Wednesday, 30 November 2011
Connie dumped it at my feet, wanting me to throw it. I picked it up, went 'yuk' and said to Man Friday: 'This isn't a tennis ball, it's a pair of tennis flaps.'
He said: 'Ah, but Connie loves it.' So I threw it, and said: 'Dunno where they use these sorts of balls, only at Wimbleflaps.'
And Man Friday came to the back door with a disgusted look on his face. He said: 'Never say Wimbleflaps again. I've got an awful picture in my head of naked Wombles.' I laughed. But he pulled an even worse face. I said: 'What is it?' He said: 'I keep thinking of Madame Cholay.'
p.s. if you've never seen The Wombles, ignore the above.
Monday, 28 November 2011
Did you ever! I was expecting the usual English 'polite fest' of: "Oh no, don't you worry," from the old girl, and then I would have said: "I could honestly stab myself in the eye." And then she'd say: "Oh, it was probably my fault for dithering," and then I'd say: "Oh no, it was my fault for pushing in." And on it would go for another five minutes whilst we both blamed ourselves. Now, this is how proper people in England do it. So if you bump into each other again, you can smile at each other, stop in the street for a little chat and both blame yourselves, all over again.
Monday, 21 November 2011
About 8 months back we had Man Friday's little brother and sister over and they (being 7 and 11) wanted to make Betty Crocker cakes. So, after my kitchen looks like the Fall of Carthage and the Betty Crocker frosting makes it look like a dirty protest in Strangeways, we have a tidy up and put the remaining cake frosting in the fridge.
Forgot all about it.
8 months later, Man Friday's searching around for something to add some voomph to the vanilla ice-cream. He hunts around the fridge, finds the old Betty Crocker Frosting. I said: 'Cor, we should've chucked that out months back.'
Meanwhile, he's opening it up, sticking his finger in it and before I can say: 'Botulism', he's already eating a dollop of it!
'You know what,' he says, 'There's bloody well nothing wrong with it.'
I say: 'After 8 months, mate, you're probably eating a completely different life-form.'
Finally, he gets me to have a try of it. And do you know what? There really was nothing wrong with it whatsoever! I tell you, whatever's in that bloody Betty Crocker they ought to be putting in face-cream: I'd buy it like a shot.
Oh yes. Went to shops and some old geezer about 85yrs old stops me in the strasse and says: 'Hello! How are you doing?'
Well, I didn't know him from Adam, but you've got to be polite. So, I had: 'Oh hello! Lovely to see you again.' After all, he wasn't wearing any glasses and could have thought I was his niece or something.
So then he says to me: 'Are you still drinking and smoking?' - which seemed a bit suss, but I humoured him and said: 'You know me, same as ever, whatever keeps your spirits up,eh?'
And THEN he says to me: 'What about sex?' At which point I choked on my own spit and said: 'Hah! Given that all up at my age,' and started to move away.
THEN, as I'm moving off he only says (get this): 'Ah, you haven't been coming round my house lately, that's why your love life's gone off the boil, ha, ha!'
Well, I never. 85yrs old. Who knew he had a grain of testosterone left - dirty old sod.
Will tell you about rude old lady tomorrow - am heading orf to the drinks cabinet, maties!
Thursday, 17 November 2011
Anyhow, Ira from the charity said that cos he was a stray with no name, that we could name him ourselves. So, Man Friday immediately goes: 'Ah! Stray with no name, gotta be Clint Eastwood.' I'm like: 'I think not.'
See, I had other plans. Ro, my sister, had reminded me about our Mum's favourite green-grocer who was called Ronnie Cashbolt, bless him. So I said: 'No, we'll call him Cashbolt in Mr Cashbolt's memory.'
Dunno why, the dog doesn't look like a green-grocer, or even Mr Cashbolt (there's a picture of the dog at the bottom of the page so you can see that he doesn't look a bit like Mr Cashbolt).
Anyway, when Man Friday told Ira the dog's new name, she was all: 'Oh no, it makes the dog sound like a thug.' (Mr Cashbolt would've had the right hump about that; lucky he's dead).
So, we called him Ronnie (Mr C-B's first name). Trouble is we've now got Ronnie and Connie; you call one and the pair of 'em come running.
Ronnie is the sweetest puppy but the size of godzilla. Also (we only found this out after) not house trained in the slightest. Poor Man Friday is running all over the place with the kitchen towel and the anti-bac spray. He said to me the other day: 'You can see why housewives get so stressed out.' But then proceeded to go and make mushroom pate (patay) - makes a rod for his own back. That said, it was bloody marvellous.
Young Ronnie's story is a bit sad: the park warden down Liverpool Road Park saw him wandering about over a few days, realised he was a stray and took him home. Then the park warden rang the council and asked if they could take him into the dog pound and they said: 'Toof! We haven't got enough council houses, mate, let alone kennels.'
So there's old parkie with godzilla puppy, crapping all over his house and his wife's coming back from a weekend away from her sister's. Lucky enough, he finds the alldogsmatter number, rings them, they ring us and Man Friday picks him up.
Amazingly, he has had his knackers cut off - last thing I need to see first thing in the morgen is a ruddy great ball and winkle set wobbling round my house.
Enough dog news.
Guess what? An agent took me on! A lovely lady from California called Annie Bomke. Honest to god, I nearly died naked on the floor when she said yes. Talk about a tonic for the soul! Well, I've sent off my contract already before she can realise that she's signed Carol Dance instead of a real writer called Darryl Pants, or something similar.
Nah, seriously, well chuffed. Tell you though, I haven't even got a publisher yet and already I'm getting stiffed for nuggets. Oh. The thing I have to really change about the book is that I have to write footnotes for all the 'Briticisms'!
So, here's a start:
Died Naked on the Floor - shocked
Stiffed for a nugget - asked to lend money
Nugget - a pound coin
Well chuffed - very happy
Knackers - testicles
Ball and winkle set - penis and testicles
Got the right hump - most unhappy
Green-grocer - bloke that sells fruit and veg (etables)
Blimey, you don't realise, do you? Oh, here we go again:
Blimey - blind me
Cor - god
Cor Blimey - god blind me
Saturday, 12 November 2011
Can I work it out? Toof! Like a monkey learning shorthand, thus far, mate. Dear oh dear. Any help gratefully accepted, nudge, nudge.
By the by. I saw the unnecessarily thin man from the Santeria Newsagents as I went down the shops - and his arm is in a cast! Now, last time I heard about him, Melvis was going to 'have a word' with him about thin-Santeria-man's possible involvement in dobbing Melv into the polis.
So, of course, I saw old Melvis on my way back home. He's ubitquitous, that bloke; I tell you, even if you pull a jersey over your head you wouldn't be surprised to see Melvis standing in front of you. So, I told him that I'd seen skinny-Santeria-man.
'Looks like he's broken his arm,' I said. Melvis put his hands on his hips, sucked his teeth and looked very put out, he said: 'I know, and I'm not happy about it, believe you me I'm not.'
I said: 'Oh dear, Melv, why's that then?'
And he said: 'It weren't bleeding me what broke it, that's what.'
So I asked if Melvis thought that skinny-Santeria had been the one to dob him in, and Melvis said no, he didn't think it was him after all. So I said: 'So why'd you want to break his arm then?'
And Melvis thought about it and said: 'Oof! He's just got that look about him.'
And when I asked 'what look', Melvis looked at me and shook his head, he said: 'Carol, you've gotta learn, in this life, that some people are just asking for a good slap. Know what I mean?'
I said, yes. It was easier.
Oh, and on a differs subject, we are getting another foster dog on Monday. 6mths old half Labrador half Rottweiler with no name: the nameless Rottador. Depends on what he looks like but I fancy calling him Ronnie Cashbolt, after mum's old greengrocer.
So there's me sitting one end and then this bloke and his dog come along and sit on the other end. He looked like quite a 'well to do' sort of fella but his dog was one of them right out Mutleys. Nothing wrong with the animal, very nicely behaved, but not a looker and definately of the Heinz 57 Varieties-type breeds. Had a big body and a small head and looked (a bit) like a donkey.
So, the bloke sits down to have a fiddle with his Blackberry/iPhone thingie.
Then a really old boy comes along and sits in between us. He says: 'Hullo, love' to me, looks at the other bloke and smiles.
So far, so good.
Next thing you know, a bunch of lads (a likely looking bunch to be sure, but by no means Lord of the Flies material) come walking past us.
One of the lads shouts out:
'Oy, mister, I like your dog.' All the lads start sniggering.
And the bloke (whose dog it is) looks up and he's livid! He wags his finger and shouts back:
'Don't you "mister" me and you can keep your mitts off my dog.'
Me and the old geezer looked at each other a bit 'Hullo?' cos the man was so angry. Perhaps loads of people had cast aspersions on his dog and it was a touchy subject for him. So one of the lads shouts back:
'Wouldn't touch yer dog with a bargepole.' And the lads wander past, laughing.
So, the old boy says to the bloke: 'Kids, eh?'
And the bloke goes: 'Kids? The very sort of urchins who stole my cat.'
And I said: 'How'd they steal your cat then?'
And the bloke looks at me like I'm mental, and says: 'The usual way of course.'
So I said: 'Oh. I didn't think there was much of market in cats.'
And the bloke said: 'I don't believe there is. As I told the police, I considered it a personal attack on me.'
And the old boy, who was looking a bit perplexed, said: 'In my day, a personal attack meant fisticuffs, touch of the old 'boof, boof'.'
And the bloke said to him: 'Unfortunately my cat was the only one on the premises.'
So the old boy said: 'They punched your cat?'
And the bloke said: 'No, they pinched my cat.'
Anyhow. The bloke with the hideous dog and the pinched/punched cat wandered off.
The old boy said to me: 'Do you reckon he was the full schilling?'
I said that I had my doubts.
The old boy said: 'Cor, you get all sorts down Holloway.'
I said, too right and all. Then the old boy heaved himself up and said he had to get cracking cos his missus was expecting him back with the shopping. And as he left he patted me on the shoulder and said:
'Do you know, dear, I'm 82 years old and in all my days I have never seen anyone punch a cat. You can't believe a word anyone says these days.'
Well. That was one of the odder conversations I've had all month. It was almost a relief to get into Morrisons.
Thursday, 10 November 2011
Monday, 7 November 2011
First it seemed like plumbing was, actually, rocket science; now, it appears to be supernatural - definate touch of the Harry Potter about the business.
Don't ask me how but it has 'miraculously' resolved itself without the help of any outside agency. I'd just done a teeny tad of washing up and was watching, worriedly, as the soapy water went down the plug hole. And bugger me if it didn't go hurtling down at 60mph! I couldn't have been more surprised if the left over suds had formed into a picture of the Holy Mother.
Man Friday insists it was all his donkey work that resolved the blockage.
'What? Two days later? Where do you think we are, some Einsteinian thought experiment?'
'Enough of your cheek, missus,' he says, 'All you could contribute was a bottle of Mr Muscle.'
Hmmm. All I know is that the world of Bazalgette is back to normal. Phew.
Ooh. Am getting out and about a bit now, thank heavens: but the first person I bump into is Poor Sandra. Now, she's totally deaf and doesn't know any sign language, finger spelling or lip reading. But, amazingly, that isn't the problem. The real problem is that she thinks that I can. Me.
When I first met her, I couldn't understand her speech, realised she was deaf and tried to use some finger spelling to talk to her. She started smiling, put her hands over mine to stop me 'talking'. And pointed to her mouth and said to me:
'Can you lip-read, dear?'
I said: 'NO.'
She took this as a 'yes' and has been shouting at me (with exaggerated lip and tongue movements) for over 2 years.
I tried, initially, to explain the problem but (on her husband's advice) eventually gave up.
So, today I had a ten minute conversation with her about (what I thought was) how the weather had changed suddenly and was a bit chilly. Luckily her husband turned up, translated and it turned out we'd been talking about how Sandra was convinced that she'd been jipped at the dry cleaners.
Apparently, she took a coat in and asked them (somehow) to tighten up all the buttons and they'd misinterpreted and shortened the hem. And now she has cold knees.
I asked her husband once (when I got him alone) and asked him why Sandra didn't write things down for people and he said:
'She's a very stubborn woman, my Sandra.'
Saturday, 5 November 2011
Man Friday spent aeons rodding the drains and I have been plumber's mate:
'Turn the water on.'
'Aaaah, bloody hell, turn it off, turn it off.'
'Turning it off!'
'Oh my gawd, it's all down me trousers.'
'Sorry, turned it on again. Off now.'
'For crying out loud.'
'I'll have you know I don't have a Masters in plumbing, matey.'
'Well, that's bleeding obvious.'
'I'm only trying to help.'
'Well, that's a matter of sodding opinion.'
et cetera et cetera.
So now, the council plumbers are coming (again) to have a bash at the blockage via pipe-work in Melvis's garage.
Trouble is: it's Saturday now and they aren't coming till Tuesday; and all the sinks are totally up the shoot.
Last night, Man Friday had gone to bed early and me and the dog were watching Texas Chain Saw Massacre. Then suddenly, we heard this terrible gurgling and splashing sound coming from the bathroom. Me and dog looked at each other, like: 'You what?' And then we went into the bathroom and the bath had turned into a geyser!
Hot soapy water was spurting out the plug hole and making the most god awful noise like someone strangling Pavarotti. Must have been next door having a late night bath and - Lord knows how - their dirty water ends up coming up MY plug hole.
So, there's me, ladling out next door's bloody dirty bath water with a saucepan, and chucking it into the lavatory. The dog tried to help but all she could do was poke her nose towards the plug hole and then run away every time it went: 'gurgle, gurgle, bloop'. Still, it was nice to have the moral support.
After a couple of mins of chucking soapy water down the lavvy, it was, of course, filling up a bit. So, I flushed it.
What a bloody mistake!
Next thing you know the soap is getting more and more sudsy and sudsy and there's bubbles creeping over the edge of the lavvy bowl! It was like something out of John Carpenter except it wasn't on the telly it was in my bleeding bathroom.
So I'm scraping off the suds onto the bathmat with one hand and trying to saucepan out the bath with the other hand. Talk about: 'Fast Cake Machine'.
Luckily, next door didn't decide to have another bath.
Man Friday kipped through the entire adventure.
Where's Joseph Bazalgette when you need him!
Thursday, 3 November 2011
There isn't an orifice in my body that isn't leaking some sort of foul humour; green, yellow, see-thru - you've never seen the like (and you wouldn't, believe you me).
I've been coughing and choking and sneezing over the whole of Nag's Head; I've probably started one of them pandemics.
And absorbent materials? Shall we talk about them? All right then: tissues and toilet roll are absolutely futile in the face of my phlegm's velocity - comes shooting out my nose at 60mph. Terrible. The only thing that can temporarily contain it is Kitchen Roll: but even that has its limits.
Why don't we have linen handkerchiefs anymore? Yes, yes, everyone bangs on about how germy they are but they're the only thing that can save unsuspecting neighbours from...well, you can guess.
Hmmmm. It makes you feel like moving to Dubai. Except for the lack of off-licences the place would be perfect. You never see any Arab people whipping out a Vick's Sinus Nasal Spray.
Just realised that I have been moaning for the entire post: sorry. And sorry to all the men in the world cos women are always saying how THEY are the biggest moaners in re coldage. Well, last time I looked, I was a woman and I haven't shut up whining for over a week! I think it must depend on how much room you have in your sinuses to store all the phlegm; there must be a space the size of an apple inside my bleeding head.
Oh. Got another agent reading the full manuscript of Joe's Nan; some nice lady from California. So (as Geedswood says) all malleable joints crossed.
Promise next post more jolly.