Hymn

Pint Sized

“Are you being served?”  She asked.  Of course I laughed.  I know irony when I hear it.  Ah, the joyful exuberance of post-modernism. 

‘Ha, ha!’  I giggled, ‘Yes, very funny.  Very good.’

She just looked at me.

I looked back.  The barmaid was just a girl, I suspected no older than six or seven.  I realised that while not impossible, this was hugely unlikely and certainly illegal.  However it was the only way I could explain how she looked twenty-years younger than me.  It was either that or I’m not 26 afterall.

It’s said that age becomes an issue when you start to comment that policemen and doctors are younger than you.  I’ve noticed things like that since 1862.  There are giant tortoises that look suspiciously youthful next to me these days.  Thank God, I’m not a horse:  I’d have been sticking broken crockery years ago.

Nothing dates me more convincingly that when, in the absence of a better description, I have to refer to today’s heroine as ‘the young woman behind the bar.’  She didn’t know what I was talking about.  This, as you may know, is not unusually.  She didn’t follow my immediate connection to a 1970s comedy series set in the Grace Brothers’ department store.  I suspect she didn’t actually know the 1970s existed at all.

She stood looking blankly at me.  Actually, not quite blankly, she looked at me as though I smelt of wee and mothballs. 

‘I’m sorry.’  I offered as she handed me a pint of warm beer, ‘I though you were being funny.’
“Do I look like I’m being funny?”

I had to admit, there was no argument there.

Reject

It feels like a significant milestone.  A rite of passage.  The dawn of a new era.  Like a caterpillar bursting from a chrysalis, I have become a man or least a gangly moth.

Of course, lots of my friends have done it already.  Always the cool sophisticated ones.  Naturally, they did it easily, without effort or embarrassment.  As if they’d done it before.  And well.  They didn’t blush.  And there wasn’t an awkward silence afterwards. 

Some people assume I am an old hand, what with having a family and all.  But no, this was my first time.  And although I feel different now, more grown up, more worldly wise (I suspect there’s even a glint in my eye), the whole experience felt rushed and clumsy - I can’t say I really enjoyed it.  Maybe next time will be easier.

Of course, it wasn’t really my fault at all.  Peer pressure.  You know how it is.  I’d have put it off till I felt ready.  Actually, they made me do it. 

Putting us together like that - it’s always a dangerous combination.  Risky business.  Just ask the friends I took to Prague.  Still, there I was.  In the situation.  They’d asked me to choose the wine.

Now, I don’t want you to think that I’m a Country Hick.  Of course, I’ve picked wine before.  I know a vine when I see it.  All those summers hitching up skirts and dancing around in those barrels didn’t go to waste.  Ah, Maria and her juicy grapes.  It’s a vivid image, even now.

No, choosing is not the issue.  Choosing, schmoozing.  That’s fine.  No, it’s the ritual tasting when the bottle is brought to the table.  Always a bit of a joke in the past.  “Yes, that’s fine” I’d say even without tasting it.  Afterall, what do I know? 

Tonight though, I sat in the midst of the Company Directors.  My new Company Directors.  Like a prize winner on the Captain’s table.  Or a jester.  Or a performing monkey that can balance a spoon on his nose.  And they’d asked me to choose the wine.  It was obviously a test.  Clearly, my future depended on my not being an arse.  Just for once.  Just once not to see an arse reflected in that shiny spoon.

The waitress was clearly in on the joke.  ‘The wine, Sir.’ she said, mockingly.  I knew it was The Wine - I am not a fool.  Even if I am a fool, I know a glass of wine when I see it.  I looked sagely at it.  “Yes, it is” I replied after some consideration. 

I took the goblet.  I rubbed my nose delicately around the rim.  I made the glass whistle.  I looked up.  The Directors were clearly impressed.  I took a sip.  But then - catastrophe.  It tasted fishy.  Not actually of fish, you understand, although I haven’t eaten jellied eels so I can’t be entirely sure, but definitely not right.  Or possibly not right.  Or maybe a little wrong.  My initial confidence ebbed away.  Perhaps this wine was meant to taste like this.  Oh god.  Whatever I did next, I was going to fail the test.

The Directors were still looking at me.  So was the waitress.  So, it seemed, were the people standing in the bus queue outside the window.

“I think this wine is off” I said as apologetically as I could.

The waitress pursed her lips and took the glass from me.  She glowered with more loathing than I’d seen since the incident at the haberdashery during the January Sales.  She tried the wine.  ‘I don’t think it is, Sir’ she hissed.

The Boss, who is, of course, used to taking charge, tried the wine.

I held my breath.

‘It’s definitely corked’

I nearly kissed him and then remembered the reason I had to leave my last three jobs.

The glass went around the other Directors.  They agreed with the Boss, naturally.

Scowling, the waitress took the bottle away.  We watched as the Chef tried it.  He looked over.  He shook his head.  I could see him gathering phlegm in his throat as he prepared the Au Poivre sauce.

She brought new bottle over.  It didn’t taste of fish.  I was saved.  I was a hero.  I had correctly rejected a bad bottle of wine.  I was not going to be unemployed. 

I knew I had become a man.  I tucked into my particularly flavoursome steak.

Light Bulb

Two hundred and forty bulbs.  One of them doesn’t work.  Which of course means none of them work.  Brilliant.  Of course testing them before I’d wrapped the two hundred metres of flex around the tree might have been a good idea.  Hindsight is a wonderful thing. Still three hours well spent, I think.  Testing. Retesting.  Re-retesting.  Every single bulb.  Two or three times.

It was the fuse.

Merry Christmas, Ho, Ho, Ho.

Babooshka

“Did you go out on Friday night?” I asked innocently.
‘I nearly did but I went home after a glass of wine.’
“Why?  What happened?”
‘Oh, nothing.  It just tasted too good.  I knew if I had another, I’d end up having drunk four bottles without realising.’
“Four bottles?! What, on your own?”
‘Oh yes.  I can do it, if I try, but it does get a bit messy.’
“I can imagine.” I lied - half a beaker of Ribena and I get a bit giggly.

‘The worst time was when I ended up singing karaoke.’
“Yes, I know what you mean: I can’t sing either.”
‘No it wasn’t that.  I’m quite a good singer.’  She sounded slightly hurt but carried on.

‘I was at the local Working Men’s club you see.  I was singing Babooshka.  I love that song.  And I just got a bit carried away.  You know how you do.  I stripped off while I was singing.’
“I’m sorry.  What?”
‘Yeh, stripped’
“To what?”
‘Nothing.’
“What?  Not just down to your bra and knickers?”
‘No.  Starkers.’
“Really?!”

I struggled to imagine how she might have taken all her clothes off and kept singing.  Maybe she knew all the words and wasn’t trying to read them in time with the bouncing ball.  Maybe she’d been improvising with the dance moves a little, perhaps neglecting some of the less well known movements in order to pull her legs out of her jeans.  Maybe she took her shoes off first.  Trying to release a snagged high heel would have taken up an entire verse or more, I’d have thought - she’s have run out of time.  Unless they had the track on Repeat, that is. 

Each time I imagined a solution, the mental image was so vivid, I had to shake my head to clear it.  Don’t get me wrong, she’s a lovely girl, but not one I want to see naked.  Even in my head. 

‘Yeh, it was terrible.’  She continued.  ‘I didn’t remember anything about it until next day when someone posted a sock, an earring and my knickers through the door.  My boyfriend of fourteen years dumped me for it.’
“That’s terrible.” I agreed, not knowing which aspect of it was most terrible.

‘The worst of it was, they banned from the club.  Banned me.  For life.  Apparently the old men didn’t want to see my muff on Dominoes Night.’

Grand Parents

Now here’s a curious thing: why has everyone I’ve met in the last week divulged a significant ancestor?  There’s been the great-great-grandson of Lord Elgin (of the Marbles), the grandson of Edvard Munch (of the Scream), the niece of Vivienne Westwood (of the lack of knickers), the great-granddaughter of Gertrude Jekyll (of Gardens and Hyde).  Why even the man to whom I first shared this strange series of coincidences confessed he was related to the scientist who discovers an evolutionary-crucial aquatic fossil. 

All I can say about mine is cobblers.  From Northamptonshire, you see.  And not a glimmer of celebrity among them. I don’t think it is entirely fair.  How, given six core strands of dna that describe the entire human race, have I inherited the ones without the slightest whiff of glamour?

Pick Her

If only I’d realised earlier.  I never knew it was this easy.

As one who likes to follow the latest fashions from a healthy distance, usually two or three years after everyone else, I thought I would try one of these social networking sites.  Apparently a lot easier than having actual friends.

After adding all the required information for my public profile, you know the sort of thing,  date of birth, place of birth, mother’s maiden name, name of my first pet, every PIN number I have and assorted bank account details, it asked me for my relationship status.  And it did a marvellous thing.

As I entered T’s name, the system, rather generously I thought, offered me every single ‘Tracey’ in the entire network.  There were thousands of them, all helpfully accompanied by a photograph and the invitation to ‘Choose as spouse.’

I wish someone had told me sooner: it would have saved all sorts of mucking about.

Crabby

Now, I’m a dead ringer for a pirate. I think it’s the wooden leg. Of course it’s not all Ho-ho-ho-and-a-bottle-of-rum. More than once, I’ve felt the strong arm of the Royal Navy as I’ve gone about my business. Indeed, I hardly wear my eye patch these days for that very reason. And poor Polly - she’s still looking for a shoulder to fly on.

So, with my nautical appearance, it’ll surprise you to discover that I’ve never been particularly close to a lobster. I once became friends with a hermit crab but nothing came of it. Nope, never been near a lobster, not touched one, let alone eaten one but here in the crustacean-catching capital of Cornwall, well, when in Rome, eh?

Not wanting to rely too heavily on my natural sea-going facade, I called on my inherent skill at disguise to blend in. Never failed me yet. I ambled to the quayside resplendent in the finest Fisherman’s Jumper that Marks & Spencers had to offer, some rolled up trousers and Wellington boots. I carried my pipe for added authenticity.

“Ah-ha! I’ve come to catch me a lobster, me Hearties!” I declared.
‘Fah-coff yer stew pedpric’ Said the nearest barnacled-trawlerman

Not understanding the ancient local dialect, I laughed merrily, made my apologies and looked for someone for spoke English.

“Ahoy there!” I called to a man working outside Harveys - A Fishing Family from 1860. “I’m looking for a lobster.”
‘You are, are you?’
“Yes, a proper pink lobster.”
He stared back. There was something familiar about the way he looked at me. I recognised it but couldn’t quite place it.
“Do you work here?” I wondered.
He glanced down at the Harveys crate of fish at his feet and the overalls with Harveys emblazoned on them. He took off his Harveys baseball cap and scratched his head.
‘Uh huh.’
“So, it’s mister Harvey is it?”
‘No. I’m Smith.’
“Right.” I’d clearly made a friend. “Can you help me catch crabs?”

Now, I suspect this goes without saying, but naturaly I caught them myself. With my own bare hands. From the cruel and untamed ocean. Great ugly sea monsters. My God, what a struggle! What a fight! Man against beast. Life and death.

Of course when I say ‘caught’, I obviously mean pointed at. And when I say ‘my own bare hands’ I obviously mean the gloved hands of some ruddy fisherman. And for ‘cruel untamed sea’ read large concrete tanks. And helpfully, they came with rubber bands around their claws. Mind you, I suspect it was still pretty close to the real-life experience of tossing about hauling up lobster pots. I could see a glint of new-found respect in Smith’s eye as I bundled the three shellfish into my orange and green tartan shopping bag.

Little S didn’t take to them, as I let them scuttle around the kitchen floor in front of her. Knowing her as well as I do, I realised immediately that she was probably upset at them being bound. I released their claws to show them in all their glory. This didn’t help at all. Within moments assorted lobster legs littered the floor and S was screaming hysterically.

T raced in, still dripping from the shower.
‘What in God’s name are you doing?’

She hoisted our distraught daughter into her arms and away to safety, muttering under breath as she left.

I looked at the prehistoric armoured tanks wheeling the floor, chopping wildly at each other.

Right - separate pens, I thought.

Did the little fuckers appreciate my attempt to take them out of harm’s way? Oh no. Little bastards. Bloody lethal, those claws. Still, after a bit of effort, and the loss of a few more legs and nearly a finger or two I deposited one in the sink, one in the bath and one in a bucket outside.

Still, all worth it in the end - only a third of the diners were violently ill for the next couple of days, S stopped shaking and is pretty calm so long as she doesn’t see anything with more than four legs and my fingers are healing nicely. Another triumph, all in all.

Tall Tail

Most days I am woken by an erect tail rubbing my toes.  I always surprised to see it poking up at the end of the bed.  Some people say I’m a lucky man.  I’m not so sure: I don’t always want my cat stroking me with his fluffy appendages.  Especially first thing in the morning.

This morning, he didn’t.  Although he meowed, there was no rubbing.  There was no stroking.  There was no proud greeting.  He was limp.  Droopy, floppy, broken.  Now, that’s got to be upsetting for any male.  Even more so for one who’s already has his balls chopped off.  He looked disconsolate.

“Hey, Boy, what’s up?”  I asked.
He looked back with a level of disdain only cats can muster.

His tail was doing some very odd things.  It had adopted the shape of an ‘n’ for a start.  Now, I’m not a veterinary expert, but I suspect this is not a normal and healthy exploration of new body poses by an avant-garde feline.  I’d even go as far as to say something might be wrong.

Of course, I should have known better than to try to stroke it better.  It really, really didn’t make anything better at all.  Nothing at all.  Not one thing.  In fact, it’s the closest I’ve ever come to petting an atom bomb.  If scientists could harness the violence that erupted in the milliseconds after my fateful words “Come on, Boy, let’s have a little look at it” they’d solve the global energy crisis overnight. 

Even for a veteran like me, used to my psychopathic cat exploding at the slightest provocation, such as breathing, this was quite startling.  T and I retreated behind the duvet as its outer covering is torn to shreds.

“I think he might be hurt.” I announced after some consideration.  Such insight, such brilliance - sometimes I scare myself.

‘I think we should go to the vet.’ She responded, ‘And by the way, you’re bleeding over my clean sheets.’

T had clearly lost her mind in the blind fury of the situation.  The vet?  Take our cat.  To the vet.  Our cat.  The vet.  Our cat.  She had gone bananas.  We had to have a new kitchen the last time we tried to take our cat out of the house in his carrier and the neighbours moved to Stockport.  Surely she wasn’t serious.

“Couldn’t we do something else?”
‘Like what?’
“Erm, put a splint on it.”
‘You think he’ll let you?  You want to try?’

I looked at the bloody stumps where a great pianist’s fingers once were.  She had a point.

“Couldn’t we just sell the house to a vet?  Wouldn’t that be easier?”

T gave me a look that appeared surprisingly cat-like.

“All right” I said meaning the exact opposite but recognising a battle lost. 

I fetched my welding gloves and put them on over the ones I wear for gardening and the leather ones I’m supposed to drive in.

‘My God!’ said the vet half an hour later, ‘Have you had an accident?  Sit down, sit down; I’ll call an ambulance.’
“No, no.  Please don’t bother.  We’ve brought our cat.”

He looked at the vision of peace and contentment sat quietly in the carrier.

‘This little puddy tat?’

He looked at my bloody face and back to the cat without making any connection whatsoever.  I knew that this was going to be messy.  Messy in the same way the Charge of the Light Brigade could be described as a tad messy.

‘Right.  Well, we’ll have a look at him then.’
“What, on your own?  I don’t think that’s wise.”
‘It’s all right we do this sort of thing all the time.’ 
“Still, I think it’s worth taking some precautions.”
‘Don’t be silly.  Leave him in our capable hands.’

T went and locked herself in the car outside.

Unlocking the cage had quite a dramatic effect.  It was not unlike switching on a circular saw with whiskers.  I felt quite sorry for this young man, fleeing in blind terror from this maniac of an animal.  I held the door open as he escaped the treatment room.  He slammed it shut behind us and slumped panting against it.

‘I think we’ll need to sedate him.’ He gasped, ‘I’ll get the tranquiliser gun.’
“Smashing! We’ll collect him later.” I chirped, rubbing my hands together gleefully until remembering how much they hurt.

We have Gizmo home now.  The vet wheeled him out like Hannibal Lecter and I couldn’t help noticing the number of fresh scratches adorning every member of staff.  I think I heard someone sobbing in a back room.

“Thank you very much.” I said. “He is still sedated though isn’t he?” I added nervously.
They nodded sullenly.
“Thank you.”

We’ve unlocked his cage and are waiting for him to come round. 

We waiting, locked in the bathroom.  With a chair against the door.

Not Too Knightley

It’s not every day you get to meet a Hollywood film star. Unless of course, you are a Hollywood film star in which case I suspect the novelty quickly wears off. Until the drugs or a sycophantic PA kicks in. But, and this may disappoint you, I am no superstar. In fact, the most glamorous thing that has ever happened to me was travelling in a taxi that once carried the drummer from Bucks Fizz. At least that’s what the driver told me. So, it was with some nervous excitement that I prepared for tonight’s celebrity movie screening.

While many attractive women now have restraining orders against me, there are still the odd one or two that haven’t cottoned on the peril stalking them or whose lives have been blissfully unspoilt by any contact with me whatsoever. That offers me a surprising and frankly, dangerous, amount of freedom.

I sat on the front row. Little more than a quick lunge away from tonight’s beautiful guest. And my, she was beautiful. Thankfully no-one noticed my lolling tongue.

I had a cunning plan. Not quite as clever as my scheme to confuse Madonna into adopting me as her next African baby, but pretty smart all the same. Even if I say so myself. Now, without wanting to give too much away, it involved me talking to her and the question and answer session at the end of the film. I don’t want to bore you with the finer points of my technique but let’s just say all that raising my hand practise throughout the day certainly paid off.

Now, you’d think, after all those court appearances if nothing else, I’d be reasonably adept at public speaking. Sadly not. Admittedly tonight my elocution was further impaired by my floppy mouth organ and the torrent of saliva cascading down my chin, but even by my sparkling standards, this evening’s attempt at talking to an attractive woman reached a new level.

I had spent the day rehearsing my question. Something that would demonstrate my understanding of drama, highlight my wit and woo her with calm sophistication. You know, all my defining characteristics. Needless to say, the drooling helped no end.

My chance came in the silence that immediately follows any request for questions. I nearly chickened out but my reaction to being elbowed by my chaperone was mistaken by the compere as a signal.

“Yes, the man at the front with the pink lollipop. Oh, I’m sorry, it’s not a lollipop. Yes, you.”

‘Hanna-umph-ey-wassa-isum?’ I said clearly.

“I’m sorry? What?”

‘Hiff-le-iddy-mi-on-fe-fi-fum?’ I repeated, making an effort to enunciate.

He looked at me. She looked at me. The rest of the audience looked at me (at least I could feel their eyes burning into the back of my head, which I think indicates some kind of interest).

‘Wizzum-cam-is-fella-do-wah-diddy-diddy-dum-diddy-day?’ I really couldn’t make it any plainer.

There was a pause. And silence. Obviously stunned by the calibre of the inquiry.

She simply nodded. There was curious look in her eye.

‘Hmm.’ She said. I’ll never forget it.

“Well, thank you. And anyone else?” the MC asked hopefully.

Her gaze lingered on me a moment longer. I could tell she was smitten. And frankly who could blame her? Until some insensitive oik, oblivious the first shoots of young love blooming at the front of the auditorium, asked some stupid question about motivation and the rehearsal process. I mean really.

All too soon the session was over. She left with what I can only describe as undue haste as I started over in her direction. Overwhelmed with emotion, I daresay.

But all was not lost. As I left the building, in a side street just behind, she was waiting. Now the untrained eye might assume she was hiding or waiting for a car. Not me. I knew. I had captivated her.

‘It was me!’ I said boldly, lunging towards her.

She recognised me, of course, but weakened by burning passion, stumbled backwards. Luckily her PA/ minder caught her and by some fluke accident opened the door of a passing cab and bundled her inside. I think she was as concerned as me. I banged on the door trying to alert the driver to his mistake but couldn’t seem to catch his attention.

I chased them down the street.

I caught a last fleeting glimpse of her as she craned back out of the rear window. She was clearly upset. Like I say: you can’t blame her.

So Near So Fur

Finally little S is moving. In a fashion. She’s a Bum Shuffler. It’s not elegant. It’s not efficient. But it is progress.

While I am delighted that there’s some movement going on, it is not universally appreciated. The friends with whom we are staying have a cat. Funny looking little thing, hence its name - Ugly Cat. She is foolishly affectionate. And slightly less fluffy than she once was.

Squealing with pleasure, my little girl shuffles back into view from behind the coffee table. Her tiny hands clasp rather large clumps of ginger fur. She looks very pleased with herself. The cat isn’t quite so happy.