The Righ' 'Ump

The Husband and I have survived our turbulent week of car drama. After our trusty VW Polo ( posthumously named the Red Baron) went the 'way of all meat', we finally acquired a second hand Peugeot 307 Estate. It's quite a lot of car with a hint of the volvo-driving-soccer-mom about it, but as it was within our means i.e. I didn't have to go on the game to afford it, we are quite pleased. The Silver Fox, as it shall hereto be named, has saved our marriage.

We have survived our first car trip in the Silver Fox from Eastbourne to Edinburgh with fairly little drama, except for a bout of road rage involving a dwarf (and that's not me being mean about the Husband, who at the same height as Tom Cruise assures me is 'almost average height first thing in the morning'):

Husband was working himself into quite a lather of vexation as the red car in front of us surgically attached itself to the preceding car's rear, in the manner of a hemorrhoid and with the discomfort of piles. The hemorrhoidal red devil then pulled into the fast lane and prevented any other cars from overtaking; cue a string of profanities from the Husband and a heated discussion about this 'Woman's' driving (spot the stereotype). When eventually the red devil pulled into the slow lane we sped up alongside her to discover that 'she' was in fact a diminutive 'he'. Of course realizing that he was cursing a midget the Husband changed his tune (as I have mentioned he has a soft spot for the vertically challenged) and commented on how the specially adapted car must be faulty affecting the dwarf's driving abilities.

The Silver Fox performed admirably on the journey considering the slow moving August Bank Holiday Weekend traffic. Due to the congested motorways we decided to pull in near Nottingham over night and visit Cousin Mental, his girlfriend and their dogs Sid and Nancy, who live on a canal boat and are currently touring the waterways of Britain. Cousin Mental (rhymes with Oriental) is a tattooed ex-biker, with a penchant for cider, who sports a Ginger Angel (i.e. a Ginger Mowhawk Mullet). I have never seen him wear a shirt with sleeves regardless of the weather, but this gives us a chance to gaze at his tattoo collection which includes a flaming skull and a chopper motorcycle. Cousin Mental's usual greeting is a massive lung-deflating bear hug and something along the lines of "'Allo Girlie." Cousin Mental is one of my favourite in-laws because of his rough and ready appearance and huge voice. He has a huge throaty laugh (which I've noticed that the Husband emulates when around him) and booming voice with the sort of English accent I'd previously only heard on T.V - we once asked him to spell the name of the town we where meeting him in, "Hodderson, Heytch - OH - D - nuvva D - ergh - son, Hodderson!"

We had a roaring old night with Mental and his lovely girlfriend involving a couple of ciders and a conversation about couples giving each other "The Righ' Ump" (The Right Hump for those of you partial to pronouncing all your consonants, the Right Hump is akin to the Arse-Ache, which is what the Husband was giving me last week). After a fair few ciders the Husband and I tottered over the lock gate to our little car where we spent a good hour attempting to reconfigure the seats in our new estate and blow up our air mattress for a kip in the back. The Husband was sure he had packed the foot pump, but as he couldn't find it spent 45 minutes of the hour blowing up the air bed manually, in between needing to lie down for fear of mock charging. Eventually he found the pump and we settled ourselves into the rear of the Silver Fox for a nice old kip.

Am pleased that new car can double as a mobile home, as the Husband and I do enjoy a spot of pikey living.

Why, Why do you mock me?

Have been back in Rule Britannia for exactly four days now. Romantic reunion with Husband has imploded in spectacular manner. Husband has taken 1 week off work. We were meant to meet at his sister's house in a British seaside town, spend a day or two of quality time with our 3 lovely nephews and 1 niece and then head back towards Scotland at our leisure, camping en route and enjoying the Great British Summer.

But instead God has mocked our plans and the following has happened:

- The Husband arrived and was unbelievably grumpy for a full day (as we haven't seen each other in 6 weeks, we need a period of readjustment.)

- The car started making funny noises. The car promptly exploded - this caused two forms of grumpiness mine in the 'I told you to stop driving it as though you were pulling it through your arse' and the Husband's disgruntlement as the now kaput car was his castle.

- We are now inflicting ourselves for an extended period on our poor in-laws, who I might add, are in the middle of renovating their house (bathroom has no window just large hole through which neighbours can watch acts of defecation - but very good for aeration of said action). As previously mentioned we are also now bunking with four children. This is not improving any romantic feeling. But doing wonders for stopping my biological clock.

- The Great British Summer appears to be rained out - causing a sort of unintentional dual shower/toileting action when tending to ablutions in the bathroom without a window.

- Husband is now looking at a variety of ridiculous cars to replace inoperative VW Polo, this includes a Porsche, a Jaguar, Audi's and a variety of BMW's.

- This combination of events means that every time I look at my Husband I have an overwhelming urge to cause him actual physical harm (again bad for romance, but good for preventing untimely impregnation).

Day improved when we took our 7 year old nephew out for a hot chocolate. He gestured towards my cuppaccino and asked in all sincerity if I was enjoying my cuppa-tea-no. He then slurped his beverage with such reckless abandon that he was left with the best milk tache I've seen in a long while:

And that made me feel a lot better. Tick-tock.

We Want Jobs...

Back in Blighty after my week’s mini-break in South Africa. *Tear*

A very family orientated holiday as entire reason for trip was the momentous First Birthday of my niece, Queenie. (Niece is not actually called Queenie, but as her nanny likes to use terms of endearment like, “you are my queenie, you are my A1, you are my five star” I thought I’d adopt the moniker for the purposes of blogging.) Queenie turned one and had a ‘Teddy Bear’s Picnic’ Themed birthday. I had no idea how much production goes into all two hours of a first birthday party. Somehow I landed up in charge of décor – which involved colouring in paper cut outs of teddy bears with the help of my school chum, Klong. Armed with 2 bottles of wine and a smorgasbord of colouring pencils we churned out some beaut teddy bears – the red polka dot one with the squinty eyes was very clearly penned at the end of wine bottle number two:

Clearly blind to the realities of my artistic talents my frazzled sister then asked me to ice the cake. Poor Queenie got a canary yellow iced teddy bear shaped cake, complete with marshmallow ears, jelly baby eyes and little gummy bear shaped buttons. Truly it was a vision:

In the spirit of all things familial I stayed with my parents. I forgot about my Father’s tendency to ‘green things up’ i.e. turn out lights while you are busy in a room. His favourite trick is to plunge you into darkness whilst you are wallowing in the bath. He then plays deaf to your cries of help. I do commend his green initiative - if he didn’t turn out the lights the local municipality (council) would. I arrived in the middle of the municipal worker’s annual strike. The striking refuse collectors would like an 18% pay rise and so have taken to the streets toytoying (dancing and singing protest songs whilst brandishing placards). The toytoying workers not only knocked over rubbish bins and sprinkled rubbish in their wake but they also cut power and water supplies to certain parts of the city. Very persuasive negotiation tactics. One toytoying worker was seen brandishing the placard “WE WANT JOBS, NOT PENIS!” My father and I spent a great deal of time decoding this, I thought they meant, “We want jobs, not to be screwed” whilst my old Pa thought it meant “we want jobs, not pennies.”

Being home I was reminded how ‘hard’ South Africans are. Being mid-winter the country was gripped by a particularly icy spell with daytime temperatures of 11’C. Clearly living in Britain has made me very soft as I was vibrating with cold and was surgically attached to my duck-down body warmer all week. The family seemed unperturbed by the cold snap – doors and windows were thrust open and remained so at all hours to “get rid of the poofy smells” to quote my mother. Personally I’d rather block my nose to the farting of the hounds than live in an Arctic wind tunnel, but “Afrika is nie vir sussies nie” (Africa is not for sissies). And I’ve been a little sissified, spoiled by first world novelty notions like draught excluders and central heating.

Living in Britain I have also been cushioned in my first world anxieties; soul-searching decisions like should I invest in a pair of brogues or are they too last season and are dungarees really making a comeback. But a little incident put life into perspective: my mom and I were standing in the queue to pay for our groceries when my mom noticed that the man in front of us had left his toothbrush behind in the shopping basket. When she asked if it was his he shook his head and looked embarrassed. I naively told my mom to leave it, thinking he had changed his mind. A woman of action, mum commandeered the toothbrush paid the R15 (£1) and swiftly popped it into his calloused hand. He responded with a bashful gnarled-tooth smile (in need of immediate dentistry). Clocking the contents of his shopping basket – polony, bread and maas (sour milk) I was suddenly aware just how big a luxury one bog-standard toothbrush is. My mum’s justification, “If he has to prioritise over food or a toothbrush he’ll never have one and he’ll lose all his teeth. And just look at Queenie (1 year old and toothless) to see how hard it is to gum your food.”

Ah, nothing like a bit of third world reality to count your blessings by.

WE WANT JOBS, NOT PENIS!

Africa Baby!

Back in the Motherland!

My final hours with PantyHead were a bit fraught – faced with a captive audience of her daughter, my replacement carer and myself the old girl cranked up the crazy to all new levels. Heavy breathing, earache, icy feet and a pain in the chest were just a few of the symptoms she developed in my final hours. The Doctor was called, but unfortunately for the old termagant [|ˈtərməgənt|noun - a harsh-tempered or overbearing woman] her usual middle-aged gentleman doctor was off cavorting in the South of France. PantyHead was duly unimpressed with the fresh-faced female doctor who introduced herself on a first name basis (Anna). PantyHead's performance was awe-inspiring; she veered through dramatic highs and lows - terror, joy, agony - she showcased them all. But after checking her vital signs Dr Anna declared that the old girl was still alive and would be for some time. At this point PantyHead stomped her feet (literally) and demanded a blood test:

PantyHead: Tell them Emma! Tell them how I can’t stand or eat [Despite tucking in to egg and bacon a mere 3 hours earlier.] They don’t believe me. TELL THEM! Mention my earache! Tell them about my stomachache. TELL THEM!

Me: [Patting her bony shoulder] They are aware of your situation. You are in good hands. Please try to relax.

PantyHead: DARLING, DARLING! [Starts bellowing for daughter] I want a blood test. I need it TODAY! [Stamping feet in the spirit of Rumplestiltskin.]

Darling: I’m sorry Mother, but the doctor cannot do a blood test today.

PantyHead: I need it today. [More foot stamping] I might not last till next week!

At this point I took my leave and left the New-Me blinking like a rabbit in the headlights, mouthing ‘help’ as I closed the door.

I revelled unapologetically in my freedom. Even the 5 hours I spent in Heathrow Terminal One were bloody lovely after weeks of incarceration. My flight was a true pleasure. In the spirit of a parolee I was amazed at the wonders of conversation with people my age with fully functioning cochlea. I had a bout of verbal diarrhoea all over my in flight neighbour. Luckily the glamorous ebony creature I caked in my intimacies was interesting, funny and equally talkative. We were soon sipping wine and swapping life tails like long lost friends. I knew all about the turbulent relationship with her ex-fiancé, her business plan to open a boutique in Lusaka, her beautiful 4 year old. She was familiar with the trauma of my working life, Scottish fisherman and pangs for progeny. With our life histories logged we finally learnt each other’s names; my new friend was called Savannah. Later I made friends with Grandpa Neville across the aisle from me (I didn’t actually call him Grandpa Neville, that makes him sound like some sort of pervert, I was merely using ‘grandpa’ as an indication of his age).

All talked out, I slipped into a wine-induced in-flight nap and I thought about the Chav ravaged smouldering London I was leaving behind and of PantyHead. Once during my nap the ping of the seatbelt light startled me awake – I thought it was the ding-dong of PantyHead’s call bell and was most relieved to wake up in a cylindrical metal tube barreling through the atmosphere and not in Panty Manor. In the darkness of a sleeping (farting) plane I was glad to be heading back to my people. Africa Baby!

I Got Life...

We have cranked up the crazy in the House of PantyHead this past weekend. I told the aging martinet (martinet |ˌmärtnˈet|noun a strict disciplinarian, esp. in the armed forces.) that I was leaving and in the spirit of all good break-ups the old girl has gone vindictive on my ass – she is on said bottom more frequently and painfully than a pile. After I informed her of the details of her replacement carer - a younger, less experienced, (still) South African model, she spent an hour mulling over her heartbreak before issuing me with a written list of regime changes that should be adhered to before the impending change-over:

Item: 1) No open-toed shoes to be worn in the house (as these apparently scuff the polished wooden floor – I have been assigned the task of pricing a new mechanised floor polisher. Presumably this exercise in futility is to illustrate the exact expense incurred by my habitual slop (flip-flop) wearing. No consideration is given for it being as hot as Hades in this house, or that as the average person excretes 2 tablespoons of sweat from their feet in a day and my freakish feet produce closer to 6 tbsp they therefore grow inelegantly smelly when incarcerated in humid conditions.)

Item: 2) New carer is not to bath upstairs at night in case she is urgently required, she should instead shower downstairs before PantyHead wakens, so that she is on-call at all times and the bathroom is free for PantyHead’s laxative-induced ablutions.

Item: 3) PantyHead should be consulted about each item that comes out of the washing machine in order to clarify where it should be dried. For example towels must be dried in the tumble drier in the garage but, wools & vests must be hand-stretched before being hung up on wooden or wire hangers (depending on the item), whereas panties must be pegged on wire hangers and dried in the window above PantyHead’s armchair for no fewer than 2 days before being hung in the airing cupboard for a further 2 days (I think PantyHead might be hydrophobic this would explain her fear of damp clothing and bathing – we have had a record breaking one sponge bath in the 5 week’s I have been here. All very continental and a possible dereliction of duty but I really couldn’t fight any longer about the resultant ‘damp on her chest’ that a stepped up hygiene routine would cause.)

The list continues, but peters out to more boring items, like the correct storage of milk and the compulsory use of the yellow jug for skimmed milk and the white jug for semi-skimmed…

…That’s where I stopped listening. My eyes glazed over and I wondered at which stage in life one grew so dissatisfied with the dirty art of living that you simply shut the door and filled your time by obsessing about milk jugs, scuffed floors and the salt to sugar ratio of salmon.

And just when I was thinking life was a frankly a little bit shit I went for a walk and got caught in a sudden shower. I sat brooding, shielding myself from fat, juicy raindrops under an ancient oak tree, lost in my melancholia and annoyed as my meticulously straightened fringe pinged into wayward corkscrews. A cold wind stung my cheeks as Nina Simone sang into my ears “and what have I got, why am I alive anyway? Yeah, what have I got nobody can take away…I got my hair, I got my head, got my brains, got my ears, got my eyes, got my nose, got my mouth. I got my smile, I got my tongue, got my chin, got my neck, got my boobies, got my heart, got my soul…”

And I thought how marvellous it is to feel the rain on your skin. I got life and a ticket to South Africa, leaving Wednesday…

Morning Glory

What an action packed last 12 hours we’ve had:

At 11pm last night PantyHead called me out of my cosy little bed for an impromptu security check. At her insistence we had to trundle round from room to room while I unlocked and then relocked a variety of doors and windows to prove that they were in fact locked in the first place. My sense of humour failed a bit.

Later PantyHead explained this post war-paranoia as a throwback from her childhood where she grew up in Northern Ireland. Her war-widowed aunt lived with them and used to taunt PantyHead with the threat “Old Mr Mosley is going to get you” or “Old Mr Mosley is hiding under the stairs” (Old Mr Mosley a.ka. the boogieman, or muti-man – if you grew up in South Africa). PantyHead said it was very cruel and this is why she is “such a nervous individual.”

At 7am this morning I heard PantyHead on the prowl and fearing a repeat of the security check I dragged my heels a bit. At 7.30am I popped my head round her door to find the room empty but a tell tale trail of high-fibre led me to the bathroom door. It is much like big game hunting round here; follow the old dear’s spoor…

…Once located PantyHead informed me that she had had one hell of a night. At approximately 3am she had felt that she had eaten too much salt the previous day. Fearing the consequences of this salt-overload she had dug out a medical reference book and was horrified to discover that too much salt can make you blind. Traumatised at the thought of losing her eyes PantyHead had thought to offset the previous day’s salt intake with some sugar. She duly quaffed half a bottle of white wine (for the sugar). Having drunk the wine the old girl was struck with the brainwave that she could simply expel the excess salt from her body; she thus consumed:

• 10 prunes
• 4 sizeable table spoons of Senokot (or Shitalot as the Husband calls it)
• Half a cup of Lactulose (a favourite laxative with the elderly)

Having double dosed on laxatives the old girl was quite sure that her salt worries would be a thing of the past and she felt happy in the knowledge that the laxatives would take a good 8 hours to come into effect. WRONG! PantyHead spent a perilous night perched on her commode until she moved over to the toilet, which is where I found her this morning.

I slept through the entire blessed event, as the old termagant rather unusually didn’t summon me. She now has quite a severe case of the shits and we are shuttling between armchair and commode.

Let this be a lesson to you a heady concoction of wine and liquid laxatives can be one hell of a thing.

P.S. PantyHead has just asked that I go to the shops for more Senokot (shitalot) - she's afraid of being caught short. Say what?

Summer Geriatric Style

Things have been hotting up in London town – summer has finally broken through and yesterday we experienced a sweltering 29’C - cue gleeful excitement from this Southern Hemisphere lass. Unfortunately the increase in temperature has been directly proportional to an increase in my blood pressure - as PantyHead has insisted on no fewer than 9 costume changes in one day:

8am – We start the day in a pair of woollen trousers (a tad warm for summer) and a ¾ sleeve peach knit-blend shirt. [Shirt has recently been part of a scandal as PantyHead could not find it and so immediately declared it to have been stolen by the previous Kiwi carer. Tried to explain that no one (except for perhaps Ugly Betty) would want to steal her granny chic salmon knits. PantyHead was adamant that the carer had done it as her friend had once had an au pair who stole an expensive lace christening shawl (and therefore it must be the hired-help). I later found the pink shirt along with it’s identical twins, so we now have 3 salmon summer knits to select from – one of which PantyHead teems with her wool trousers for the day ahead.]

10am – Day is warming up and so is PantyHead. Requires a lighter ‘patterned’ shirt. After scouring her wardrobe I present her with three options, she goes for the button-down Jaeger shirt in an almost Hawaiian print (quite hard on the eyes).

10.15am – Hawaii 5-0 shirt is not allowing for maximum ventilation to the underarms. PantyHead takes off one of her two under vests.

10.45am – Still not feeling the maximum summer cool PantyHead sends me in search of a ‘patterned’ dress. I return with a sleeveless over-knee 1970s frock. We change into new bohemian chic, in process taking off existing vest and swapping it for the other one.

11.00am – PantyHead is now slightly ‘too cool’ and sends me in search of her white sleeveless cardigan. “That’ll do the trick”, she tells me.

11.30am – PantyHead still a bit frigid, she suggests I find her beige sleeveless cardigan, which she dutifully places on top of her white cardigan. To recap she is now in a sleeveless summer dress with two sleeveless cardigans on top. I am tempted to suggest she simply wear one longer sleeved item, but stop myself by imagining the extensive pffaffing that will be required.

[A brief respite from the madness: lunch, my 2 hour break and reluctant return]

4pm – “Ah, Emma so glad to see you, I’m feeling a little cold…” PantyHead suggests that we take off her two cricketing cardigans and her dress, replace her other underlets and then put it all back on again, which we summarily do.

5pm – Still feeling a slight ‘damp on her chest’ PantyHead suggests she get into her warmer dressing gown to watch television in. We decamp her out of 3 layers, leaving 2 under vests and the warm gown.

9pm – Bed time. Alas, PantyHead is still not quite right and suggests she change into her lighter dressing gown. Clad in her summer gown I bid her goodnight.

9.30pm- PantyHead calls me suggesting she has made a grave error and perhaps she should put the other ‘warmer’ gown back on, but lose a vest. At which point I feel the will to live slipping from my grasp…