Monday 31 October 2011

PantsGate

Today I took Humphrey to the Dentist. After 20 rounds of tooth brushing (because he kept forgetting that he had brushed his gnashers mere minutes earlier) we were running a little late.
Whilst hurrying Humphrey across the car park he uttered an, “Oh, Damn!” and stopped dead in his tracks. Fearing the worst I followed his gaze down to his shoes. Peeping out of the side of his trouser leg was a pair of his gigantic greying Y-fronts. Not just any Y-fronts but a dirty pair complete with a violently visible skid mark down the back. Humphrey quickly snaffled them up and put them in his coat pocket:

Me: [Scanning car park for witnesses to Pantsgate] Humphrey are those your underpants?

Humphrey: [Tee-hee] Yes it appears they are.

Me: [Face a vision of pure bewilderment] But you are wearing underpants?

Humphrey: [Still giggling] Yes. [Chortle-snort]

Me: So wheeeere? Did those come from?

Humphrey: I don’t know they must have been in my trousers.

Me: And you didn’t feel them in your trousers? [Scanning said trousers for other abnormalities]

Humphrey: Well, not till they wiggled out.

Completely bamboozled by the appearance of the mysterious unmentionables I then had the horrendous task of retrieving them from Humphrey’s coat pocket, because who knows what he might do with them in the dentist, probably wipe his nose on them brandishing the skidder for all to see. Of course as we were already running late for the tooth mechanic I had no choice but to stash the giant soiled man pants IN MY HANDBAG.

Both the bag and I mentally scarred now.

Saturday 29 October 2011

Welcome to the PantyZone

Thank goodness I did a full year of teacher training, it has equipped me with the invaluable skill of manufacturing time-consuming word searches for Humphrey. As he is stricken with the memory of an aging goldfish he can do the same one over and over again, so it really is a win-win situation. In order to keep his old brain ticking over I like to include words like ‘discombobulate’ and ‘alligator’ as well as a few easier one-syllable numbers like ‘pot’ and ‘owl’. Humphrey is also an enthusiastic jigsaw puzzler we are currently on the second 500 piece Titanic jigsaw. I marvel at his discombobulated brain because although he can’t retain basic information like that his mother died some 30 years ago, he can spend hours piecing together the Titanic.

Aside from jigsaws and word searches I am bored out of my little box. To pass the time I’ve taken to eating - a dangerous pastime I well know. Yesterday an entire bar of Green and Black’s chocolate passed my lips and is no doubt wedging itself onto my hips as we speak. This is alarming not because I’m particularly worried about my ever-expanding derriere out of vanity or for fear of my marriage (the Husband has kindly commented that he will still love me if I grow to the size of a house – isn’t he a good liar) no, I’m worried because I am as previously mentioned to be a bridesmaid at my dear school chum Klong’s wedding. And Klong will not take kindly to a heifer galloping down the aisle behind her. And so I need to step away from the biscuit tin for fear of the arse to dress ratio of my bridesmaid’s ensemble.

In order to distract myself from the ubiquitous sweets and cakes that are always to be found in geriatric homesteads I have taken to reading the home shopping guide with increased interest. I was amazed to note that in this particular home shopping guide one can purchase a non-slip bath mat, avocado peeler or vibrator?! However my favourite item on display has to be the Slimboxer, which appears to be some sort of Bridget Jones’ control-pant for men:

According to the manufacturers, “Once you wear it, you will immediately feel that Slimboxer reinforces, invigorates and revitalises your entire bust. [Do men need and invigorated Bust?] A wellbeing and energy feeling [?] propagates from your thighs up to your chest top" [saucy].

So that is the Husband’s Christmas present taken care off. And I can continue eating like a bulimic locked in the pantry because I can simply wear the ‘PantyZone’ under my bridesmaid’s dress, which will afford me an “ enhanced, rounded, pulpy [?] and sexy buttocks…as though you intensively practiced a sport activity.” Apparently one's bottom requires pulpy-ing because (and i quote) "as one gets older, the body starts producing more of some hormones that may masculinize your shape (hips become linear, buttocks fall, the belly becomes round and the waist measurement thicks.)"

Well, shit, if my hips will be nothing but lines, my buttocks is going to prolapse and my waist is going to thick I might as well eat another bloody biscuit...

Sunday 23 October 2011

In a bit of a Plether


Life with Humphrey is going fairly smoothly, with the exception of having to explain my geographical origins to him twenty times an hour and having to lie to him about his mother’s whereabouts. Humphrey is a fixated on his dear old ma and cannot compute that she passed from this dimension in 1978. Thus the family has taken to bending the truth a little by saying that she is in Marlon - she is technically buried in Marlon. If pressed for more details we say she is staying with friends and will be there overnight. This ploy normally reaches a point of disbelief on Humphrey’s behalf at which stage his exasperated son-in-law (Mr Wolf, who shares the house with us) does a little maths lesson:

Wolf: [To Humphrey] How old are you?

Humphrey: 23.

Wolf: You’re sure you’re 23?

Humphrey: No, I was born in ’23.

Wolf: So how old does that make you?

Humphrey: 85.

Wolf: Well, close enough 88, but lets go with 85. Now then how old is your mother?

Humphrey: 90?

Wolf: So if you’re 85 and your mother is 90, then she was 5 years old when she had you?

At this point Humphrey generally bursts into incredulous laughter and goes off humming, like a small child sticking his fingers in his ears to block out the truth. He will be unusually quiet about his mother for at least an hour after his maths tutorial while some rational part of his brain stirs and acknowledges logic. To amuse himself during this lucid hour he will re-read the same page in the Daily Mail for a full 60 minutes.

Unlike Humphrey I cannot re-read the same article all day long and so work my way progressively through the Daily Mail and I am not well pleased with what I’ve learnt. Today for example I discovered that sugar causes wrinkles! Of course I'd heard these nasty rumours before, but now I was faced with documentary evidence. In said morale-destroying article an intrepid journalist used one of them predictive-aging-computer-program-thingies to illustrate how she would look in 10 years on: A) A High Booze Diet B) A High Sugar Diet or C) A High Fag Diet. The results where not pretty. Option A) ended with jowls, spider veined cheeks and blood shot eyes. B) Resulted in puffy-puffy chipmunk cheeks, more chins than a Chinese phone book, wrinkly eyes and more eye baggage than is allowed on a transatlantic flight. To be honest option C) was looking the sweetest, with yellowed teeth, crow's feet, spider- linage round a puckered dog's bottom mouth and noticeably mode-thin cheeks. Thanks to the Daily Rag I now have an additional worry about the devastating effect of my affair with chocolate, whereas before I was only concerned with its effect on my dimpled derriere I now know that it can affect my other cheeks too.

Having now acquired the Fear about the effect of sugar on my youth, I foolishly went shopping. Popping into H&M I discovered a delightful pair of brown plether, cotton panelled legging – the likes of which I had recently spotted in black leather on Bond girl and British actress Gemma Arterton when I celeb-spotted her at Marylebone Station last week. See exhibit A below:


Inspired by my brush with celebrity I tried the cheaper imitation leather leggings on. I should have stopped the madness when I had difficulty getting them over my ankles, but I persevered. I wrestled those bad boys over my sugary thighs and turned to marvel at myself in the mirror. ‘Ooh, get in!’ [Cue vigorous fist pumping]. For a fleeting moment I caught sight of an off-duty movie star resplendent in leather. But as my vision cleared and I cavorted to the right to study my bottom at a 45-degree angle I heard the unmistakable pop of a seam giving way. Frozen in fear of more seam-poppage I had ample time to study the incredible camel-toe awarded by rock-star leather tailoring. Attempting to extricate myself from the cookie-cutters took a further 10 minutes of pulling, grunting, sweating, swearing and light seam-poppage. I seemed to have developed cankles, as the plether was remarkably unforgiving around the ankle region. After more expletives and heavy breathing I emerged red-faced from the change-room and flung the leatherette leggings at a rather bemused looking sales assistant.

Clearly rock-star tailoring is not the answer to retaining my rapidly sucrose-faded youth…if it wasn’t for those flimsy sweatshop seams…

Thursday 20 October 2011

OH WHAT A WICKED WASTE OF TIME...


It turns out that Mr Coldsnap-Tailor has a Mrs Coldsnap-Tailor, i.e. Humphrey has a wife called Moe. Turns out Moe also suffers from Dementia but unlike Humphrey’s harmless 3-second memory Moe likes to shift furniture around, cutting family photographs and paintings into miniscule little squares and generally going a-wandering. The family unable to deal with two demented parents finally snapped and put Moe in a Nursing Home specialising in Dementia care.

And so it was that Humphrey and I headed off to visit Moe at Harrington Manor Nursing Home. We were led up a flight of stars to the lock-down section, which is one long carpeted corridor with bedrooms coming off it and a lounge/dining area at the end. The first thing you notice about Harrington Manor’s advanced dementia ward is the heady aroma of CO(NH2)2 or urea, for those of you who managed to avoid High School Chemistry. It would appear that Dementia smells strongly of piddle.

The second thing that you notice about the Dementia ward is the manic energy it exudes. Standing in the corridor sniffing the waft of wee, we immediately spotted a manic Moe zigzagging across the corridor from room to room, carrying: a pair of shoes, a bottle of shampoo, a teddy bear and a coat hanger. She immediately recognized Humphrey:

Moe: [Giving Humphrey a kiss on the cheek] Hello dear, take this. [Hands Humphrey the coat hanger]

Humphrey: Oh, what’s this? What do you want me to do with it?

Moe: Well, put it in the bathroom.

Humphrey: The bathroom? [Stares quizzically at coat hanger]

Moe: Oh, give it here. [Snatches coat hanger from Humphrey and marches off down the hall]

Humphrey: But Moe, dear, what are you doing?

Moe: [Over her shoulder] I’m looking…for everything.

Humphrey: But are you coming home? We’ve come to get you.

Moe: [Walking away] Well, of course not Humphrey I’m getting much better.

And so it continued with Moe collecting more items and putting others down as Humphrey and I trailed behind her from room to room.

Suddenly a bald man brandishing a hairbrush walked up to us. “Hello” said Baldy. “Hello” I replied, “is that your hairbrush?”

“Well, obviously” responded Baldy, who then proceeded to mime brushing luscious long locks. Having mime-brushed his hair Baldy joined our little conga-line – Moe hustling from room to room, Humphrey tripping over her heels and Baldy waving his hairbrush behind Humphrey’s back. I paced 5 steps behind the crazy train. Eventually a care-assistant intervened and sent us down the hall to the lounge area to have a seat. Here sipping on a congealed cup of tea Moe was suddenly quite lucid and we had a passable 5 minute conversation about who I was. The conversation promptly deteriorated:

Moe: So where are you staying?

Me: I’m staying at the farm to help out while your daughter is away.

Moe: Oh, where has she gone?

Me: To Australia to visit your sister.

Moe: Yes, that’s right, well I’m glad you’re there to keep Humphrey in line. [Looks over to Humphrey] Now, be a good boy and go stand in the window.

Humphrey: [Looking incredulous] Be a good boy? Stand in the window?

Moe: Yes, like that man who walks on the window.

Humphrey: Do you eat apples?

Moe: Me? Apples? Heaven’s no!

Humphrey: Oh, I see there are plenty on the ground…

[Interjection by diminutive woman sitting in the corner] OH WHAT A WICKED WASTE OF TIME. THIS PLACE WILL DRIVE YOU MAD!

Moe: What’s she doing? Is she performing?

At this point I started our goodbyes, there really is only so long that you can spend surrounded by madness with the smell of widdle up your nose.

Me: [To Moe] Listen Moe, I’m afraid that Humphrey and I need to go. We’ll come back and see you later in the week.

Moe: Yes, you should take him home [gestures to Humphrey]. Take this with you [hands me her teddy bear] You can’t trust anyone round here. He’ll be safer with you.

Me: Oh, right we’ll do that then. [Accepting the teddy bear] You’re sure you don’t want to keep him?

Moe: Oh, no I’ve already got a dog and two cats and they’re all right because they behave. [Looks disapprovingly at Humphrey] If only they all behaved.

On the way out I handed the teddy bear to a care assistant. “Oh, thank you, that’ll be Lilly’s, she’d be devastated if it got lost.”

Well Moe was right about one thing, you can’t trust anyone in there.

Monday 17 October 2011

Mr Coldsnap-Tailor of the Goldfish Memory


My parents’ will be pleased to know that I’m once again in gainful employment. I find myself on a farm in Leafy Bucks (Buckinghamshire) looking after Mr Coldsnap-Tailor, who shall here after be affectionately known as Humphrey. Humphrey, bless his cotton socks has Dementia of the Goldfish 3 second memory variety:

Humphrey: [Looks up from reading the paper] So where do you live?

Me: Edinburgh.

H: [Eyes widening in surprise] Really? [Continues reading newspaper article about dog attack] What’s a Rottweiler?

Me: It’s a breed of dog.

H: Oh, not a wild animal then.

Me: No.

[5 minute pause; Humphrey re-reads the same newspaper article]

H: So are you local?

Me: No, I’m from Edinburgh.

H: [Alarmed eyes] Gosh! Are you really? [Eyes back on The Daily Telegraph]

[5-minute pause; Humphrey re-reads article on dog attack]

H: What’s a Rottweiler then?

Me: Type of dog.

H: Oh. [Looks back at paper] So where are you are from then?

As you can see I’m going to have a lovely time with Humphrey.

Yesterday ‘Dances with Wolves’ was on telly and as I have a dirty old-man crush on Kevin Costner I subjected Humphrey to Mr Costner getting tribal with the Native Americans. In one scene ‘Dances with Wolves’ (Costner) and his love interest ‘Standing Fist’ were making out passionately under a tree, the scene cut to ‘Standing Fist’ disrobing rather steamily in ‘Dances with Wolves’ Tepee:

Humphrey: She had rather more clothes on outside the tent.

Me: Yes, I think she’s seducing him.

Humphrey: She’s doing a good job. [Scene change to ‘Dances with Wolves’ and ‘Standing Fist’ gaining Biblical knowledge of each other] Is she his wife then? What are they doing now?

Me: What’s that you want a cup of tea? Right away Sir.

Not sure I can deal with discussing Dances with Wolves’ Standing Fist to a demented octogenarian. Tea anyone?

Wednesday 12 October 2011

First Class

‘Nom-nom-nom,’ that is the sound of me enjoying my complementary First Class Smoked Salmon sandwich. After finding myself in the First Class carriage of my train down to London I have come to the conclusion that I will always entrust the booking of travel tickets to my Husband, even if he does use my credit card to book and then blame his techno-phobia for the upgrade.

I have been travelling for approximately 1 hour during which time I have consumed: 4 cups of tea, 1 glass of orange juice, 1 gin and tonic, 1 salmon and horseradish sandwich, 1 bag of cheese and onion crisps (the hand cooked larney* variety) and a banana. I am tapping into my complementary wifi Internet allowance with unbridled glee and frankly there is very little more value-for-moneying that I can do. I’m fitting in beautifully with all the posh 'yars' in their business suits and tweeds as I am dressed in muddy ‘Hunter’ wellies and a Marks and Spencer knitted jumper that is into it’s 5th day of wear. I am exuding a strong smell of the country as I have been back in the Bus for the last 5 days. Despite becoming extremely adept at balancing my unmentionables over buckets of boiled water and washing my hair under a cold tap I find the smell of wood smoke hard to shake. And as I say I’m wearing a 5-day-old jumper, now adorned with two spots of 1st Class tea. My only complaint about 1st Class is the tea - on two separate occasions now the stewardess has splashed said beverage down the back of my laptop. Luckily the G&T I am currently imbibing is doing wonders to wash away the pain caused by the near-death of my Mac.

As I am on my way down to London to take on another G.A.P.E role I am enjoying every moment of being served as opposed to being the servant. Tomorrow I will take charge of Mr Dementia on a farm in rural England and my 6 weeks of servitude will begin.

But I have rather enjoyed my leisure time camping out in the Bus and enjoying country pursuits like hill walking and cycling. The Husband was home for a time before going off fishing and in the spirit of physical betterment decided to go for a Jog. Being a little unfit, I offered to cycle alongside him in the capacity of his trainer shouting encouraging slogans like, “Run Fatboy Run!” and “Move it or lose it!” or my personal favourite, “You better check yourself ‘fore you wreck yourself!” Now I say cycle, but the only bicycle available to me was a rather rusty BMX ‘Hopper.’ Undeterred the fact that the BMX was designed for a 7 year old or by the fixed seat set to Midget position, I dressed for the wet Autumnal weather in the Husband’s: waterproof trousers, 2 raincoats, gumboots** and black fishing beanie. When I emerged from the Bus dressed in my sporting apparel, the Husband let out a loud guffaw, smiled tenderly and told me I looked very ‘cute’. He’s very lucky the Bus only has a rear view mirror in which to view one’s fashion choices and that I didn’t check myself in it before we set off. For when we returned and I did catch sight of myself I found myself gazing upon the Michelin man, with what looked like a prophylactic nib on my head.

If anyone had driven past us they would have seen a man jogging along at a respectable pace with a deranged marshmallow-shaped woman (approaching her 30s), riding what appears to be a child’s bike, her knees going like the clappers around her ears, with most of purpling-face obscured by a French letter-like hat. After sprinting up one hill my heart was (to borrow a phrase from Whitnail and I) ‘going like a fucked clock’ and I considered lying down in a drainage ditch to rest.

Obviously change must come as I will be a Bridesmaid in a South African wedding on 17 December and we cannot have guests commenting, ‘Who’s your friend? Ag, shame, it’s just your butt.’

Now where is that complementary snack cart?

*Larney – a South Africanism for posh.
**Gumboots – S.A slang for wellies.