The Naked Truth

The Husband and I have returned from Edinburgh to our Scottish hideaway in the hills. Bus renovations have continued at a rapid rate and things are now at a very manageable level. Bus now contains fitted cream carpets with skirting boards (the installation of which nearly signalled the end of my marriage), a couch made from converted bus seats and carpeting, our little tin wood burner sits on off cuts of green marble and a nice Ikea floor lamp ‘lets there be light’.

As we are now able to heat water the Husband and I are enjoying higher levels of hygiene and physical contact (it’s nice when you don’t feel like gagging when your loved one brushes past you, although I believe this is what marriage reverts to with time, regardless of whether you live in a bus).

The Mediterranean and I spent a day making blinds out of off cuts of beading and a roll of white Pakistani cotton. My little fingers are pockmarked red from my needling efforts. Admittedly the stitches are not exactly uniform and are probably more akin to tacking than finely finished needle work, but the blinds hang more or less in an even manner and more importantly they save the sheep from having to see our naked bottoms as we commence our strip washing.

I’m probably a bit prudish about nakedness but I really don’t think my naked image should be burned upon the retinas of the unwilling, including sheep. I don’t think Europeans share my views on nudity. When I was looking after Frau, the crazy 90 year old German woman, she would summon me by pressing her doorbell button, the receiver which was with me at all times would then Ding-Dong frantically until I rushed to her aid. One night the Ding-Donging shrilled at midnight. I rushed to Frau’s room wiping sleep from my eyes, anticipating a medical drama. The vision which met me made me wish my sight was still blurry and sleep-encrusted - I was greeted by Frau standing in the middle of the room starkers except for her sheep skin slippers:

Frau: Ah, there you are. There is something I want to discuss. [Looking cool as a cucumber despite extreme nudity.]

Me: [Trying to maintain eye contact, must not let eyes wander to wrinkled fried egg bosom] A-hem, yes, it must be rather important, as it is midnight.

Frau: Ah, vell yes it is…my stools are very hard.

Me: [Using opportunity to look away, cast glance to cushioned chair in room] Well, I did plump the cushions before bedtime they shouldn’t be too hard.

Frau: No, no! [Lifting up arms to gesture, causing flopping naked breast wobble action, causing reflexive downward glance] Not my chairs, my stools! I am having trouble with my bowels. Tomorrow we must increase the dose of Lactulose and take a nice long walk.

Me: [Regaining contact with steely blue eyes, guilt flushed from boob-wobble glance] Ok, I’ll be sure to do that.

Frau: Goet, that vill be all!

This incident raised a number of questions in my mind, but most importantly, in any other workplace would your Boss to summon you into their office and stand around in their Birthday suit discussing their bowel movements?

Dancing

I made it! Another Birthday down. I am now the very proud owner of a beautiful stainless steel Dualit digital kitchen radio (from Husband and sister-in-law) and very elegant sky blue Le Creuset teapot (from friend).

You know you’re cracking on a spot when you can’t wait to test out your new teapot. The Husband and I spent a good half hour waxing lyrical about its beautiful symmetry, manly handle, non-drip pouring action and how bold and complex tea brewed in it tastes. This discussion was held to a backdrop of Radio 2 wafting out my sweet kitchen radio (again excited about a kitchen radio playing Sunday Love Songs, not dynamic boost sound system with woofers and tweeters pumping out the latest dance tunes.)

Despite the Sunday morning domestic bliss I felt rather crapulent. Excellent word, means feeling rather poorly due to overindulgence of, or relating to alcohol. My crapulence levels were at an all time high. Of course I should have known about the ferocity of the Aging Hangover – I’ve seen the older and wiser Husband appear the vision of a dog’s bollocks for an entire week.

But I had felt compelled to go out dancing. Being back in the Big City, I thought I might cut a bit of rug to prove I’m not at the geriatric state of Horlicks and knitting before bed. And so we had left the Husband at home on Saturday night and hit the tiles.

Being without Husband and with Birthday in sight and one or two tequilas in me I was feeling a spot gregarious. Waiting at the bar I started to chatting to a very clean cut, young lad in ‘Geek’ glasses - the sort that science nerds used to wear that have now been adopted by graphic designers with ironic moustaches:

Me: Nice Gogs. I see you are channelling the Geek Chic movement, very Clark Kent.

Lad: Oh, thanks. I look like a nerd? Clark Kent wasn’t what I was going for.

Me: I like the Geek look. I popped the lenses out of my 3D cinema glasses and wear them round the house in the spirit of a nerdy secretary. Are those for prescription or fashion use?

Lad: Fashion, although they don’t usually attract attention in clubs like this.

Me: Clubs like this?

Lad: Straight bars. [Clark Kent takes off glasses revealing rather feminine features – not a facial hair insight.]

Me: Ah. [Now clocking subtle bosom beneath suit jacket] Did I mention I’m married. Very chatty, Birthday at midnight.

Lad(dette): Really, I’m recently divorced. Where’s your PARTNER then? [Scanning room and giving me the Glad Eye in one tactical move.]

Me: Ah, my HUSBAND is at home looking after the baby. [No need to mention that the baby is my nephew].

And so we wrapped up our little conversation and Clark or rather Clara Kent disappeared into the crowd only to return seconds later with a Birthday beer in hand and a demand for my phone number. These are the sort of dilemmas we never dealt with in Life Skills at school, how to appear neither homophobic or up for a lesbian dalliance. In a compromise I reiterated that I was still happily married but if Husband should die in some freak accident Clara Kent would be in with a chance [a little white lie is an occasional necessity] and so I left the club up one beer and a girl’s number.

Nice to know that despite the advancing years, I’ve still got it.

Hair Today Gone Tomorrow

The Bus or ‘Passion Palace,’ as the Husband has tastefully named it, now includes mod cons like cream and ‘Royal Red’ carpeting and a bed. The bed has been installed above the old dashboard lying across the front of the bus. Panoramic windows frame the bed looking out onto the glen with spring lambs larking about, all very pastoral.

In the spirit of Scottish Spring time it has been a cold and drizzly (dreich as the Scots like to say). Keeping our little tin wood burner going is like raising a child; it requires constant attention. We are also becoming a spot ‘ripe’, as we have not fully plumbed and electrified our new home; the Husband and I have cleanliness levels akin to those of the Dark Ages (it is less Passion Palace more Pong Palace round here). I am also beginning to understand why hippies wear headscarves as they hide a multitude of sins. Just this morning I embraced one to cover my 4-day old unwashed hair. I spent the early hours of the morning staring at our veneered ceiling picturing myself with a chic elfin hairdo, in the spirit of Holly Golightly. Of course when I raised it with the Husband he suggested I go and live in another bus with my ‘boy hair’.

This prompted me to think of an elaborate plot to sabotage my hair in order to facilitate the chop. I was reminded of the following true story:

At University my dear friend Kiki was particularly vain about her swishy blonde ponytail. She brushed it 100 times before bed and took vitamins to help it grow thicker, faster and more bountiful. It really was golden and lovely.

One night I was standing behind Kiki in the queue for Friar Tuck’s nightclub chewing a piece of gum and attempting to singularise my vision. For reasons quite unbeknownst to me, I was compelled to bite Kiki’s dangly ponytail. As I released said tail from the bite, my globule of cinnamon gum remained behind, steadfast at the end of a golden spiral of hair. Feeling the tug, Kiki spun round and I smiled back beatifically and silent as I immediately decided that a confession would put the Kibosh on the whole evening. And so Kiki remained oblivious of the gum in her hair and we had a cracking night. She shook her locks all round the club, even doing the ‘stripper hair flick’ and the pink gum blob stayed fast and incognito.

The next morning Kiki rushed into my room shrieking maniacally. She had discovered GUM in her HAIR. “What unfeeling demon” she wanted to know, “would do this to somebody?” To my shame I kept quiet and tut-tutted along with her ranting. After an unsuccessful attempt at icing and pulling at the gum, Kiki was forced to lose some of her precious hair. It was all rather dramatic; a sad love song playing on the radio as Kiki wept with every snip-snip of the scissors.

I confessed a few days later and in the spirit of true friendship I was forgiven. About a week after the gum incident, we went for Pizza. It was a nice little place with little romantic tea-lights on the tables. Kiki dropped something on the floor and bent over to pick it up. As she did so her hair dangled directly in the open flame and immediately started sizzling. Kiki was so absorbed in her search for the mystery item on the floor that she did not notice her burning follicles. Here was my opportunity to save my friend from further hair disfigurement and mental anguish and what happened? I was rendered utterly speechless:

Me: A-ba,ba-ba-baa-bahh-bahh! [High pitched incomprehensible gibber and pointing at burning bushel of hair]
Kiki: [Still rummaging on floor] What is wrong with you? Did you drink that Vodka again? And what is that smell?
Me: A-ba-baa-ba-baa-be-be-ba [Too shocked to form a sentence, still gesticulating wildly]
Kiki: What? [Still rummaging] God it’s hot in here. What is that smell?
Me: Ba-baa-baba-ba-bah [Still completely unable to string syllables together in sentence format]
Kiki: [Finally sits up from rummaging] Oh, my God, my HAIR’S ON FIRE! WHY DID’NT YOU TELL ME?

Thankfully majority of the burn was absorbed by Kiki’s hair clip. When I eventually recovered my voice I laughed so hard I even dribbled a little. The moral of the story don't be too precious about things they can be hair today and gone tomorrow. [No? Not even a titter?]

Well, anyway I’m just off to light the wood burner with my greasy locks hanging freely over and open flame…

Operation Bus Pass

Operation Bus Pass is officially underway. For those of you that need a reminder (see ‘Country Pursuits’) the Husband and I went to visit his Bohemian friend and Mediterranean girlfriend in the Scottish hills. They consequently offered us an old bus to stay in rent-free for the summer. As we are one step away from homeless at the best of times, the Husband and I have accepted this offer. This is where our story resumes:

The Husband and Bohemian have spent the day jacking up the bus so that it doesn’t sit at such a jaunty angle. As it is lacking wheels and sits on a pile of mud this is pretty tricksy (new word, just invented). Ah, did I fail to mention that the bus we are currently refitting as our summer home has no wheels? We will not be driving it around the country. It is more like the shell of a bus, minus any metal of scrap value. It’s wheel arches house nice supportive logs, with little bricks and bits of metal balanced upon them like totem poles of scrap. I’m a little dubious about their supportiveness, even more so after a conversation about the potential of the bus toppling in a fierce storm. But then I reasoned how much can it possibly rain in Scotland in the summer?

The more pressing issue is that we may freeze to death – Scottish heat waves settle in the 20’C’s, not quite Durban temperatures. At the moment the bus has a layer of cardboard on the floor for insulation, a giant hole where the dashboard once was and a variety of critter size holes still to be plugged. On the plus side we do have a little Afghan wood burner. So still a bit to be done but slowly, slowly catchy monkey and stuff.

The Bohemian is also a bit of a scrap metal merchant so our lovely new abode is surrounded by a number of army trucks. One might mistake the yard for an army barracks. As we are worried that British Intelligence might have, as there have been a number of low flying fighter jets circling. As a preventative measure the Husband and I have decided to paint large peace sign or Red Cross on roof of bus just in case we are mistaken for Afghan insurgents. The bombers might see the “Jesus loves you!” slogan scrawled on the side of the Bus a little too late.

Despite being without lights or water (the answer to which is only a power cable and hosepipe away) our lovely new abode gets a very faint Internet signal. I aim to keep one foot in modernity whilst living the good life and so I have joined twitter (@sallygypsytiger). Not getting many tweets in though. I was feeling rather guilty about this until I heard the expression “too many tweets make a twat.”

Speaking of Twats, the Husband and I once bought a car from a man name Doogie Twat. His wife was called May Twat, but that is another story for another time…

… I think I hear a fighter jet approaching.

Havana Club+Coke= No synapses

Today was not a very productive day. I am still suffering from the after effects of Sunday night on the tiles. Havana Club+Coke= No synapses. In the immortal words of the Doors, her “brain is squirming like a toad.”

Because I am so ditsy I kept forgetting things. I spent five minutes explaining “places in cities where people garden and have those glasshouses” because I couldn’t remember the word 'allotment'. In conjunction with losing vocabulary I lost my driver’s licence and then spent majority of the day searching for it. My quest became so dire that I even sifted through a week’s worth of garbage, thinking that as Rooster (my 18 month old nephew) has learnt to put things in the bin this is just the sort of mischief he would concoct. In case you were curious used nappies do not improve with age. Thankfully I found my license and it wasn’t covered in faeces (which was nice). At least in this case it was actually lost unlike the time I spent and hour turning my room upside down looking for a cheque that I had already banked.

With this early onset dementia I’m going to have to start writing myself little reminders. Frau (the 91 year old Crazy German I used to look after, see “I still believe in miracles”) used to write herself little notes when she woke up in the night. One night I met her in the corridor after I had just showered - the sent of patchouli shower gel wafting sweetly off me. Frau eyed me with disdain and prowled around the corridor sniffing suspiciously at the air enquiring if I could smell something…funny.

In the morning I found a little note next to her bed it read:
Cranberry sauce
Foxes
Strange smell in hall from carer
Lights outside
1am itchy feet
Nosebleed

What a mad combination of things to jot down when you should be sleeping. Of course if I had to write a disorientated night time list it would probably go:

22.00 - Earthquake?
22.30 - Strange Noxious Gases – Result of seismic activity?
01.00- Aftershocks?
01.45 - Rustling sounds in dark – thief in room?
06.00 -Strange smell of Almonds?

Upon waking I could probably explain my list more simply as:

22.00 - Earthquake: Husband Snoring
22.30 - Strange Noxious Gases: Husband’s Flatulence
01.00 - Aftershocks: Husband Snoring at 10 second intervals
01.45 - Rustling in dark: Husband ball scratching
06.00 - Strange smell of Almonds: Husband’s morning breath

For I Haven't Got A Clue

Yesterday there was a lot of freak activity in the atmosphere.

The freakishness began was when the Husband was flicked on the forehead with a condom by a 12 year old girl, passing us in the street with her group of mates. Flicky, was playing with a condom impressing her group of likely lad friends, as we walked past she demonstrated her Non-Educated Delinquent status by attacking gobsmacked husband with a prophylactic. Needless to say we were stunned, the Husband’s immediate reaction was to shout, “Oy, you little F$*@kers!” Probably not the most adult response, as this compelled Flicky to shout “Go shite yourself Grandad!”

The Husband and I adultly (new word) chose to forget the Unspeakable Contraceptive Incident with the help of a pint in the local pub. On our way back from our swifty we passed a poster stuck to a shop window. “Hello?” Lionel Richie’s face peered out from the shop frontage asking, “Is it me you’re looking for?” His song lyrics continued in tear off strips at the bottom of the poster. Feeling this was a message from the Universe I tore off “for I haven’t got a clue” and put it in my purse.

That evening the sister-in-law wrangled a babysitter and convinced us to go out. We don’t go out much as the Husband gets a little overexcited. We landed up in a small Folk bar having gained, Dandy Ben, an old friend of the Husband’s. Things were a little dull in the ‘Old Oak’ bar so Dandy Ben and I played guess the name, where you select patrons in the bar and guess their names:

Me: Grey haired man with goggle-glasses?
DB: Barnaby. African man making clicking sounds, standing at the bar?
Me: Ezekiel. Bald man, looks like a bruiser?
DB: Bob. Man apparently suffering from giganticism, over in corner?
Me: Tiny.

And so we continued, it’s a great game once you get into it. The Husband seemed to think our game was rubbish and so started talking to the lone girl next to us, drinking whisky and reading a Gig Guide. We thought she looked like an Iona. The Husband’s opening gambit was truly something to observe:

Husband: [Leans over to consult Iona’s gig guide] I believe the soup of the day is Parsnip and Tomato.

Iona: [Totally baffled] What?

Husband: The soup of the day, Parsnip and Tomato. I believe it’s rather good.

Iona: Eh? [Gesturing to gig guide and speaking slowly as though talking to the hearing impaired] THIS-IS-A-GIG-GUIDE.

Husband: No, I said Parsnip.

Poor Iona looked like a frightened deer in the headlines. Who was this crazy man? Not one to give up easily, despite the fact that his bizarre sense of humour had gone right over Iona’s wee heed, the Husband continued a conversation about the whisky Iona was drinking. In the middle of this discussion about the malty merits of this particular spirit the Husband cupped Iona’s elbow in his hand and in his best peek-aboo voice said, “I’ve got your elbow. I’ve got your elbow.” And then resumed his conversation about whisky.

Truly freak behaviour, I think Lionel was right, ‘for I haven’t got a clue’.

I still believe in miracles

Today I told The Husband that he has 16 days to find me a nice fat diamond for my Birthday. He said that the only diamond he could currently afford was the 3 carat variety used on the end of a glass cutter, if I wanted anything bigger I would need to use said glass cutter to secure it myself.

It’s not that I want a diamond. I’m just trying to brighten up the prospect of my rapidly approaching 28th Birthday.

Aging never really concerned me until I noticed the crow’s feet around my eyes, and how sneakily unforgiving my body is for every year after 25. Hangovers last entire days now, chocolate digestives turn to cellulite instead of energy. I’m no fool, I’ve seen the face of old age and it is wrinkled and demented. I’m on a slippery slope to incontinence.

Soon I’ll be like Frau, the crazy 91 year old German I looked after last February. Frau, had so lost her battle with gravity, that she had actually fallen through her own bottom in the form of an anal prolapse. Until this time I had believed this to be an idle threat of my Father’s, ‘If you don’t eat enough you’ll fall through your own backside’ was up there with, ‘Television gives you square eyes.’

When Frau opened her door I was met by a wizened question mark of a woman, who immediately handed me a portable doorbell receiver. This, I was firmly instructed, was to be carried with me at all times! When Frau needed me she would push her little button and my receiver would emit a frightening and frenzied DING-DONG, DING-DONG, DING-DONG.

About 2 days into my stint with Frau she summoned me to the bathroom with frantic DING-DONGING. I approached with caution, as she did not generally require bathroom assistance.

Frau: Zank Goodness you are here. It’s my prolapse.
Me: Ah, yes what about your prolapse?
Frau: It is…troubling me, I need you to check if it iz out.
Me: [Horrified! But maintaining the face of professional dignity at all times] How exactly do I do that?
Frau: [Standing up and hitching skirt above head] I vill bend over, tell me if it is out.

*Before I could reply the old had girl turned towards the wall touching her toes with remarkable flexibility. The sight that greeted me was something out of an alien horror movie. While my initial reaction was to cross myself and then rush wretching towards the handbasin, I composed myself (ever the professional GAPE *Geriatric Au Pair Extraordinaire):

Me: Ah, yes I don’t know much about prolapses, but in my limited experience, I would say that it is definitely out.
Frau: Ah, yes, vell goet. I will put it back in.

[The details of how this is done are really not necessary. Needless to say I blacked out again with a little voluntary amnesia].

And this is my problem I’ve a little too intimate a knowledge of old age to grow old gracefully. A friend I have shared this shocking tale with shares my sentiment, he has decided once he reaches 70 to end it all in a cocaine fuelled orgy with Japenese twins. Sounds to me like a plan, although perhaps there’s hope for me yet as I still seem to have a particularly juvenile sense of humour. My Husband was reading his horoscope which declared “Golden ideas will originate from Uranus…being in your sign,” of course I didn’t hear a word after Uranus as I was giggling so much.

After all I still believe in miracles.

April Fool

Early morning text message from sister-in-law, 'Sorry a little cranky, I'm pregnant again!' Cue a little bit of stressing between the Husband and I. Is this news from a single mum of one good? Are congratulations in order? Panic-panic.

Then thankfully one of us spied the calender, April 1st, you bugger! Shot back a 'Yeah, we've been a little funny too, wanted to surprise you, but GrannyPants is also pregnant.'

That'll get her we thought! Although secretly I was starting to panic a little is this a bit like stepping on the devil's tail? But, surely all is fair in love and April Fool's pranks before midday? Received text message: 'Oh, how far along are you? I'm 6 weeks?''

Shit, panic-panic. That doesn't sound like an April Fool's joke. Decided as it was 11.54am had best put this all to bed (where it had obviously all originated from). Shot back with 'Ha-ha April Fool's. But if you are Congrats!'

Unfortunately it appears the being so tricksy has backfired. Before could declare the double Bluff (all lies, all round apparently) news leaked. Some of my friends may in fact think I'm up the duff.

All, in all not very sure about this whole April Fool's malarkey. Is it right that I was hot flushing round the living room at 10am worrying about pseudo-pregnancies, my own included? I think I prefer the French idea of hiding little paper fish in each others clothing on April 1st. At least I hope that's all they were hiding, I wasn't very good at French.

Now if you will excuse me, have an imaginary baby to nurture.