Meet Myvanwy

My 8-year old nephew recently asked me if when he’s my age I would still be alive?

The obvious answer was I bloody hope so (of course I didn’t say the ‘b’ word to an 8 year old, I’m not completely without manners). At the age of 28 I’m aware that I am positively ancient to the under-10’s who like to peg my age at anywhere between 40 and 60, but I’m surely not that far-gone that I need dwell on my mortality just yet. I mean I haven’t even found my first grey-hair (that doesn’t mean I don’t have any it just means I haven’t found the treasonous shafts yet. Although I fear they will appear before 29th Birthday as I vowed not to dye my hair for entire year).

Putting my follicular-obsessions aside if I do by the grace of God reach my 90’s I intend to age in the manner of my latest charge, 92 year old Myvanwy. As she is amazingly compos mentis and able bodied we are able to enjoy sparkling dinner conversation. As a further advantage her good health means that I never have to see her naked (a rare perk in this job – I’ve seen more geriatric nudity than is good for one’s ocular health) or study the shape of her bowel movements. I’ve always been told that keeping a few secrets from each other is vital in any relationship and it would appear this is the case in the carer-caree relationship. For by keeping the mystery about what happens behind closed toilet doors I am able for the first time in this job to enjoy a sort of gromance (geriatric romance).

Myvanwy is fabulous, she swathes herself in pashminas, wears dark glasses around the house in the manner of a movie-star and has small stashes of Brandy throughout the house in case she should ‘feel queer’ (she even has a ‘water bottle’ full of Brandy in the car glove box, presumably in case my driving gives her The Fear, or she feels like channelling any of the characters from Hunter S. Thompson’s ‘The Rum Diaries’.) It’s hardly a job really as we drink red wine, go to the cinema, make tasty little meals together and watch ‘Upstairs Downstairs’ on a Sunday night with our knees tucked beneath little crocheted rugs. A truly bonhomie atmosphere thrives.

Myvanwy’s only age-faulty appliance is her hearing, which in my vast experience is not bad, but in order to preserve my eardrums she likes to have the subtitles on the television at all times. The annoying thing with subtitles is if they are there you will read them. Yesterday’s subtitles on the news read ‘South African President Nelson Mandela has horse’s eyes’, the truth was that Mandela had been ‘hospitalized.’ Egad I thought imagine being so hearing-impaired that you had to rely exclusively on these faulty typings decrying Madiba’s equine eyes! I was very glad to hear (with my own perfectly sound-inductive ears) that Madiba is out of hospital (with or without his horse’s eyes). As he is the same age as Myvanwy and a figure of global adulation I’ve included him in my gromance and rather want the two of them to make a century.

Goodbye PantyHead

I am very saddened to announce that PantyHead passed from this Earthly dimension into the next at the end of last year. As I had been gallivanting in deepest darkest Africa I only learnt this news a few days ago via an email from her daughter, which I discovered amidst a sea of spam.

Apparently after I left her last August the old battle-axe’s ticker grew dickier and dickier until it finally stopped the week before Christmas. Her daughter assured me that PantyHead had given her subsequent carers a run for their money and was prickly to the end when finally despite her obsessive compulsive neuroses, extreme calorie counting and bizarre hypochondria she passed peacefully away.

I was strangely saddened to hear of PantyHead’s demise. Despite being madder than a March hare and so causing me to curse inwardly (and audibly - she was pretty deaf) she also awarded me with moments of blog worthy comic gold. I’ll never forget her bizarre approach to self-medication: preventing blindness (brought on by excessive salt intake?) with a sugar rich midnight feast consisting of half a bottle of wine, 8 prunes, 4 laxative pills and a fair gulp of liquid laxative. This was followed by a full day propped up on her commode shitting indelicately through the eye of a needle but feeling all the better for it because she had after all saved her sight.

I was surprised to hear of PantyHead’s death as I half expected that with her indomitable spirit and Rod Stewart wiggery she really would live forever. But she is testament to that Universal truth that we are none of us infallible. I saw a glimpse of the fragile woman behind her prickly armour of neuroses that day when whilst combing-over her remaining wispy locks she so soulfully questioned where her youth had gone. I could never imagine her young and beautiful, dancing in exquisite clothes at lavish balls. Just as I suspect my (for now imaginary) grandchildren will never fathom that I was once young and ginger (as a result of excessive hair dying I now pass for a natural Red).

I am profoundly affected by PantyHead’s passing, I think of her with a tenderness of heart that at the time I never suspected I would be capable of. She has reminded me that no matter how tough you think you are it is a slippery slope towards insanity and incontinence from here on in. What I found most tragic was the eulogy attached to the notification of death email. It was a eulogy written by children who felt no connection to their difficult mother, but in that great British tradition of the Stiff Upper Lip were being very polite about it.

Excuse me for going all preachy with a borrowed line from Moulin Rough,

'The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return.'

An aging, neurotic, hypercondriac once showed me a life lived without Love ends in a polite eulogy. And a polite eulogy is to my mind like a tepid cup of tea – frankly bloody intolerable.

Be Afraid, Be Very Afraid...

The Husband and I have been house-hunting, not to buy you understand no that would be a step too far from our current vagabond existence, rather we are looking for a room to rent in a shared flat in Edinburgh. However after two dismal abode viewings I fear we are doomed to live under bridges transporting all our worldly belongings in plastic packets for the rest of our married lives.

A ‘furnished, light and spacious attic conversion’ was in reality a mattress on the floor in a sea of cold cups of coffee and half smoked joints and the sort of space you would have been hard pressed to swing a dwarf. Flat two sounded rather more promising, a converted paper mill overlooking the Water of Leith.

Unfortunately the minute we were greeted by ‘Saul’ with his floppy hair and murderer blue eyes and he uttered the words, “take a seat and let me tell you about myself” I knew we were doomed. Saul was recently divorced and newly returned from 3 months teaching English in Mexico, after which time he was, and I quote ‘fluent in Spanish’. He liked to use frequent air quotations in the manner of Dr. Evil and stare furtively at my chest every 5 seconds:

Saul: [To the Husband and I] I’m very fussy about who I have in the house. [Breast glance in my direction]. I don’t want wild parties, but I’m not a square, we do have the odd [air quotation] “cervesa” - that’s beer in Spanish [Breast glance].

The Husband: [Said with straight face] I can’t remember the last time I had a drink…

Saul: You don’t have a piece of paper that says you will never drink again do you? Are you following the 12 steps?

The Husband: No. But I would say my drinking days are behind me. (In reality only two days behind, but who is counting?)

Saul: Good, now what do you do? [Said to Husband but with passing gaze at my mammaries.]

The Husband: I’m a fisherman and diver. I dive for shellfish, scallops and razor clams.

Saul: Ooh, you don’t dive deep do you? [Double entendre followed by quick breast appraisal].

The Husband: No, we only dive to about 15metres if you go too deep that’s when problems happen.

Saul: Metaphorically speaking. [air quotation].

[Husband and I exchange look of bewilderment.]

Saul: Now where do you come from? [Question aimed in direction of my breasts.]

Me: [Feeling I should answer on behalf of my mammaries] Born and bred in South Africa.

Saul: Well that’s certainly eclectic isn’t it?

Me: Yeees, I suppose you could say that.

Saul: Now what I’m looking to do here is foster a culture of community. I don’t want people who stay in their rooms swotting at their books all day. No I want people to enjoy the common area or “lounge” [air quotation]. As a father of three girls I want to embrace the community. [Breast glance].

Needless to say the Husband and I removed my ample breasts from Saul’s prying eyes and legged it back to the safety of the non-freaky people.

Saul eager to embrace us to his breast sent and email containing more than an acceptable amount of ellipses…

[Grannypants]...was good to meet you and [The Husband] this afternoon...

I am attaching a copy of the license agreement for your perusal......

Bear in mind there is a deposit of £200 at the start of the lease - returnable at the end of the lease period...

you would certainly be very welcome...!!

I look forward to hearing from you…

After reviewing the House Rules, which included the clause that no visitors were permitted unless permission had been granted no later than 12 hours previously, we decided that boob-gazing Saul was not for us:


Dear Saul...

After careful consideration we have decided that...we would rather live under a bridge...

Many Thanks...

Grannypants…

My Blog she suffered a terrible accident...

I don’t know if anyone noticed but my blog suffered a terrible accident – I went on holiday to South Africa for 2 months and was too busy getting on with my life to document it. But you will be pleased to know that my sybaritic and opulent lifestyle has ground to a freezing halt and I am back in Blighty (sigh).

My African holiday involved large quantities of sunshine, numerous glasses of alcohol, wonderful friends and my rather amusing family. One of the main highlights of said holiday was my niece ‘Queenie’ who at 15 months old has all the makings of a stand up comedian. I particularly enjoyed the way she admonished the plug points in her room with a stern look, a hearty finger waggle and the words, “No! No! No! Don Tush! Naughty!”

Queenie also does a fantastic impersonation of the Hadeeda Ibis (loud South African bird who according to Zulu folk lore is afraid of heights causing it to scream out in a ‘Ha-ha-Haaah’ fashion every time it takes flight).

Queenie’s ‘Ha-ha-haah’ impersonations were generally followed by her clapping two pudgey hands together and shouting, “Go, Go! Naughty Birdie!” I was completely entranced with the little tyke and reciprocally she thinks that I am the dog’s bollocks - indeed there is nothing quite so morale building as the adulation of ankle-biters.

In other holiday news my dear friend Klong tied in the knot in a rather lovely al fresco wedding. As chief bridesmaid I had my hair and make-up professionally tweaked, the transformation was so alarming that the Husband did not recognise me with my Californian wave hair and attempted to bat me away when I swooped in for a kiss. At least it is good to know that he will resist the advances of beautiful unidentifiable women. The wedding ceremony went off without a hitch, but alas the groom got what I shall indelicately call a case of the ‘shits’ after the first dance and had to retire to the fortress of solitude for the remainder of the night. Never ones to let a good wedding go to waste (not to mention a fully stocked bar – those cane and crème sodas weren’t going to drink themselves) the Husband and I helped the Bride to keep drinking and dancing till 3am, at which point we were the last three standing and the Bride could no longer understand the Husband’s Scots accent. As my father says of the Scots, “I like them but I can never work out if they are talking to me or swearing at me.”

And finally we voyaged to Mozambique where we enjoyed some R and R, which in traditional Mozambican style is an alcoholic beverage of 50% Tipto Tinto Rum and 50% Raspberry juice. R and R’s are best consumed in the numerous shabeens or baracas i.e. make shift shacks posing as bars that are to be found alongside most public thoroughfares. The locals in the baracas were most welcoming indeed after hearing that the Husband was Scottish the music was hastily changed from local Portuguese tunes to Rod Stewart’s greatest hits, presumably to make him feel more at home in the heat of the coconut shack.

My digitally challenged husband caused some confusion at the Mozambican border control where an overly officious immigration officer attempted to take his fingerprints. Instead of admitting defeat when he noticed that the husband is missing the top half of three fingers, the official spent a good 5 minutes studying the Husband’s hand as though the missing digits would magically unfold, when they did not he proceeded to finger print the Husband’s stumps for good measure.

Unfortunately all the African amusement has come to an end after bathing in 29’C tropical seas touching down in Edinburgh to a ground temperature of -6’C was more than a little alarming. When my hand was freezing to the balustrade as I disembarked the plane I thought, ‘there’s been a terrible mistake.'

But perhaps a little Africa detox is just what the doctor ordered, especially after Queenie's nanny Sara eyeballed me in my swimsuit one day:

Sara: Hmm. [Staring at my post Christmas/Holiday stewed body with caliper eyes.]

Me: What? [Said with sense of impending doom.]

Sara: Are you gaining?

Me: Gaining what? [Fear in my voice]

Sara: Are you gaining...[dramatic pause pregnant with possibility]...weight?

Me: [Horrified] I certainly hope not.

Sara: Yes, you look like you are gaining. [Gleeful smile, like she's just told me I won the lottery]

Worryingly this is not the first time an African lady has told me I am "coming nice and fat."

Aikona.