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!