Lots of Love Virginia

1 a.m.: I was all snuggled up in my bed when I heard an almighty THUMP below decks. I bolted down the stairs (in such a State of Emergency Response I went bra-less, I never go sans brassiere. Even in our University residence night time fire drills I would be one of the last to emerge due to prolonged and frantic searching for discarded bra under a mound of clothing on floor and then the tiresome wrestling of majestic mammaries into said bra all while in sleep-addled state. It was my view that I would rather burn to death than have hunky firemen catch sight of my breasts hanging low!) Anyway back to the present, I bolted down the staircase clutching at my undulating chest whilst calling out frantically for Eileen. Midway down the hall I noticed that her door was slightly ajar and through the gap I could make out a horizontal wrinkled buttock (singular, as I could only see one buttock at this stage). I also heard a muffled, "I've fallen."

I poked my head round the slightly ajar door to find Eileen lying across the floor like a diver poised to jump with both hands stretched above her head. Her two hands were sticking out of her pink frilly nightdress that was stuck over her head, pinioning her arms above her head leaving her naked bottom directly opposite the draughty door. The nightdress repeated that it, "had fallen".

We managed to extricate Eileen from her nightdress and set her into bed, luckily no injuries.

As I lay in bed listening for any further bumps in the night I recalled my first ever care assignment with “Old” (not the most original nickname, I was new to the G.A.P.E game):

Old was a demented octogenarian with a benign tumour on the brain that affected her balance. Like Eileen she used a Zimmer frame and like Eileen she went down faster than cheap tequila in a student bar and almost as frequently. Old, being rather batty, enjoyed nocturnal adventures like pulling off her plasters and sticking them to the wall or hiding her hearing aid in her shoe. As a consequence I used to lie in bed listening with a cautious ear to the clunk, shuffle, clunk, shuffle, clunk of her zimmering progress to and from the loo.

One night I heard a bit of a kafuffle in the bathroom, and arrived downstairs (having spent a moment or two brassiering self) in time to catch sight of the old girl trundling back to her bed moving at pace enough to cause her floral nightgown to flap behind her. Evidently unscathed and eager for bed.

The following morning as I was cleaning her bathroom I spied a broken glass next to the toilet. Perched on top of the jagged glass was one of Old’s recent Birthday cards. I opened the card to find a spidery almost illegible note scribbled alongside the Birthday well wishes it read:

Dear all,
W
a w
r
n a r
ing ni
n
g
B
Ro
Ken glass. S harp

Lots of Love
V
irg
i nia


I remember thinking how very responsible she was; warning ALL the toilet users (she was the only) that A) broken glass was present and B) yes, it was sharp. But the kicker for me was the way she rounded off her warning of imminent danger with such an affectionate leaving. I mean you don’t often see etiquette like that these days.

But that evening did invoke a sense of paranoia in me I thought I might wake to find Old had put her shoes in the toaster, but thought to write a note about it on a piece of loo paper. It would read something along the lines of “dear Mr Fireman, Danger shoe on fire, hot. Hot! Lots of love ...V.”

That's the thing with these geriatrics you just never know what the next night has in store...

Sounds of Mastication

One of my pet hates is the sound of chewing; it’s right up there with dogs slurping at their what-nots in company, which is why Eileen’s galloping false teeth cause me such breakfasting pain (see Love in a time of Dentistry.) I firmly believe that the sounds of mastication (and the other word that rhymes with it) should be drowned out by music, preferably something with a healthy beat so that the whole affair can be done with very quickly. I’m really not very good with cold food or the sounds of cud chewage, unless I have an abundance of wine and witty conversation at hand.

With this in mind, the Husband and I spend a great deal of time apart – I believe it’s one of the secrets to our happy marriage, absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that – in order to sustain our 3 year old marriage the Husband and I spend a lot of time communicating via the Telephone:

Me: [The sounds of Carly Simon’s ‘Your so vain’ emanate from my pocket – Carly starts with ‘Son of a Gun’ so I know it’s my husband] Ah, hello Husband. How are you?

Husband: Hi, good thanks. How you?

Me: Oh, you know the old girl is driving me crazy, she’s trying to hide used sanitary pads in her pockets, which is a little disturbing and…

Husband: [Crunch, chew, munch, munch. crunch…glurp]

Me: ..and…are you eating something?

Husband: [Crunch, munch] Momn [chew] I’m eating [crunch, splerg] a chocolate [munch] digestive [crunch] it’s delicious…

Me: Yes, it sounds it. Maybe I should ring you back later?

Husband: Oh, don’t worry I’m done now, what were you saying?

Me: Ja, so she’s hiding smelly wee pads in her cardigan pockets and it’s a little…

Husband: [Gulp, swallow, swish]

Me: …and it’s a little…distracting. Are you drinking something?

Husband: [Glug, swish] Yip, I’m having a nice cup of tea. Sounds like you should have one.

Me: I might, AFTER THIS CONVERSATION…

Husband: So, she’s hiding smelly pads…[crunch, munch]

Me: Are you eating again?

Husband: Oh, [chew, gurgle] sorry. It’s another digestive once they hit your lips…[munch]

Me: I’m going to have to phone you back later.

Now what was I saying about our happy marriage?

A note: This is not an actual conversation between the Husband and I but an approximation of many such conversations, he once phoned me just to share the joyful sounds of him eating cheesecake. And Eileen really has started hiding used urine-soaked sanitary pads in her pockets. I despair.

Ah, and the picture "Chunder Spot" is part of the route marked out for the A-level students who have just finished exams and were doing a pub-run. The joy of youthful overindulgence.

Do I look Bovvered?

Eileen is so lazy if she was a man she would spend a whole day crying because she was sitting on her balls and was too lazy to move.

The woman drives me mad. Yesterday I found her sweltering, tomato faced and virtually melting into her easy chair wearing a knitted pullover topped with a stout cardigan.

Eileen: Oh, I’m so hot. [Said in breathy Marilyn Monroe voice, while pitifully waving hand in front of face in manner of beauty pageant queen]

Me: Well, that’s probably because it’s 19’C outside and you have the heating on and two jumpers.

Eileen: I know. [Breathy Marilyn sigh]. It’s just that I was too lazy to take this cardigan off. Although, I thought about it.

Me: [Yanking off cardigan with alarming alacrity, my cheerfulness hurting my cheeks] Well, perhaps next time you should save yourself from roasting, or at least call me; I’m in the next room.

Eileen: I know, I thought about calling out, but I couldn’t be bothered.

Me: [Folding up offending cardigan, sense of humour draining with each passing minute] Ok, I’ll put this in your room. Do you need anything else?

Eileen: Huh?

Me: DO-YOU-NEED-ANYTHING-ELSE? WHERE-IS-YOUR-HEARING-AID? [Said in loud manner of Americans trying to speak to non-English speakers i.e. each word increasing a decibel, accompanied by excessive gesticulation in the direction of my ear]

Eileen: Oh, um, that…I couldn’t be bothered to put it in.

Me: Right I’ll go and find it. [Striding off purposefully towards door].

Eileen: Oh, before you go could you put the Telly on?

Me: [Glancing over shoulder notice remote is touching Eileen’s right hand] Why don’t you use the remote?

Eileen: Don’t know where it is. [Making no attempt whatsoever to look for bleeding thing]

Me: That's funny, I can see it next to your right hand…

Eileen: [Looking down at remote as though seeing it for the first time]. Well, so it is…I couldn’t be bothered to look for it.

Seriously? I’ve met stoned teenage boys with more energy and enthusiasm. Guess I’ll have to put it on my bovvered list.

Tick-bloody-tock of the Tiger Mother

Why do old people have so many clocks in their houses? Each room in Eileen’s house contains a manually wound timepiece which requires weekly winding. They all tick away growing increasingly loud with their predatory tick-bloody-tock, measuring the seconds of my passing life. I feel like poor old Captain Hook constantly looking over my shoulder for my nemesis, the ticking crocodile.

Of course the tick-tocking of Eileen’s chronometers is nothing compared to the deafening roar of my biological clock, which for some reason has chosen this week to make itself heard. Clearly 28 years and 1 month, give or take, is the appropriate age for evolutionary instinct to hijack your body. My body is saying I want a child: I look at pregnant woman with envy; small children playing with their fathers makes me think of baby names (Tallulah and Indigo?) and the cute little 7 year old who sank Sinatra’s ‘My Way’ on Britain’s got Talent nearly had me in tears.

But just to qualify this I’ve never wanted children. So strong was my conviction that my poor mother whisked us off to a Chinese Astrologer, who assured her I would have progeny (although he also said I’d get married at 35 – oops, out by ten years and I would make money with my mind – again, I wipe geriatric anuses, not exactly mind bending work). My mother will no doubt be thrilled that my body has turned against me in such a manner. 5 years ago she started hanging artwork around her house at midget height. One day I questioned if she was having an exhibition for carnies (you know circus folk, small hands, smell like cabbage*) she said the art was being hung at the correct eye-level for her grandchildren!

And then there’s my poor Husband, the other day he phoned whilst I was eyeing out a particularly sweet family unit, to report that he was doing something irresponsible. Now this is not unusual he is notorious for his irresponsible and often very amusing behaviour, for example he pushed the emergency panic button, because it was ‘red’ said ‘emergency’ and he’d had a bit of whisky and so it felt like and emergency to him. Or when he borrowed a friend’s van, noticed it was over heating and so scrambled round in the back until he found a container proclaiming to be ‘De-ionised water’ as it smelt and looked like water he topped up the water levels and carried on his way. Moments later he was forced to stop as apparently there was a foam-party going on under the bonnet of the car. Turns out he’d added a soapy solution to the car, which then belched white foam as it slugged all the way home.

Usually I laugh at the Husband’s tales of irresponsibility but on this occasion, while watching the perfect 2.4 family unit, I flipped my wig. I gave him a thorough lecture and hung up the phone unable to communicate with him for the next 12 hours. He of course has no idea that I was livid because his actions were so out of sync with my imaginings. That’s me just thinking about children, imagine if I actually had them I’d turn into the raging Tiger Mother – demanding perfect table manners, wit, charm and high achieving school reports.

Did I mention we live in a bus? Why, oh, why is my body doing this to me? It’s all Eileen’s fault – living with a depressive who has no living family has caused a natural reflex to produce a multitude of sproggery (new word) to look after me well into my years of decrepitude.

Maybe this phase will pass, like the time I wanted a flying Unicorn for Christmas...

*Little ode to Austin Powers.

Love in a time of Dentistry

I’ve narrowed it down - the mood swings, the spotty teenage visage, the chocolate cravings – I’m P.M.Sing like a mad cow.

At least I can now blame my hormones when the sound of Eileen’s false teeth clip-clopping round her mouth makes me want to lean over yank the blasted things out and pour a gallon of dental fixadent into her gawping mouth. I’m not psychotic, just female.

Unfortunately the sound of her clip-clopping teeth has awoken in me a crazed obsession with dental hygiene. I am following a strict twice-daily regime of zealous electric tooth brushing, flossing and mouth washing. It is my hope to maintain my gnashers so that I can avoid sounding like the horsemen of the apocalypse when I eat a piece of toast in my later years.

According to my dentist flossing is the most important dental hygiene procedure and the part that I find most tedious. She suggested flossing while watching T.V. Now frankly this is stupid advice, because once upon a time in my pre-marital existence I had a boyfriend who was a tooth-flosser. On a rainy Sunday afternoon we settled down to watch a film, my head settled lovingly in his lap, all very cosy and domestic until he began flossing his teeth mere centimetres from my forehead. As the tartar and spittle pinged off my cheek I contemplated our future together, suffice to say he did not become the Husband.

However, the most bizarre public tooth flossing was committed by the Argentinean man sitting next to us on our budget long haul flight to South Africa last Christmas. Mr Argentine spent a vast amount of time snortling (new word) and phlemming next to my poor Husband. When he grew tired of that he released his in-flight blanket from its plastic wrapping and proceeded to stretch the plastic into long thin fibres, which he used to FLOSS.HIS.TEETH. Spittle, plaque and what I think was a piece of lettuce, proceeded to fly in all directions. I used my Husband as a human shield.

Poor Husband was so angry after French customs had confiscated our two bottles of Christmas Moet that he was incapable of speech the entire flight. Apoplectic with rage he simply shut his eyes, going slightly purple in the face, as bits of Argentine steak skyrocketed round the enclosed space. The Husband in the spirit of Christian love simply turned the other cheek – which promptly became covered in tartar. The only words I heard the poor man mutter where, “Cheese eating surrender monkeys” to which I assume he meant the French and not the Argentine.

Mae West once said, ‘Love conquers all except poverty and toothache.’ Perhaps Love and Dentistry are mutually exclusive.

Depression by proxy

I think I’m suffering from depression by proxy. Eileen’s morbid state of depression is not lessening despite her twice daily quaffage of ‘happy pills’ – if it continues any longer I may start stealing her drugs.

The worst thing about her depression is that it is followed by retellings of how she dutifully looked after her father (Parkinsons), mother (general decreptitude followed by pneumonia) and finally her sister (cancer). Now they’ve all died and left her alone and it’s very unfair. And yes it is unfair and traumatic and my heart goes out to Eileen, at least it did the first 3 times I heard these tales over the dinner table. They’re now a part of our routine following a predictable pattern:

Eileen: Sigh. [Head slumps down onto chest, looks up to see if I’m watching] Sigh.

Me: [Studiously folding napkin in lap, hoping to get out of room before saga begins]

Eileen: Sigh…Oh..sigh…Dear…sigh…

Me: Sigh. [Putting on sympathy face] What’s up? Are you alright?

Eileen: I’m fine…sigh…it’s nothing…sigh….

Me: Ah, well in that case…[starting to alight from chair]

Eileen: It’s just. Sigh. I don’t know why I feel so sad. Sigh. It’s like a wave of sadness washes over me. Sigh. [Looking very hang dog staring at hands folded on tabletop]

Me: [Stern resolve crumbling] Oh, I’m sure it’s very normal, you’re just not getting out much..per…

Eileen: [Not listening to me, cuts me off - in full flight now] Sigh. It’s just so unfair of them to leave me….

And then we’re off and for the next 15 minutes we go through retellings of how she dutifully looked after her father (Parkinsons), mother (general decreptitude followed by pneumonia) and finally her sister (cancer). Now they’ve all died and left her alone and it’s very unfair. And yes it is unfair and traumatic and my heart goes out to Eileen, at least it did the first 3 times I heard these tales over the dinner table…Oh, sorry have you heard that before?

Truly the most exciting thing to happen to Eileen in the last 10 years was her heart operation and if I have to hear about that lovely Egyptian surgeon and how he came to call and "he’d come straight for San Francisco – where it was raining and he threw his raincoat over the chair. Isn’t that funny he just threw his raincoat over the chair" I WILL SCREAM.

Now where did she put those anti-depressants?

Bad day at Black Rock

Today was quite frankly CRAP!

My vacuuming of the upstairs landing was interrupted by a pitiful, “Help, help…he…lp…” I hightailed it downstairs to find Eileen’s disembodied head sticking out from behind the bathroom door into the passage. “Help” the little head said.

After checking the little head was still attached to the little geriatric body and all was still breathing, I peeked around the bathroom door. It transpired that Eileen was lying across the bathroom floor, her feet by the toilet cistern, her head sticking out the door and onto the passage carpet. She had fainted. Unfortunately she was in the act of defecation as she fell. I don’t want to dwell, but the smell would have choked a skunk. At this point I took back anything I said about not hating my job (see Morbidly Obese). Truly it is not for the fainthearted finding someone helplessly wallowing in his or her own excretor.

Luckily Eileen was uninjured but getting her up involved throwing kitchen towel and newspaper at the offensive matter, which seemed to cover every available surface. I then had to unceremoniously wipe the old girl down and hoist her off the floor with her linguine legs spindling about and her bunioned feet skidding vigorously in faecal matter.

“Not to worry, happens all the time,” I lied in my most professional voice. “Nothing to be embarrassed about,” I gasped in between half-gasped breaths of mustard gas, cheeks like a puffer fish.

Eventually we got her up and cleansed. I then had the dubious task of peeling layers of newspaper off drying mustard putty poo, which had worked it’s way nicely into the grouting. And so I scrubbed and mock-charged and puffer-fished and dry-wretched and chipmunk-cheeked and generally went a little blue in the face.

For the rest of the day I couldn’t get that noxious odour out of my nostrils. And you know what they say - the smell is caused by actual particles of poo travelling up your nasal passage, which means I have wandered about all day with geriatric shit up my nose.

Somedays you're the statue, somedays you're the pigeon. Today I was definitely the pigeon.

Morbidly Obese?

I woke up this morning and made a startling discovery – I don’t hate my job. I sort of always felt a little antipathy towards my career as a Geriatric Au Pair Extraordinaire (G.A.P.E); it was just a job paying the bills until my real life as someone vastly creative and important took off. Of course I dislike elements of it, like the geriatric faeces and emotional discomfort caused by seeing elderly nudes, but in general I don’t mind it. For one thing this job is wonderful for making ONE realise just how FABULOUS ONE IS my new mantra is “You will never be as young and beautiful as you are now!”

And of course my work teaches me a lot about human nature as it ages. I have uncovered another universal truth – woman regardless of their age obsess about their weight. In my latest G.A.P.E role I am looking after Eileen (I call her Eileen because she scoots along with a zimmer frame and is always in danger of falling over). Eileen bless her cotton socks (or knee high stockings as the case may be) has developed a little bit of a pot belly, which is to be expected when your day consists of sitting with your feet up snoozing in front of the telly, punctuated by meals and occasional chit-chat about the weather. In reality Eileen looks a bit like a kwashiorkor victim all sparrow arms and pot belly.

However, the poor old girl’s tweed skirts are starting to get a little snug about the waist. Yesterday she barrelled out of the bathroom demanding help as her skirt was attacking her. When we eventually excavated her from the interior we discovered that the skirt’s lining has ripped. Poor Eileen blames this on her weight gain. I think she got in a ravel in the confines of the bathroom and put her foot through it. Regardless we are now on DIET.

At 96, Eileen wants to go on DIET. Is she insane, in her position I would whip on elasticated pants and bring on the PIE. I would eat myself into the position of morbidly obsese – because at 96 morbidity is a hot issue - I think I saw death’s sickle sticking out from behind the curtains last night. I’d embrace the Elvis diet of cheese burgers and deep fried peanut butter sandwiches until my arteries were as clogged as the M25 at rush hour. And I would go fat and happy into the next life.

But, Eileen is neither fat nor happy. She has outlived all her relatives and friends (bar 2, see Wandering Mulburries). Not a day goes by we she doesn’t lament living this long. She is depressed by the samey-sameness of her life (everyday is Groundhog day) and yet she resists any attempt to shake up the routine. However, 5 years ago, Eileen chose to have a complex heart operation as she was given only 3 months to live. Due to her age she went through 3 surgeons before she found one willing to operate. Eileen has therefore made a concerted effort to live this long.

And this is the other universal true – we all want to live forever and we all love having something to bitch about. Now pass me that slice of ham and salad, oh, and that bread and brie and that apple crumble and custard…luckily Eileen’s version of a diet is a little different to mine. Just creating another fat cherub over here.

Majestically Mammaried

“When I roll over in bed my breasts clap”

- British comedian, Miranda Hart

I am rather generously endowed in the breast department. The good Lord saw fit to grant me bosoms large enough that my bra size is probably the key to a rather complex quadratic equation.

Due to the unseasonably fine weather in London I have decamped a few layers and so today ventured out in a light purple cotton T-shirt. Midway through my walk I realised I was receiving ‘glances’ – generally from middle-aged balding men following their wives around the posh shops of Wimbledon Village. Whenever I start to receive ‘glances’ a.k.a the Glad Eye I grow suspicious, as I am not normally the glancing sort. Walking past a shop window my reflection identified the problem: my breasts moving independently of the rest of me seemed to be auditioning for a part in Baywatch. Despite the fact that I was only walking my jublies were doing a damn fine ‘Pam Anderson.’ Although enclosed in a rather good and expensive brassiere my mammaries were moving like independent life forces, two wobbling jellies undulating spasmodically with my every step.

And this is the problem with large breasts – they are permanently attempting to escape their brassiered confines and embrace the laws of gravity. Finding a bra strong enough to halt this escape results in underwear rather like a prison warder – beige with no sense of humour, underwear that would not go amiss in a nunnery. Once in my pre-married life a gentleman caller caught sight of my contraceptive bra drying and asked if it was Kevlar coated and had I thought of donating it to the homeless to live in as a tent? Luckily I had long been accustomed to teasing of this nature; my father being surrounded by a family of three well-endowed females was constantly fighting for space in the bathroom with drying bras (they must be hand washed so as not to damage the udderwiring, I mean underwiring). My father’s reaction to this invasion was to exit the bathroom wearing a bra on his head:

Me: Father you have a bra on your head.
Father: Yes, I’m keeping abreast of the latest fashion in the tradition of Amelia Earhart, just looking for my flying goggles.
Me: Oh, very funny.
Father: I hope I’m not making a tit of myself… have a look at my sheep dogs…
Me: Your sheepdogs?
Father: You know my round ‘em up and point ‘em in the right directions…my over-shoulder-boulder-holder…

Here my Father has hit upon another snag i.e. I am very reliant on my ‘sheepdogs.’ However it appears that no woman beyond the age of 80 worries about an over-shoulder-boulder-holder any longer, they prefer to let sagging breast rest upon sagging stomach, the way nature intended it. This is fine for the slim chested but I’ll have to tuck mine into my waistband. When I brought this up with the Husband he said that this was an issue that should have been discussed pre-marriage. Too late you poor man, that’s what becomes of those married to the majestically mammaried.

It’s like my nephews and niece recently sang to me:

Do your boobs hang low?
Do they wobble to and fro?
Can you tie them in a knot?
Can you tie them in a bow?
Do your boobs hang low?

Well, give them 45 years and we’ll give that bow tying a shot.

Wandering Mulberries

Today I bought a teen magazine. I’m a good 10 years past the acceptable age for reading such fare and obviously far too young and glamorous looking, to possibly have a teenage daughter that I might be purchasing it for. All in all, I was a little skaam about my inappropriate purchase. Sniffing out my sense of shame like a pouncing jungle cat, the female shopkeeper spent 5 eye-wateringly long minutes ‘looking for the price’ and scrutinising me, while I shifted uneasily from foot to foot, blushing and fanning my face like a beauty queen. Anyone would have thought I was a middle-aged sweaty bloke buying an x-rated copy of ‘Foreskin Gump’.

The reason I spent £2.75 on Bliss Magazine, aimed at the pre-pubescent was the headline,

‘MY BIG FAT GYPSY LIFE “We live in a bus – without a shower or loo. So what?”’

Hang on a tick, did someone write about my life without me knowing about it? I live in a bus without a shower or loo. So of course I had to read about my doppelganger.

I discovered some pertinent information about the red-haired teen in question (remember I too went red once see Florence Red): 1) Her family live in a converted double-decker bus, lovingly wood panelled and converted by her parents 2) She is part of a family of travellers living in a motorway layby off a main highway. 3) She is not a gypsy, she is a traveller – there is a difference. 4) She is not from a long line of travellers, her mother went travelling around the world and met some people who introduced her to the travelling way of life and then met Dad, who was tired of city living and looking for some freedom and viola their lifestyle was born.

This raised some points in my own life: 1) The Husband and I live in a single storey bus (it once seated 33), loving converted and carpeted by our own hand. 2) We live at the bottom of a Bohemian’s garden in the middle of Scotland. We are friends and family with alternative sorts who live in yurts/caravans and campervans 3) The difference between gypsy or traveller seems rather small to me, may be falling dangerously close to the latter category 4) We are not from a long line of travellers but I met the Husband whilst travelling and referring to point 2) we know some alternative sorts, we too are looking for some freedom and ‘Sticking it to the Man’, and viola this is how the lifestyle is born.

You can see where this is going…the Husband and I have inadvertently turned into pikeys.

We are one step away from walking our dogs on strings, all that’s left is getting a goat and starting to scour scrap yards for nickable metals. I’ll of course have to fall pregnant immediately and have a brood of mini-travellers; obviously they’ll all be homebirths, the twins being the trickiest. Once our progeny mature we can turn into a family band complete with accordions and travel from pub to country pub, living in laybys along the A30. In honour of the Travelling Wilburries we’ll call ourselves the Wandering Mulberries. Of course, depending on our ablution facilities we may well become the Festering Dingleberries…but hey “We live in a bus – without a shower or loo. So what?”

The full article, "I've never lived in a house - home is a double decker bus" can be read in the June 2011 edition of Bliss Magazine, by all means read it, but a word of warning find a 13 year old to buy it for you.

Common Flasher

I am once again gainfully employed and so find myself a long way from the Bus and the Husband and living in London.

Unfortunately my new charge is rather normal, which makes for rather boring blogging. Her only quirk is that she gets a bit depressed because as she said, “The trouble is that at 96 I’ve outlived everyone I like and now I’m left with the rest.” I can of course sympathise with her plight, she’s beyond the stage of attending funerals because everyone she knew has already popped their clogs. I on the other hand am at that stage of life where everyone is either popping the question or sprogs.

In order to ease my boredom (because unfortunately the nice, sane elderly are a little boring) I have taken to wandering off to Wimbledon Common during my time off in the hope of spotting a Womble. While I didn’t spot a fictional character from my childhood (hope springs eternal) I did see a windmill. You take what you can get in these hard times.

I was rather enjoying my jaunt around the park, until it was ruined by the British and their Behavioural etiquette. You see the thing about walking in British public places is that you must pass the British public. Should there be only two of you on the road ambling towards each other this involves a certain amount of English awkwardness. The rules of the road dictate that you should only make eye contact once and only very briefly at that, possibly with a ‘hello’ or better yet a curt head nod. If you should look up to find someone staring at you longer than the allowed 2 second head nod, you should assume they are some sort of pervert. In order to avoid being labelled a deviant, the entire operation involves careful calculation as to when exactly to look up. A mistimed initial upward gander will result in furtive upwards/downwards glancing leaving you looking like a Learner driver doing mirror observations.

As an amendment to this rule the onlooker should not be considered deviant if they are preposterously good looking and so are you. Unfortunately this doesn’t often happen to me. On my more colourful walks around Glasgow I was more likely to see some weird old bloke in a vomit stained polyester tracksuit top, muttering what sounded like ‘runt’ under his whisky breath. Timing the gaze all wrong I would catch an eye, only to discover that it moved independently of its neighbour - the chameleonic gaze resting briefly on my chest before darting to the tin of extra strength beer in his hand. Ah, life North of the Border, how I miss it.

However, Wimbledon Common strikes me as the kind of place that a flasher of the trench-coated variety would leap out from behind a tree baring his wares. In my youth, my mother told a tale of how, aged 13 or so, whilst walking to school with a girlfriend a Mac-clad flasher leapt in their path and his ‘whistle met the wind’. Unfortunately my materfamilias says she did not pay any attention to the flashing and would have been totally oblivious to the entire event where it not for her school friend’s purpling faced hysteria. Learning from her schoolgirl error she packed a magnifying glass in her bag the next day, but alas Flash Gordon did not appear. Not surprising really as I imagine a complete lack of attention is about the worse response to receive when your meat and two veg is on display, that and an utterance of ‘my, my isn’t it cold out.’

Now I’m off for a stroll, where’s my magnifying glass…

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Royal Unic

Ah, the Royal Wedding. I for one was particularly Royalist and Patriotic, although I’m a) not a British citizen and b) married to a pro-republican Scotsman. However as the Husband and I happened to find ourselves in England on this very English event I embraced it whole-heartedly.

My first patriotic act was to wrestle my poor 7 year old nephew to the couch. Despite his kicking, screaming and cries of the Mercy Words, “Power too much” I held him down to the to prevent him from changing the channel and then subjected him to hours and hours of wedding coverage. In retaliation he kept badgering me as to when “Prince Catherine” was going to arrive, blatantly ignoring my repeated gender corrections. He then convinced himself that Camilla was the Queen, shouting excitedly each time he saw the horsy creature. He and his 10 year old brother positively wet themselves when they saw Princesses Beatrice and Eugenie’s headgear (very reminiscent of Rudolph the Red nosed reindeer in a fawn headpiece by Britain’s top milliner), this was nothing compared to the tears at discovering that Beatrice and Eugenie where real names, not ones I’d made up and that Prince William’s full name includes Lewis Mountbatten Windsor in there somewhere. I fear the solemnity of the occasion may have been lost on them.

The Husband so refused to participate in the day that he covered his eyes each time he came into the room to deliver me tea refills (truly I am naturalising so well – a day must consist of at least 6 cups of tea). So in the spirit of the occasion was I that I donned a printed summer frock and a cardigan to uphold my newfound enthusiasm for all things British. I trounced around the housed singing “Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves…lah, lah, la-lee-la-lee-la.” Grew less enthused when someone filled in the missing words as “our people never shall be slaves.” Hang on a bleeding minute wasn’t the Empire built on slavery? But in spirit of forgiveness and chaste balcony kisses I decided to ignore this oversight. As I do rather like the British stiff upper lip pomp and pageantry of Royal occasions.

Obviously I do pang for my homeland. But a spot of eavesdropping in the pub the night before had helped me on my way to Britishness. From between the buzz of Britishness I heard a distinct South African accent and turned to spy a guy with a Mohawk Afro (quite hard to achieve so respek where it’s due). This particular gent was chatting to a group of foreign, very pretty girls:

Mohawk Afro: Howzit Laydees, you are looking bootiful tonight. I’m Altus. I’m South African and I’m travelling the world in 4 months, hey. [Checking out group zoning in on prettiest Bambi in middle]

Bambi-eyed Italian: English not first language. [Blinking massive doe eyelashes and pouting lips]

Mohawk Afro: Shoo-hey. Alright! [Giving the ‘laydee’ a sweeping top to toe, look of lust] Well let me say that you are beautiful and unique.

[Bambi-eyed Italian looks to friend, friend looks to Bambi. Confusion crosses their pretty Italian eyes. Bambi’s friend interjects]

Bambi’s friend: What unique?

Mohawk Afro: Unique, like one of a kind, hey. [Larger than normal hand gestures ensue] Not to be confused with unic. You are unique but I am not a unic. [Continues vigourous gesticulating towards Bambi’s chest and back to his crotchal region]

Bambi’s friend: What unic?

Mohawk Afro: Ah, bru…you know someone without a shaa-wing [said with musical lilt and waving hands in slicing motion in front of crotch]. But don’t worry hey I’m not a unic, and like in the land of the unic the one balled man is king.

Unfortunately at this stage I had to detach my ear from this conversation so I don’t know how Altus did with the Italian Bambis. But from where I was sitting that was a pretty poor spading technique.

Personally I find it a bit forward to introduce your shaa-wing into the first 5 minutes of conversation. Sometimes a lady likes a bit of romance and mystery- blushing balcony kisses of the Royal variety.