Luckily, we also had gammon and duck, though the duck was an unpleasant surprise – so much fat on it, I know now why they don’t get cold on winter ponds.  We didn’t have gravy so much as artery-killer. 

Luckily, only Mum was having dinner with us that year, Dad having had the good sense to pop his clogs Christmas Eve 2000, once he heard I’d be cooking.  He wasn’t so lucky the year we had 22 for dinner and I remembered everything except the setting of the table, so everyone ate wherever they could grab a seat, some inside and some in the garden (in South Africa, don’t worry); and the greedy lot gobbled it up so fast that by the time I served the last plateful (mine) everyone had finished and I sat in lonely and tearful state with the Hub.  On the plus side, the washing up was done by the time I was. 

We had no problems at all in getting Spud to bed in 2006: he no longer believed in Father Christmas; hooray for the death of children’s fantasies!   – although he did wake up at three in the morning.  He managed to go back to sleep after rummaging through his stocking, but woke Tory Boy at 5:45, to TB’s vociferous displeasure.  Spud then climbed into our bed with the apparent intention of him no sleep, no one no sleep, so we gave in and were up by six-twenty.  Grandma was already awake, so it was simply a matter of toilet breaks, tea all round, video camera at the ready, and then the boys were allowed into the living room to receive their gifts.  Once they’d had a good poke around their booty piles we all sat to unwrap the under-the-tree gifts.  That took a good two hours, what with all the squealing and ‘thank yous’ and sorting of gift wrap, bows and ribbons into appropriate recycling bags.  

The Hub is a great gift giver.  That year, I got stuff from the White House, including a tree decoration, pin, and cufflinks which I am going to wear every time I have on a long-sleeve blouse, if I can only find them.   Unusually, no underwear, but furry socks and a large bag of Maltesers and lots of stocking fillers.   He also bought me the bread maker I so desperately desired.  I must be the only wife in the world who doesn’t hurl a new kitchen appliance at her husband on Christmas morning.  I had wanted one for ages and I used it every day for a fortnight; then about once a month; and now it’s just another dust-gatherer on top of a kitchen cupboard.   Why am I cursed with such a listening husband? 

The boys bought me thoughtful gifts: Spud bought me the Take That cd I was after (I had to have a little patience but I got it in the end) and a large box of Maltesers.   TB bought me a £10 book voucher and a large box of Maltesers.   How I love my children, especially when they spend their own money.  

I also love my mother, who bought me The West Wing.  Need I say more?  

Christmas dinner was delicious, reluctant turkey, oily gravy and all, and afterwards we watched a new dvd while Mum snored. 

Boxing Day was buffet day; a sort of ‘all-you-can-eat’ for the greedy amongst us, with me at the front of the queue.  I always do a buffet on Boxing Day because my Mum always did a buffet on Boxing Day.  I set it all out on a table in the lounge and we stretch out in front of the tv we taped but didn’t have time to watch on Christmas Day.  The only year since I’ve been cooking Christmas that I didn’t do a buffet was the year I didn’t cook Christmas because we were invited out.  That Boxing Day, the Hub and his offspring insisted I cook Christmas Dinner on Boxing Day because it didn’t feel like a proper Christmas without my Christmas Dinner.  Something to do with them missing the kitchen hysterics and burnt smell permeating the air, apparently.  Happy days! 

  

  

The Tooth, The Whole Tooth, And Nothing But The Tooth

I read a story on Parentdish about a child who drew a picture of his mother in which she appeared to be a pole dancer but she was actually selling shovels, and it reminded me of a similar story from my childhood.  My Dad worked shifts and when he was on nights  my Little Brother would come home from primary school, wake him up, and wrestle with him.  LB’s baby teeth were loose and one time when he was wrestling Dad, a couple fell out.  Two days later we had a social worker on our doorstep.  It seems that LB had gone into school next day and a member of staff had asked him what had happened to his teeth; LB had innocently replied, ‘Oh, my Dad kicked them out.’

Mum had a hard job explaining that away.

Celebrating our release from prison for child beating

A Tilly Bud Family Christmas

 

 

 

 

 

Do you think I'm a little under-dressed?

It’s the first of December and I’m in the holiday spirit.  We woke up this morning to discover Jack Frost had replaced the mild(ish) but wet weather with ice and the car was frozen to the driveway.  Therefore, I thought I would start this month with a description of our Christmas.  It is always the same, only the gifts change.

 

January 2

Take down the tatty remains of the Christmas decorations.  Store in Christmas boxes, Christmas sacks, Christmas bags and Christmas suitcase for easy identification in the loft next December.

January 3

Hit the sales (only 356 shopping days left to Christmas).  Queue for two hours to get into car park.  Buy nothing except the one available unbroken half-price tree decoration.

February 3

Weep over credit card statement.

March 13

Tilly Bud’s nagging finally coincides with the Hub’s first good day of the year and Christmas decorations are returned to the loft after standing in the upstairs hallway for two months.

NB Now that we have had loft ladders fitted, the nagging is reversed and the Hub insists I drag my lazy backside up there and put away the decorations that I wanted down in the first place.

September onwards

Christmas adverts start on telly.  Ignore them while applying sun block for Indian summer.  Ignore the Hub complaining, ‘I hate Christmas, I do.’  Complain to everyone else I know about how Christmas comes earlier each year but don’t mention the suitcase full of presents we already have stashed away.

Fourth Saturday before Christmas

Begin watching Christmas movies on Saturday afternoons to get in the festive mood: It’s A Wonderful Life; While You Were Sleeping; Sleepless In Seattle; Terminator 2 (if you’ve been present at some of our Christmas Dinners you’ll get the connection); and the greatest Christmas movie ever made: A Muppet Christmas Carol.  Begin boasting to harrassed friends about the suitcase full of presents we have stashed away that means our Christmas shopping is complete before anyone else has even started.

December 1

Make list of Christmas cleaning jobs.  Stretch out on couch to recover, watching a naff Christmas special on tv.  Start hinting to the Hub that we must get the tree down from the loft.

December 11

Get tree down from the loft.  Put on cheesy Christmas music to get everyone in the mood.  Argue about cheesy Christmas music.  Erect tree.  Argue.  Dress tree with lights and tinsel with boys.  Take boys off tree.  Take lights and tinsel off tree.

Watch the Hub dress tree with lights and tinsel in the correct manner.  Sulk.

Share decorations equally between family.  Spend ages arguing about who has the most/least/best/yuckiest decorations.

Collapse exhausted into bed.

December 12

Clear up yesterday’s mess.  Accidentally vacuum half the tinsel left dangling after yesterday’s fist fight over who has the most/least/best/yuckiest decorations.

Christmas Eve

Lunch time: take flowers to Dad’s grave.  Miss him.

Ten minutes after lunchtime: open the first bottle of wine/tin of chocolates/box of biscuits.

Send excited children to bed on the one night of the year they want to go at six p.m.  Spend next eight hours telling them, ‘Santa won’t come until you go to sleep, darlings.’ (Translation: ‘Get to sleep now, you little brats; we’re knackered!’)

Cook turkey and other meat; prepare vegetables.  Stay up till two a.m. to welcome Santa.  Go to bed, leaving on all lights to deter burglars without a Christmas spirit.

Struggle to sleep.  Wake up every three minutes hearing noises that indicate burglars.  Wake growling Hub to send him downstairs to check for burglars.  Have huge argument with the Hub who not only refuses to go and check for burglars but turns over and goes back to sleep.  Lie awake until six a.m, listening for burglars and worrying about the waste of electricity.

Christmas Day

Six-O-Three: woken by the excited chatter of two children raiding their stockings.

Six-O-Five: recover from winding caused by excited children jumping into bed to demand we all go downstairs for presents.

Six-O-Seven: set up video camera to tape every magical moment.

Seven-O-Seven: finally accede to the Hub’s assertion that it might be Tilly Bud’s camera, which he knows because he bought it for her, but trust him, he knows what he’s doing and can set it up perfectly well, thank you very much; and stop that sulking, you misery, to which children add, Yeah, Mum.

Seven-O-Eight: film delight on boys’ faces as they enter Santa’s grotto (temporarily set up in living room).

Seven-Fifteen: start unwrapping presents, taking turns so that everyone sees what everyone else has got and thanks can be given and received.

Ten-Fifteen: finish unwrapping presents.  Make traditional Christmas breakfast of toast so that everyone has a stomach lining before inevitable munching of Christmas goodies begins.

Ten-Sixteen: send exhausted Hub to bed for a few hours.

Ten-Thirty: everyone not sleeping, dresses.  Boys disappear to their rooms to play with their new toys, leaving Tilly to clean up.  Tilly stretches out on empty couch with Maltesers and one of her new dvds, ignoring mess.  Thinks about starting dinner.  Snores.

Two-Fifteen: wake Hub to give his stomach time to prepare to eat large Christmas dinner.

Four-Fifteen: eat large Christmas dinner.

Rest of day: rest.

December 29

Discover unticked list of Christmas cleaning jobs tucked down back of couch.  Discard.

January 2

Take down the tatty remains of the Christmas decorations.  Store in Christmas boxes, Christmas sacks, Christmas bags and Christmas suitcase for easy identification in the loft next December.

January 3

Hit the sales (only 356 shopping days left to Christmas).  Queue for two hours to get into car park.  Buy nothing except the one available unbroken half-price tree decoration.