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.'


  1. I don't see what George has to do with your arse and your elbow, but I hope all three of you make a speedy recovery. Mrs Labradoodle should buy you a bottle of Tiger Balm and offer to massage it in.

    1. Dear Mr Bananas, greetings! Don't you panic about my arse, it has totally recovered and has gone back to work at Barclays, ho!

  2. Ho ho! (George's depression / heart condition / your arse elbow drubbing / Mrs Labradoodle's litigious woes notwithstanding). I have missed you, Carol, old chum. I meant to write a comment on your last post to this effect but I am being tardy of late. Too many weeds to kibosh, not enough liquid derris, as the saying goes. Anyhoo thank crikey, you're back.

  3. Chance, matey! There will NEVER be enough Derris in the world. Or ant powder. Sigh.