Sunday, 15 July 2012

Sleep Asparagus, plus 4 Joyce Grenfells go Amsterdam

Cor, hang on a minute - will have a bash a this a tad later cos the old wooden stairs are beckoning!  Damn you, Marquis de Monistrol!  Back this evers.

Back again!  Just had a decent little kip on the sofa - feel miles more like it.


A few days back, I was out the back of the garden (behind the fence) having a bit of a sweep up - you know, old sweet wrappers, desgarded beer cans, broken glass, empty wallets, severed limbs etc - when I saw my sister coming down the path.  It was a surprise visit cos she'd been to some arts and crafts thingie where you learn to make felt.

I know, I know, I dunno why she is always wanting to make obscure stuff: probably so that she can make me a waistcoat out of it, bless her.

Anyhow, we're coming down the path together and in thru the gate and we just get to my wide open back door, when you can hear the loud sound of someone peeing from a height.  We stopped still and looked at each other.

Then, Man Friday's voice comes booming out: 'Dear oh lord,' he shouts, 'Anyone'd think I'd been sleep-eating asparagus.  Talk about stinky piss, ha ha!'  Me and my sister looked at each other again.

Then, Man Friday does his best Brian Blessed voice, and starts singing to the tune of 'Purple Rain' by Prince: 'Stinky piss...stinkee piss.  Stinky piss....stinkee piss, tell me how do you like this?' and then flushes the lavatory, does a huge Mwah, hah hah laugh and says out loud: 'I have defeated you with my opposingable thumbs'.  Me and my sister just stood there, in the doorway, and waited.

He finally comes out the loo and into the front room and sees the pair of us.  He goes a whiter shade of pale.  He says: 'I didn't know anyone was there.'

My sister says: 'Obviously not, but you also conflated a gerund with an adjective - a far greater misdemeanour.'

A quick note about my sister, Ro.  She is about 20 years older than me, and we have been brought up quite differently.  She is (don't faint now) posher than the Queen, quite fiersome (when she has to be) and quite the proper little personage - dontcha know.  She is a Civil Servant, has always been a Civil Servant and works in some part of the Treasury where they deal with overseas transactions as pertaining to UK tax law (or something similar).

Now, she works with 3 other ladies in the same sort of department who are all of similar age and have Joyce Grenfell voices and Joyce Grenfell dresses and shoes and handbags; the other difference is that they don't wear little white gloves...anymore.

Hang on, that's the doorbell - will publish this and finish it tomorrow.

Sunday, 8 July 2012

George drops a sausage; causes unforeseen results

Esther's husband, George, has been having a right old time of it - getting his blood pressure medication sorted out.  For several weeks the old lad has been either bright red in the chops and saying: 'Give us an hand, girl, I reckon I'm having an H.A.' or, looking like 'next stop - BoneYard' and then saying: 'I'm floating away, help,' but then passing out instead.

Anyhow, as you can imagine, it's been getting him down - no end (you know, in that depression thing sort of way).  So, the other night, him and Esther were cooking sausages and mash for tea.  Esther drained the boiled potatoes herself, whilst George was doing a wee - cos she knew he'd insist on doing it himself but, as she said: 'the combination of boiling water and wobbly old men is not one to be combined,' and fair enough.

However, when it came to getting the sausages out of the oven, George totally insisted on doing it.
'I'm not an invalid,' he said, all testy, 'Just because my blood won't make its mind up, don't you think I'll be entering the paralympics.'   Which was a bit odd.

So, next thing you know, he's leaning over, tea towel in hand to get the sausages out.  He grabs onto the tray, goes to stand on straight and suddenly his knees give out and the tray with the sausages (and George) are wobbling all over the kitchen.

Esther rushes to help George, but George says: 'Save the sausages, I can't bear the sight of a sausage on the floor.'  Which was, again, a bit odd.

So, Esther saves the sausages and George sinks to his knees on the kitchen floor, crying his eyes out.

'Oh, oh,' the poor bugger says, 'Don't worry about me, Ess, how are the sausages?'

Well, turns out that all the upset with his blood pressure has sent him temporarily (so the doctor says) a bit doo dally, and poor George now thinks he's in the late 1940s and that rationing is in force (hence, 'save the sausages').

He is now on some cheer you up tablets (which he won't take) that Esther crushes up and puts in yoghurts for him.  Luckily, George has always liked yoghurts.

Oh.  I was taking the rubbish out to the bin when Lally (the ridiculously large Labradoodle) comes bounding up to say hello.  It was all over in a second (cos the speed of the dog far excedes my brain's ability to comprehend events) but I'm suddenly on my back with Lally on top of me, licking my face.  And cor blimey, my arse and elbow (amazingly, yes, the two of 'em) didn't half hurt.

Mrs Labradoodle (I wish I could remember her name) comes running up.  She's shouting:
'Lally, Lally!' and the dog isn't taking a blind bit of notice, bless her.

So the poor woman, all distraught with a face full of worry, comes and grabs Lally with one hand and helps me to my feet with the other.
'Oh, my word, are you alright, Carol?'
'I think so, oh my backside took a whack though.'
'Oh, I'm so so sorry, Lally slipped her leash.'

Then I have to lean against the bin doors, to get me bearings, and Mrs Labradoodle says:
'Oh no, is it internal bleeding?'

And, I tell you honestly, for a nano-second, even I thought: 'IS it internal bleeding?' and then rationality stepped to the head of the queue and I said:  'Course it's not, love.  I reckon it takes more than a dog landing on you.'

I reckon people watch too many medial dramas - internal bleeding, I ask you.

Then, this is the bit that got me, Mrs Labradoodle says:
'Oh Cal, I'm so sorry.  Are you going to sue?'

It took me a sec to work out what she was on about.  The word 'sue' as a verb is not the sort of word you hear, apart from on telly.  So I said:  'Sue who?  The dog?'
And she said: 'No, sue me.'
So I said: 'Why would I sue you?'
And she said: 'Well, it was my dog that knocked you over.'
And I said: 'That's mental.  If someone kills someone, you hardly sue his mother, do you?'

I know that wasn't perfect reasoning but it was the best I could do, on the spot.  Mrs Labradoodle said:
'Oh, Cal, you are good.  I can't tell you the times that people have said they'd sue me, over Lally's behaviour.'

You know, in the words of Ozzy Osborne: 'Who can we get on the case?  We need Perry Mason.'

Wednesday, 4 July 2012

Don't Panic, Capt. Mainwaring!!

Dear old blog-matekins, hello!  Sorry I've been away so long, am totally rubbish and should be shot (and more than likely will be!).

Ben - ta so much for Leibschen award thingie - how decent of you!

So what's been going on, you lazy mare (I hear you asking)?  Well, what bleeding well hasn't!  I'll give you a short list to be going on with and will write at length on Sunday.

1.  Have been teaching ungrateful little bleeders how to read; it's like pulling teeth (mine!!!)
2.  Hiding from Melvis.  He has been evicted but will not leave (don't ask me).  He is (get this) appealing to the European Court of Human Rights.  Me and him had a few words, I must admit.  He said he had the human right to stay in his flat; I said that the council workers had the right not to have  a bucket of excrement chucked over 'em.  As you can imagine, he didn't like this one bit.

However, he had given me the right needle by saying that he'd burn his flat down before he gave it up.  I reminded him that I lived directly underneath him.  He replied: 'Don't you worry, girl - I'll give you the nod before I torch the place.'  So I said (all sarky): 'Very decent of you, I must say.'

And that's how we started to have 'words'.  And in re the 'human rights' convo, I never bothered with the negative trumping positive rights argument - I tell you, talk about 'pearls, swine, pearls, swine.'

Sorry, am as cross as two sticks.

3.  Have been (ha!) writing a new book.  Got 30k words in...then decided I hated it.  I sulked for about a week.  Man Friday swiped me with a tea towel and said: 'You've got a face like a slapped arse, and I'M the one has to look at it.  For gawd's sake, woman - you're the one who wrote the bloody thing.  Bloody Rumpelstiltskin never came in the night and typed it up.'

He is quite right.

4.  My ex-husband (lovely bloke) left his job (chartered accountant) and went to crew on a yacht going from Antigua to the Azores.  He wrote an account of the doomed ocean crossing.  When he has finished editing (it's a short story), I'll ask him if you guys can read it.

Alistair Dance (my ex) is 50yrs old, has always been an accountant but always wished he was a sailor/wreck diver.  So, he gives up his job, rents his house and sails orf round the world (well, not quite - they came a bit of a cropper!).  Can you believe it?  I salute him, I really do.  Talk about 'bottle'.

p.s. dunno why I made that piece of news no.4 (cos it wasn't what I was doing myself) but nevertheless...kudos (as the kids round here (and Socrates) say).

Must buzz orf now, need booze.  Carol

p.p.s in re the latter: wished I lived next door to Ben and Claire and their fabby wine cellar!!  Am stuck with a bottle of: 'yes, missus, very good wine, very red.  Made of grapes, 100%', as recommended by Farid down the local shop.  Still, for 2.75 per bottle, it won't kill you to add a spoon of sugar to take the edge off it!