The Original Fox Mange

Mrs PantyHead is the original Fox Mange. Today she spent majority of the day airing her balding head. As it was not hidden beneath her ‘Rod Stewart’ wig or her head-knickers I got a close view of her alopecia, cradle-capped scalp – which had the appearance of being covered in sliced almonds. As she insists that I hold her dress up around her ears every time she goes to the loo (“Hold it up! Hold it up! Have you got it; I don’t want it to get wet. Hold it up!”) I studied her almond-scalp many times today and images of Roald Dahl’s ‘The Witches’ came repeatedly to mind.

PantyHead did occasionally cover her head when she was watching T.V., which she uses wireless headphones for. The headphones are propped on exactly 4 man-sized tissues folded in half and so for some of the day she was just sitting around with a wad of tissues balanced on her head.

Tissue Head was also mildly obsessive about the weather forecast. This spiralled into me jotting down tonight and tomorrow’s London temperatures and then shouting them back to her so that she could in turn write them down. Unfortunately this plan was flawed by the fact that she is as deaf as a doorpost and I would tell her the temperature in degrees Celsius, but she wanted it in Fahrenheit:

Me: TONIGHT IT WILL BE 13’C.

PantyHead: What?

Me: 13 DEGREES CELSIUS TONIGHT!

PantyHead: What is that in Fahrenheit? Hang on 13x2=26, and, +30=56

Me: YES THAT’S RIGHT 56 DEGREES FARENHEIT TONIGHT.

PantyHead: So that’s, hang on, 56x2=112, hang on, +30=142, well gosh that’s hot.

Me: NO, IT’S NOT IT’S 56 DEGREES FARENHEIT! 56 NOT 142

PantyHead: What?

Me: NO, IT’S 13’CELSIUS AND 56’ FARENHEIT. IT’S NOT HOT!

PantyHead: Well, it may not be hot to you, but it’s hot to me.

Eventually I gave up trying to convince her that it’s not really going to be the surface temperature of the sun tonight. When she grew tired of obsessing about the weather she became engrossed in a book entitled ‘Nutrition’. When it came to lunch she spent her time taking one mouthful of her cod and mash ready meal (remember she only eats 3 ready meals in rotation), followed by an acute study of the ingredients listed on the meal’s packaging cross-referenced with the Nutrition book. Later in the day PantyHead developed an awful tummy ache:

PantyHead: [Perched in chair with tissue wad perched atop of bald head] My stomach is really very sore Emma [my new name]. I’m in such pain. If you just sit down here I’ll tell you exactly what I think it is.

Me: OKAY, WHAT DO YOU THINK IT IS?

PantyHead: I eat sweeteners because I can’t have sugar, because of my blood pressure Emma. My Doctor gave me some sweeteners, but he warned me that I mustn’t take too many or I’ll get the stomach cancer.

Me: [Nodding knowingly] Oh, really?

PantyHead: So I was very careful about them and didn’t take too many. But then I had a girl.

Me: Aha [nod].

PantyHead: She came from a warm climate [points to her cheek] black skin.

Me: Yes [more nodding].

PantyHead: She brought me ice cream and said ‘this is ice-cream with sweetener in it, because you can’t have sugar.’

Me: [Nod, smile, nod]

PantyHead: I thought nothing of it, Emma, before realising that it was the same sweetener the Doctor had given me. But it was too late I had eaten half!

Me: [Attempting wild-eyed nod indicating both encouragement and horror at discovery]

PantyHead: And since then I’ve had the stomach pains, so I know it’s the cancer. That’s why tomorrow I’m going to speak to the Doctor and if he says there is nothing wrong, Emma, I’ll go to a specialist.

Me: Aha [head nod].

PantyHead: But don’t tell my children. We’ll keep this between us.

Me: Ok [nod].

PantyHead: But if I do feel ill, Emma, you must do me a favour. Put the stopper in the sink in there [gestures to bathroom] we don’t want any of it to escape and then the Doctor can look at it.

@£$%%^& Sweet Mother *&^@£$!?!