I collect one of Vicky's children after school - Vicky has been delayed by a surprise giblet text and is in no fit state to drive.
We go to the playground.
"Where will you be?" texts Vicky. I tell her.
"Playground!! U poor fk. Hands still shaking but shld be able 2 drive soon."
The little girls are on bikes. On the way, Deborah sees the big brother of another schoolfriend. She waves at him with one hand and points him out with the other to the friend, unfortunately while still pedalling, and immediately keels over as if felled. The friend is so intent on watching the collision that she carries on pedalling, too - straight into Deborah. It's like a traffic pile up tribute.
The big brother, aged 15, is walking along with two of his friends on the other side of the road. To my amazement, they sprint straight over, pick up the girls, the bikes, dust all four down and await further instructions, issuing soothing words as they do so. When I explain that we will need to return home for plasters, they turn the bikes round, help the girls get back on and, with a final check to make sure we're all OK, depart.
I tell Vicky about it when she comes to collect her daughter, and tears come to my eyes. "You're not drinking enough," she says. "The only way I got through the school concert was by smuggling in alcohol in soft drinks bottles - strong Pimms masquerading as Diet Coke and white wine in a green bottle. Works every time. Then you only cry if it's something really bad."
Next day I go a performance of the St. Matthew Passion. Despite repeating "I'm an aetheist," I cry from beginning to end, so noisily that the people on either side of me find other seats after the interval. How bad is bad? Pass the meths.
Saturday, 30 June 2007
Friday, 29 June 2007
Declining years
"I never believed my mother when she said she used to be lovely and tall," says the woman in the charity shop, to the shy volunteer beside her. The volunteer blushes and says nothing. She is studying her hands. They are large and red, with grime all round the edges of the nails.
"But I'm doing it too," the woman continues. "Shrinking. My niece measured me. I used to be 5' 8". Now I'm only 5' 6". Well, maybe 5' 6 1/2."
There's a pause. It's impossible not to listen.
"What I don't understand is why my trousers are still long enough. I must be concertina-ing down from the top."
Now it's impossible not to look and, despite myself, I'm gaping at her, holding a pair of easily soiled, baby blue sheepskin gloves that I'm half thinking of buying.
"Mind you," she adds, "Everybody looks tall when you're sitting down."
Now we look at ourselves.
The assistant, overcome either amusement or nerves, is stuffing alternate hands into her mouth.
"Oh, you're interested in the gloves? They fitted Susan perfectly. Go on Susan. Put them on and show the lady."
Susan reluctantly extracts a hand and reaches out for the gloves. She's succeeded in distributing the grime more evenly and her hands glisten very slightly with damp. I don't really want her to do a glass slipper thing with the gloves, but can't say no for fear of causing offence.She crams her hands into the gloves with every appearance of mortification. Her fingers bulge up under the seams. She looks briefly triumphant, then hands them back to me. They are not the gloves they once were.
"Taking those gloves?" says the woman."I would. They're a bargain. And if they look nice on Susan...."
Susan looks less than happy. Buying the gloves may be the coward's way out, but I can't bear the thought of giving offence by saying 'no' to the gloves.
"Soon," says the woman, "You'll be able to carry me round in a backpack."
Susan looks at her, and I can't wondering if she's hoping that the backpack will be attached to the back of a giant lemming on its way, full pelt, to a handy local cliff.
"But I'm doing it too," the woman continues. "Shrinking. My niece measured me. I used to be 5' 8". Now I'm only 5' 6". Well, maybe 5' 6 1/2."
There's a pause. It's impossible not to listen.
"What I don't understand is why my trousers are still long enough. I must be concertina-ing down from the top."
Now it's impossible not to look and, despite myself, I'm gaping at her, holding a pair of easily soiled, baby blue sheepskin gloves that I'm half thinking of buying.
"Mind you," she adds, "Everybody looks tall when you're sitting down."
Now we look at ourselves.
The assistant, overcome either amusement or nerves, is stuffing alternate hands into her mouth.
"Oh, you're interested in the gloves? They fitted Susan perfectly. Go on Susan. Put them on and show the lady."
Susan reluctantly extracts a hand and reaches out for the gloves. She's succeeded in distributing the grime more evenly and her hands glisten very slightly with damp. I don't really want her to do a glass slipper thing with the gloves, but can't say no for fear of causing offence.She crams her hands into the gloves with every appearance of mortification. Her fingers bulge up under the seams. She looks briefly triumphant, then hands them back to me. They are not the gloves they once were.
"Taking those gloves?" says the woman."I would. They're a bargain. And if they look nice on Susan...."
Susan looks less than happy. Buying the gloves may be the coward's way out, but I can't bear the thought of giving offence by saying 'no' to the gloves.
"Soon," says the woman, "You'll be able to carry me round in a backpack."
Susan looks at her, and I can't wondering if she's hoping that the backpack will be attached to the back of a giant lemming on its way, full pelt, to a handy local cliff.
Thursday, 28 June 2007
No weddings, one funeral
Francis goes to a funeral. One of his college friends, unmarried, has keeled over on holiday. Well, being British, he doesn't even keel over. He just sits there being politely dead in his deck chair, paperback on his lap, cold beer on the sand beside him, until the in-coming tide laps at his feet and the can starts to bob in the water, then tilts and spills, and the deckchair man comes over to see what's wrong.
His body is repatriated. There's no wife or children, just a grieving mother, which either makes it better, or worse, depending on perspective.
It prompts, as these things do, a huge getting-together urge. Francis meets up with college friends he hasn't seen for decades. They are unlikely to meet again until the next one dies. But somehow, being with these people is terribly important. Heads have to be counted, people accounted for. It's a sort of reckoning up process, a balancing of the books that must be done before life can continue.
They all decide to go to the funeral. Francis drives four of them there. The weather is terrible and the traffic stationary. They travel thirty miles in two hours and realise they're never going to make the funeral. So they decide to hold their own ceremony at the time it's supposed to start. They park on the hard shoulder and stand in a circle, dressed in black. They try to say suitable things about him but it's not easy, with the wind, and the rain, and the traffic noise, so it tails off.
While they are doing this, a lorry driver hoots at them. "F****** Catholics," he shouts.
It's not your classic benediction, but it serves. They get back in the car, grind laboriously to the next exit, turn round, go home, stop in the nearest pub and get totally hammered. "He would have liked that," they say. Francis remembers, though, that the friend took himself terribly seriously. Already he's being remade to suit the anecdotes, re-packaged in convenient soundbite-sized packages. They say we live on after death in other people's memories. Just not with any accuracy.
His body is repatriated. There's no wife or children, just a grieving mother, which either makes it better, or worse, depending on perspective.
It prompts, as these things do, a huge getting-together urge. Francis meets up with college friends he hasn't seen for decades. They are unlikely to meet again until the next one dies. But somehow, being with these people is terribly important. Heads have to be counted, people accounted for. It's a sort of reckoning up process, a balancing of the books that must be done before life can continue.
They all decide to go to the funeral. Francis drives four of them there. The weather is terrible and the traffic stationary. They travel thirty miles in two hours and realise they're never going to make the funeral. So they decide to hold their own ceremony at the time it's supposed to start. They park on the hard shoulder and stand in a circle, dressed in black. They try to say suitable things about him but it's not easy, with the wind, and the rain, and the traffic noise, so it tails off.
While they are doing this, a lorry driver hoots at them. "F****** Catholics," he shouts.
It's not your classic benediction, but it serves. They get back in the car, grind laboriously to the next exit, turn round, go home, stop in the nearest pub and get totally hammered. "He would have liked that," they say. Francis remembers, though, that the friend took himself terribly seriously. Already he's being remade to suit the anecdotes, re-packaged in convenient soundbite-sized packages. They say we live on after death in other people's memories. Just not with any accuracy.
Wednesday, 27 June 2007
Publish and be damned. Or splifficated
An encounter between Bad Lindy and Cultured Mummy is a rare event, but one which is always keenly anticipated.
Cultured Mummy tends by inference alone - she rarely has to resort to anything as explicit as overt superiority - to occupy the moral high ground, to the point where most of us assume that if Cath Kidston ever launched a range of pastel-sprigged tents with a be-moraled motif, Cultural Mummy would have hers parked on the topmost peak, virtual steam issuing from the decorative kettle atop the solar-powered living flame effect camp fire.
If Bad Lindy were even aware that a moral highground existed, she'd be well on the way to using it as an off-road motor-yomping track for her 4x4, or having it bulldozed to improve the view.
Cultured M's name is Ra, short for Alexandra. It's not Bad Lindy's favourite type of name, combining poshness and silliness to an equal degree.Today, she arrives at Vicky's house bearing gifts for the kids and a broad smile.
"They're healthy - loads of fruit," she says to Vicky, handing a carrier bag to the eldest with a large wink.
The children disappear at top speed.
"Saw Ra today," says Bad Lindy. "Guess what she was doing?"
It's hard to know. Publically guillotining non-composting enemies of the people and having them recycled as flip-flops? Whipping up biscuits for the school fair that despite their no-fat, no-salt, no-sugar, no-gluten content are beloved by every child for miles around and sell out in minutes?
"No idea," says Vicky.
"I'll give you a clue," says Bad Lindy. "It makes her look like a complete tit."
"Almost anything, then...."
"Nordic walking."
I guess everyone's been there. The moment when the friend you admire, who knows little boutiquey places which treat you as if you're at least semi-human, reads the book as well as the reviews and can name the Iraqi Prime Minister - look, I never said my standards were that high - does something so manifestly aberrant that your friendship tilts alarmingly on its axis. Thus with Cultured Friend Ra.
"She said she was doing it in a group, it was wonderful and she'd never found exercising so painless yet effective. I said that at a distance all those waving sticks made them look like the invasion of the giant insect women from Planet Zog."
"I bet she took it as a compliment," says Vicky.
"She said she'd borrowed the poles to start with, but now she'd just had to dash out and get her own set."
"I said the only reason women bought poles was if they planned career in uphill waltzing in a club. She ignored me - but I don't think she could hear through the funny hat."
They both sigh.
"C***," they chorus together.
There's the sound of running steps and a child appears. "Mum," it says, "Lizzie's just thrown up."
Vicky looks suspiciously at Bad Lindy. "What did you give them?"
"A few Bacardi Breezers is all. Like I said when I arrived, there's virtually nothing in them except fruit. All that Vitamin C is good for them."
"You're going to come upstairs and help clean up. Then you're going to stay while I tell them what I think about drinking Bacardi Breezers."
"They're lucky," says Bad Lindy. "At their age all we had was cider. Kids. They just don't know they're born."
Judging by the sounds upstairs, not only do Vicky's kids know they're born, but they're rather wishing they weren't.
Cultured Mummy tends by inference alone - she rarely has to resort to anything as explicit as overt superiority - to occupy the moral high ground, to the point where most of us assume that if Cath Kidston ever launched a range of pastel-sprigged tents with a be-moraled motif, Cultural Mummy would have hers parked on the topmost peak, virtual steam issuing from the decorative kettle atop the solar-powered living flame effect camp fire.
If Bad Lindy were even aware that a moral highground existed, she'd be well on the way to using it as an off-road motor-yomping track for her 4x4, or having it bulldozed to improve the view.
Cultured M's name is Ra, short for Alexandra. It's not Bad Lindy's favourite type of name, combining poshness and silliness to an equal degree.Today, she arrives at Vicky's house bearing gifts for the kids and a broad smile.
"They're healthy - loads of fruit," she says to Vicky, handing a carrier bag to the eldest with a large wink.
The children disappear at top speed.
"Saw Ra today," says Bad Lindy. "Guess what she was doing?"
It's hard to know. Publically guillotining non-composting enemies of the people and having them recycled as flip-flops? Whipping up biscuits for the school fair that despite their no-fat, no-salt, no-sugar, no-gluten content are beloved by every child for miles around and sell out in minutes?
"No idea," says Vicky.
"I'll give you a clue," says Bad Lindy. "It makes her look like a complete tit."
"Almost anything, then...."
"Nordic walking."
I guess everyone's been there. The moment when the friend you admire, who knows little boutiquey places which treat you as if you're at least semi-human, reads the book as well as the reviews and can name the Iraqi Prime Minister - look, I never said my standards were that high - does something so manifestly aberrant that your friendship tilts alarmingly on its axis. Thus with Cultured Friend Ra.
"She said she was doing it in a group, it was wonderful and she'd never found exercising so painless yet effective. I said that at a distance all those waving sticks made them look like the invasion of the giant insect women from Planet Zog."
"I bet she took it as a compliment," says Vicky.
"She said she'd borrowed the poles to start with, but now she'd just had to dash out and get her own set."
"I said the only reason women bought poles was if they planned career in uphill waltzing in a club. She ignored me - but I don't think she could hear through the funny hat."
They both sigh.
"C***," they chorus together.
There's the sound of running steps and a child appears. "Mum," it says, "Lizzie's just thrown up."
Vicky looks suspiciously at Bad Lindy. "What did you give them?"
"A few Bacardi Breezers is all. Like I said when I arrived, there's virtually nothing in them except fruit. All that Vitamin C is good for them."
"You're going to come upstairs and help clean up. Then you're going to stay while I tell them what I think about drinking Bacardi Breezers."
"They're lucky," says Bad Lindy. "At their age all we had was cider. Kids. They just don't know they're born."
Judging by the sounds upstairs, not only do Vicky's kids know they're born, but they're rather wishing they weren't.
Tuesday, 26 June 2007
Beth blogs to the world
I get a text from Beth:
"Tilly's made my blog public for everyone and has told everyone what i said; they all hate me but i'm trying to keep on a smiley face but i'm sacred and i can't breathe."
Leaving aside the advantages of becoming sacred - at least we know God loves her - there are also a few logistical problems to sort out. Not least of which is the fact that her blog links to mine.....
Exactly.
While we sort this out in a way that doesn't involve me smashing her computer with a hammer just so I feel better, there might be a slight lull in blog delivery.
I think there's a lesson to be learned here - I just don't know what it is yet.
"Tilly's made my blog public for everyone and has told everyone what i said; they all hate me but i'm trying to keep on a smiley face but i'm sacred and i can't breathe."
Leaving aside the advantages of becoming sacred - at least we know God loves her - there are also a few logistical problems to sort out. Not least of which is the fact that her blog links to mine.....
Exactly.
While we sort this out in a way that doesn't involve me smashing her computer with a hammer just so I feel better, there might be a slight lull in blog delivery.
I think there's a lesson to be learned here - I just don't know what it is yet.
Monday, 25 June 2007
The nightmare of posh git fraud
Despite best quality government advice, distributed via subliminal messages during 'You and Yours' on Radio 4, the middle classes are persisting with their wanton alcohol consumption to the point of being flagrantly inebriated and even slightly giggly in the comfort of their own homes.
But there's worse to come. They're criminals, too. A report, delivered in hushed tones on the BBC this morning spoke of people with unmistakable long vowel sounds avoiding VAT by paying builders in cash (gasp!); being deliberately misleading with insurance claims (horrors!) and defrauding punters by being a teeny bit economical with the truth when they flog their hand me down tat at car boot sales.
It's come as a terrible shock. Society as we know it is truly on the way out. And I feel for those poor but honest builders desperate to ensure that the lovely people at Customs and Excise get their fair share of our loot - "Look, Gov, we both know that your VAT will go into giving those MPs the pension hikes they deserve. Now come on, pay up. Oh, thinking about our lovely country suffering because of that missing tax has made me all emotional. Pass me that rag, Jim, I'm welling up again."
It's all too much. I'm going to have a nice lie down with my copy of 'Scam weekly,' and a bottle of gin.
Next week: Unborn middle-class babies told to shop parents before birth or face lifetime's retraining as salt of the earth working folk whose only crime is wilful cheerfulness in the face of grinding poverty and deprivation. Special offer on clogs.
But there's worse to come. They're criminals, too. A report, delivered in hushed tones on the BBC this morning spoke of people with unmistakable long vowel sounds avoiding VAT by paying builders in cash (gasp!); being deliberately misleading with insurance claims (horrors!) and defrauding punters by being a teeny bit economical with the truth when they flog their hand me down tat at car boot sales.
It's come as a terrible shock. Society as we know it is truly on the way out. And I feel for those poor but honest builders desperate to ensure that the lovely people at Customs and Excise get their fair share of our loot - "Look, Gov, we both know that your VAT will go into giving those MPs the pension hikes they deserve. Now come on, pay up. Oh, thinking about our lovely country suffering because of that missing tax has made me all emotional. Pass me that rag, Jim, I'm welling up again."
It's all too much. I'm going to have a nice lie down with my copy of 'Scam weekly,' and a bottle of gin.
Next week: Unborn middle-class babies told to shop parents before birth or face lifetime's retraining as salt of the earth working folk whose only crime is wilful cheerfulness in the face of grinding poverty and deprivation. Special offer on clogs.
Sunday, 24 June 2007
Springwatch
A blue tit starts visiting the bird feeder. Maybe as the result of one encounter too many with over-enthusiastic nature programme presenters, it has lost all its head feathers but retains its distinctive, darkly piratical markings on the skin underneath. This, together with the contrasting pinky-white baldness elsewhere on its scalp, haunted dark eyes and suddenly prehistoric-looking beak, contrast with its fully-feathered body and give it an unnerving resemblance to an avian zombie escapee from Shaun of the Dead. For two days it eats with a slightly desperate relish, then disappears for good.
Butterflies that became extinct decades ago breeze back from the grave, and Eagle Owls, attracted by the hike in woodland prices, take up residence in prime greenbelt locations, sending bulk prices for small, bite-sized dogs soaring to record highs.
Bad Lindy, bored during a quiet afternoon at the vet's, slathers on the Motherpucker Lip Gloss and feels the familiar tingling as her lips inflate 'up to ten times their normal volume'. She stands by the window, making faces, and watching for potential customers. Another tit, flying past, catches sight of a particularly vicious grimace and flies into a window.
The local paper reports a surefire way to spot criminals. 'Bike thief had dodgy eyebrows that met in the middle,' it says.
Francis gets a helpful list of hints and tips from a recruitment company: "If you're not sure what to wear, pay a visit to the company's office one lunchtime and see what the people who work there are wearing. Dress a notch or two above them." He bemoans the fact that the advice arrived too late for his spa bath interview. "If only I'd had the nous to turn up in full bishop's regalia, I'm sure things would have been different," he says.
In the supermarket, Beth is spotted by a woman who claims to be from a top model agency. She takes Francis's mobile phone number and promises to call him 'so you can see I'm the real thing.' She never rings back.
Woman with troubled marriage gets closer to the edge. "Told husband how I felt, then wept like I was vomiting. Look like pig and feel like shit."
Spring. What are you watching?
Butterflies that became extinct decades ago breeze back from the grave, and Eagle Owls, attracted by the hike in woodland prices, take up residence in prime greenbelt locations, sending bulk prices for small, bite-sized dogs soaring to record highs.
Bad Lindy, bored during a quiet afternoon at the vet's, slathers on the Motherpucker Lip Gloss and feels the familiar tingling as her lips inflate 'up to ten times their normal volume'. She stands by the window, making faces, and watching for potential customers. Another tit, flying past, catches sight of a particularly vicious grimace and flies into a window.
The local paper reports a surefire way to spot criminals. 'Bike thief had dodgy eyebrows that met in the middle,' it says.
Francis gets a helpful list of hints and tips from a recruitment company: "If you're not sure what to wear, pay a visit to the company's office one lunchtime and see what the people who work there are wearing. Dress a notch or two above them." He bemoans the fact that the advice arrived too late for his spa bath interview. "If only I'd had the nous to turn up in full bishop's regalia, I'm sure things would have been different," he says.
In the supermarket, Beth is spotted by a woman who claims to be from a top model agency. She takes Francis's mobile phone number and promises to call him 'so you can see I'm the real thing.' She never rings back.
Woman with troubled marriage gets closer to the edge. "Told husband how I felt, then wept like I was vomiting. Look like pig and feel like shit."
Spring. What are you watching?
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