Lost in Translation

I'm back in the City. No crazy Lady Pumpernickel. Not dirt-speckled country butter. The Husband is being remarkably well behaved. So all in all running a little low on humorous matter for you.

Although my father did amuse me with a little snippet of South African bureaucracy. The manhole cover outside my parents' driveway has been missing for some time now, probably stolen for scrap metal. My father being a diligent man, worried about stray car wheels and pets falling down the manhole and sought to rectify the situation. He phoned the local municipality to explain his issue:

Father: Hello, I'd like to report a missing manhole cover.
Municipal Worker 1: Eish, wrong department. Hold please.

*Transferred Call*

Father: Ah, hello, I'd like to report a missing manhole cover in my road.
Municipal Worker 2: Hullo? Eish, wrong department.

*Transferred Call*

Father: Hello, I'd like to report a missing manhole cover, please.
Municipal Worker 3: Oh, wrong department.

*BEEEEP*Dial Tone* [Exasperated Father holding lifeless phone to Lug]

Despite this farce being repeated numerous times my Father is not a quitter. Employing the old 'If you pull the Tiger's tail you had best hold on for the ride' spirit he phoned again. This time he was greeted by a Female Municipal Worker:

Female Municipal Worker: Eh, Hello?
Father: Oh, hello there I wonder if you can help me? I'm having problems with my MANHOLE COVER...
Female Municipal Worker: OOH, MY GOD!

*BEEEP*Dial Tone [Shocked worker hangs up on bamboozled Father]

One can only assume that this sensitive lady misheard my Father and assumed he had problems with his MANHOOD COVER. Clearly being quite unprepared to discuss problematic foreskins in the workplace, and being a particularly religious individual she dealt with his perversions as best she could, employing the Oh-dear-we-appear-to-have-been-cut-off-technique favoured by South African Public sector workers.

Needless to say the manhole remains uncovered.

Country Pursuits

Apologies for the radio silence. The thing is...(there's always a thing)...my prediction was correct and the Husband did in fact whisk me off on an adventure - way beyond the reach of the Internet as it turns out.

But first, I had to escape the clutches of Lady Pumpernickel, who was most pleased at the sight of the Husband. When he strode into her kitchen in his AC/DC T-shirt and jeans (looking a little this side of grrr) she rubbed her wrinkled hands together and remarked, "OOH, how nice, a man! There are rather too many women around here."

I think she saw a future for them when she shook his hand and realised that he too was *digitally challenged. *By this I don't mean he has trouble counting, he's very numerically literate, but the husband is missing the top half of three fingers (unfortunate fishing incident) and Lady Pumpernickel is minus her right index finger (unfortunate gardening incident).

Eventually we extricated ourselves from Pumpernickel's nine fingered power grip and headed into the Wild. Our destination was the country lodgings of the Husband's old friend and his Mediteranean girlfriend - a rather unconventional couple living in a slightly ramshackle lodging, in a beautiful location. Once there we spent marvellous days drinking cups of tea, walking in ancient woodlands and catching river crayfish - all rather hearty country pursuits.

What I fail to mention is that the house and it's cleanliness levels are a spot BOHEMIAN. A sprinkle of dog hair in your butter is standard. A coating of dust on the carpet counts as extra insulation. In such an Eco-friendly environment hot water is only heated for special events and so bathing is not top priority. In order to prove our green credentials the Husband and I went 4 days without bathing (which along with turning your underwear inside out is standard practice in the country). Luckily, the pong beginning to emanate from each other was great for keeping a distance so that my over-active hair follicles appear to have gone unnoticed.

Of course today when we arrived back in the City we were a little riper than the locals. Despite my brief encounter with a wet wipe the Husband's sister, greeted us with a slightly peaked nostril. I'd seen that look once before when, in my youth, I had returned from a music festival and my father had greeted me with the flared nasal cavity. In that case I was denied access to the house until I had been hosed down with a pressure washer on the driveway.

Despite the lack of hygiene I'm in love with the country. The best part is the Bohemians have offered us a home. Rent Free! On old bus at the end of their garden emboldened with the slogan, "Jesus loves you!." It's missing a window, has no electricity or water and may involve a life of pooping in a bucket and wet wipes.

Father, best power up that pressure washer...

More Manson than Monroe

It was a particularly lovely Spring morning today. Full of the joys of new beginnings and nature’s bounty I glanced up at my reflection whilst skipping past a mirror. I was horrified to see a brown hairy caterpillar crawling across my face. Frantically slapping at forehead I rushed forward only to discover that this unwanted worm was in fact my very BUSHY right eyebrow. In line with extreme hairgrowth (previously documented in ‘Chill Winston’) right eyebrow has grown faster and bushier than the left, giving me a quizzical and somewhat lopsided appearance. As I have still not found my razor and tweezers appear to have eloped with razor nothing can be done.

Fine, don’t panic except that today is my last day with Lady Pumpernickel. Tomorrow morning the Husband, back from heroics on the high seas, will pick me up and whisk me off to adventures and untold happiness.

Whilst I am obviously giddy with excitement am still a little concerned about my yeti-ish appearance. Am looking less Marilyn Monroe, more Marilyn Manson at present. Not good.

So after much brainstorming I have cunningly decided on a diversionary tactic: Once upon a time I taught English in very rural African school (a very short lived experience). One day whilst wowing my flock of 60 adolescents with my teaching talents, I happened to glance down at a girl in the front row looking up at me beatifically with a dazzling wide smile. After taking in the angelic smile I realized there was something different about this girl, most notably that she had an extra set of bushy eyebrows drawn in with permanent marker mid-forehead.

So in order to fox the Husband will employ African stealth and will stencil in some slick eyebrows at about my third frown line. Thus creating a distinguished and intriguing look, non? He will be so amazed he’ll never notice that his wife has morphed into a silverback gorilla. Foolproof.

Holy Hounds

Today Lady Pumpernickel was obsessed with her bowel movements and religion (in my experience both symptoms of old age). As part of my role as a Geriatric Au Pair Extraordinaire (or GAPE as I like to call myself) I am often called upon to wipe wrinkled old buttocks, which are not dissimilar to Elephant cabooses - minus the tail, obviously. In this particular case the wiping portion of the event (not one of my Top 40 moments of the day), involves Lady Pumpernickel hanging precariously onto a handrail whilst I throw large amounts of toilet paper in the general direction of her aged bottom. An intricate enough procedure generally, it is often further complicated by Lady P. turning around midway to stare at her deposits. Whilst it is not unusual for her High-Born Ladyship to study her faecal matter, today’s scrutiny had an accompanying commentary:

Her first deposit of the day was rated as “Oh, not much in there, a little moth eaten.” Of course at this odd prognosis, curiosity killed the cat, and I looked down…

[……….This is where I blacked out for a while, voluntary amnesia……….]

Having been thus scarred (lets not talk about it), on the second toilet trip of the day I averted my eyes skywards whilst wiping blindly. Catching sight of my obvious avoidance in the mirror, Lady Pumpernickel decided to ham it up a bit and uttered a rather loud, “Oooh!” followed by, “that was a good one. Yes, there are a few in there…ONE…TWO…THREE…” The final count drowned out by the rapid gurgle of a flushing toilet.

Lady Pumpernickel seemed to take my lack of participation in intricate excrement studies personally. I must have let slip about being a lapsed Catholic at some stage (as a newly appointed Godmother, must improve my heathen ways; intend to start with dollop of Catholic guilt and some Hail Mary’s forth with). Following the toilet incident she spent the remainder of the day making odd comments about Protestants and Catholics: She would only eat dinner if I didn’t bring Catholics and Protestants to the table (difficult as we would be sitting opposite each other) and she would only come upstairs with me if I wouldn’t get “Catholic about it.” At one stage she mistook a little Scotty dog in a television ad for the Pope. As the Pope dog was advertising deworming medication I feel the religious message may have been a touch ambiguous.

Shit and Holy Hounds, I need a pay rise.

Saint Betty

9.30am this morning, Betty came striding in, spaniel at her heels. What followed was a tiresome conversation about the price of fish. With talk of dogfish still ringing in my ears I legged it out the door and onwards to Edinburgh.

I had a glorious day off in which I played a convincing round of my ‘life is crapper than yours’ with a friend. We concluded that although the House of Pumpernickel is bad, it could be worse, as I am not a) Libyan or b) a victim of earthquake and Tsunami threatened by an imminent nuclear meltdown. Having been so cheered from a day of retail therapy and perspectivising (new word, just made it up) I returned to the House of Pain, um Pumpernickel in time to witness this exchange:

Betty: [Holding Lady P’s hand] Right then I’m off, got to go and walk the dog.
Lady P: [Holding very tightly to Betty’s hand, starting to bend the fingers back slightly] Oh, don’t go my dear.
Betty: [Wincing now, trying to retrieve hand] Really must dash!
Lady P: [Increasing pressure, Betty’s fingers going purple] Oh, don’t leave!
Betty: [Attempting to wiggle from Spock death grip] I’ll be back on Thursday, but I really must be off…
Lady P: [Unrelenting vice-like grip, gaining power] But when will I see you again?
Betty: [Looking stricken at purpling fingers] Thursday, see you Thursday, must dash… LET GO OF MY FINGERS YOU OLD FAGGOT!

Cue: absolute hysterical laughter! Lady Pumpernickel immediately let go of Betty’s fingers and doubled over in mirth and merriment. When she could finally pull herself together she wiped her cataractic old crying eyes and looking fondly at Betty said, “Oh, you! You are so naughty!” [Chuckle, chuckle, eye wipe].

?!? I’ve clearly been going about this whole thing all wrong; Lady Pumpernickel has a particularly perverted sense of humour. My badinage has been severely misplaced.

In my new quest to justify completely inappropriate behaviour as banter, I intend to start tomorrow morning with: “Good morning tit-shit-wobble-knob, did you sleep well?”

*Ps Photo is graffiti spied on an underpass in Edinburgh. Although I cannot possibly condone illegal street art, I like it.

Chill Winston

The House of Pumpernickel is freezing. In the tradition of British country houses this 12-bedroom manor is absolutely BALTIC. In order to keep costs down the current heir, Lord Pumpernickel Jnr, has declared the heating is to be kept off in all rooms except for the kitchen and her Ladyship’s bedroom & bathroom. As we have recently had another flurry of late winter snow it’s as cold as charity round here.

As a natural defence mechanism my body hair seems to have grown at double its usual rate and I’ve lost my razor. There are bushels of luxourious hair under my arms, so abundant I’m having trouble putting my arms down properly and am swaggering about in the manner of an over-pumped, neck-less, weightlifter. My leg hairs are so long that they have developed split-ends. Things are generally ‘a little 70’s’ all round.

Still not quite warm enough I’ve taken to wearing long socks under my slacks (I love that word, slacks…slaacks.) These are not cute schoolgirl knee-high socks; no these are more in the style of Vrystaat Farmer. Looking down one might actually mistake my legs for those of a middle-aged farmer as stray hairs escape out of the top of the socks and the remainder of my downy growth elevating the socks a good centimetre away from my leg.

Despite these precautions moving from room to room is like stepping into a blast chiller. A point that Lady Pumpernickel never fails to bring up, blaming me for the inadequate heating in the house. I think that living in a walk in freezer has finally got to the old girl as she has been going to bed increasingly early and is now flatly refusing to get up. A bloody good idea if you ask me, where’s my duvet?

A Matter of Delicacy

Following yesterday’s hair dramas I took the responsible decision to stop antagonising Lady Pumpernickel and tie up my hair into a neat bun with the fringe clipped back. This seem to please her Ladyship no end. “Oh, your hair looks so smart,” she said, when I woke her up this morning. From there the day moved smoothly on, I obligingly made the right sympathetic sounds when she catalogued her aches and pains and she happily got up, showered and breakfasted with no fuss. The sun was shining so we took a spin in the car. She commented on the delightful landscape, the hot sun and the sweet sheep. I ummed and aahed in all the right places. Bliss.

But after lunch, she TURNED. We were in the bathroom and I was removing her sodden, yellowed sanitary pad from within the depths of her enormous granny pants (hysterically branded ‘Slenderella’s’):

Lady P: Well, where are you going with that?
Me: I’m putting this one in the bin.
Lady P: Why, there’s nothing on it.
Me: Well, actually it’s been used. It feels quite heavy.
Lady P: Oh, well I hope it doesn’t hurt you. In future I’ll have to be careful if you’re so…delicate.

I ignored the sarcasm and dodged Pumpernickel’s frantic attempts to squash my toes with her walker and steered her into the bedroom for her afternoon nap. Feeling rebellious she fought me as I tried to remove her shoes, stating emphatically that she would require their services in bed.

Shoes off, I asked if she’d like help getting her legs into the bed. “Legs or eggs? Legs or eggs?” she shouted and proceeded to cackle maniacally at her own hilarity for the next 10 minutes. Her parting shot, “Heh-heh-heh, I just can’t understand your language.”

Eish, sometimes, as my aunt likes to say, it’s all too much for a woman of good breeding.

Florence Red

The Pumpernickel is a crafty old devil she sneakily lulled me into a false sense of security.

It started with little compliments; “What nice teeth you have, you always look so smart, you’re quite strong for a little girl, I’m so glad you’re here as some of the others aren’t so competent.” However, these sounds of sweetness (possibly to be interpreted as sarcasm) have been followed by: a threat to bite me, attempted hair pulling, two poorly aimed slaps at my wrist and my favourite, Lady Pumpernickel trying to stomp on my toes with her walker as a I walked alongside her up the corridor. Today she was dozing in her easy chair, but as I walked passed she managed to skop me one in the shin, I turned gave her a withering look, but before I could reprimand her she apologised profusely and gave me a nice-as-pie smile.

I’m wearing my hair down today which could be the cause of the abuse. “Who does your hair?” her Ladyship enquired. I smiled up in beatific silence and continued ironing. “And more to the point,” she added, “When will they actually be doing it?”

She might have a point my hair is running a little wild as present, due to a lack of combing, the fact that last year’s red is growing out in a Lassie-ish hue, and my diagonal fringe is finally growing out of my D.I.Y kitchen scissors trim. But I have to restrain myself from venturing near the hairdresser as I’ve learnt my lesson from the last time I had my haircut following a horrific care stint. I went in with long blonde locks and walked out with fire-engine red, blunt cut fringe, shaggy bob in the style of Florence Welch (good on a rock star, a little startling on me.) I had assured my poor husband that I was only getting a trim (he gets a little worried when I get near the hairdresser, I think he fears I’ll lop all my hair off, get fat and morph into a stereotype of middle-aged marriage.) Husband met me in the street, took one look at my hair and had to stomp off up an extinct volcano for an hour before we could talk about it.

Not content with obsessing about my hair, in between pad changes, I find myself having fashion fantasies featuring yours truly modelling silk blouses, high-waisted trousers and boiled wool cardigans with those funny leatherette buttons. Is it possible I’m suffering from over exposure to the British Upper Classes? Or am I suffering some sort of post-traumatic geriatric stress?

Interference.

On Mondays and Thursdays, a grey haired middle-aged divorcee from a nearby Scottish village comes to relieve me of the arduous task of looking after Lady Pumpernickel. At 9.30am precisely, Betty (not her real name) comes striding in, spaniel at her heels and proceeds to order me about until I am able to leg it out the backdoor. The very epitome of rural Britannia, Betty is very odd. Take for example the following conversation:

Me: I’m having a really tough time with Lady Pumpernickel, she just refuses to stand half way through the showering process. It’s really rather dangerous. You’ve known her a long time, any suggestions?

Betty: Well, yes it is tricky, I would suggest…INTERFERENCE! INTERFERENCE!

Me: [Looking somewhat confused at this outburst. Betty rushes to the window] Eh?

Betty: My balls, my balls! The birds have got my fat balls. I thought the mice where going to get them.

Me: [Now very discombobulated] I beg your pardon; the birds have got your balls?

Betty: Oh, yes see. [Gesturing to sparrows clustered around bird feeder out the window]. I’ve put out fat balls for the birds, I had 4 packs in the attic and then I thought the mice had got in so I’d best use them up.

Me: Right?

Betty: Yes, so Lady Pumpernickel, well I just use the dog on her.

So there we have it the next time Pumpernickel tries her tricks I’ll just shout, “INTERFERENCE, INTERFERENCE!” and set the dog on her. Simple.

Dog Days Aren't Over

Well, well an action packed weekend in the House of Pumpernickel. Her ladyship has developed a new trick, she simply decides that she will not stand up as her legs are a) sore and b) can’t do it. This new addition to her arsenal of troublesome tricks is particularly annoying mid way through the morning shower routine. We’ll be dripping wet in the shower, Lady P. precariously perched on her little shower chair with a towel around her and I’ll suggest she tries to stand up:

Me: Ah, Lady Pumpernickel should we move over to the toilet seat so we can get dressed? (Note my use of the Royal ‘We’).
Lady P: [Looking somewhat drowned] Yes, why don’t we?
Me: Ok, then so we need to stand up. If you put your hand on this rail here and the other one over here, I’ll help you and we’ll stand up on the count of 3. Ok?
Lady P: Yes?
Me: We’ll stand up on the count of 3, 1 -2 -3, STAND.
Lady P: [Does nothing makes not attempt to stand, legs dangling off the edge of shower chair, looks up very pleased with self] Ah, well that didn’t work did it?
Me: No, it didn’t perhaps you could try to stand up?
Lady P: No, I can’t why don’t you do it?
Me: I can’t stand up for you, but I will help you up.
Lady P: Well, I don’t see why you can’t, you’re just standing there. Lazy! Disgraceful!
Me: Certainly are… [Muttered under breath and aimed entirely as Queen Arsey-Bottom]. Now, can we try to stand up again?
Lady P: No.
Me: Why not?
Lady P: I can’t.
Me: Why can’t you stand?
Lady P: Because you have put my legs…in the bedroom.

You can’t argue with that, so at this point I have to excuse myself from the room and have a 10 minute recovery in another room. I will then return and try again, leaving and returning ad nauseum until eventually we make progress.

This little power play doesn’t only happen when Lady P is in the shower it can strike at anytime. But quite often it plays out when Pumpernickel is on the toilet. Her refusal to move can add up to a good 40-45minutes perched on the crapper. I have heard that prolonged periods of sitting with one’s bowels so loosened can result in piles or haemorrhoids. I think therefore that the Pumpernickel is suffering from ROID RAGE.

Liewe Hexie

I wonder if Lady Pumpernickle is Catholic. I only ask because that might explain the washing her mouth out with soap incident as a sort of pre-penance, a self-flagelation for sins to come...

Every evening we sit by the fire, which has been beautifully laid by the Gardener. It lights up with a whoosh and a roar, but about an hour in the fizzle begins to fade. Now I suspect that in this case the dwindling fire is a combination of my lack of expertise and the damp wood provided to keep the thing blazing all night. Regardless, last night, the fire began to die despite vigorous poking on my behalf.

This did not please her Royal Ladyship, she berated my fire maintainence skills and asked if I was adequately ashamed of myself for my stupidity. I maintained what I hoped was a dignified silence and continued poking the dying coals, at this point she-who-should-not-be-a-Lady threatened to push me into the fire. Using my acutely developed Danger Observation Skills (honed from years of living in Africa) I realised that if she made good on the threat, I was well within kicking range of her spindly sparrow legs. I quickly employed another skill in my arsenal and attempted to defuse the danger with a quip, "Ah, well lucky for me the fire has died out then! Ha, ha."

Well this raised a laugh but not the sort I'd anticipated. Lady Pumpernickle curled her lip, baring age-yellowed and sharpened teeth and imitated a witch's cackle. Which she informed me was the sound that came out of my mouth.

It was all down hill from there. The T.V programmes annoyed her, my reading a magazine caused snorts, sighs and disgruntled looks until finally "my stupid face" (and I quote) was too much for Liewe Hexie to endure.

Needless to say she was very unco-operative and refused to come with me to the bathroom to change into her bed clothes as she was sure I was going to "stick her full of needles in the bathroom". At this point I seriously considered adopting a Heroine addiction or at the very least raiding her booze cupboard. Instead I had a bath and power napped in 30 minute intervals, returning regularly to see if she was ready for bed.

Finally at midnight my quarry gave in. And I fell into a troublesome slumber, racked with dreams inwhich I was a witch complete with boils, hairy moles and obligatory gnarly teeth.

This job can't be good for my mental health...paging Dr Freud, Dr Freud to Reception.

No Fixed Abode

The Husband and I do not have a fixed address. We are a modern bohemian couple, one step short of homeless due to the kindness of family (his in Scotland, mine in South Africa). You see the husband has always been a wanderer, when he first came to visit me in South Africa his holiday packing consisted of a plastic shopping bag containing a pair of shorts, a t-shirt and a toothbrush. If it doesn't fit in the plastic bag or a family member's attic then we don't need it - all very Zen of us.

Another quirk of our married life is that we are very seldom simultaneously employed. It is the nature of our relationship that one must earn, the other must spend. To fund this lifestyle I work as a live-in-carer for the rich and geriatric and the Husband is a trawlerman, raping and pillaging the North Sea of Haddock and the like.

But as fate would have it the Husband is off fishing (cue 10 days of radio silence) and I find myself looking after 91 year old Lady Pumpernickle in her 12 bedroomed manor house in the Scottish hinterland.

Lady Pumpernickle is both demented and incontinent. Yesterday I went through to wake her and found her complaining that the house had sprung a leak due to my inadequate plumbing skills. Her urine soaked mattress was clearly my fault and she explained in no uncertain terms that she would not be staying in this hotel again!

The day progressed fairly smoothly until at bedtime I left her brushing her teeth and returned to find her liberally coating her toothbrush with soap and brushing for all she was worth. When I commented that her teeth must surely be clean by now, she remarked that she just couldn't get the horrid taste out of her mouth.

Old age is a strange beast my friends. I think I'd rather have my youth and no fixed abode than pottering around a mansion wondering where that wet spot was.