Chapter Twenty Four

Impetunia, my thrice-divorced and most troublesome of my three daughters telephoned me the other day, asking for my advice on dating. At first I thought she was after cook's time-honoured recipe for date sponge, which not even I have managed to wrest from her floury hands. I loathe date sponge, but that's not the point.

I was halfway through a semi-stifled yawn, when I became aware of Impetunia's shrill voice crying: "Mummy, please. Help me out here. No-one can deal with matters of the heart like you!"  Well, I'm not sure I possess a  heart but, as you will have ascertained by now, I do know a thing or two about men. 

There is a plethora of literature and videos out there produced by self-proclaimed experts on male-female shenanigans. In my time I have skimmed through some of the books (for research purposes only, mind) with titles such as: ...

The Rules; More Rules; Even More Rules; Women Who Love Too Much; Women Who Don't Love Enough; How To Change Your Man And Still Like Him Once You've Succeeded;The Only Man You Can Change, Is A Man Wearing Diapers (Nappies).

... all of which ended-up fuelling the flames in my ornate fireplace. As for the videos. Not worth further mention.

I endure a mild fondness for Impetunia although she has, in the past, displayed somewhat psychotic tendencies regarding men: stalking, screaming down the phone before hanging-up, and hiding behind shower curtains, to name but a few. I am glad to report that she has absolutely no aptitude for cooking, so her victims have been spared the bunny brew so far.

This is why, when she telephoned for my advice about dating, I initially assumed she was after the date sponge recipe and a soupçon of alarm coursed through my thoughtfully tousled hair. "Date sponge today, Bunny brew tomorrow", I thought. 

"Give me a moment to consume my morning coffee and cigarette, darling," I purred (I was actually growling as I do not find it amusing to be disturbed before midday) "and I'll get back to you." I slammed the phone down gently, cutting off her cries of distress.

Coffee cup in one hand and silver-plated cigarette holder perched elegantly between my lips I sighed seductively, and put pen to parchment:

 

"Never, ever leave your bed in the morning without a full facial, expertly-applied make-up and a visit to your hairdresser. (I recommend 'Horhaay', one of my favourite 'ex-es'.) Talk about Service With A Smile! 

Before those negative thoughts get going, 'rotate them!', as my dear friend, Kyron Beattie, would say. Stop wondering what the guy thinks of you! What do you think of him?

Make a checklist: 

Is he:  

a.)  Married, but his wife doesn't understand him and won't sleep with him? 

b.)  In a relationship, but his girlfriend doesn't understand him and won't sleep with him?

c.)  Just out of a relationship? ('Just', can mean any time from 2 weeks to 10 years or  more).

d.)  Gay or bi? (An obvious one, but some women never learn).

e.)  A mummy's boy? Clues to this are: Mater calls him repeatedly during the first date to ask if he's wearing his thermals; she calls him at least once a day; he phones her at least once a month; his surname is 'Morel' and he has a slight Yorkshire lilt to his voice.

f.)  British? Regarding the latter, much as I love my fellow Brits, suffice to say that one of  my native lovers kept his spotless white Y-Fronts glued to his parts until he was safely under the covers. I never worked out if this was meant to serve as a turn-on, but it left me cold and grasping in the dark for my soft towelling robe.

g.)  A Lufthansa pilot  who, on your first date, offers you a private flight to New York  before the foam from your cappuccino has settled on your upper lip. I jest not.

h.)  Sensitive and understands women. If so, run!

Make a checklist pertaining to yourself:

Are you:

Any of the above? 

So, you've met this man and he is free of all the above glitches. You've been on a couple of dates and spent an hour on the phone with him every evening for a week. You have NOT slept with him yet! You like him a lot, the conversation flows easily, you both laugh a lot, he gazes into your eyes and not at your boobs. You are sure he's smitten.

Oops! You HAVE slept with him already, well, why not? It's been a while, you're not getting any younger and he's clearly into you. And then ...

... the phone calls stop. The Messenger messages stop. WhatsApp goes dead. You start to eye the neighbouring children's bunnies with interest. Now what?

You agonize. His wife / girlfriend has found out and is delivering the goods again. His mummy doesn't like you. He still hasn't gotten over his first love. He's found himself - in the closet, and come out. His wife / girlfriend gave him a new pair of Y-Fronts for his birthday. His plane crashed. He's an egoistic bastard and can't figure women out at all.

Your head is spinning, your thoughts are out of control. You look at yourself in the mirror and feel SMALL. The smaller you feel, the Bigger and Better the guy seems to you. He grows in stature and importance. 

STOP! Take a raincheck.

This is where you create your very own video. Play back the times you spent together and, this time, watch each segment with unfettered eyes.

The conversation flowed easily:  YOU did all the talking because, let's face it, he was boring as F**k.

Or: After a cursory: "How are you?", HE did all the talking. Still boring as F**ck.

YOU laughed a lot: At his stupid jokes because you so wanted him to like you.

He gazed into your eyes: Sorry darling. He was gazing over your shoulder at the big-bosomed lady, with the Dutch accent, sitting at the table behind you.

The sex was, well ... you so wanted him to like you. Think Meg Ryan.

Sensitive? Schmensitive!

Which means you go for insensitive bastards. A non-sequitur if ever I saw one.

What can I say, darling? 

Get a dog if you want a needy companion who'll slobber over you.

Get a cat if you want a companion who's demanding and doesn't give a shit about you.

Whatever you do, steer clear of bunny rabbits."

 

 

 

 

Chapter Twenty Three - The Dying Art Of Flirting

Here I am, at long last, back from my summer break. I'm sure you have missed me terribly. My fans and admirers as well as Facebook have been nagging me to get back on track and I agree it is time once again to share my wisdom with you all.

This time my grouch is about ...

... and why men and women, both, need a refresher course.

My summer hols were unfortunately tainted by the clumsy attempts made by some males to attract my attention during what was meant to be a break from all that. Below is an example for the guys of how NOT to flirt. This picture depicts the kind of fore-fore-foreplay which dogged me frequently during my summer break and which inspired me to write about this subject. "Dog" being the operative word. It perfectly describes the attitude and tactics of the males who pursued me, flexing their muscles and wagging their tails. Who? Ever? Gave them the idea that this is the way to attract the attention of a lady?

Before continuing, I must clarify the difference between 'courting' and 'flirting'. Merriam-Webster defines flirting thus:

"To behave amorously without serious intent - He flirts with every attractive woman he meets".

Courting is a more serious matter, deployed in order "... to seek the affections of 
especially: 

(a) to seek to win a pledge of marriage from
(b) of an animal:  to perform actions in order to attract for mating

The aforementioned males had definitely skipped the flirting stage and moved straight on to the animal version of courtship. Not cool.

The true art of flirting, or coquetry as it has also been known over the centuries, is in danger of extinction. In this age of media-coupling, aided, abetted and encouraged by the likes of Facebook, Tinder and more dating websites than I am aware of (never having had the need to resort to such measures) the subtleties have all but disappeared.

Forget climate change, global warming, the alarming increase in vegans and men sporting man buns and bushy beards, this is a natural disaster! Which is why I feel moved to share.

To be a proficient coquette, one must hardly be seen to be flirting at all. In the 1800s ladies of the upper class used handkerchiefs and fans in order to communicate subtle messages to their admirers. True gentlemen responded in turn, not with hankies and fans, but with a slight raising of an eybrow, the discreet flaring of a nostril, a curl of the lip or the jutting of a tightly-trousered hip.

There are many examples of both fan and handkerchief etiquette from this golden age. These are some of my favourites:

True flirting is playful, even joyful. Babies and small children flirt, delightfully and innocently. Have you ever noticed the curious stare of a babe in a hi-tech-stroller-roller (or whatever pushchairs are called these days)? Catch their eye and they will smile, look away, look back and smile again and there you are communicating and having fun without any agenda.

 
Sadly and all too soon, children become aware of the effect this can have and innocent flirtationess is replaced with winsomeness. "Win-Some". Interesting. The combination of words says it all.

By around school age, the tactics used by boys and girls differ. Girls discover the joys of bitchiness and hair-tossing. The poor boys resort to hitting and stone-throwing in their confusion. I once received a phone-call from my neighbour informing me that my son had bitten her daughter at the playground. My immediate response was to tell her that Ninny (made up name, but it fits) should be flattered because he only bites people he likes. That did not go down well.

Actually, he didn't like her at all. She had destroyed the castle which he had spent ages building in the sandpit. I would probably have reacted in the same way.

As for the teen years well, by the time my children reached this torturous time in their lives, the mobile / cell phone was the going modus operandi. Although, I would like to interject that one of my sons, going on one of his first dates, picked a rose from our garden and asked me to help him to wrap it for his lucky gal. Okay, this doesn't count as flirting, but it is so romantic and "Ahhhh-worthy", I couldn't resist sneaking it in.




The first time I became aware of Tinder was through another of my sons. He had arranged to come for one of his rare visits but told me that he was first going to meet a young woman for coffee in town. When he finally arrived, I asked him who his date had been, did I know her? (I know everyone). As it turned out I did, but only because she happened to be on Tinder at the same time as he was checking out the local booty.

Now, I am not easily shockable so let me say, rather, that I was disturbed by this. I was shocked, however, when he suggested that I sign up on Tinder!!!! I don't think I have ever been so insulted in my life. As if I should need such a thing! I have trouble enough, swatting swains away right and left without further complicating my life.

Back to the hair-flicking. I was once sitting in a café with said son and the amount of flickerei going on was puke-enducing. Forgive me for diversitating from my usually impeccable vocabulary but these girls were pathetic in their attempts to attract attention. The fact that my hair at that time was cut in a neat, short bob, has nothing to do with the rage that rose up in me as they tossed, flicked and twiddled with their hair. I wanted to grab them by their locks and wrap their flowing tresses tightly round their necks. Or, at least, coolly inform them that there is a difference between "come hither" and "come fuck me".

I restrained myself, not wanting to embarrass my son who was completely unaware of their machinations - HAH!

Give me a fan or a hankie any day. Now that my hair is longer I am not averse to the occasional toss of my curls, but in moderation.

Like the employment of the word: "Fuck". Giving a toss is much more effective when done sparingly. 

Chapter Twenty Two - Loneliness Is In The Eye Of The Beholder

It's a couple of weeks ago now, but I had such a lovely birthday, extending across the weekend until Sunday evening. Birthdays are always imbued with a conglomoration of feelings and emotions, some bitter, some sweet, others bittersweet. I never reveal my age to anyone, not even my husbands. As far as I am concerned, I am forty-three and shall remain so for as long as decently possible.

This figure was settled upon after a young colleague asked me how old I was, a couple of years ago. I was so stunned by her cheek, I blurted out my true age without thinking. This will never happen again. Her response, however, was delightful. She looked at me in amazement and stuttered, "Wow! I thought you were, I thought, I thought you were forty ... three!" I forgave her apparent rudeness and only just managed to restrain myself from kissing her on the cheek.

I smiled mysteriously and pointed out that I actually only looked forty-two-and-a-half, thanks to my youthful complexion and impeccable sense of style.

My Birthday Breakfast consisted of a cappuccino enjoyed in the company of two equally youthful-looking girlfriends, though not quite as YL as moi. As it was my birthday, we allowed ourselves a break from the usual conversational topics such as politics, global warming and Harry and Meghan and spent an uproarious hour dissing our exes. 

No plans had been made for the evening, as my birthday fell on a Tuesday and I had arranged to attend a meeting of one of my favourite charities:
"The Society For The Preservation Of Stylish Footwear", aka "SOSF".

A small celebration was planned for the weekend in the company of dear Lord and Lady Honeycourt, Friday to Saturday and my children, Saturday to Sunday. I was fortunate to be able to squeeze them in to my busy schedule.

At the SOSF meeting a couple of people asked me if I would be celebrating afterwards. My answer in the negative was met by pitying looks accompanied by a strange pout. I almost expected them to illustrate their sympathy at my lonely state with a "woochi-coochi-coo".  

I get the same response when I tell people that I live on my own. I might as well tell them I've got an infectious disease which they will catch if they spend too much time in my presence. For my part, I often can't wait to get out and away from these folks. Not that I am not a social being, but everything in moderation. 

I believe that the fear of being alone is far more infectious than the actual state. In my view, this is responsible for many unhappy marriages /partnerships. Better the devil you know than live alone. Apart from the threat of feeling lonely, there is the view of 'society' to consider. A single woman is either someone to be feared or pitied. Feared because she is could present a threat to married women, pitied because she is obviously so unattractive she can't get a man. Needless to say, I belong to the first category of course.
 
Not that I am interested in other women's husbands (I haven't exactly got the best track record with my own) but I can hardly placate their wives by informing them that I find their pot-bellied husbands dull and boring.

I am so not thrilled by the idea of washing male socks and getting meals on the table at set times.

I revel in my 'empty' house decorated to my taste with my choice of paintings, prints, cushions, curtains, carpets, and imbued with creative messiness. There is no fighting over which film or series to watch of an evening, which friends to invite and no-one to nag me about the length of my phone calls.

My social calendar is always fully-booked, so I am glad when I can have ME time. I get fidgety if I am away from home for more than a day. Ah, the joy of closing the front door behind me, putting the kettle on, switching on my PC and settling down to write without interruption.

Then again, if the right man were to come along, I do have a spare bedroom, a few outstanding jobs around the house and plenty of work to be done in the garden.

  

Chapter Twenty One - World Rant Day

Sorry about the long delay m'dears but Real Life has been taking over my Virtual version to a worrying degree during the past weeks. This is the first moment I've found to take a breath and jot down some of my indiscutable opinions.

Apparently this week is World Friendship Week.

The only reason I am aware of this is that I received one of those ghastly messages informing me that I am one of the best people in the world, that good things will happen to me on Sunday if I pass the message on and that not very nice things will occur should I abstain.

What kind of friend would send such an ominous missive?

No true friend of mine, I assure you.
I suppose this is a darker adult version of the childhood ploy of bribing other kids with Smarties (M&Ms), exchanging candy for friendship. Except, in this case, threats are the currency used to barter with.

Why World Friendship Week? One day would suffice. Half a day would be even better. I am sick (and tired) of all these 'celebratory day' messages, thinly disguised as being well-meaning, which are just an excuse to be nasty to people.

Here is a message to all you well-MEANers:

I am SO NOT INTERESTED in pictures of hearts, puppy dawgs, kittens, angels and cute babies. I DO NOT WANT my message box to get clogged-up to such a degree that I am forced to spend hours deleting these unwanted images.

I have never forwarded any of this rubbish and I am still alive and kicking - literally!

If you want to tell me how much you love and appreciate me, send me a card or, even better, get off your ass and call me. If you can't be bothered, that's fine, but then leave me alone.

Send your poison candy to all your other 'friends' or to those wierdos who actually get scared by such hocus pocus. This smarty ain't interested in your Smarties.

Even better, save time and just place one big post on your Facebook home page. Speaking of which. Facebook, I mean:

If I get one more friendship request from some old U.S. Army widower I shall delete as usual then fly over to Texas/Florida and take care of him personally.

         

But not in the way he might imagine!

Chapter Twenty - Mungo Bungo

On Valentine's Day the following year I received a card from Mungo. I can't remember how I knew it was from him. I guess he must have signed it. I should have realised then and there that the brevity of his schooling had been due more to lack of intelligence than a desire to get on with life in the Real World. Still in a state of blissful ignorance and overcome by palpitations I ran and showed the card to one of my student friends from the college and asked her what I should do.

 

She advised me to phone him. I was terrified. I didn't know what I should say. Lilian took me firmly by the hand and led me to the ancient bakelite telephone situated under the main staircase. She continued to hold my hand throughout the phone call.

Before I continue, let me return to the aftermath of that disastrous morning.

The tears poured down my face for the duration of the drive home which took a good couple of hours. I had known Mungo for about four weeks and we had only met twice during that time, but I was In Love. The fact that I had been In Love with Max, one of the students, during the previous months escaped my notice. I had also had an ongoing crush on unavailable Greg but my love for Mungo threw them both into the shade.

By the time the Christmas holidays came around I was 'In Fancy' (a lesser form of love) with Steve who I met at a disco. But he was interested in my friend Maggie whose brother Chris, who was going out with my friend Jane, had a crush on me. Maggie, in turn, was in love with James who sadly did not return her feelings. So she settled for Steve and I returned to pining for Mungo.

I later discovered that James and his cousin Norman thought Mungo was a twat and had come close to pushing him into the swimming pool when they realised he had been hitting on me during the first party.

The outcome of the telephone call under the stairs was an invitation for Mungo to come and visit me for a couple of days during the Easter holidays. Mungo had invited himself. I was so starry-eyed, I agreed.

Finally the long-awaited day came and he rolled up in his Triumph. He stepped out of the car, removed his sunglasses and ...

"EEEEUGH"!, I thought. "Oops, I did it again. Gone off him as soon as I'd got him."

Now what? How was I going to get through the next few days? It's all a hazy memory now. He took me out to lunch and we visited a local zoo. I remember finding a red-haired zoo-keeper incredibly attractive. I normally wouldn't have given him a second glance, but compared to Mungo ...

That evening I enlisted the help of my best friend and her older brother. They joined us for an evening at a local pub, so at least I didn't have to be alone with my guest. On the way back to the car, Héliane's brother whispered in my ear: "God, what a jerk!", which didn't improve my mood.

I must have put on a good act because Mungo waved goodbye happily as he set off homewards. He was due to spend a year travelling in far-off lands before taking over Pater's farm so I breathed a sigh of relief and assumed that was that.

Well it was, for my part, but Mungo wrote to me from various exotic locations declaring his love for me. Luckily, during a similar situation (first boyfriend, first snog - see Chapter 19) my father had given me some excellent advice on how to deal with such postal outpourings.

"No matter what they write", he said, "remain non-committal. Just comment on the weather". That's what I did. Mungo rambled on about True Love and I kept him up to date on low fronts and the possibility of rain. Finally the letters stopped coming and I never heard from him again.

Chapter Nineteen - Gropeworthy

Hello dearies. It's been a while, hasn't it? I have been enjoying a well-earned break, watching Spanish soaps. I had intended to get away from all things Latin but I find these particular TV series fascinating and so close to my own dramatic life in many ways.

I'm on my third series right now and have come to the conclusion that it doesn't matter where the action takes place, or in which era, the themes are all the same: Money, Power, Love, Heartache, Murder, Betrayal and more money.

Disappointed as I have been by Julio und Jaime I find the main actors in these soaps so handsome that it is worth trawling through all the tempestad and tribulación. The women, apart from a couple of obligatory plain stooges, are  beautiful and glamorous and I enjoy admiring their outfits and jewellery. Some of the same actors appear in different series. I guess there must be a shortage in Spain.

 

Nonetheless, it is time for me to drag myself away from these distractions and fulfill my promise to my readers to write about my formative years spent wasting away at a small English boarding school.

'Gropeworthy' was a small all girls' school set in delightful English countryside. Having been unwillingly torn away from my London existence I found it anything but delightful. I pined for the noise of traffic and the scent of petrol fumes. The only sound at Gropeworthy was the excited shrieking of over-privileged young 'ladies' whenever the local 'V.B.s' (Village Boys) dared to roar up and down the driveway on their mopeds.

The aforementioned V.B.s serviced a number of girls year after year, meeting them behind the gym for a smoke and a grope. I observed the proceedings from a distance with disdain. I suppose this was all part of the gals' education, enjoying a bit of rough trade before eventually coming-out at the inevitable debutantes' balls.

 
I had already been snogged by my first boyfriend at the tender age of thirteen. I found the procedure disgusting and finished with him after about three days. Actually, I didn't officially end our budding relationship. I just neglected to tell him that I was moving away with my father to the country to live in an adult college for the study of spiritual matters, where he had taken on the post of Director Of Studies.

This was a progressive move on his part, especially for those days but, as I mentioned above, I was not impressed. I will write about this in a later chapter. For the purposes of this one I shall refer to my new home as "the commune" or "the college".

The only boys, apart from the village locals, which the Gropeworthy girls came into contact with were their brothers or their friends' brothers. Any male who wasn't a sibling was considered to be exotic and exciting. Apart from that, there were two young male teachers who the girls swooned over. I couldn't understand why.

I and my two dear friends who lived in the commune with me were the first 'Day Girls' to attend the school and thereby the envy of our schoolmates. Occasionally we were collected and driven home at the end of the day by a male member of the college and each time we were accompanied by squawks of: "Is that your brother?". As if there were no other alternative.

When I first arrived at the school I could not understand what the girls were saying. Although I had received a good education up till then, lost my Geordie twang and spoke perfect Oxford English, it was a struggle for me to decipher the strange sounds which emitted from their swan-like throats.

"Plastic" was pronounced, "Plahstic", "Elastic", "Elahstic" and the worst insult one could receive would be to be told, "Euw, you're sooo spahstic!".

"Reahly reahly", was another favourite, employed to express enthusiasm. "Reahly reahly" followed by "so ... soooo", added intensity to the emotion, whether positive or negative.

The Gropeworthy Up, Down-And-Up Again 'look' was an essential part of the curriculum. One would be regarded from head to toe and back again with a long, extra critical stare at the shoes in between. The experts would throw in a supercilious sniff for good measure.

My shoes were usually pretty worn down at the heels and my clothes either purloined from the 'Give Away' room at the commune or made by myself. I was unperturbed by this rude assessment, knowing that I would one day be celebrated for my fashion sense and talent as a designer, and that these beyotches would be queuing up to buy my creations.

I didn't realise at the time that this was providing me with a good lesson in the more subtle 'Rapid Assessment Ritual' which every English woman worth her marbles performs on first meeting another female of social standing.

For example, let's take two women waiting at the gates of a village primary school in a pictureskew village somewhere in the South of England. Woman number two is new to the area. Woman number one greets her in a friendly manner and asks her a few innocuous questions such as where she lived before, what did she do BC (before children), what her husband does and so on.

During this pleasant exchange she carries out the Rapid Assessment Ritual, but so subtly that the other doesn't notice. Unless she's me, in which case I bloody well do but don't let on because I am busy checking her out, too.

This whole process takes a couple of minutes at the most, by the end of which both women (assuming one of them is me) know what kind of school each went to, whether or not their husbands (or they themselves) are faithful, whether they like pop or classical music and at which class of supermarket they shop. Assuming they don't buy organic, which they most likely do.

I've run ahead of myself. Let us return to the privileged girls of Gropeworthy School For Young Ladies.

In spite of the 'reahly reahlys' and the early version of the Rapid Assessment ritual, these girls weren't as ladylike as one might have supposed. There I learned how to swear like a trooper. 'Shits' and 'Farks' flew around like runaway ponies. The lavatory humour would have made a sailor blush.

Sitting around the table at lunch one day a girl remarked:
"Look - these tables are just the right height for us to rest our tits on!".

Another time, one of the girls commented on the extremely long, painted fingernails of a fellow pupil:
"My gaahd", she exclaimed, "how do you manage to pick your nose without gouging your brains out?".

One last anecdote to conclude:

After having endured a couple of years at this school I was integrated enough to be invited to an overnight party by one of my classmates. I had met her brother, 'Mungo' (the name has been changed for possible legal reasons) at a previous party and we had clicked in spite of his being really old. Twenty-one if he was a day. After the party I spent an uncomfortable night with him on the sofa in the drawing room. NOTHING UNTOWARD HAPPENED, other than a bit of fumbling in true Gropeworthy manner. Trust me, my vagility was still intact by morning.

As the rising of the sun and the trilling of birds drug me slowly from my sleep, I heard a thumping sound from the room above.

"Don't worry", said Mungo in his fruity voice, "that's Pater's wooden leg. He lorst the real one during the war. Let's go and have breakfast".

Having spent the night on the sofa in my party dress (second-hand) and not having a hairbrush with me, I looked rather dishevelled as we made our way to the large kitchen. Standing in the doorway was Mater. I got the full RAR, without a hint of subtlety, plus the supercilious sniff as she drew herself up to her full height and asked Mungo:

"And WHO is this?".

He ignored her question and led me to the breakfast table. I don't think he'd seen her, what with her height not being that full.

 
It was only later I discovered that her indignation was not caused by my state of disarray. Unbenownst to me he had a steady girlfriend, beloved by the family, who happened to be away on holiday at the time.

I was devastated. I was only sixteen and I'd thought he loved me so. I was too young to fall in love and he was old enough to know. I let him go.

A few months later he came back into my life and, employing the skills I had learned at Gropeworthy School For Young Ladies, I grasped my chance for revenge.

TO BE CONTINUED ...

Chapter 18 - Hanging By A Bra Strap

Julio has been found. Inspector Clueless was bungee jumping off Waterloo Bridge (he does this to clear his head when dealing with difficult cases) when, on his way back up, he noticed Julio hanging by a bra strap. The bra was also attached. I was horrified to learn that it was one of mine which he had stolen after secretly trying on my clothes one evening while I was taking a long hot soak in the bath.

My first reaction on hearing the news was to laugh. I couldn't help it. That old song we used to sing as schoolgirls sprang to mind: "You'll never get to heaven in a Playtex bra ... because a Playtex bra won't stretch that far". Once I realised that Julio had been dangling by a thin strap of my 'Victoria's Secret' bra I would gladly have sent him to hell but then I decided his pink moped was a fair exchange.

Apart from being somewhat dehydrated, hungry and covered in pigeon shit Julio was in a pretty good state. I haven't heard from him since Inspector Clueless handcuffed him and took him off for a few hours of questioning. Rumour has it they have run off together to Puerto Rico where they are producing a very successful line in lingerie under the label: "No More Secrets".

So much for Julio.

Don't you just hate it when people start a sentence with, "To tell the truth ..."? I do. I want to say to them, "Noooo, lie to me why don't you?". People lie most of the time anyway. At least I do. It makes me suspicious when folks announce that they are about to be truthful. What have they got to prove, I wonder?

If they were to say, "To tell the truth, that hat doesn't suit you", that would at least be honest, if unacceptable and not worth paying attention to. I ignore those kind of truths. But when people start off in this fashion and then say something pertinent to themselves, aimed to impress, such as, " ... I never really liked chocolate ...", or, " ... I've always been a caring, sharing kind of person", I just want to gag.

The opposite of this is, "I tell a lie". Bull-crap! Who on earth would admit to telling a lie? The most excruciatingly boring version of this is the, "It was a Wednesday. No, a Thursday. I tell a lie, it was a Monday". This isn't bloody lying. It's a clear sign of the onset of dementia, but who's going to admit to that? As if claiming to be lying is going to blind their audience to the awful reality.

Another classic is, "Can I ask you a question?". First of all, it's "MAY I ask you a question?". Anyone who hasn't got their grammar sorted certainly may not ask me any questions! Second of all, they've already asked a question by asking if they may ask a question so it's a done deal. You can bet that the second question is going to be something horribly intrusive and personal.

Even worse than the 'Question' question is the, "May I say something?" question. What the hell is this supposed to mean? Of course they may say something as long as they're not mute. Ah, but this request is loaded. It implies a criticism of one. Translated, it means, "I'm going to tell you what I don't like about you, your habits, your housekeeping, your boyfriend, your hairstyle ...".

Nobody dares ask me questions of any kind. The exception being decent chaps with money asking if the may take me out to dinner, involving private jets and chauffeur-driven limousines.

Right now it's the last thing I feel like doing. I cannot tell a lie. To tell the truth, all I want to do is curl up in bed with my copy of 'Fifty Shades'. It sends me off to sleep after about two minutes, which is why I haven't got further than the first paragraph. 

What day is it anyway? Tuesday, Wednesday? I tell a lie. It's Sunday.

 

Chapter Seventeen - Kissy-Catchee In The Cornfields

No doubt you were surprised to learn of my humble origins in the previous chapter. I am not ashamed but proud of my time down the mines. My mother had been taken from me when I was but a wee thing and my father brought me up single-handed. He was a teacher and progressive for his age and those times.

He believed in women's lib and as soon as I turned fourteen he looked at me kindly and said:

"Hawai lassie, ahm not having yee namby-pambying aboot, waitin' fre some fella te marry yee. It's off doon the mines wi' yee". (Away lass, I'm not having you namby pambying about, waiting for some fellow to marry you. It's off down the mines with you).

I spat at him scornfully and said:  "Ah will if ah mun, but ah won't be stayin' there fre long. Yee'll see!". (I will if I must, but I won't be staying there for long. You'll see!)

In retrospect I am grateful that he encouraged me to learn to fight may way through the grittiness of life and become the successful woman I am today. My heart is formed from glistening coal as black as a starry night and I speak as I find, which offends some but impresses others. It is this honesty and directness which has always helped me on my way.

These hard times were shared with four lads who have remained my close friends to this day: Gordon, Chris, Alf and Georgie. Gordon was crazy about me but I was unmoved by his attentions.

He consoled himself by spending every minute of his free time with his mates strumming his guitar, singing and dreaming about becoming a famous pop star. Which he did, Chris, Alfie and Georgie following in his wake. Like me, they now live a life of luxury and are adulated world-wide, yet none of us have forgotten our roots.

I was the muse for some of Gordon's songs. In one of them, a huge hit, he goes on about not being able to stand losing me. "Gordy pet," I said, "don't be such a nincompoop. You never had me in the first place. Seriously, get a life!". He was stung by my directness at first, but he knew me as a plain-speaking lass and didn't sulk for long. In fact, his having been stung by me gave him the idea for his stage name which has endured ever since.

He also wrote a song loosely related to the two Bevs purely to keep them pacified as they were so jealous of me. Bless him. The title was "Rocks On", I think. Something to do with not switching on a red light. Why the light was red, I do not know to this day. I never listened to the song. We had a lot of power cuts in those days, so I guess Gordy was just trying to be helpful to society.

My True Love at that time was Kev. He had no aspirations whatsoever, which is why he continued to work the mines long after we had moved on. Our budding teenage love did not survive the test of time or the gaping social divide and I have no idea where he is or what he is doing now. Nor do I care.

I prefer to hold on to the sweet memory of Kev swaggering around the neighbourhood followed by his faithful groupies, Bev and Bev, aka Bev One and Bev Two. I referred to them as the Beverly Sisters in public and Kev's Slappers in front of their backs. They looked up to me because I worked the pits while they stayed home, played with dolls and helped around the house in preparation for married life.

Kev strutted around, hands in his pockets and chewing gum in his mouth. He would spit on the street, nonchalantly and disdainfully, as the Bevs walked a respectful ten paces behind. I was always ten paces ahead. No way was I going to let on that I fancied him.

Occasionally one of the Bevs would lag behind, hoping to catch Kev's attention. He never noticed but his best mate, Kevin, would nudge him in the ribs and yell: "Kev. The wife wants yer!". At which Kev would spit on the ground and walk on without missing a beat.

We spent every minute of our spare time playing 'Kick The Can', 'Rounders' and 'Kissy-Catchee' in the cornfields. The latter was my favourite. I would run and dodge the kisses of the boys I didn't fancy while trying unobtrusively to get caught by Kevin. It was exhausting.

He had two younger brothers, Rick and Roger, who were keen on me. Rick was okay, he made me laugh, but Roger was only eight years old and had a constantly runny nose. He hung around me like a limpet, gazing up at me with adoration. Luckily he was so small I could easily pretend not to see him but the snotty nose ... UGH!

We did dares, too, and this was my chance to really impress Kev. Once we broke into a walled orchard. The wall had bits of broken glass jutting out at the top. I can't remember how we got in, but we had to climb up and jump off the top in order to get out again. This didn't bother me as I had had plenty of experience climbing over such a wall from our back garden into Richmond Park.

(Here the author must interject and ask that you not question any inconsistency regarding my living situation, location or time frame. Just accept it and enjoy the story).

I was one of the last to jump. Not because I was scared but so as to be assured of an attentive audience. There they all were, waiting with bated breath (Bev and Bev with baited bras). I jumped. I jumped for Kev. These days I wouldn't jump for anyone because I am ME, I know who I am and I LOVE MYSELF! If anyone doesn't like me they can take a leap off a broken-glass-topped wall.

Being the fem fatal of the neighbourhood had its dangers. One lad decided to show his adoration by wandering around with a handful of darts, threatening to aim them at me. Now you can understand why I am sometimes so tough on men.

About a year after I had moved to London to further my career and Gordon, Chris, Alf and Georgie were enjoying their first taste of fame, I received a letter from the two Bevs. It read:

Dear Holl, 
Kev wants to go with you. He was sitting on the tractor trailer and he said, 'I want to go with Holl'.  

Luv,
Bev 'n' Bev

A year later I found the letter under my bed, screwed up in a ball. I decided to reply:

Dear Beverly Sisters,
Tell Kev he's missed the boat.  Who the hell's 'Holl'?

Kindest Regards,
Ms. Hollipolitely
 



 

Chapter Sixteen - All Quoted Out

If you think I'm going to report on the Royal Dingdong, forget it. Enough has been said and shown on TV already.

My outfit was a huge success. The bride admitted to me that she was quite envious. In fact, she confided that she would have exchanged my dress for hers at the drop of an Ascot hat, but she was already standing at the altar by that point. Her hubby-to-be was vying for her attention so we agreed to continue our chat later during the reception.

What the groom didn't realise was that Megsy had her mobile tucked somewhere underneath her train so we managed to message each other undisturbed until she had to say her wedding vows. I texted them to her. She has a memory like a sieve. It was a struggle for her to remember the poor guy's name.

That's enough royal tittle tattle for now. Let's get back to a more interesting topic.

One thing you will not find in this account of my doings is a peppering of soppy quotes à la Facebook. If there's one thing I can't stand, and there are many, it is those awful wise sayings that people keep posting.

The worst are the whiny ones where people complain about how others are only interested in them when they are useful, but then drop them when they can no longer function.

For heaven's sake, it's obvious. Who needs people who are not useful? I certainly don't. Manipulation is the highest form of survival in my view. "Use 'em, wring 'em dry and spit 'em out", is my motto. There's plenty more suckers where they came from.

Another quote which makes my hair stand on end is the one about how selfless one has been, only to be stabbed in the back by various ingrates. More fool them for being selfless in the first place. Being a kind and helpful philatelist never got anyone anywhere.

Then there are quotes which spew out pseudo 'spiritual teachings' reminding one to live in the NOW and be AWARE. How the hell can one live in the NOW? It's already over before it's begun. Why would one even want to live in the NOW? The past and future are far more interesting. One can tweak details of the past and create a colourful and promising future for oneself.

As for being AWARE, it's all very well in theory but who looks up from their mobile or i-pad for long enough to be cognisant of anything other than the silly quotes they read all day long? An old boyfriend of mine was run over by a bus while doing just that. I think I might have given him a shove but still, had he not been so preoccupied this could have been prevented. At least I was conscious of what I was doing.

Totally gagworthy are the lovey-dovey friendship messages adorned with hearts, demanding that one pass their friendly feelings on to all their contacts and more. Some of these are accompanied by ominous predictions of death, or worse should one not comply.

What kind of friend sends death threats? The kind who hasn't got any friends left I suppose, 'cos they've all died as a result of not passing on 'the friendship message'. It's a wonder I'm still alive.

I never pass these things on but, come to think of it, I could forward them to my enemies. On the other hand, bad idea. There are too many of those and I can't spare the time.

The idea of LETTING GO is fodder for other popular quotes which are regularly bandied about. I have no problem with letting go of old boyfriends, but money, shoes and designer clothing (my own label, of course) are another matter. Astrologically I am a crab and I would rather lose a limb than part with my beloved possessions. This is my nature and I could not separate from it if I wanted to, so this quote gets the 'delete' treatment along with the others.

I could go on, but I can't be bothered. One last quote before I fall off my chair with ennui. The one about not giving up because of one bad experience. Darlings, I have had oodles of bad experiences. Did I ever think of giving up? Why would anyone even consider doing such a thing? This quote is completely redundant in my view, speaking as a northern lass who crawled her way out of the pits to reach the dizzy heights of society.

"Ah knaa what Ahm taakin aboot, Paddy".

Hah! Surprised you there didn't I? Yes, my life hasn't been all roses. It's been a hard and rocky climb and, what's more, I did it My Way - without the help of one single quote.

However, there is one quote I can tolerate because it applies directly to me.

Quoth by my dear friend, Oscar Wilde:

Toodle-pip for now!