Crime of Fashion

Fashion victim on the street, originally uploaded by il_Medo.

We sit at home and await the inevitable phone call when Daddy Short-term Memory finds he has left something at home and wants to return early (not on your Nellie! BTW: Where is one’s Nellie?)

Gavin reminds us that he will bring Daddy back next Saturday and stay overnight – have we rid the spare room of any cat hair? The cheek! Although I do admit we are not the fussiest about issues such as cat hair. However, Richard has given the spare room three lots of flea spray and the cat has had a number of goes with one or two types of potions on the back of her neck and in her food. Not sure he hasn’t put some sort of potion in mine as I still feel ill. He might arrive home to find me in a heap on the floor.

The team from CSI Cardiff will photograph my body next to the name “Richard” which I will have written in the dust pointedly! Someone will have to draw a chalk outline around me – they may as well pack sandwiches and a flask of tea as it’s a long walk around my body. They should hire the bloke who marks the pitch at the Millennium Stadium.

In some parts of the country death is such a constant that the forensics have replaced the chalk outline with a permanent painted line – places like Midsomer, Denton and St Mary Mead. In Cardiff we tell how long a body has lain dead by the depth of chips strewn around it. I wish they would dust for fingerprints – Richard won’t dust for love or money! Well, perhaps money.

Meanwhile the team from Missing will help Daddy search for whatever he has forgotten this time? Turns out he hasn’t packed his Pyjama bottoms – poor Amanda may have to have her eyes surgically cleansed with Jeyes Fluid and a brillo pad after he flashes his Christmas baubles and grisly grey tinsel in a midnight dash to the lavatory. Brings a whole new meaning to the term “Fashion Victim”.

Lidl Trio - and the Droitwich Duo!

Lidl Trio, originally uploaded by Coffee Lover.

We arrive in a dark and bleak Droitwich – it’s one of those estates where they have chopped down trees and named cul-de-sacs after them. Other streets are named after writers and poets. We are visiting a cliché!

Theory One: Yes, it is cold. Daddy mentions it within minutes. Daddy does feel the cold and that is why we have an electric bill with added noughts that makes you wonder if he is using more energy than a fat boy chasing the ice-cream van.

When Richard later asks to turn the heating up, one of them says the other will do it. I recognise the tactic having used it myself – there’s a number of responses I have in my stock of delay mechanisms from ‘I’m not sure where it is’, ‘I’m not how it works’ etc., to be followed by ‘ask Richard’ which then means someone has to repeat a request, feels like a nuisance and usually shuts ups. But this is Richard and he is very single minded. He has become a heat seeking missile – well a heat seeking missy but let’s not quibble.

Theory Two: Despite my protestations that they should not do lunch (in the hope we could adjourn to the warmth of a pub) they have made sandwiches. There is a choice: beef or ham. That’s bread with beef or ham in it. No mayonnaise, no mustard, no horseradish or red onion, no lettuce, no salt – if it was any plainer it would be a member of Richard’s family (they’re not lookers and probably go along way to explain “you are what you eat”). However, alongside are some cherry tomatoes, sticks of cucumber and a bowl of lettuce – no dressing.

I’m taken back to the sixties and my Nan’s rubbish Sunday teas that consisted of plated salads. There’s even a watery coleslaw. I worry she may be haunting their fridge but they don’t mention jelly for ‘afterwards’ so we may be okay. Pudding actually turns out to be cakes that Gavin bought at Lidl – I know someone who shops in Lidl: I’m mortified! Amanda also seems put out by the cake and accepts one but agrees she won’t be eating a second chocolate covered Battenberg.

Theory Three: Yes there is clutter in every room and every work surface. I’m not sure who to call first – Gillian McKeith and Gordon Ramsay… or Ann Maurice and Kim and Aggy.

We turn the conversation to holidays – Rich and I as you may know are hopeless at holidays and never go anywhere. Amanda is off to Italy with friends soon. I can see why she would prefer that to her latest holiday with Gavin… he has dragged her to a B&B in Mablethorpe which advertises itself as a great place for families and senior citizens – so much so that everyone zips past on a motorised chair and every third shop sells them! Gavin dragged her there to meet a matchbox label collector. Let the good times roll!! Well we won’t be phoning Judith Chalmers. "Wish you were here" - no, not really!

Theory Four: Daddy has slept through most of the afternoon. I have sat stock still and yet am feeling bone tired. On the way home, when not sleeping, I eat my way through a packet of Starburst remembering when they were called Opal Fruits - next I'll be reminiscing about the the good old days and reaching for the Werther's Originals... old age is catching. Perhaps I'll get Daddy a motorised chair for Christmas. Well, one that we can plug in anyway.

Daddy is parcelled off...

high street floods droitwich spa, originally uploaded by Rincewind30.

Daddy has been duly parcelled off to Sonny Longpockets for the 'festivities' although I am not sure how festive a holiday Droitwich can provide! Daddy has packed one small suitcase of clothes and another for his various medications. I have to admit that a week in Droitwich would probably reduce me to drugs! Anyone reader who remembers my Summer experiences of a rain drenched Midlands (see below) would probably sympathise.

We set off on Saturday; Richard fetching the car to the door before whizzing past us and parking a further 50 feet away which is a considerable stretch for both Daddy and me. Daddy Short-Tempered (double barrelled – how posh!) shuffled along with a few curses as his feet tangled around themselves. The door behind the driver’s seat is not working despite four trips to the garage and Richard’s frantic grabbing at the handle and jiggling. Getting irritated, Richard gets onto the back seat and slams at it with his hand until he decides to give it a few kicks… Penfold meets Jackie Chan! It doesn’t budge. So daddy has to wait until the passenger seat is dragged forward, then he gets in and shuffles over before I can put the seat back fully and lumber in myself. There is much cursing and muttering under everyone’s breath at this point – a trio of grumblers emit a low rumble and we haven’t even started the engine.

Richard pulls off, somewhat flustered by the palaver of settling his dad and then stops, deciding to phone ahead to say we are on our way. I tell him to get driving and I will phone – this change of plan also unnerves him apparently … he is such a delicate soul. We get around the corner and he tells me that he is now flustered and cannot decide whether or not he shut the front door – we double back for him to drive past the house and check... and I thought it was only Daddy who had Alzheimer’s!

We spend the journey in idle speculation of what will greet us at Droitwich.

1. Theory One says it will be cold: there will be jumpers and slippers in lieu of central heating!

2. Theory Two is the concept of basic fare: we guess at sandwiches or soup.

3. Theory Three is the house will be a haven of even more clutter – sonny likes to collect (I can forgive the expensive items but he also seems to collect food labels and plastic bags of miscellaneous stuff (for 'stuff' read 'any old shit'). It’s Diogenes syndrome all over again – What with Rich getting Alzheimer’s by proxy and Gavin having senile dementia hoarding.

4. Which leads to Theory Four - Daddy Shortlegs is spreading “old” like a virus. I may have caught it! I have Alzheimer’s Nervosa – a bit like Anorexia Nervosa where you don’t eat at all or Anorexia Bulimia when you eat and purge – I eat and then forget to throw up!

Winter Draws on!

Aunt Jean taking the girls to see Santa, originally uploaded by Kelteek.

In this photograph lies a story... My Great Aunt Jean (Back right - as if she would be the one in the Santa suit!!) took the girls to visit Santa - this must have been in the late 40s or early 50s in downtown Belfast.

Having all sat on his knee one-by-one and told him what they wanted, they accepted the presents and had their photograph taken. Anticipating a long walk home, Jean asked them if they needed to go to the lavatory and dutifully they all trooped off to the ladies.

Young Jean, pictured bottom right was the smallest of the group at the time - I assume her even younger sister Kathleen had been deemed too young to go.

"Have you pulled your pants up? asked Great Aunt Jean
"I haven't got any pants on!" said Jean - indeed she had been in such a hurry to see Santa she had forgotten her drawers!

Filthy witch - leading poor old Santa on that way! I never imagined a four year old as an agent provocateur teasing dodgy old Santas into lewd behaviour. Usually they just get a mince pie and a glass of sherry!!! Brings a whole new meaning to "Junior Showtime!"

Two's company!!!

Thinking about Lady Di (see entry below) brings on a creative bent and I design a possible Christmas card featuring me and my sister on Santa’s lap (when that was allowed without uproar about paedophilia). Our Santa didn’t look like he would have the inclination or even the energy for any fiddling.

Band-Aid

365.013 b, originally uploaded by l.thomas.

I have taken the day off due to manflu – or possibly just a cold. Everything aches… even typing this hurts my fingers and the back of my hands. For some strange reason, the tops of my feet are achey: any clues out there?

Not to feel left out, Richard arrives home with a Band-Aid on his bonce – coming out of a client’s home, he walked into an up-and-over garage door. He hasn’t got concussion, so luckily there’s no chance of him slipping into a coma before he gets the dinner ready.

It’s not the first time he’s hit his head. He’s had a couple of blows on the boot of the car when he hasn’t opened it fully – once in the same driveway of tonight’s incident; talk about revisiting the scene of the crime. People may imagine I am battering him which is absurd as it would involve me moving about! I can’t think of domestic abuse without hearing Princess Di commenting on “Battered this, battered that…” Ah, her sensitivity was astounding.

Richard’s dad hasn’t had a blow on the head but is displaying sympathy pains by being even more confused than usual. He has been round to Tesco but couldn’t use his bank card – mostly because he had tried to enter the amount he was paying rather than his pin number! They have hold of his shopping but given him a receipt so he can collect it. Richard takes this ransom note and nips back to collect it with the money in unmarked bills.

Meanwhile Jack settles back to watch TV but pops back out as his shopping arrives to complain the FX are showing… and I quote “Fucking Family Guy!” Richard doesn’t mind his dad complaining but Jack makes it sound like we are personally responsible for the TV Schedule. Perhaps we could get a Band-Aid for his gob! We could start a campaign such as “gag the gaga week”. Would Bob Geldof play this version of Bandaid?

If we were responsible FX would only show Family Guy as Rich and I agree there is nothing else on that channel worth watching. We debate starting up a new channel – TLC: The Lovely Channel. It would just show lovely programmes for when you feel the world is horrible or when you are lying ill with Manflu. Programmes like Miss Marple (the Hickson years not the McEwan travesty!), QI, gentler documentaries that don’t mention Hitler, Egypt or the Holy piggin’ Grail (or the link between all three as the Hitler, sorry History channel is keen to prove!)

As there is nothing great on TV now, Richard decides that we should have some popcorn to make us feel better. Jack wants to know if we want milk on it??! Does he think it is cereal? Who knows? Who cares? Well, obviously Diana would have cared. She’d kiss your “ow-ie” better.

(Rich won't let me photograph his bandaged bonce so I made do with the lovely photo above - I'd kiss his"ow-ie", missus!!)

The trots run in his family

uncle colin & uncle jack, originally uploaded by Kelteek.

This morning, Daddy Shortlegs informed us that he has the trots. Well, I’m not sure if he said trots as I am not sure he can trot. He certainly couldn’t canter in an emergency dash to the bogatory. To be honest with his gammy ankle and my wonky knee, manoeuvring around each other in the kitchen has taken on the look of a grotesque dressage display by panto horses in It’s a Knockout!

We are not entirely sure why he dropped the bombshell at breakfast other than to put you off your bran flakes. Does he need help or an audience? Keep your poo to yourself... do I look like Gillian McKeith? Richard doses him with something to “bung him up” as he ‘oh so nicely’ put it!

We get a telephone call later from an old friend of Richard’s mum. She received a Christmas card from Jack that said he was sending it from “Jack, Richard and Amanda”. Amanda is the partner of Richard’s brother – the poor woman was unaware if there had been a sudden decrease in the family or if we went in for wife swapping. I’m not sure any of us would be happy with that thought.

Mind you, some of Jack’s old family photos would lead to believe he had the odd Ozark relative. It looks like the family were snowed in for a winter and spent the time in-breeding for Cumbria. Cue banjo picking...

I think these two were in Frankenstein meets the Wolfman!!

GI Jonny cum lately

LM7L5342, originally uploaded by Kelteek. (Photo by Patrick Olner)

Do you remember me telling you that I was going to do a GI Jonny event... well it was a salient reminder that I am an old git - an old fat git. Alex (a former student) and Linda (my current student) came along to help.

We dressed in khaki but the girls soon got into the swing with camouflage make up and GI Jonny T-shirts. I looked like something out of the A-team – the van, I think? Khaki does not suit me, and I had to keep moving about in case anyone mistook me for a Boy Scout Marquee.

Paul was in his element with the girls from SHAG (who were mostly middling class). Their ranks contained one called Jesney (which leads one to ask if her parents were called Jessica and Rodney - does she have a twin called Rodica? The whole thing sounds like a stuck together name... Remember Casa Bevron, Brookside fans?

After an hour (it may have been 15 minutes but it felt longer) Alex plucked up the courage to ask the DJ if she was going to play anything approximating to music but was told it was “Indie Night” as if that explained why only six people were on the dance floor till midnight, swaying in no particular rhythm to what sounded like the same damn song over and over.

The competition was to see who could put on a condom in the shortest amount of time whilst blindfolded (and before anyone complains about waste, the group were given out-of-date condoms to use for the task... is there anything sadder than a condom past its shag-by date?). Young men did very well but some seemed a little too enthusiastic about the dildo for their girlfriends’ liking... hmmm!

In yer dreams!!

Wayne put up a sterling effort doing one late night after another rattling his bucket and shaking his arse. He went with the wear red theme by having his face tinted orange like a sunbed tanorexic. Here he is wearing a Get It On T-shirt while getting it off...

Thru the Arch WAD 07 (90), originally uploaded by Kelteek.

He had great help from Neil Dunning and Gareth Theobald as well as the lovely Alex. I have to say I was as bog useless as ever. “Shake a bucket, who me, dear? Do I look like someone who could carry a bucket?” If the public and small change are involved, I expect to wear white gloves, a hat the shape and colour of a Chrysanthemum and be distributing Maundy money. Like the Queen I never carry money (well not by the bucket load!)

Maj’ figures a lot in my dreams, you know. I once dreamt I was in Woolworths and the pick’n’mix was shrouded in gold foil banners. Behind them was the Queen choosing a Peppermint Cream and Raspberry Ruffle. She was stuffing them directly into her voluminous handbag and said I could put my selection in there too, as no-one ever checked her bags, and they knew she never carried money. We were then standing on the down escalator and she confided that as they always opened stores just for her, she often shoplifted just for thrills!

I also dreamt that I was going out with Prince Edward – we were having an intimate cup of tea in a cafe in Carmarthen when his mum sent a helicopter to get him out of my clutches. Lucky escape for me, I says!

So who features in your dreams... let me know at fathobbit@ntlworld.com

NEWSFLASH: Night out in Newport - No stabbings reported!!

Thru the Arch WAD 07 (110), originally uploaded by Kelteek.

World AIDS Day has come and gone – and fair knackering it was too! I spent a night fundraising with colleagues at Thru the Arch in Newport where people like you or they don’t – they have no talent for two-facedness (which considering the state on the one they have, is no bad thing). Some don’t have the ability to smile at all, as dentistry seemed to be a lost art in Newport, but they don’t have that ability of Cardiffians to smile and then stab you when you pass. Well not verbally – although I do tend to think of stabbings and Newport in the same sentence a lot! A bit in the way Holby and accidents go together.

I once had an awful night out in Newport that marked (I can’t say celebrated) my 28^th birthday. I was staying with a very short-term boyfriend (he lasted about two nights and a pizza) who was doing a voice over for the deaf group’s pantomime. The deaf group did the acting (miming?) and others said the words into a microphone off-stage – not always in sync, and often in some sort of northern accent which didn’t entirely tie in with the Chinese theme. Ever watched Aladdin for 3-and-a-half hours – no? They cut a song at one point as it was over-running – thank God – because if they didn’t the audience may have cut their wrists or died of malnutrition. There were some good points – you could make a hell of a lot of noise opening raspberry ruffles without getting shhhh’d.

To clap (as if you would) one raises one’s hands and shakes them like enthusiasts attending an Elizabeth Duke at Argos convention; lights glinting of sovereign rings and identity bracelets that said Kyle and Jace. You could spot the tattoos of popular icons of the time: the cast of Howard’s Way and ink outlines of Bullseye. One young woman had LOVE and HAT tattooed on her knuckles as she’d lost a finger trying to steal Toffee Poppets from a chocolate vending machine on Newport Station.

Afterwards we went to a gay club... well, pub... well shit hole really but it had some vicious looking gay people in it to be brutally honest. It was called the Log Box – that tells you a lot doesn’t it. One of the deaf group worked in a bakery and had brought a cake for me – it had an antique car on it to show it was for a boy (original) and my name in squirly-whirly icing. I asked if anyone might have a knife assuming someone would ask the publican. But as quick as one could say knife, we had three presented by drinkers - including one from a young man with the squinty demeanour of Jack Palance with toothache. I didn’t feel entirely safe after that.

So to have a fun night out in Thru the Arch was fab and Neil, the host , lived up to his former calling of being a Red Coat – in fact everyone wore red, more or less, to fit in with the theme. John below was the “less”...

Thru the Arch WAD 07 (127), originally uploaded by Kelteek.