Saturday 19 November 2011

There's No Place Like Home

Dude, I’ve turned into a very boring, very grumpy version of myself.

Despite that fact that the Husband and I will be in South Africa in less than two weeks our present conversations are spectacularly banal:

Husband: So what did you do today?

Me: Oh, the usual answered questions about absent wives, dead mothers and the location of a dog’s grave. You?

Husband: Not a bad day’s diving, found quite a good spot.

Me: Good. Listen, while I remember, you need to M.O.T the car and pay the tax.

Husband: I know.

Me: And I’m trying to buy travel insurance, but do you think If heaven forbid something happened and we get treatment in a private hospital instead of a government one they’ll pay? Blah, blah, insurance…blah, blah worry, blah, blah. And we need to sort out…blah, blah…book domestic flights…blah, blah…

I am coma inductively boring at present.

If living in monochrome wasn’t bad enough I’ve also become so cantankerous. My communication with Humphrey has dropped drastically to the shortest most monosyllabic answers I can muster (which is rare for the usually loquacious moi):

Humphrey: Where’s Moe?

Me: Harrington Manor. [Said in staccato.]

Humphrey: Where?

Me: Nursing Home.

Humphrey: When did she go there then, this morning? Last night?

Me: She’s been there awhile. She stays there all the time.

Humphrey: But when did she go?

Me: March.

Humphrey: [Eyes widen in disbelief. Checks date on newspaper] Oh, come on! Ha, Ha.

Me: [Silently continue dishwashing or some such domestic chore.]

Humphrey: Do you know where Moe is?

Me: Harrington. Manor. Nursing. Home.

Humphrey: When did she go there then?

Me: March.

Humphrey: [Eyes widen in discombobulation] Oh, come on. [Ha, Ha. Strange nervous laughter.]

I can’t go on. It’s like Chinese water torture; each question is like a drop of water to the forehead. The edges of my sanity are slipping away.

The only saving grace is that I bought myself a pair of bronze brogues (my new found discovery of online shopping, very dangerous). Amazing how a pair of shiny shoes jazz up the tedium of vacuuming. And now when Humphrey asks me for the ten millionth time where his wife is I click the heels together three times and mutter under my breath, ‘There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.’


The Husband's parting shot, "Girls don't wear brogues." His sartorial stock is very low.

Saturday 12 November 2011

The Danger of the Big Fish


I don’t think I’m much of a romantic. I’m just not. I know from experience that overtly romantic gestures like being forced to slow-dance to a Kenny G playing saxophonist in a shopping Mall turn me a gagging shade of embarrassed puce. Heaven forbid being serenaded by a bloke, unless you are a bona fide Rock God (Rod Stewart* singing ‘You Wear it Well’) I would rather eat used hairy wax-strips. Before the Husband I hated any Public Displays of Affection (P.D.A’s – get a room will you). While I love watching an oestrogen-fuelled rom-com, I’m not fooled by their ethereal plot lines. In my view if you love someone you do your best to keep their heart safe – sometimes it’s good, sometimes it’s bad.

Despite my non-romantic leanings, lately (betwixt domestic chores) I’ve been thinking about long lost love or the one that got away - that fabled boyfriend/girlfriend from long ago with whom you were (as you remember it) blissfully happy but some cruel twist of fate terminated your happy ever after. I’ve thinking about the one that got away or the ‘Big Fish’, because a dear married friend of mine still pines for hers. He is a ghost of her wilder carefree past (they dated at University) a time before 9-5 employment, bills and the domestic realities of being an adult. She is still in contact with her Big Fish, although he is now a father and if her fears are confirmed is soon to be married to the mother of his child.

The problem is that I gave her the old ‘beds made and now we must sleep in them’ advice that my parents are rather fond of and she told me in no uncertain terms to ‘cut the shit’. So I started wondering about the lure of the Big Fish. Surely their charm is that they are the One that got away and for this very reason you won’t find yourself arguing with them whether the toilet seat should rest parallel or perpendicular to the toilet bowl. You won’t find yourself hassling your former love about outstanding bills or sex or any or the other nagging prolixity of adult domestic life.

The Big Fish will swim happily in your vague memories of another time when you were younger, more carefree and probably having a lot more fun. And it is for that reason that is exactly where they should remain. Because while it’s comforting to play a fantasy round of ‘what if’ when the suburban grind gets you down, if your Big Fish was scratching his testicles in bed next to you and leaving the toothpaste lid off you might find he’s not so unlike your current sprat.

After careful consideration I'm sticking to my initial (non-romantic) advice, as a wise man (my father) once said, “If you pull the Tiger’s tail you better be prepared to hold on for the ride.” And who knows you might just emerge from the encounter a roaring Tiger Wife.

Just a thought from a pragmatist to a romantic, take it, don’t take it, I’ll leave it with you.

*Rod Stewart, another of my crazed old man attractions. I saw him in concert, that man can rock skintight leopard print jeans like no other.

Thursday 10 November 2011

Wee Willie Winkie



Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleave of care

The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath

Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,

Chief nourisher in life's feast.


~William Shakespeare, Macbeth

From my very vague memories of High School English old Willie Shakespeare once talked about the wonders of sleep, namely that a good kip knitted up the (un)raveled sleeve of the day’s worries. Unlike the Bard, dear old Humphrey is not a fan of sleep, he prefers to spend his nocturnal hours on the move; rattling locked doors, peering in cupboards and rooms for his late mother/dead dog/absent wife. Last night his constant low-level rumblings slowly unpicked the seams of my sleep to the point where this morning I both look and feel like a dog-eared, (somewhat wrinkled) frayed sleeve.

Humphrey is no stranger to nocturnal wanderings the Old Bill has brought him back on no fewer than 6 occasions after he was seen wandering down country lanes in his tartan pyjamas, rather like another nocturnal character “Wee Willie Winkie rins through the toon,Up stairs an' doon stairs in his nicht-gown,Tirlin' at the window, crying at the lock.”

After spending a (mild summer) night entangled in a barbwire fence Humphrey’s family finally installed security locks on all the doors. Now like troubled poltergeist Humphrey spends night after night trying to escape, attempting to use blunt kitchen knives to pries open doors. I generally sleep through his wanderings, the tink-tink of a clattering kitchen knife just another familiar nocturnal symphony round here. These late night noises usually only last about half an hour after which point Humphrey gets bored (or forgets what he’s doing) and goes back to bed, but last night Wee Willie Winkie was on the move for his half hourly spurts but at hourly intervals. Eventually at 6.30am I heard repeated rattling at my locked door and opened it to find a fully dressed Humphrey complete with raincoat and sun hat demanding that I find the keys to his car because he must go home.

Me: Humphrey, you are home this is Locklear Farm.

Humphrey: I know this is Locklear Farm, but I don’t live here.

Me: Well, where do you live?

Humphrey: Over the hill, that way [gestures vaguely to his right].

Me: Ah, well it’s very early it’s 6.30 in the morning. Can we go a bit later?

Humphrey: What? It’s not morning it’s 6.30 at night.

[Insert the above conversation repeated 3 times here.]

After a further 30 minutes of wrangling I persuaded Humphrey to go back to bed. At which point I searched in vain for his pyjamas and eventually gave up, issuing him a clean pair and banishing him to bed for another hour or four (he usually only rises at 10am after a night of tinkering).

A cup of tea later when my eyes had adjusted to the dull morning light I located Humphrey’s pyjamas – neatly folded up on the cooker. His left slipper was wedged next to the milk in the fridge.

Eish.

*Click here to view Wee Willie Winkie Image in its original domain.

Sunday 6 November 2011

Folding the time-space continuum

I fear that the space-time continuum has folded in on itself. Time itself is broken and I will be forced to answer Humphrey’s incessant questioning about the whereabouts of his dead mother forever! This week has dragged in a manner not dissimilar to a worm-infested dog wiping its undercarriage across the living room carpet.

Let me detail the highlights of the week:

1) I dyed my hair with a home dye kit. What should have been a warm golden light brown (to cover my previous ginger incarnation) has come out as more of a plumy paprika.


2) I bought some shoes online. Italian leather bridesmaid kitten heels. Bonjourno Girls.


3) I have developed an addiction to vampire TV series True Blood and spend large portions of my day analysing the merits (to put it euphemistically) of Vampire Bill (dark, brooding and gentlemanly)


versus Eric (Blonde, Scandinavian, dangerous and gorgeous).


I think you can see my dilemma.

That’s all I have to show for the 44th week of my 27*th year. I rest my case the space-time continuum is definitely broken.

{Oh, and did I mention that the Husband has bought himself an iphone, which means he might start reading my blog. Obviously my vampire fantasies cannot compete with the joy of marriage to a very hot mortal.}

*And a correction following a facebook comment in which the Pantaholic pointed out that I was lying about my age I had to do the sum, 2011-1983=28! I forgot I was a year older. Proof that space-time continuum is broken or brain atrophying at alarming rate!

Thursday 3 November 2011

A Wicked Waiting Room


Sometimes this job makes me feel like an attendant in God’s waiting room. Every day is a slightly blurry carbon copy of day before repeated ad infinitum, ad nauseam etc.

So in order to break the monotony Humphrey and I took another trip to Harrington Manor to see his nuttier than a fruitcake better half, Moe. As this trip took place on a Sunday Harrington Manor was bustling with visitors and in-mates. The smell of urine was noticeably absent and majority of the lifers were gathered in the sitting room, except for Moe. We found her in her bedroom carefully shredding a chocolate box and stashing it in her underwear drawer. I noted that she had one pink slipper on and one blue one, but decided not to interfere. Moe was rather pleased to see us and introduced us to the various stuffed animal toys in the room, before putting them in her underwear drawer alongside the chocolate box rippings:

Humphrey: [Spying the ripped rubbish] Let me take that Moe, I’ll find a bin for it.

Moe: Yes, thank you darling.

Humphrey: [Studying the handful of rubbish, spies an unidentifiable red plastic object] What’s this Moe? You best keep it in case you need it.

Moe: [Studying the plastic piece in Humphrey’s hand.] No, I don’t need that.

Humphrey: Are you sure? I think I’ll put it here. [Places object on side table.]

Moe: Oh, no that’s an Ancient Monument you can’t put it there. Put it in the drawer.

After Humphrey had placed the ‘Ancient Monument’ in the drawer we sauntered down to the sitting room to a cup of tea amongst the other lifers. I noticed that “Oh was a wicked waste of time” who I shall henceforth name Wicked was sitting in her usual chair by the door and muttering to herself. Another gentleman with a Zimmer frame was in a couch opposite us (Norm), perched next to him was a delightful little dear with matching Zimmer frame, lets call her Mabel.

Humphrey: [To Moe] Hurry up dear and drink your coffee.

Moe: It’s not coffee it’s tea.

Humphrey: Well tea then. Hurry up and drink it so I can take your cup.

[At this point Norman attempts to get up.]

Moe: [To Norman] C’mon old chap, upsie daisies! Bottoms up!

[Norman’s attempt fails, he sits back down. Mabel smiles sweetly at me.]

Humphrey: C’mon dear, drink your tea.

[Norman attempts to rise again.]

Moe: [To Norman] That’s the spirit. Up you come. [Norman manages to get up and shuffles across the room.] LIFT OFF!

Wicked: [From her chair in the corner Wicked can be heard muttering] Bloody waste of time this place. You’re hungry, you’re thirsty they don’t care BITCHES.

Humphrey: Come on Moe. Drink your cup of tea.

Moe: I’m busy I’m watching Norman do his laps, I think his trousers are about to come off. [Norman is now pacing back and forth and his brown belt-less cords are indeed in danger of falling down. An orderly pulls them up at the crucial moment.]

[Mabel smiles sweetly at me.]

Wicked: [Still muttering in the background] The bastards, the buggers. Leave you here to die. Don’t give a bugger about you.

Humphrey: Drink your tea Moe.

Moe: [Ignoring Humphrey watching Norman’s Zimmer pacing with rapt attention] That’s the spirit Boyo, back and forth, back and forth, forth and back.

[At this point Mabel attempts to get up, no doubt to join Norman’s zimmered ramblings, Mabel’s first upward attempt is unsuccessful.]

Moe: [To Mabel] Upsie Jump. Get to the top.

Mabel: [Flopping back into chair] Up to the top to start the day again. [Second attempt to rise is successful] And what a perfect day it is.

[Mabel shuffles forward and fixes me with the sweetest little smile.]

Mabel: [To Me] I must thank you for coming dearie. It was so lovely to see you and we all have enjoyed your visit so.

Me: Oh, thank you so much. I enjoyed visiting you.

Mabel: You must come and see us again. We do love it so.

Me: I promise I’ll be back.

Mabel: Make sure you do dear. I’m off to lunch now.

And with that Humphrey and I took our leave. The sound of Wicked’s muttering followed us down the hall, “That’s right leave me here to rot, you bastards.”

Somebody up there has a dubious sense of humour.