Monthly Archives: June 2015

The Sixties, Seventies and Eighties Music Barbecue

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I was just about to get into the shower when Chris stood in the bathroom doorway and posed for me in a very grudging manner.

“Will this do?” he asked and pulled a miserable face (which made me cross).

“But you look normal,” I said crossly. “Why can’t you go along with it and make the most of it like everyone else?”

With a face like King Kong, Chris skulked off downstairs (probably with a “Bah, humbug” under his breath. A few minutes later, when I had jumped out of the shower and was dripping wet, he appeared again, this time he was wearing cream trousers, a maroon shirt and stripey tie.

“Now you look as though you’re going to a wedding,” I exclaimed. (I wanted to burst out laughing but held back to avoid incensing him any more.)

“Well, you tell me what to wear then!” he said, incensed.

“How hard can it be to look like a hippy, or a John Travolta, or a Huggy Bear character?” I as retorted. (Remember Huggy from Starski and Hutch?) “With your hair, surely you could make it a bit “Afro”, even though you’re blond!”

“But I never was a hippy, or a “Saturday Night Fever” man – guess I could try to look like Huggy Bear, if I back-combed my hair, but then I’d have to try to walk like him and talk like him…” Chris tried to be more obliging.

Swinging his shoulders like Huggy Bear, Chris went back downstairs and I joined him in our bedroom a few minutes later. It was easy for me; I put on some aquamarine floaty trousers, a skinny-rib summer top, a lacy top over that, some beads around my ankles, a snake bracelet on an upper arm and a big necklace that could possibly have been a present from Ten Bears – and I was a hippy, well, a makeshift hippy.

“What about a ‘Medallion Man’? I bet you wore a wide belt and medallion in the seventies?” I asked in response to his new “Beach-boy” look (half-mast trousers).

“Never!”

“Didn’t you ever go out?” I was incredulous. “Maybe you should go back that first outfit – the all black look – and you could wear a thick gold chain with it.”

Chris concurred after complaints that he would be hot in long sleeves. Stood there with his shirt open, my thick gold chain around his neck and his blond curly hair back-combed, I thought he looked like his mum – but I didn’t tell him at the time in case he might be put off and would have to start from scratch again.

We arrived at St.Mary’s Hall (the barbecue was a fund-raiser for the church hall) an hour later than stated on the tickets. The barbecue food was nearly all gone and everyone was sat eating at tables in the open air while they listened to the live band (who were quite good). While the nice man on the gate rushed around to find us chairs, we surveyed the gathering… there wasn’t a hippy, John Travolta, Huggy Bear or “Medallion Man” in sight, apart from Chris, who actually looked more like a used car salesman from the eighties (or his mum).

It threatened to rain and the air turned chilly. Chris was rather glad that he had opted for the long sleeves and warm black cords. I froze.

 

A High Price

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Two hours ago I sat down at my laptop to write a funny blog post about… well, perhaps I shouldn’t tell you in advance or I’ll spoil the fun for next time. For now, suffice to say that it related to getting ready for a barbecue. (Tune in tomorrow.) Obviously, something distracted and detained me. It began when I downloaded photographs from my mobile phone into my computer – I was looking for some photographs to accompany today’s intended post – and I noticed there was a film clip amongst the photos. I put the clip into the “My Videos” file and viewed it. The film took such a long time to download that I wondered if there was something wrong with my computer. There wasn’t. I hadn’t turned off the record button properly and the film kept recording from the inside of my shoulder bag, which was quite funny because the camera focussed on a particular hole in the crocheted material and the image seemed to wink every time my bag moved slightly.

While I was in “My Videos” I found that many of the clips inside the file were unnamed, therefore I had to take a look at them before giving each a title and filing them away. As you might imagine, several were rather funny and one, in particular, stood out. And that is why I have chosen for today’s blog post the transcript of a humorous conversation that took place four years ago when I was in Australia.

My friend Lorelle and I had gone with Bill and Lita, my car enthusiast brother and his gorgeous wife, to a vintage and classic car show; we were driven in Bill’s 1957 F.C. Holden, which was to become part of the exhibition. While Bill had gone over to speak to some mates we girls walked around the show. A pretty blue sports car, with two men inside, pulled into the space in front of us and the driver let the engine purr for our delectation…

Me: (To Lorelle) Listen to that car – that’s a nice little engine.

Lorelle: Yeah. (Pauses) It’s a Porsche.

Me: Ooh, ooh (with pleasure and pride) a Porsche? I’m a Porch (pronounced as Porsche). That’s my surname (loudly for the benefit of the Porsche driver).

Lorelle: No, a Porsche (softly, to save my embarrassment).

Me: I know (aside to Lorelle). I could pronounce it like that – couldn’t I? (Pause.) That’s my maiden name! (Loudly for the driver to hear). I should have your car!

The driver, in his forties and wearing a sporty cap, gets out of the car.

Driver: (Looks at us and smiles.) Well, you can have it for a certain price.

Me: Really? Does that mean you want money? Or do you want servitude?

Driver: Both!  Both, with me. Both, with me.

Me: What? (I scoff.) A life-long slave?

Driver: (He tries to keep a straight face.) That’s what I’ve been looking for.

(A pause. Lorelle and I are probably turning to look at each other.)

Me: Well, I could be a good slave.

Driver: You all talk yourself up but when it comes to action, then you all seem to go missing.

Me: Oh you think so (laughing), probably. Probably after a few years anyway! (Pause.) Lovely car!

Driver: Thank you!

Finis.

 

Feel the Burn

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It is eight o’clock in the evening and I’m in the shower – it’s my way of putting a full stop to work for the day. I always think about things when I take a shower, especially one at the end of the day because that’s when I usually take longer… to have a bit of peaceful contemplation. I expect I’m normal and you do the same.

I am thinking about renewing my membership at Dawlish Leisure Centre and attending gym sessions, “Bums and Tum’s and Zumba classes – you’ll perhaps remember that I started my fruit and vegetable diet two days after finding how small my wedding dress is – both of them! (See the earlier blog post entitled “A Tale of Two Wedding Dresses – A Mystery”).  Suddenly I imagine Alex from Aquacise shouting out:

“Feel the burn!”

That is what fitness trainers say – isn’t it?

I’m thinking that today of all days I would not have felt like going to the Leisure Centre even if I had had the time, which I didn’t. I turn my face into the jet of warm water and I am trying to remember if I went cycling this morning. I figure that sounds weird – I know I went cycling recently, but was it this morning or yesterday morning? After nearly nine stultifying hours of constant cleaning – windows (inside and out), all the paintwork, every piece of furniture in the guest suite, hoovering and scrubbing marks out of the white carpet (so many marks) – I have rather lost track of time. I do recall that, yet again, the tide was out at Cockwood Harbour, and I wonder how it can be that the tide is always out when I cycle there with Chris.

Whether or not we went cycling yesterday or today is immaterial – yesterday and the day before were nasty house-working type days aswell; the thing is that we’ve been so busy getting the guest suite ready for our visitors that there has been hardly any time left in any one day for anything else. I decide I will put off renewing my Leisure Centre membership for another week (or such time as a spot of leisure presents itself) and “Feel the burn” then.

Funnily enough, just at that point I feel some burning alright. I look down at my knees, which are red and swollen, and I laugh to myself – I have carpet burn!

 

Smooth Operators

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“I feel like a dentist,” Chris said.

“When I had one of my wisdom teeth out the young trainee dentist couldn’t get it out with normal pliers,” I began, “and she asked her dentistry teacher for bigger pliers – it was quite frightening for us both. She said I had a strong jaw bone.”

“Like Joan Sutherland,” quipped Chris.

Aside from being a fellow Australian, the late Joan Sutherland is my all-time favourite soprano opera singer (even if she did have a heavy jaw) so I felt a tad offended on her behalf). Then I wondered if my jaw is as heavy as Joan’s was…

“She’d probably have had a bit of cosmetic surgery if she had been born later – you know what it’s like nowadays,” Chris pondered while he was tugging away with the pliers.

We were standing close, Chris busy with the pliers whilst I was struggling with a gouging implement.

“We’re like surgeons,” I said.

“At the moment I feel like a wicked Nazi dentist collecting gold fillings,” answered Chris.

“I know, it is hard – isn’t it?” I chatted as I gouged and the tool slipped and brought blood from one of my fingers. “Now you know why I asked for your assistance.”

At last we finished one chair seat and then there was the other one to do. At length we were finished that one too and I took off the old material; now that the staples were out, I was about to reupholster the seat of the wooden chair using new material and a staple gun.

“Hey,” Chris had perked up, “as it’s nearly lunchtime do you think we could call this a staple diet?”

“Well, that would be a nail-biting experience,” I replied.

It’s always fun doing horrible jobs with Chris.

A Tale of Two Wedding Dresses – a Mystery

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It was the best of days, it was the worst of days… Please forgive me for taking poetic licence and exaggerating but, I can tell you that when I awoke this morning I was filled with dread about the day ahead (a bit of poetry for you, seeing as I took poetic licence). What, you may wonder, could have been so dreadful on such a nice sunny morning? Well, to my mind clearing out wardrobes and cupboards that haven’t seen the light of day for years is an awesome task; that was the worst of it!

Chris and I found that the only way to tackle the terrible job was to attack it head on and pull everything out; Chris kept bringing more bags and piles of horded goods – hidden treasures and duffers – and I had to ask him to slow the process because I was inundated. There were bags for unwanted rubbish and bags for charity shops; some quite nice clothes came back into the fold (in case my new diet, that I’m beginning tomorrow, actually works!). Amongst one of Chris’s deliveries from the upstairs cupboard was a crumpled dress.

“Isn’t this your wedding dress?” Chris asked.

“Yes,” I said holding the golden Chinese-style dress against me, then looking at the label, “but, how funny – I thought my wedding dress was a tight size twelve, and this is a fourteen!”

“It looks like the dress you wore. Shall I put it in the wash?” he asked and I acquiesced, feeling ashamed that my wedding dress had been so badly treated (it appeared that someone had tried to throttle it before throwing it into the hole of Calcutta).

“I hope those creases will iron out,” I said, letting my husband know that I still cared about my wedding dress and what it represents.

Half an hour or so later I was going through the wardrobe in the guest suite when I came across my wedding dress hanging on the rail. It was slinky and smooth… and it was a size twelve! Chris retrieved the other dress from the washing basket for comparison – they were identical! I can’t explain how it is that I have two wedding dresses. Did I, in a trance, buy another dress, try to kill it and shove it in a dark upstairs cupboard, then completely forget my vicious act? Perhaps it will forever remain a mystery.

What about the good bit – “the best of days”? Of course, it was the pleasure at the end of the day to see everything ship-shape. It seems that we have plenty of cupboard space after all. And there was the discovery of the well-preserved wedding dress… but there was another discovery aswell.

“Look at all these old photos of yours that I’ve found,” said Chris, “I didn’t know they were up there – must have been put to one side when we moving rooms around.”

I knew immediately which photographs they were – I had missed them when I was compiling albums a few years ago. After we had stopped work for the day I took a peek at them; there were photos of old Chris (as opposed to my present Chris who is “new Chris” in spite of seventeen years of marriage to him) and Richard – two of my ex-fiances (I didn’t get as far as buying the dress in either case) who both died young from causes other than a broken heart. There was a photo of Dad and me when my father was alive and well; photos of Mary and I in Paris, and me looking very innocent and pious with my hands in prayer in Notre Dame Cathedral; there was a shot of my son Jim and I smoking (he was pretending – or was he? – he was fifteen), and there were photos of nearly all my nieces and nephews when they were darling little tackers(now they are darling big tackers); and photos, too, of my mum and I on holidays in Crete, Germany and Teneriffe  – there was even an old photograph of my Aunty win and Uncle Jeff!

Looking through the snaps I felt a bit sad and yet happy at the same time – I was re-united with much of my past as a single woman. And, as a result, I really am going to diet in earnest as of tomorrow! Wouldn’t it be lovely if one day I could get into either of those mysterious wedding dresses of mine?

(Chris’s scanner isn’t perfection but you get the picture!)

Remembering Aunty Win

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Everyone should have an Aunty Win! My father’s older sister was a tiny little lady with a big heart. She didn’t have any children of her own but she never forgot the birthdays of her many nieces and nephews. Our birdlike aunt always wore bright lipstick and colourful beads. She used to make unbearably strong tea for her young guests but nobody complained – rather we would drink it and laugh later in the telling of how awful it was. She was a bit eccentric and therefore highly interesting, and we loved her all the more for it.

Yesterday I came across some snippets of writing that my sister Mary sent me last year; amongst them was one of Aunty Win’s recollections, written down by Mary because she had been so taken by the whimsical nature of the story…

Mary’s Record

Aunty Win told me a funny story today. She told me that when she was about fourteen she worked at  Drings chemist shop in Teignmouth. There were three men working there – the boss and two assistants. On her birthday (April Fools Day) she was late.  She knew she would be late, but just had no option as far as she was concerned.

She was a few minutes late and as soon as she entered the shop all three looked very angry. The boss looked at her and asked her rather crossly to explain why she was late.

She said she put on her very best voice and high and mighty pose and calmly said “Well,  you see today is my birthday, and I always have a lovely birthday. I waited for the postman.”

With that, one of the assistants looked across at the boss, then swooped across, kissed her and picked her up. She was only tiny, (about four feet ten inches or so.) Next, the other assistant did the same. The boss felt guilty, wished her a happy birthday and joined in the fun tossing her across the room from one to the other. 

This seems a funny thing to write about, but I can just picture the scene with Aunty Win all snooty and on her high horse. She has never forgotten the occasion and I will never forget the story.

The Curious Incident of the Teddy Bear Labourer and the Missing Tool (In the Nighttime)

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With a title like that you might have guessed that I have another joke – and you’d be right. The “Bird-man from Brisbane” left this in a verbal message on my phone this morning and, funnily enough, there were butcher birds singing in the background – it almost made me homesick for Australia!

The Curious Incident…

A teddy bear thought he’d apply for a job he saw in his local paper. He knew it was a bit odd for a teddy to seek employment as a labourer in the council’s road gang but he thought he would give it a go anyway. After all he had nothing to lose.

As luck would have it, the council was quite stupid and extremely P.C. Councillors were rather afraid of losing their good jobs if they weren’t seen to be unbiased and fair, and they had just had a pay rise. Following a lengthy discussion about the many benefits they could foresee by employing a teddy (some councillors thought the other workers in the team would feel “relaxed and unstressed” with a teddy in their midst, whilst one suggested he would be “a wonderful confidant”, and all agreed that the inevitable “group cuddles” would be much nicer than the usual punch-ups in the pub on a Friday night after work. And so it was agreed that Teddy should start work the next Monday.

The foreman wasn’t all that surprised to learn that a teddy bear was to begin work with the gang on Monday – he knew some of the councillors of old. In fact, he rather suspected that the council had plans to sack him and promote the teddy bear to foreman – he knew he would have to watch his back, especially if the bear had anything more than cotton wool for brains.

As it happens, the foreman didn’t need to worry, he found Teddy a most agreeable bear – charming company, well padded and ever so cuddly – and he simply couldn’t imagine a nasty thought coming from that cute teddy bear. They were instant friends, as were the rest of the road gang once they had been reassured that their jobs weren’t ‘on the line’.

Teddy was given his own special tools and a sweet little overall made from yellow and black check material.

Monday was a great success. Teddy worked hard and enjoyed having a nice cup of tea and cakes with the gang at thirty minute intervals (as per usual). Tuesday, too, went well. He brought along some more cakes (and sympathy for some fellows) and he was soon a well-loved member of the team.

Thus is was that poor Teddy was dismayed when he arrived at the store shed on Wednesday morning only to find that his favourite tool had been pinched overnight.

“What’s the matter Ted?” asked the foreman when he saw that the teddy bear was sobbing.

“I don’t really like to go on, but my best tool has gone  – it would be such a relief, not to think one of my friends a thief!”

“Oh Teddy,” laughed the goofy foreman, “don’t you realise that it’s Wednesday? It’s the day that teddy bears have their picks nicked!”

Fly on the Wall

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You may not be surprised to know that I was the fly, not exactly on the wall but  below the wall; you see there is always maintenance work to be done on our house, both inside and out, and now that the summer has arrived I’ve been doing all manner of out-door jobs. Today, for example, I was painting the risers on the steps coming down from the road gate.

Now firstly I ought to explain that the architectural front of our big Victorian terrace house (with bay windows and ornamentation from the period, as well as the terrace with its attractive white balustrade) is on the sea side; hence, both the main entrances, on different levels (the house has four storeys), are situated at the architectural back of the house, which lacks all the elegant features. We are used to it and don’t mind the back to front appearance as we come in from the road. We have a rose arch over the upper door and there are colourful flowers in pots on the small balcony (which is a suntrap in the evenings); the wooden footbridge and railings are painted in all shades of blue (to reflect the fact that our house is right by the sea) and there are climbing plants that grow over trellises and walls. Basically, we try to make the plain back exterior as pretty and welcoming as possible.

Each summer many visitors and holiday-makers stop on the pavement by our gate, painted like a beach hut (Chris’s handiwork!), and look over it, or the brick wall, to admire the flowers. When I happen to be working outside I often hear lovely comments from people on the roadside, and if they see me we might have a chat; and if they are really nice, and I have time, I sometimes invite them in to see the magnificent view from the other side of the house.

So… back to today. I was painting the risers on the steps just the other side of the brick wall. Incidentally, it was sweltering under the full rays of the sun on those steps. I was about half-way down – at the landing, from which the last flight of steps turns at a right angle – and therefore I was hidden from view (because nobody crooks their neck to look straight down). Suddenly I was aware of a conversation above my head. Judging by their voices (I didn’t see them) it was a couple, perhaps in their sixties or seventies, and they obviously came from Birmingham. Their accents were broad and I couldn’t make out what they were saying – I assumed they were admiring the balcony, now abundant with geraniums, petunias and clematis flowers. Then I heard the husband clearly as he projected his last sentence, as if it was intended to fall on the ears of any worker ants (or maybe a fly on the wall):

“Well they might have a good view of the sea but that’s all!”

The wife muttered some sounds of agreement and they moved on.

“That’s all?” I repeated the words inside my head.

I kept on painting and, as I did so, I made a mental tour of our cherished old house. It’s the same house we have lived in all the years of our marriage, and on which, during  a great deal of that time, we have renovated and remoulded (leaving the original features such as fireplaces and cornices, and restoring ceiling roses and picture rails etc…); and in doing so we brought into it new life and light. A few minutes later I broke into a smile. For all I know it may have been a “Chesire Cat” kind of grin. We love our house and all its secrets.

I was three steps from finishing painting when Chris came out through my studio door to see how I was getting on.

“Oh, it looks lovely!” he said.

And now that I’ve told you, I can forget the ignorant couple from Birmingham.

The Polish Husband – Another Joke

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Thanks for this joke go to my brother-in-law Geoff, who is one of my major joke contributors. (The other one is Roland.)

 

The Polish Husband Seeks a Divorce

 

Support Your Local Barber

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SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL BARBER…

AND GET RID OF THE LUNATIC FRINGE!