In addition to my Dad’s big feet and curly hair, I have also inherited another characteristic; his basic inability to say no. It would seem that my Dad has now handed that particular family torch over to me, and frankly, I think I may be destined to be a perpetual reluctant volunteer for the remainder of my life.
I have been roped into babysitting, shopping, taxi driving and cooking; and anyone who knows me realises that I am neither a gifted nor an accomplished cook. I have lent money with promises of repayment which never actually materialise. I was once invited to a sleepover at a friend’s house thinking that a girls’ night was in the offing when in actual fact, I babysat her toddlers whilst she went out and didn’t return until the following afternoon.
Most recently one of our elderly neighbours said that the person taking them to the airport had pulled out at the last-minute, subsequently I ended up getting up at 3am on my day off to drive them to our not so local airport a couple of hours away so that they could catch a flight to London and then onto Dubai, first class all the way. To be fair they did offer to reimburse me for the fuel used and my Dad said that he would feel more comfortable if he knew that they both got to the airport safely. Enroute to our destination we called into the motorway services so that they could get something to eat and whilst there they bought me a burger. As I dropped them as near to the terminal as I could and secured a trolley for their luggage, the old lady said that as they’d paid for lunch, I’d now been fully recompensed but could I please ensure that I was punctual when I picked them up on the return journey. Clearly she was under the misapprehension that shelf stacking is such lucrative employment and my bosses enable me to work flexible hours in order that I can accommodate any friend requests.
So the very next time a friend asks for a favour, I’m going to shut up and sit on my hands because saying no, does not make me a bad person. What about you? When was the last time you were taken advantage of or have you a magic formula for deflecting unreasonable demands?
Chloe, the Koi Carp Thief is thankfully the only real mouser in our rescue cat quartet; Hobo on the other hand who only has one gear, reverse, will only be tempted by slow, elderly or infirmed quarry. So it was no surprise when she brought in a little vole the other morning and promptly dropped it in the middle of the lounge where it scurried away under my mother’s armoire for safety. Not wanting the little creature to end up as Chloe’s supper, she was exiled to the kitchen where I sought my mother’s help as my Dad was down at the allotment checking on his vegetables.
My mother was unhappy about my rodent search & rescue mission and declined my request for help with those immortal words “I can’t Deborah, I’m eating a yoghurt”. As I pointed out unless she wanted gnawed soft furnishings, she was going to have to gird her loins and assist me with the task in hand. We stacked all the furniture in the middle of the lounge and managed to corner the terrified little creature behind the curtains; the plan was that when I moved the drapes, my mother would move in with an empty washing up bowl. As I prepared to lift up the damask curtains, I noticed that my mother had inched a few yards away with the capture receptacle. I pointed out that as the vole only had little legs it was unlikely that he was a long distance runner and insisted she move nearer.
As I gingerly moved the curtains, the little vole made a dash for it and a high-speed chase ensued. At some point during this mad half hour, I took over the responsibility for the washing up bowl and at one point did manage to capture said vole. However, once inside the bowl he managed an Olympian high jump out of it; who’d have known that a tiny vole was that athletic!
Hot & flustered my mother and I decided to take a break, whilst she went for tea, I opened the patio doors and promptly sat down on the furniture mountain in the middle of the room surveying the disarray. It was during our tea break that we noticed the little rodent scurry alongside the far wall and warily make it’s way through the patio doors and ultimately freedom. He looked back at us one last time; as if to say chaos, disorder and destruction, my work here is done!
An ear-splitting scream shattered the neighbourhood that morning as the young Swedish au pair who had moved in alongside the young family into the house opposite, came running down the drive bawling. Fearing the worst, both Dad and I hightailed it into their house to be confronted by six-year-old Sophie and her younger sister Emily crying at the top of the stairs. Neither of them appeared to be hurt, however, water had begun to flow down the stairs and it appeared to be coming from the bathroom.
Upon closer inspection after wading through a few inches of water, it seemed that the toilet was blocked. Young Sophie informed me that both mummy and daddy had gone to work leaving them in the safe hands of Camilla, the au pair, who was shrieking at the water pouring through the bathroom floor into the kitchen below.
As my Dad can always be relied on in any crisis; he immediately switched off the power and located the water stopcock before we started investigating any further. Sophie stood forlornly in the bathroom as my Dad ascertained that there was a substantial blockage in the bathroom pipes. I tried to comfort Sophie whilst young Emily told me that they were both upset because their pet guinea pig Mr Giggles had died the night before. I suggested that we all pop across the road to our house for a nice piece of chocolate cake when Sophie started to howl like a banshee whilst telling me that she was pretty sure that her parents were going to ground her.
Puzzled I asked if she had done something to cause the flood and in between sobs, she told me that she had decided to give Mr Giggles a burial at sea just like her mummy had done with their goldfish Nemo when he had died. As she didn’t want Nemo to be on his own anymore, she had despatched Mr Giggles in the same way.
Sadly a professional needed to be called and my Dad had to calmly explain several times over the telephone to the plumber that a portly ginger guinea pig was the cause of the blockage. I secretly thought that the plumber would be dining out on that particular story for sometime to come.
I have to admit to having a love/hate relationship with writing; there are days when I would absolutely do anything rather than put pen to paper. These are the times when I can so easily become distracted by a zillion things. The bottom line is I detest working to deadlines, self-imposed or otherwise; which may well be because I am just a lazy undisciplined trollop but also because much of my life and most probably yours too is dictated by so many time bound appointments. Subsequently a treasured hobby which has previously brought so much joy can so very quickly become a routine chore when limits are set.
Most of my posts are written and then re-written in Microsoft word then edited continuously to the point that I’m still frequently unsatisfied even when I’ve published and then still think I could have done something better; so in many ways I probably make blogging much harder than it need be. On days when I am struggling for inspiration, I often start by imagining that I am writing to one of you, particularly if it’s something that has made me laugh or caused me to shed a tear; which somehow makes the process more worthwhile. As a born procrastinator, I know that if I don’t sit down and write a post immediately when an idea hits me, I am going to struggle if I leave it until later on. However, give me a subject which I feel passionately about and it’s a surefire labour of love which can keep me typing away until the wee small hours.
So please tell me what motivates all of you to write & post every day and what keeps you sat at your computer typing away when Bubblewitch or Facebook beckon?
If you want your life to be a magnificent story, then begin by realizing that you are the author and everyday you have the opportunity to write a new page
- Mark Houlahan
I’m back! A little weary to be honest and back to work tomorrow; what was I thinking! It’s been a bitter-sweet few weeks; the camera which my Dad painstakingly chose and bought for me as a Christmas present was stolen along with all my holiday pictures.
The only internet access I managed was thirty minutes a day in this tatty little internet café sat amongst some very inquisitive Turkish youths with gravity defying locks; think Duran Duran! The café owner was neither a big smiler nor my biggest fan and wondered why I wasn’t at home in the kitchen barefoot & pregnant. I was initially a bit of an achy face with access to WordPress being a bit hit & miss but I did have great fun in sharing some of your Facebook pictures and YouTube postings with the same curious young Turkish boys that can only dream of other lives in faraway places.
So please bear with me, it’s going to take me a while to catch up, I’m glad to be back sleeping in my own bed without waking up nose to nose with another family member who doesn’t have four legs and fur; always a bonus!
I had intended to catch a national express coach to Bristol airport for the trip back to Turkey but my Dad was insistent that his allotment buddy, Ernie take me in his clapped out old transit van as he had an errand in the area. Ernie is the retired village Unigate milkman whom my Grandma used to describe as” a confirmed bachelor who dresses well”. Apparently, in his heyday he used to deliver to the most remote dwellings in and around our Devon village come rain or shine in his three-wheeled electric cart. He would get up in the middle of the night without a day’s sickness, so that the community could find the bottles of gold and silver top on their doorsteps each morning.
As I had planned for this trip like a military campaign and my Mum had insisted on packing my suitcase for me the night before to ensure that it was done “properly”; I had a good hour or so to spare before Ernie arrived to collect me. I suggested to Dad that we go for a last stroll around the cemetery but as it was already a bitterly cold day with a fierce north-easterly wind blowing, he wisely declined saying that if we went, he probably wouldn’t be making the journey back. On that uplifting note I was relieved when Ernie pulled up outside earlier than anticipated obviously hoping for a swift cup of tea and a slice of my Mum’s homemade Lemon Drizzle cake.
Fed and watered, we made our way outside where Ernie gingerly and quickly loaded my case into the rear of the van. When I hopped in the passenger side, the smell was the first thing I noticed along with constant cooing; it was then that I realised that my fellow passengers were racing pigeons. I cast a reproving look at my Dad who in turn beamed a reassuring grin at me whilst reminding me that it was kind of Ernie to offer me a lift. The look on my mother’s face was priceless as she surveyed the rusty bodywork of the rundown vehicle and the seed & feather encrusted upholstery. Secretly, I was rather worried that I would remain a pigeon magnet once I alighted from the vehicle.
After a teary farewell and armed with a packed lunch which could feed an entire squadron, we drove onto the A38 Bristol bound. I soon discovered that the mechanics of the van were as ropey as the bodywork and doubted whether this van had ever seen a service. As the exhaust rattled and roared like a Sherman Tank, I could barely hear his country and western CDs and the smoke billowing from the rear of the van ensured that no other motorist was tail gating. For someone who’d spent most of his life driving at no more than 20mph, life on the open road without a cargo of gold top and yoghurt had rendered Ernie into a demon behind the wheel.
Stopping only to nip to the loo quickly and to break open the sandwiches, the two-hour trip passed surprisingly speedily even without ear defenders. Ernie delivered me on time to my destination just as he had with all his other deliveries across the years.
So as a tribute to our esteemed former milkman here’s the ballad of Ernie, who drove the fastest milk cart in the west by the late beloved comedian Benny Hill. Now surely you didn’t expect me to leave you without a good laugh!
The lyrics: ERNIE (THE FASTEST MILKMAN IN THE WEST)
Benny Hill – 1971
You could hear the hoof beats pound as they raced across the ground,
And the clatter of the wheels as they spun ’round and ’round.
And he galloped into market street, his badge upon his chest,
His name was Ernie, and he drove the fastest milk cart in the west.
Now Ernie loved a widow, a lady known as Sue,
She lived all alone in Liddley Lane at number 22.
They said she was too good for him, she was haughty, proud and chic,
But Ernie got his cocoa there three times every week.
They called him Ernie, (Ernieeeeeeeeeee)
And he drove the fastest milk cart in the west.
She said she’d like to bathe in milk, he said, “All right, sweetheart,”
And when he’d finished work one night he loaded up his cart.
He said, “D’you want it pasturize? ‘Cause pasturize is best,”
She says, “Ernie, I’ll be happy if it comes up to my chest.”
That tickled old Ernie, (Ernieeeeeeeeeee)
And he drove the fastest milk cart in the west.
Now Ernie had a rival, an evil-looking man,
Called Two-Ton Ted from Teddington and he drove the baker’s van.
He tempted her with his treacle tarts and his tasty wholemeal bread,
And when she seen the size of his hot meat pies it very near turned her head.
She nearly swooned at his macaroon and he said, “If you treat me right,
You’ll have hot rolls every morning and crumpets every night.”
He knew once she sampled his layer cake he’d have his wicked way,
And all Ernie had to offer was a pint of milk a day.
Poor Ernie, (Ernieeeeeeeeeee)
And he drove the fastest milk cart in the west.
One lunch time Ted saw Ernie’s horse and cart outside her door,
It drove him mad to find it was still there at half past four.
And as he lept down from his van hot blood through his veins did course,
And he went across to Ernie’s cart and didn’t half kick his ‘orse.
Whose name was Trigger, (Triggerrrrrrrr)
And he pulled the fastest milk cart in the west.
Now Ernie rushed out into the street, his gold top in his hand,
He said, “If you wanna marry Susie you’ll fight for her like a man.”
“Oh why don’t we play cards for her?” he sneeringly replied,
“And just to make it interesting we’ll have a shilling on the side.”
Now Ernie dragged him from his van and beneath the blazing sun,
They stood there face to face, and Ted went for his bun.
But Ernie was too quick, things didn’t go the way Ted planned,
And a strawberry-flavoured yogurt sent it spinning from his hand.
Now Susie ran between them and tried to keep them apart,
And Ernie, he pushed her aside and a rock cake caught him underneath his heart.
And he looked up in pained surprise and the concrete hardened crust,
Of a stale pork pie caught him in the eye and Ernie bit the dust.
Poor Ernie, (Ernieeeeeeeeeee)
And he drove the fastest milk cart in the west.
Ernie was only 52, he didn’t wanna die,
And now he’s gone to make deliveries in that milk round in the sky.
Where the customers are angels and ferocious dogs are banned,
And the milkman’s life is full of fun in that fairy, dairy land.
But a woman’s needs are many fold and soon she married Ted,
But strange things happened on their wedding night as they lay in their bed.
Was that the trees a-rustling? Or the hinges of the gate?
Or Ernie’s ghostly gold tops a-rattling in their crate?
They won’t forget Ernie, (Ernieeeeeeeeee)
And he drove the fastest milk cart in the west.
Overwhelmed and bone tired is the best way to describe how I’ve felt over the past few weeks. I think we’ve established that I really am not cut out for a career in nursing and the additional overtime I have been working has taken its toll. My Dad has at last relinquished my laptop having spent a marathon couple of weeks streaming various programmes in an effort to alleviate the boredom of recuperation. I am way behind on posting and catching up with you all; if I’m honest I think that I may have lost my way a little.
Regrettably, Ahmed has decided to remain in to Kahramanmaraş reluctant to leave his first salaried regular job for something less reliable in a coastal resort; which whilst I completely understand was something I hadn’t prepared myself for. So I’ll be flying off to Turkey on an epic journey to the mountains where I’ll be spending a few weeks and not lying poolside in the sunshine for a rejuvenating holiday as I had hoped. I’m not sure what to expect or even whether I will have any internet access. It’s certainly not the dream Turkish life I had hoped for, living in a small traditional Turkish town miles away from the coast and no expat community nearby; but I’m going with an open mind and open heart because at the end of the day that’s all I can do.
I was always destined to be friends with someone who starts a sentence with “My aunt the white witch”. Boo has worked alongside me fighting the good fight against a common foe aka Poison Pen, for as long as I can remember. She has shared in the tears, the complete despair and frustration of working in a soulless job. She too has been on the receiving end of many a stinging verbal attack from the Evil Queen and has also been there to bolster my spirits when it’s been my turn. In fact, after a particularly vicious verbal onslaught a bar of chocolate or cup of tea would somehow find its way to me, as if by magic, reminding me I was not alone.
Boo usually cycles into work, multi-tasking at the same time by wearing a face mask startling many a motorist en route. Even with a green face she still looks more supermodel than Wicked Witch of the West although another of her assets is she is blissfully unaware of drop-dead good looks; don’t we all love friends like those! She has the most infectious laughter together with a ditzy good-natured personality.
On one of our Christmas shopping trips when we shopped ‘til we dropped pausing only to visit a coffee shop; she remarked that I was probably glad I wasn’t a family member as I wouldn’t have to receive any of the tat she had bought for Christmas presents!
My particular favourite story about her is when one of her beloved cats went missing and she toured the neighbourhood, tin of cat food in hand. Finding her cat she brought him home but was perplexed when he spent the next week or so under her bed hissing & spitting when no amount of coaxing would entice him out to eat. The mystery was solved when her own errant cat eventually climbed in through the cat-flap one morning and took an instant dislike to the usurper who was installed under the bed. Realising her mistake, Boo at once liberated the fake cat so that he could be reunited with his family.
A chat over a quick latte with Boo can restore my sinking spirits on any rainy day and like many of my friends out there past and present who have been around to give me a lift when life has seemed a tad unfair …………. thank you for being there!
I can’t remember a time when you haven’t both been an integral part of my life although it was as small babies that you both sneaked in and overnight I became Fabulous Auntie D. I certainly wasn’t ready for the practicalities of two small children even if they did look like little angels whilst behaving in a manner which dictated otherwise. I fumbled my way through several of your younger years learning as I went along with a spoonful of Calpol for you and a few more for me. Even now disposable nappies remain one of life’s great mysteries for me along with pushchair assembly. Whatever lessons you learned from me, I learnt a shedload more from you. You taught me the joy of discovery and the delight in simple pleasures like finding a caterpillar amongst the clover. There were many tears and tantrums and you had a few as well but along with those were moments of pure joy which I will hold in my heart forever.
I recall your first days at nursery and how reluctant you were to leave your new-found friends at home time. Your first unsure steps at your new school, wearing uniforms that were much too big for you and when at the gates you looked back at me for reassurance, I beamed a smile that didn’t quite match the lump in my throat.
As you grew into teenagers, our once easy relationship deteriorated into door slamming and overnight I became a “life ruiner” as my darling little girls were replaced by unrecognizable strangers who spoke an unfamiliar language that I couldn’t comprehend. I was no longer a super hero but a mere mortal who had somehow lost her Mary Poppins status overnight and neither was I practically perfect in every way anymore. Suddenly I was out of a job; just like that, leaving a hole in my heart the size of Yorkshire. Although inevitable, it was hard discovering that I had been discarded for shopping trips to the mall and ice skating with your buddies.
I watch you now imagining the amazing young women that you will become and wonder what will you remember? The all-weather picnics, our special cinema days, camping in the back garden or the Christmas Day lunch when we all sat down to eat with nit mousse in our hair.
As you continue your journey into adulthood, my wishes for you are jewelled rainbows after heavy rain, a hand to hold in time of need, a sighting of land after a journey on a stormy sea, a shining light to help you find your way home and a heart that beats in time with your own. But know this, you will always be my little angels and I want you to understand that wherever you go and whatever you do, I will always be here whenever life is unkind to you because at the end of the day that’s what aunties do best!
Dancing is like dreaming with your feet and makes the stars shine brighter. It also improves your flexibility and promotes an overall sense of well-being. In Dallas world after a couple of sherbets Beverley Big Pants & I think we’re dancing queens although there is a distinct lack of rhythm but what we lack in skill we make up for in enthusiasm and volume much to my nieces’ embarrassment. In fact the only time I ever look good dancing is if I’m next to my dad at a wedding!
Although my Dad is supposed to be a bit of a Fred Astaire when the mood takes him; I understand that my parents’ courting involved a few Quicksteps and the odd Foxtrot although my mum insists that he used to tread all over her feet. It’s hard to imagine my wellie-wearing Dad enjoying anything that doesn’t need planting or pruning but apparently not only does he know his promenades from his box step but there was a time when he cut a mean figure in the Victoria Hall Ballroom in Halifax.
So it was no surprise to me when he dragged me along to Senior Citizens’ Day at the local DIY superstore when they offer a small discount to anyone brandishing a bus pass. In keeping with the theme, music of a certain era is piped through the public address system and there are various demonstrations throughout the store. My Dad appropriately dressed in his cloth cap, pencil firmly fixed behind his ear and retractable tape measure in hand set off for the store in the old jalopy with me riding shotgun.
Once inside the store he made straight for the shelving; where else! I should mention that the real reason my Dad takes along his tape measure is so that other shoppers stop him to ask for his advice mistakenly thinking he is a professional. On this particular day as my Dad was singing along to Jim Reeves and Nat King Cole, he was stopped by two ladies who asked him for some guidance and they got chatting. Somehow during their laughter filled conversation my Dad ended up waltzing them around the aisle much to the amusement of other shoppers and when they’d finish they got a round of applause.
For our return performance, I’m having the slogan “Available for Stand Up & Pantomime” printed on the back of his shirt.
