The 'Hello' Woman and George gets 'better'...

You know I said about the home for poor ladies...well, I met another one of them today.  I was limping past their home (on the other side of the road - not cos I was avoiding them, but just cos I was) and someone shouts out: 'Hello!'

So I look over and there is a big sort of lady sitting on the home's garden wall and she's waving.  Now, I didn't think she was waving at me, mebbes someone behind me cos i) I didn't know who she was and ii) she wasn't wearing any shoes or socks, and I know it never gets that  cold in London but stone me...no one would chose to be thus unattired (in their right bonce, anyhow).

So, this poor lady shouts out: 'Hello!' again, so I look over (big mistake) and she stands up and nearly runs in the road yelling out: 'Hello! Hello! Hello!' whilst waving away wildly in the same way that them landing blokes do with aeroplanes!

I stopped and pointed to my chest and mouthed: 'What, me?' and that was it!  She came tearing over the road to me (I was totally rabbit in headlights) still yelling out: 'Hello! Hello!' and doing all this mad waving.

I stood there like Lott's wife and she comes right in front of me (no shoes or socks, mind) and stops and just stares at me - talk about 'without resources', I really didn't know what to do, so I said: 'Hello!' back to her.]

Now, I know it could've gone either way but the augers favoured me and she smiled and said: 'Hello!' again.

So, I said: 'Hello!' again and then she said: 'Hello!' again.  Well, this 'hello' malarky could've run and run so I said: 'Well....' and she said: 'Hello!' and I said: '...I'd better get cracking, eh?', and she said: Hello! again, and I said: 'Well, ta ta then,' and she said: 'Hello!'.  By this time I'd started moving off but, though I had been heading for my own flats, I now had a nasty thought.  So I walked straight past my main front door and lucky I did cos I turned my head and Mrs Hello was still watching me and waving.

I walked all the way round the estate, come back the other side and blow me down - she was still there!  And, of course, by this time I was dying for a pee but there was nothing for it but to back off back to Holloway Road (where I'd just come from). 

I just about (phew!) made it to the nearest pub, begged the barman to hang onto my sholley whilst I went gang-way to the loo!  When I came back out, he said: 'Are you all right?' and I said: 'I'll have a single brandy and black coffee, please.'  And he said: 'Dear oh dear, that bad, eh?'  So I told him: 'Well, nothing that a brandy won't help.'  He laughed and said: 'Missus, there's nothing on this earth that a brandy won't help!'.

Anyhow, I solved the problem by ringing Man Friday and getting him to advise me when Mrs Hello had gone.  What a palaver!

Ah, and George - must tell you the latest.  I saw him walking Henry and his wife, Esther was a little ways behind them.  I said: 'Oh, George, you do look well.'  And he was really smiley and very light on his feet and told me the story of how the doctors had now taken him off ALL his blood pressure medication and his was now as right as rain.

Turned out he'd been on the blood pressure pills for 20 odd years, but as he got older (don't ask me how) his blood pressure had gone lower all by itself but as he was still on the pills (but didn't need 'em anymore) they started sending him a bit dippy.

Then he walked off and Esther (who I thought had been hanging back a tad) walks up to me and says: 'Yes, he's better all right, better at driving me distracted.'  So happens (as it often does) that she preferred him a bit woolly.  Oh dear.  We shall see...

Sausage-Eating Mad-Bird

Whilst I’ve been ‘away’ (euphemism for ‘poor old crippy takes turn for worse, goes convalescence, takes aeons getting better and moans constantly throughout process), there’s been some interest right across the road from our estate.  Two biggish Victorian terraced houses were being turned into a ‘home’ for what we all thought was poor ladies whose partners give ‘em a good whacking and the poor souls and their kids would have a refuge in said ‘home’.

 

About five months ago, I remember saying to Esther: ‘Ah, that’s so decent.  The poor souls need somewhere safe to go.’  And Esther (owner of Henry, Ottoman dog and wife to George, who went a tad mental on blood pressure meds) gave me a sideways sort of look and said: ‘Hmmm.’

 

Well, turns out she was quite right to say: ‘Hmmm,’ instead of: ‘Ah…’.

 

It’s not a home for poor battered ladies at all, it’s a home for totally mental ladies aged 40 plus.  And when I say ‘mental’ I don’t mean a bit touched, I mean totally ‘rip bong giddely dee.’

 

The way I found out was this: I took my first trip to Morrisons in six months.  Me and sholley, in the rain, it took about 2.5 hours (25mins for everyone else, but it’s a start) and on the way home, I saw a ‘woman’ (very unusual hair and dentition) come out of the Turkish boys’ shop and she was holding a pack of Wall’s sausages – no plastic bag or anything.  And perhaps I wouldn’t have taken so much notice but she turned round and stared at me (I was behind her as she came out the shops) and waved the sausages at me.

 

I said: ‘Oh, lovely,’ sussing out immediately that she was bonkers, ‘Are you having those for your tea?’ (In my best ‘Does he take sugar?’ way).  But she then totally ignored me, ran ahead a few feet and then sat down on the pavement, her back to someone’s front garden wall and – get this – started ripping at the sausages’ plastic wrapping.

 

Then, then (you’re going to die) she pulls out a string of the sausages (say six of ‘em), grabs one of them in both hands and proceeds to put it in her mouth and eat it – a raw sausage!  And this is all in the pouring rain, in the middle of Caledonian Road!  A few people walked in the road, around her, and by the time I caught up to her, there were a couple of school-kids doing pig-noises at her (but they didn’t hang around long cos it was raining, and school kids don’t work to full capacity in the rain).

 

I stopped and said to her: ‘Here up, now lovey.  You can’t eat those raw, now can you?’

 

And she just carried on munching on the raw sausage and a bit of sausage skin got caught between her two remaining teeth and just hung there.  It was like Hogarth drew it or something.

 

Then, I hear Esther calling to me.  She’s got her rain-hat on and she’s running up to me: ‘Cal, Cal.  Move along now, girl.  Nothing to see!’  And she’s shooing me away with her hand.  Now, first thought goes thru my mind was: ‘Nothing to see???  I never seen nothing more to see in my life!’

 

So, Esther catches up to me and starts hustling me along, away from the raw sausage events and starts explaining to me about the ‘Home’.  So I said:

‘Well, that might be, but we can just leave her eating a raw sausage in the pouring rain.’  And Esther says: ‘You’re too good, you are.  That (pointing backwards) is not a case for roadside assistance, dear. That’s a case for break-down recovery.’

 

So, we go over to home and knock on the door and a really nice lady (big, big girl) answers the door.  We give her the s.p. and she says: ‘My life!  Sitsva, Sitsva!  You come and sit at the desk, I have to go and pick up Daphne.’ 

 

So, we all come out and the nice lady runs out in the rain to pick up ‘Daphne’.  And do you know what?  I think the weirdest thing of all is that the sausage-eating woman was called ‘Daphne’.  I reckon ‘Daphne’ would be the last name I’d ever imagine her being called!

 

This care in the community thing is getting a bit out of hand.  When I first went out to the shops, I had a quick look about and I was convinced I saw a pair of bosoms (naked ones) at a window across the road.  And then I thought: ‘Don’t be a div, can’t have been, you’re seeing things, girl!’

 

Now, I’m not so sure…

Poor Melvis, I knew him - alas

Well, the end came for Melvis about five months back.  Me and Man Friday knew which day it would be and thus got up super early to sit on the door step and do some knitting (well, stare thru the letter box).

First a fire engine came.  Then a police car and another car pulled up.  A few neighbours came out to view proceedings.  Then the police and two blokes in suits came in the communal door and went up to Melvis's.  Boomph, boomph, boomph!

'Mr Valentine, can you come to the door please?'
'No.'
'Are you incapacitated, sir?'
'Yes, I've got a pain in my fucking arse!'
'We have a court order with your name on it, sir....'
'And I've got an hammer with your fucking name on it...'
'Melvis Valentine, this is the police.  If you do not open this door, we have a warrant to force entry.'
'Do your bloody worst!'

Then the fire men (4 of em) came in the front door.  I dunno whether they thought that Melvis would set fire to the flat or if he might climb up on the roof and then they'd have to rescue him.  Or maybe the police thought that they might need rescuing from old Melvis!

Well, the police had a battering ram thing and they used it on the door, which was a bit of a disaster cos Melvis's front door is only held together with spit and sealing wax (cos he's kicked it in so often - he loses his key a lot) and when they boofed in the door they (all four of em) went flying thru the door and down the corridor and landed on Melvis.  Then Louis, Melvis's dog, thought it was the best game ever and jumped on the whole pile of 'em and kept nipping 'em and running away.

We heard all this afterwards from Sigaret Oppellederen (who lives upstairs and hates Melvis).

Then, the firemen went charging upstairs to help and the next thing we could see was Melvis being carried downstairs by four fireman.  Melvis, who had gone stiff as a board was shouting at them: 'I'm not lifting a finger to help you boot me out of my own home.'  And he let himself be carried down the stairs whilst lying there like Tutankhamen.  It was a difficult manoeuvre cos the staircase is dead narrow and can hardly manage two abreast, let alone four firemen and a lunatic.

At one point, we hard Melvis yell out: 'Get your hand off me arse you pervert!'  And one of the firemen said: 'Ha! Chance'd be a fine thing, Senor.'  And the other firemen laughed.  And Melvis shouted back: 'And you don't you 'Senor' me with yer la-di-la Costa Blanca talk.'

And that was it.  A big repair van then pulled up and the workmen ran inside and put up metal grille things over the door and windows.  Man, it was better than telly.  Oh, and they took Melvis in the police car, 'escorting' him to his new home - a hostel in Edmonton (which is like, 200 miles away for Melvis, although only 5 miles for the rest of us).

However, we only 'didn't' see the bugger for less than a week!  Apparently (and this is pieced together from Melvis's moaning, the funny prostitute lady (I could be wrong about her tho') and various neighbours), apparently, Melvis was moved into a hostel run by a super Christian charity, and when I say 'super' I don't mean 'a bunch of really good eggs' I mean like they're the sorts who make Jesus look like Hugh Hefner.  So, as much as he annoyed them and flouted the rules, they kept on forgiving him.  Which, of course, made him madder and madder.  Finally, he threw a cocktail cabinet out of the communal tv room window and it killed a squirrel.  Some versions say he threw out the tv and it beaned a vicar (but I don't belive that, I don't even believe the squirrel bit - come to think of it I dunno if I believe the cocktail cabinet bit.  I mean, no-one but no-one has a cocktail cabinet anymore and the chance of super Christians having one of things is zero!)

So, finally the Super Christians bunged him out on his ear and he moved in with a mate of his who only just lives up the road, right next to our local betting shop!  So we still see the beggar all the time.  At least he doesn't live above us anymore and keep dropping billiard balls onto his marble flooring (which is exactly what it sounded like when he was three sheets to the wind and staggering around the domicile and throwing saucepans on the floor).

A new bloke (dunno his name yet) has moved in.  But although the council repaired the electrics, radiator, water heater and front door and windows, they didn't have the dough to replaster (Melvis had, as it turned out, chipped orf 80% of the plaster - don't ask me why).  However, poor new bloke couldnt afford to get a proper plasterer, so had a bash at it himself.  It must've turned out a bit 'rustic' cos he spent a good two weeks sanding down the sticky-out bits.  I imagine that once he finished the plastering it was a bit like yer mum's Christmas cake when she takes a fork to the icing to pretend it's snow.  P.s. my old mum had a set of cake decorations that had built up over the years, one of which was a robin.  However, the robin was six times the size of the children on the sledge.  Her Xmas cakes always had a B-Movie look about em.

I just give up...

This is so the worst Christmas ever.  Man Friday and self both have di-ha-hee-ho-hah from yesterday’s suspect bacon and egg sandwich (lucky I never gave any to the dogs).  Oh yes, and between running to and fro the khazi, I read on the internet that Quincy died!  Well, I give up, I really do.  It’s nearly 5 on Xmas arvo, I haven’t had anything to eat and the whole flat stinks of Clovey/Spicey Xmas air-freshner with a charming undertone of old ass.

 

There’s a ruddy great piece of beef in the fridge, just staring at me.  And Quincy is dead!  True, true, he was ninety but for heaven’s sake, you think he might have held off till the New Year.  I think I might just start on the Advocaat and blow the consequences.  Oh, oh and those e-cigarettes…they are stronger than real fags!  I had about four puffs then my legs went wobbly and my head was all swimming.  For crying out loud: who was their bloody test market?  Winston Churchill and sodding Fidel Castro.  Good for your health?  My nether eye.

 

Perhaps I’d better buzz orf and pour that advocaat.  Oh, I thought the Queen looked well this year – has anyone noticed how her chest has grown over the years?  Or is it me, just being a bit Jimmy Saville in the regalophile-type way?

I Get Completely Above Meself

Went mental about a week back - more than uzh - and self-published the first book I ever wrote.  I wrote it long-hand, in pencil in a lined notebook.  Everyone in the universe passed on it but I still like it.   Just thought I might blow me own trumpet:

Hmmm....can't seem to get the front page up: but just imagine you type in the title: Believe You Me by Tracey Henzell (my nom de plume de ma tante).  Then you see a picture of a bulls-eye type dog.
It's for Kindles, but you can get a free app for a pc and read it on that.  It only costs a few farthings, but what I really want, is reviews!  You don't even have to buy it, you can read the first couple of chapters for free on Amazon.

I think (ha! thank you, Babbage) that if you click on the link below, you will be magically linked to the land of the Amazonians and see the big Bulls-eye dog!


http://www.amazon.com/Believe-You-Me-ebook/dp/B008TANNCU/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1345481161&sr=1-1&keywords=tracey+henzell

p.s.  I know I succumbed to vanity publishing, but it was free!!!

Connie Brix goes Vets

Connie Brix, my giant dog, started getting hiccups after wolfing down some left-over lasagne.  First, it made me and old Man Friday laugh, but as it continued into the night AND the next morning, we got worried.  After all, there was that Pope that died of hiccups.

Aside:  when I first moved to this estate I met old Leggy and he had hiccups as he walked past my garden.  So I said 'hello' and introduced meself and then gave him some severely unhelpful advice on how to cure them.  Then I told him that story about the Pope in the Middle Ages who actually died of hiccups (I think they gave him an H.A.).

Anyhow, time goes on, mebbes a year or so.  I'm sitting in the garden and old Leggy goes past.  Now, I was indeed drinking some wine but that had nothing to do with the hiccups; I just had hiccups, ahem.  So, old Leggy goes to me: 'Oh, you should watch them hiccups, there was that Pope who died of hiccups.'  And it was on the tip of my tongue to say: 'I bloody told YOU that!' but it seemed churlish.  Then Leggy nods towards me and says: 'And he was only middle-aged, dont'cha know.'  Talk about: 'Send three and fourpence, we're going to a dance.'

Back to the main story.

So, me and Man Friday get a bit worried about Connie Brix (what with the Pope and all) so, M.F. takes her down the vets.  He goes into the vet's surgery thing, and it's that nice Australian bloke.  So old Bilabong shakes Man Friday's hand, says hello.  M.F. says: 'hello' and meanwhile, Connie Brix is sitting quietly next to M.F. hiccuping away.

So the vet goes: 'So then, what seems to be up?'
Connie Brix goes:'Hic, hic.'
Man Friday motions towards Connie Brix with his head, 'What do you think it is?' he says.

Connie Brix goes: 'Hic, hic.'

The vet says: 'Sounds like hiccups to me, mate,' with a completely straight face.

Man Friday looks at the vet, somewhat perplexed.
Connie Brix goes: 'Hic, hic.'
The vet goes: 'Definately hiccups.'

There was silence for a few seconds till the vet burst out laughing, bent over double laughing he was, the beggar!
'Sorry, sorry,' he gasps, 'Couldn't resist it, mate.'

Man Friday says: 'Get out of here, you nearly had me going.'

Meanwhile the vet was laughing so hard he knocked over a steel tray with some implements on it that crashed to the floor.  Man Friday said: 'Jesus Christ!'.  The vet said: 'Oh bugger me' and the dog jumped out of her skin.

It would be so cool to say that it cured her hiccups but it never.  She had to have a shot of some, I dunno, anti-hiccup stuff (whatever it was, it cost £95).

4 Joyce Grenfells go Amsterdam - part two.

So, the four Joyce Grenfells (my sister and her 3 prim and proper civil servant amigos - all in their sixties) decide to take their annual long weekend to Amsterdam.

Every year they go to some old city around Europe, and once every 4 years or so they go away for a week to some well proper abroad place - like Egypt.  I had a postcard from there that read:

Jolly, jolly hot.  Indigenous pop. wear far too many clothes.  No women here, bar tourists - poss. accounts for warfare (as many women in Israel).  Feel donkeys are undervalued.  Much dust.

Anyhow, this year they trolled orf to Amsterdam.  They stayed at a dead swanky hotel (that had Marmalade, thank heaven cos any jams e.g. strawberry or raspberry annoy the 4 ladies immensely, cos the pips get stuck in their teeth.)  As Marjorie says: 'It cannot be beyond the wit of man to strain boiled fruits,' - and fair enough.

Well, they went some art museum but nothing conceptual, of course, cos as my sister Ro says:
'I have a perfectly good idea of concepts without having to have them explained to me via a pile of coat hangers.'

Then, they went to the Anne Frank hiding place museum; which upset them all greatly and they had to retire to a teashop.

Anyhow, across the road from this teashop was this (acc. to them) 'somewhat down at heel' coffee shop.  Everyone appeared to having a rather jolly time, however and many of them were smoking.  But as Belinda noted:
'Obviously, girls, there is more poverty in Holland than I had imagined; most of those poor souls are having to share cigarettes.'

Then - ding, ding all aboard, ladies - my sister suddenly realises that they are viewing the Dutch experiment in the legalisation of marajuana (dunno how you spell it).

'I say,' says Ro, 'I do believe we are witnessing the partaking of a class C substance!'

And then there was some verbal to and fro, regarding whether marajuana is class C or class B.

However, mebbes the fumes from the joints were wafting across to their teashop or mebbes they all had a mid-life crisis at the same time but, the 4 Joyce Grenfells decided that they should take advantage of narcotics within an entirely legal framework.

Dear christ.

Well, they trundle into the coffee shop, looking like the most unlikely of customers (all in floral dress ala Norman Hartnell, all with short permed greying hair and pearl earrings - you get the picture: I'm so not making this up).

They huddle together as they make their way towards the counter, they get a few stares (prob. cos they were acting like 4 anaphalactics in a peanut factory) and the man says:

'Good morning, ladies.  Can I help you?'

They were all a little flustered (prob. expecting a bit more cor blimey guvnor type of person) and not entirely sure how to go about such a transaction.  So my sister, Ro, being a bit 'let me through, coming through, Englishwoman coming through, my your backs type person'  folds her hands (in most lady-like fashion) across her middle, smiles at the coffee shop blokes and says:
'Four of your finest marujuana cigarettes, please.'

No going back now.

The blokes says: 'Of course, ladies, which type?'  Which, of course, had 'em all completely foxed and all a twitter.  So Marjorie says:
'The type that alters consciousness, please.'

The bloke smiled and said: 'They will all do that my dear ladies.  Can I take it you have never indulged in the pleasures of marujuana before?'
'God Lord, of course not,' says Ro, 'We're English.'

I dunno how the bloke kept a straight face.  He explains to them that there are many kinds, in different strengths etc etc and recommends something for absolute beginners.

So, they get four coffees, four joints and sit themselves down at a table.  Now, my sister Ro, who used to smoke in her salad days, lit up first and took a puff.  Belinda, Marjorie and Babs all watched her.

'How is it, dear?' asks Babs.
'Quite unpleasant,' says Ro, and then she pauses and says: 'Hang on, I feel a little light headed.  Perhaps we should refrain from continuance.'

Now, Marjorie (who has never smoked in her life) gets all Ghengis Khan about the whole business, lights up her joint, takes the biggest lug ever and starts coughing and spluttering.

Then, Belinda and Babs become a little miffed at what they see as 'shilly shallying'.

Belinda says: 'A million rastafarians cannot be wrong.'  She lights up and takes a puff, inhales, leans back and her chair and goes: 'Aahhh!'  Babs is now well miffed, she says: 'Belinda! I do believe you have done 'this sort of thing' before.'
Belinda says: 'Not this, dear but I am very keen on a good cigar.'  Which is a bit of a relevation to the rest of 'em, esp. to Babs who is very often feeling a little left out of 'things' - what with being a Catholic and all and completely bemused by all argot after 'U and non-U'.

'Well,' says Babs, all pursey mouthed, 'I realise you all consider me rather a puss-kins, but I tell you, girls, I am made of sterner stuff.'  She lights up, takes a lug, has a bit of a cough, says: 'What fun!'

Meanwhile, my sister has put her joint out, Marjorie still can't stop coughing, Belinda has a few more lugs and puts her joint out.  And as Belinda and Ro are patting (whacking) Marj on the back, getting out handkerchief to stop her eyes and nose from running, what they don't notice is that Babs is going thru the joint, like it's the last one on earth.  She gets to the end of it, somehow manages to stub it out in the ashtray and says to the others: 'I simply cannot see the fuss about the whole....oh my heavens...'  She tries to stand up but her legs have gone all wobbly but a nice beardy bloke grabs her before she lands on the fall like spillikins (a very, very thin woman old Babs).

So, the other 3 Joyce Grenfells grab Babs up between 'em and drag from the shop.  The shop bloke calls out: 'Are you ladies feeling ok?'
My sister calls back: 'Yes, thank you.  A most interesting experience.'

They get old Babs out on the pavement, walk along a few feet and tell her to do a bit of deep breathing (thinking it might get the stuff out of her system quicker), but poor old Babs can't hardly put one foot in front of the other, and even tho' she might weigh perhaps 6 stones (and that, after a Mars bar), she turns into a dead weight.

'She has become a leaden octopus,' says Marjorie.
'I do not favour the outcome,' says Belinda (who's a much bigger girl, about a size 18 - used to compete in the decathlon as a girl), 'See here, ladies, if I lean over a little you can load her onto my back, hang onto her and I think we can make it back to the hotel.'

Never, never give old girls any puff - I'm surprised it's not some Roman epigram.

So, they load old Babs onto Belinda's back; Ro holds onto Babs arms and Marj tries to wrangle her legs.  It goes fine for a few staggering feet then, suddenly Babs (who hasn't said anything for ages) goes: 'I feel nauseous,' and proceeds to chuck up all over Belinda's head, and then chucks up all over her shoulder.  Belinda's like: 'Dear heavens, quickly girls, some of the vomitus is trickling into my eye.'

So Ro, reaches up to wipe it out of Belinda's eye whilst poor old Marj is now in sole charge of all Bab's limbs.  Unfortu, Ro only just wipes one bit of vomitus off Belinda's forehead before Bab's chucks up again and now it's in Bab's eyes and on Ro's head; Marjorie just can't keep control of Bab's limbs that are flailing about as she cries:
'Let me off the tram, I am unwell!' 

And poor old Belind, dear christ, she's staggering about the pavement like cyclops and she backs into a shop, saying:
'I can't see a blessed thing, what's happening?  Dear god almighty, what a pass!'

So, Belinda , with Babs sill on her back slumps backwards against this shop front and they both slide down to the floor.  Babs falls over onto her side, passed out.  Ro and Marj are busy in the near hopeless effort of wiping a gallon of sick off a civil servant with only a few Kleenex.

The lady in said shop, comes running out saying: 'Has someone had a heart attack?  Shall I call the ambulance?'    Ro says: 'No thank you dear, just a minor misadventure.'  Then Belinda says: 'Where am I?'  And Marjorie looks at the shop window, has to squink at it a bit and then says:
'I believe you are collapsed outside a novelty condom shop, dear.'

p.s.  the above was all totally true except for names.