Mourning

"And he just loved people so much..." the widower declared to the restaurant of forty or so people, "...he would have loved that you were all here to remember him today". There was a round of applause. I caught the tears in my throat before they bubbled up.

Eleven years after his death, and the widower of a local army colonel still gathers his friends and colleagues on the anniversary of his death to celebrate his life. Lady of the Manor, she sat at the head of the huge table and- at ninety-four years old-put on her best smile to say 'cheers' to her husband and what he achieved in his life.

They ate and drank and were merry as they talked about him and swapped stories. Lady of the Manor wore her mourning outfit, but everybody else was dressed brightly and for summer.

The love in the room was palpable. It felt magical. It may have been the transference of my sadness for my pussycats, but I did let a little tear well up. Even as an outsider, it was the most beautiful afternoon of my short life. Except for the smell of old people.

Breakfast at Tiffany's

"Listen...you know those days when you get the mean reds?"

"The mean reds? You mean like the blues?"

"No... the blues are because you're getting fat or because it's been raining too long. You're just sad, that's all. The mean reds are horrible. Suddenly you're afraid and you don't know what you're afraid of. Do you ever get that feeling?"

"Sure."

"When I get it the only thing that does any good is to jump into a cab and go to Tiffany's. Calms me down right away."

Holly Golightly may visit the jewellery store to cheer herself up, but that isn't for me.

I have got a bad case of the Mean Reds. I know what I am afraid of though. I am afraid of saying goodbye to my girls.

This afternoon I put on my elasticated waist trousers, got me some fishcakes and chips from down the road, and sat with the Sunday papers and a diet coke whilst listening Ella Fitzgerald.

I feel much better now, and a little less 'red'. But I am still afraid.

Sadness on a Saturday

"Hello" my voice warbled down the telephone. "I'd like to... I'd like... Please may I..." My voice cracked and I let out a hiccuped sob. "I need to rehome my cats". As the words left my mouth I broke down into tears.

I am not attractive when I cry. My chin triples, my face blotches in pink hives and I moan like a horse in distress. But my heart felt so heavy that I needed a release.

The stranger at the other end of the telephone was very good about the crying. "I'll just take some details down' she said, in a soft, soothing voice not dissimilar from the one my beautician uses before causing me pain. The woman on the telephone would not be causing the pain, but it was there all the same.

"I love them very much" I told her through the hiccups. "But I moved back in with my parents and brought Hermione with me and it turns out that Papa is allergic to cats and it is like he has had a really bad cold for three months and he can't sleep and gets really bunged up, and the doctor confirmed it was the cats this week but my parents adopted a cat called Rose at about the same time I moved Hermione in, but it has just taken some time for his symptoms to flare and he really does suffer" I explained in one great big long breath.

"Tell me about the cats" the lady prompted, whilst no doubt crossing her fingers that I would not sob anymore. Her efforts were in vain.

"Welllllllll....." My words merged into a cry. "Sorry" I muttered, "Just give me one minute..." I said.

"Take your time" The lady said.

I took a breath. "They are both about three years old, female, spayed. Rose is beautiful, grey and pink-nosed but a little bit bow-legged. She is very docile and shy and we think that she came to us because she was abused in her last home because she is very nervy, afraid of any quick or sudden movements" I said.

"Hermione is like me- all different colours and a bit nosey and really vocal. She is really fun but whereas Rose will sit on your lap Hermione never give out much love" I welled up again. "I thought I'd have them until my kids were old enough to appreciate them too... It is all very sad..."

"I understand" the Lady said.

"I even wrote a short story about them, I think they are that brilliant" I told her. "I want to make sure they are not spilt up and that they go to a good home".

"They will" the lady told me.

"Okay" I hiccuped. "Thanks". I ran the back on my hand across the underside of my nose, a trail of green snot stretching between the two body parts.

I rang off and sat on the floor of the kitchen to cry some more. I let the tears flow down my puffy cheeks as I stroked Rose and listened to her purr. My girls have to be given away. I feel I have let them down, that they trusted me to carry out the sacred task of giving them a home and that I have failed. I am heartbroken.

Cowboy Time

We were sat at the kitchen table. Conversation was flowing. Mama, her best friend and myself were having quite a wonderful time. And then:-

"I say, you know how we watched Brokeback Mountain the other night?" she asked me.

"Uh-huh" I replied.

"Well, that was the third time I have seen it, but the first time that I realised that even though they are both gay, when they are not with each other they still have sex with women".

"Uh-huh"

"Well, its funny isn't it?" she continued. "They never did it in missionary with the women, did they? It always had to be doggy-style from behind".

Uh-huh. She didn't actually have to say the words 'doggy-style' out loud though, did she?

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"Eeeee, you've misspelled this birthday card" Papa said to Mum over my special Birthday Breakfast. "You've put 'you rock' instead of 'you twat'"

Humph.

Another Year Older

Today is my birthday! Would you like a piece of cake to celebrate the fact that I am yet another year older AND STILL LIVE WITH MY INSANE PARENTS?

The Colours of the Rainbow

I was doing the washing up after supper with Mama, and she said something or other that was a little bit silly.

"Oh, shut up" I told her, "Miss 'Violet Genitalia'"

"Violet genitalia? Have you been talking to that builder about what he saw me doing yesterday?"

The earth did not suddenly open to swallow me up as I would have liked.

Hello Sunshine!

"Come here!" Mama hissed at me from inside her bedroom. "Psssst! Come here!"

I furrowed my brow. "Mum?" I asked. "Where are you?"

"Come here!" she demanded, as I followed her voice from where I was doing my make-up in the bathroom.

I pushed open her bedroom door and sought her out. There she was, in the corner of the room by the bed, stood in all her naked glory with one leg crossed over the other and a hand on each nipple.

"Wooooah!" I cried, shielding my eyes to avoid going blind. "What do you want? Shit, mum, can't you put some clothes on?". I turned around to avoid seeing any more than I needed to.

"There's a man out there" she whispered, "I was getting dressed and went over to the draws to get my underwear and there was the builder working on the house next door playing on his phone".

"Is that a metaphor?" I giggled.

"Shut up! Look! Is he still there?"

"I don't see any man" I told her.

She craned her neck from by the bed so that she could confirm the information herself. Satisfied he had gone, she uncrossed her legs and let her hands fall to her sides.

"Mama, it is not that man's fault if he saw you naked. Why don't you shut your curtains when you are getting dressed?"

"All I did was this..." she tells me, as she reaches out and I see her manoeuvre into a position that one should never see one's mother in.

And then the room went black. I either fainted, or she bent over. Either way, it was all a bit too much for me.

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"Oh, look!" Mama giggled naughtily at the Plant Centre, "That one is called genitalia!"

I checked the label, quizzically. It said "Stachys germanica".

I wonder what Freud would have made of that one?

Double Dutch

"Was everything okay for you?" I asked the Dutch couple on table eight was I cleared away their empty plates.

"Yar" the woman said.

"Yar" the gentleman said.

The man was tall. Really tall. He was silver-haired, lithe, and tan. When he passed me his plate, I noticed that his hands were the size of baseball mitts. Bizarrely, I also noticed that his nails were the perfect square shape. They were man's hands. They were the hands of a man that would hold you close, hold you tight, and hold you like he meant it. They were, in short, perfect.

"Ohmygosh" I whispered to my boss as I picked up the pudding menu ready to take over to them. "That man has to most incredible hands I have ever seen. And his accent... oh my."

"Calm down" my boss said. "He is married!"

"I know that!" I said, edgy at any inference that I am one of THOSE women. "I have been with my very own boyfriend forever, remember. But his hands... I am mesmerised..."

I took the pudding menu to them. I tried not to stare at his hands. The beautiful, perfect, do-you-think-he-would-mind-if-I-asked-him-to-touch-me hands.

When I went to take their order, I had gotten myself in quite a state. She ordered the brulee.

"And for you, sir?" I asked, trying not to meet his eye but struggling to stay aloof.

"Yar. For me, the hot, hot, rich, chocolate..." he trailed off.

My knees, buckled. Just slightly.

It took me a second to realise that he meant the hot chocolate fondant. But for just that second... oh, the possibilities...

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As we sat having breakfast, Mama got up to give Harry the Dog some chew bits to keep him quiet. At the rattle of the box, both Hermione and Rose the pussycats wanted in on the action too.

"Arrrrrrr" they moaned, weaving in and out of our legs.

"Ooooh, bloody hell" Mama cursed, as she fed the dog, manoeuvred the cats out of the way with her foot and filled up the cat bowls, seemingly all in one movement.

"Rrrrrrrr....." the cats miaowed loudly again, eager to be fed and be shown the same love as the dog. Somebody once told me that you feed and love and water and look after a dog, and they think that you are God. You feed and love and water and look after a cat, and they think that they are God.

Mama put the bowl down, and instantly Rose- her cat- got stuck in.

Hermione, however- my cat- simply walked off, satisfied that she could command our attention when necessary.

I laughed. "She just likes the fuss over her" I said. "She is just like me".

Mama snorted. "The difference being that wouldn't have walked off, you'd have licked the bowl clean".

That might be true, but she didn't have to say as much, did she?

It's an Unfortunate Life

"I've got another interview lined up for next week" Dad told us around the dinner table.

"Yay!" I said. "It won't be long before you are back in the world of work now!" I exclaimed.

"But" Papa carried on, "The woman I'm to ask for hasn't half got a funny name".

"Why, what is it?" Mama and I asked, seriously.

"Mycock" Dad said.

We burst out laughing. I am my mother's daughter.

"Mycock!" Mama squealed. "Like, your cock?"

"Mum!" I berated her, embarrassed.

"When you ask for her, do you have to say 'Miss Mycock', like miss my cock?" she laughed. "And then she'll say 'No I certainly do not, I've never met you!". Cue hysterical laughter, with all her teeth showing and parts of her throat, too.

"And if she was foreign" Dad continued, "She might say, 'I Miss Mycock'" and I'll say, "Why, where has it gone?!"

I sat in silent wonder at how far this joke could go.

Mama continued to laugh, breathlessly muttering words with 'cock' in them for the next ten minutes. Cock, cock, cock, cock, cock.

Turns out, the joke could go quite far, actually. Three days later and I am still mortified over how many times THAT WORD has been said in our house. Cock.

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So I was on the telephone to Sober Auntie explaining that mum was out:

"I am quite relived actually, we've had two whole days together" I told her.

"Crikey" Sober Auntie said, "She deserves a medal then".

Charming! I think I'm the one that deserves the medal, actually, for living with this sodding family.

Drop It Like It's Hot

We have this joke in our house about how when Papa makes anything in the kitchen he always adds his own special twist- a glass of water is Britta Filter water over ice with a lemon twist, or a sandwich is seasoned and has the crusts cut off, not just a filling between two pieces of bread.

We call it 'bollocks', as in "Dad, no bollocks with my juice, just as it comes, okay?"

So.

He is making custard, which is always dangerous as mama is a bit of a custard connoisseur.

She turns to him.

"Make it how I taught you okay? No adding in your own bits. The last thing I want is your bollocks in my custard."

Perish the thought.

Let Me Eat Cake

"And would madam care for a few more sandwiches? Or perhaps you'd like to move on to the scones?"

I looked at mama who silently communicated to me that for her, it was all about the cake. I looked at the outrageously handsome waiter looming over me and considered how he was implying a direction, not a choice. I looked at the really thin woman sat opposite us and how she probably wouldn't have more sandwiches if offered.

"One last sandwich would be wonderful" I replied, taking not one but two when he came back with the silver tray. It would have been easier for the bottom-like-a-ripe-peach waiter just to leave the sodding tray instead of coming and going like a yo-yo, but as we were in The Dorchester, the Queen of England's home away from home, I thought it best just to follow protocol. And every time the waiter walked away from the table I got a glimpse of how God intended man to look, so all was not lost.

Me, my mama, and my Primark dress had quite a lovely day. We went to see the taping of 'Loose Women' at the London Television Studios and then took afternoon tea to celebrate (belatedly) her birthday. Minnie Driver was a guest on the show and surprisingly likable. She wore a great dress, too. I bet that hers was not Primark.

"Gosh, I've had sushi today and look at me pigging out on salad now!" the thin woman opposite us squealed. Even from the opposite side of the room I could see that she had not touched her leaves at all. She omitted a high-pitched giggle. She was very annoying.

"Yar, yar, totally" the chap whom was chatting her up over his business college's head nodded. "But, um, yar, what is sushi but, urm, yah, calorie-free orderves?" He followed this insightful comment with a "Uh-huh huh huh" posh laugh.

That is the thing about London, isn't it? There is just so much poshness and money and sex everywhere. And thinness. We saw Fern Britton walking down the road at one point during our little mother-daughter day trip and even she was half the size she appears on camera. If I were not made of stronger stuff, I'd have resisted any more sandwiches at all. But as we had it, I had the sandwiches. And the scones. And the little mini cakes that were not dissimilar to tiny works of art. I had two whole pots of tea, too. I now feel very full.

"Can't life be grand?" Mama said on the way out, patting her belly.

It certainly can, I agreed. It certainly can.

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Today, Mama actually said:

"It is funny life, isn't it? You just begin to think that you might have got it all worked out and then you die."

She could be a motivational speaker.

Loose Woman

"Eeeeee!" Mama cried as she stood with her sarong around her ankles in the middle of the kitchen.

"Bloody hell! Eeeeee! Look at me, eh?" she continued.

"Oooooooh!" she carried on some more. She was laughing so hard and so loud about the fact that her skirt had come undone 'in company' that she was physically unable to bend down to pick it up and cover her modesty (and save my sanity too).

The Boyfriend looked up from his supper. He stared, looked back down at his food and then straight back up again as if there were a time delay between what his eyes could see and what his brain could process. His face filled with colour, from top to bottom.

"I... errr.... shit!" He didn't know what to say.

Neither did I.

Short, Back and Sides

"Aaaaaand if you could just pulllllll the skin taut heeeere..." The lady in white scrubs loomed over my naked lower half. A loud 'rip' sound echoed around the room. "Lovely!"

"Shit!" I cried out, and then remembering where I was, "Sorry. That one caught me off guard a bit". I played with my hands sheepishly.

"That is oooookaaaay" the beautician breathed. "I'll give you just a miiiinute". Big Smile.

I think they must teach that slow, calming style of speech at beauty school. It is quite beyond me as to why though, because every time the poor woman said something slowly or calmly I wanted to twollop her one. When ever she spoke, I knew pain and hurt were coming my way. I didn't feel calm at all.

"Aaaaaaand once moooooore" she calmly and slowly said as she ripped yet more hair from my most delicate parts.

I had signed up for a Brazilian. This woman was less Copacabana Beach Club and more Bogner Regis on a Bank Holiday Monday i.e. nowt like it. The clue should have been on the price list where next to 'Brazilian' it said £10 when really, it should have been three times that. But, this is a time of thrift so needs must. If I had of looked closer I would have noticed that 'Brazilian' had been spelt incorrectly too. It is my own fault. I should have known I was signing up for the Peak District rip-off version of the real thing. Why, oh why do I do it to myself? Long, loose and dread-locked was really not that bad.

"Oooooh, there is just a liiiiiitle bit a blood I've drawn there, let me get you a tissue..."

Blood! The daft cow drew blood! I could have given myself a better sodding bikini wax at home with a pair of tweezers and a bottle of vodka! Blood!

"Ooooookay" I told her in my pseudo-calm/slow voice, "That is super." I got up and pulled my skirt back down around me, shoved a tenner in her palm and made my getaway. "Thank you kindly". The sore red bumps were already beginning to show.

I had to run off very, very slowly. There was so much wax still between my thighs that they stuck together. I had to take baby steps to the car for fear of drawing blood again. One, two, three... and as for the stairs? I almost didn't come home tonight at all.

I wonder who does the bikini lines of the beauticians themselves? Because I hope the trollop that caused me this much pain for such little benefit gets her comeuppance.

Plucked chicken, anyone?

Sex at Seventy

I worked the birthday party of a seventy year old at the weekend, when I wasn't busy lay on my deathbed. It was a really simple, buffet-style lunch, and all I had to do was pour Pimms and smile lots. And it was easy. Really easy.

Except for the fact that this seventy-year-old woman was GORGEOUS and I found it to be very off-putting. Seriously, she looked about the same age as me. My first thought when I saw her was, "Oh my gosh, I bet you still have sex". At seventy! Sex at seventy! Is that allowed without supervision?

She was all short blonde hair which didn't even look as though it had been coloured but it must have done because seventy-year-old women do not naturally have blonde hair. And she had tight, firm skin with a rosy glow and this voice. This voice was smoother than a bar of Galaxy Caramel.

She wore rough silk baggy grey trousers and this rough silk three-quarter length jacket, and has this solid silver necklace and earring combo on that I bet nobody had ever mistaken for soap on a rope.

And she had all of these people milling about her the whole time, and it was like this was the moment her whole life and been building towards. She was the sun, and we orbited around her.

I swear- I bet she went home and got laid.

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"I am going inside to watch the news" Papa declared, as he lunged up from his spot off the huge wooden bench. "I am getting a bit hot out here."

"Ohhhhhh" Mama moaned, "Don't you want to stay out here with your darling daughter and your darling lover?"

I really don't know why she does it to me.