Adults versus Grown Ups

(Let's preface this post with the truth: MY FAVOURITE PAST TIME IS BEING JUDGMENTAL. That, and eating chocolate spread off a spoon straight from the tub).

I will never:

- Have an uneven bob
- Revert to my natural hair colour (especially if it in any way involves grey bits)
- Become immune to the screams of my children
- Find it funny that my children have woken up everybody in the house at HALF PAST EIGHT whilst ON SODDING HOLIDAY by switching the lights on and off over and over again
- Only 'relate' to twenty-somethings by asking them, 'So... where did you go to university then?' rather than have an actual conversation like a NORMAL PERSON
- Discuss the teachers at the local school over dinner. For two hours.
- Stress out over having to fill up the petrol tank
- Repeat myself at least three times
- Guffaw instead of giggle
- Marry an idiot
- Utter the words, 'Not Now Darling'
- Iron underpants.

And this I promise.

Toilet Talk

One of the most hilarious things about sharing a house with thirty-odd other people is the queue for the loos, and the way we are all so incredibly British about it.

Me: Gosh, whoever is in there is taking quite a while aren't they?

Girl: Yes, yes they are. It would be quite nice if they freed it up soon. I really am quite desperate.

Me: Me too. (Crosses legs to make point)

Girl: (nods in agreement) I am sure that whoever it is will be out soon.

Door opens and smiling males exits.

Me: After you...

Girl: No, no: after you.

Me: No, really- I don't mind. Please. I insist.

Girl: No. You go. I can wait.

Me: Are you sure?

Girl: Gosh, yes, go for it. No problem.

Me: That is super, I'll be really quick I promise. I only need a quick wee.

Girl: No problem. I might be a bit longer than you. (Suddenly looks horrified at inference of words). Not that I am having or poo or anything. I need a wee. I just thought I'd let you go first. I don't need a poo. I need a wee too.

Me: Okay.

Girl: Okay.

Awkward silence of two relative strangers discussing toiletry necessaries.

Me: So. Urm. Would you mind awfully if I went now? Now that I know you don't need a poo?

Girl: Yes. Please do. I am sorry for talking about poo. Enjoy your wee.

Me: Thank you so much.

Closes door.

Dancing Queen

The big family party to celebrate The Boyfriend's brother turning eighteen, and his sister turning twenty-one, was a very successful night. Much fun was had by all.

It was the morning after that fazed me just a little.

"Crikey, you were really, really drunk last night weren't you?" a cousin commented. "You danced on a chair to Britney Spears and kept waving your arms all over the place. You were absolutely hilarious to watch, but I bet you don't remember anything do you? You even got on your knees and did an air guitar thing at one point!" She laughed at the memory of my dancing.

I looked at the girl, right in the eye and took a breath. "Actually," I said, "I was stone-cold sober".

Humph.

Child's Play

"I've had enough now, I want to go back," The Boyfriend's six year old cousin told me as she wrapped a towel around herself at the side of the swimming pool. "Can you take me please?"

I pulled myself up out of to stand beside her. "Of course I will take you, sweetness, but are you really sure you want to go? You were having such a nice time". I smiled at her sweetly, not quite ready to go myself.

She looked up at me. "I cannot be here while he is," she whispered, pointing at The Boyfriend's brother.

"Was he a bit rough with you?" I enquired, "Because we can tell him not to splash us if you like". I had seen him dunk her under the water earlier, but she seemed to be quite enjoying herself. The six year old nodded. "Shall I tell him off?" I asked.

"No. We'll tell his mum," she said, furrowing her little brow. "Or even worse- his dad. Then he'll really be in trouble".

She went quiet for a minute as she mulled over her options.

"Actually, teenagers never listen to their mums, do they? I think I'll just have my mum arrest him".

Indecent Proposal

"So I thought that in order to treat studying like a full-time occupation, I'd wear smart trousers and a shirt to lectures so that I just feel more focused, you know?" The Boyfriend told us, referring to his impending start as a mature student at university in September, over the 'plat du jour' we were digging into at a little cafe up the road from the house.

I snorted. "You are going to wear fancy clothes to lectures when you are surrounded by eighteen year olds in Hawaiin print shorts and flip flops?" It seemed a bit of a silly idea to me.

"Hey!" The Boyfriends dad pointed at me, "You should be encouraging him to be successful, not making jokes!" A bit of his Toulouse sausage flew at me from the fork he was gesticulating with. "He needs to do well this year."

"Woooooah," I held my hands up, surrendering to him, "You do not need to tell me that he needs to do well this year. I've already said, I am going to ride him like nobodies business until he gets the results he needs".

The Boyfriend's dad raised his eyebrows. "What you do in your own time and behind closed doors is entirely up to you," he said, smirking.

I went redder than the tomato salad sat before me.

"Anyway, why didn't you ride him when you were at school together, he might have done better then," he continued.

The Boyfriend looked up from his food. "She did," he said, "That was the problem".

Not Right, Not Okay

"I remember you from last year..." a sweaty, tall, dark-haired man in a stripy pink shirt leered. "You made me laugh".

The man was addressing my mama. Mama clearly recognised him.

"You live in these parts now, don't you? I am just round the corner from you. If you ever fancy a coffee, you just let me know" he continued. "Ker-ching". And then he winked.

In the crowded corner of the kitchen, at a party in the home of my cousin Mr Bling, I was cradling a beer and gossiping with The Boyfriend, Nice Auntie and mama. Over the noise I yelled, "Urm, who was that?"

Mama giggled. "Oh, nobody. I met him at a party here last year is all". She blushed. I looked at her. "What?!" she exclaimed.

As I was about to give her about a million 'whats', the chap came back. He leaned into Mama and whispered to her, "Seriously love, ker-ching".

I am not sure if it was the beer or the man, but shortly after that I decided to go home. Urgh.

Time For a Holiday (I)

You know it is time for a holiday when...

I pulled up at some temporary traffic lights. They did not seem to be on. There was no red light, no amber light, and no green light. I was confused. The big red sign said, 'FOUR WAY TRAFFIC: WAIT AT RED LIGHT', but there wasn't one. I was a bit afraid to pull forward in case another car was coming from the left or right, which I could not see, and I got ploughed into at a high speed and put into a coma. I wasn't wearing my matching hospital-ready underwear. I thought for a minute.

Whilst I was thinking, an elderly 'gentleman' (there is a reason for the inverted commas) pulled up behind me and got out of his car. I did not realise that he had done this until he tapped on my window. I looked up, and as I wound my window down noticed his similarly old wife shaking her head in the passenger seat of a red car through my rear view mirror.

I did not have a chance to enquire as to the nature of the 'gentleman's' knocking.

"You'll be sat here till Christmas!" he shouted at me, really very loudly, as soon as my window was open a fraction. "Those lights are broken, you idiot".

What kind of a man, and a man whom I guessed had been born almost as long ago as the wheel had been invented, shouts at a stranger like that?

"Are you going to get moving or what?" he continued.

I was absolutely furious. He had interrupted my calming, that-is-when-I-do-my-best-thinking driving time to call me an idiot! There were several choice words that flashed through my brain in response to his outrageous behaviour. But. I took a VERY big breath and as I exhaled I conjured up my most beguiling smile. In my absolute poshest telephone voice I said to him, "Gosh, there is no need to be rude." This seemed to throw him a bit. He sort of cocked his head to one side like a dog and the corners of his mouth quivered. There was an awkward silence. I sodding well wasn't going to say anything to alleviate his discomfort.

As soon as he began to speak, "Wel-" I interrupted him.

"I was just trying to figure out the situation." Another super-big smile. "Thank you for help though".

I felt all big and grown up as he walked away from my car and I slowly pulled out to the crossroads. It was almost mature enough behaviour to warrant a Galaxy Caramel. As I checked that everything was clear I took one last look in my rear view mirror to see the man gesticulating wildly in my direction to his wife. It made me cross that he was so angry.

So I flipped up my middle finger for the 'gentleman' and his wife, and I KNOW FOR A FACT THAT THEY SAW ME.

I know you are not supposed to fight fire with fire but ohmyword, it felt GOOD.

(Mama's response? "Too bloody right!")

Folk Law

In the same evening that I was inappropriately prepositioned by a seventy year old, I also seemed to be serving drinks to increasing numbers of quite bizarrely dressed individuals. There was an above average quota of crushed velvet, uncoloured hair, bad teeth and waistcoats. It threw me off-kilter a bit, to be honest.

As the numbers increased, I noticed two things.

1. Everybody knew each other, which for a large group of twenty or thirty apparently individual drinkers seemed quite unusual.

2. Every single person said, 'HOW MUCH?!' when I charged them for their not altogether unreasonably-priced drink.

Then, in came a man with a guitar case. At almost the exact same time, I overheard a gentleman say to a blood-red, crushed velvet, floor-length dress wearing woman, "Oh great! You brought your whistles!"

They were folk singers. Folk singers whom, it was quickly revealed, got together periodically to sing and play together. Just because. (Just because it felt good to be with other people who were as aesthetically challenged as one another?)

I held my breath as they began.

"Oooooh-eeeerrrrr-ooooh-ahhhhh" a woman warbled, her yellow stubby teeth revealed to all the room, spittle gently flowing from her crusty mouth. The guitars began. Others joined in. The whistles were played. People sang with their eyes closed. I suppose you often know you are in trouble when you are surrounded by people who sing with their eyes closed.

The guitars and the whistles were, if you listened from the sanctity of the beer cellar, not too bad. The singing though- the singing was interesting. Lots of warbeling and 'ohhhing' and 'ahhhhing' and I am ninety percent sure that the proviso was just to 'feel' the music and let what happened to come out of mouths, come. Come it did, my friends, come it did. So did the spit, too. By the end of the evening everything was covered in a thin layer of mouth-produced film. I literally gagged as I wiped the tables down afterward.

I took note of the time. It was twenty to eleven. I only had to put up with the noise for another twenty minutes, I thought to myself, and then I can call 'time' and have everybody leave. AND THEN THEY STARTED TO DANCE. They stood up and swayed in time to the music. That is an awful lot of crushed velvet to have swirling and twirling before one's eyes when one was not forewarned and therefore not forearmed of the evenings events.

The thing was, though, these people- these ugly, body-odered, people, for whom many could have benefitted with a tweeze and a wax and a few highlights and braces and contact lenses and new shoes and a pedicure and a manicure and actually, maybe a spray tan too- they seemed so happy. The feeling of creativity and well-being and happiness was palpable. You know what I felt? I felt love. These people were loving and loved and it didn't matter what they looked like or smelled like or even- it would seem- sounded like they were happy.

So, internet, this week I invite to throw away your razors and put down your deoderant and just be. No? Oh, okay then.

Washing My Hair

I was at the pub, pulling pints for cash. It was quiet. In walks a local: seventy years old, bit of a squint, white hair and beard, milk-bottom glasses.

Him: Alright darling.

Me: Good evening. What can I get you?

Him: A bit of you, if you fancy it. Wife is on nights- how about it?

How I found the willpower to turn him down I will never, ever know.

I Want One

"Move out of the way!" I whispered to myself as some idiots wandered arm in arm in front of my car in the back lane that leads to the pub. "Moooooove". I glanced anxiously at the digital clock on my dashboard. I didn't want to be late when a couple of hours cash-ready work awaited me. That was the money I needed to pay my mobile phone bill.

They were dressed in long, floaty waistcoats, these idiots, that seemed to be made of scraps of patterned fabric and they had serene smiles upon their faces. They looked like 'Brown Ricers', as Papa would say. That is 'Dippy Hippies' to you and me. I winced as through my rear-view mirror I saw them enter the pub through the backdoor.

I grabbed my bag and removed my driving glasses, took a breath and got out of the car. Through the rain I dashed toward the nearest door to me and pushed down on the handle. The door hit somebody who squealed 'Ouch!' and inched to the side so that I could squeeze through the door.

I looked up and brushed the raindrops from my forehead. The room was full of about a hundred men in Morris Dancing costume. "You have GOT to be kidding me" I thought to myself, as I wove my way through coloured waistcoats and painted faces and shin pads with bells on. There were an awful lot of red flat caps for such a small pub. And funny smells too. I think patterned scraps of fabric must smell like damp dog when they too become wet.

I took my place behind the bar and whispered to my boss, "I am not even going ask what all this is about". He smiled back at me wearily as I noticed a poster by the till that said, "BIGGEST GATHERING OF MORRIS DANCERS IN FORTY YEARS" and then underneath somebody has written 'Staff Up!' in blue pen.

"What would you like love?" I said the chap nearest me in my best impression of a barmaid, his face half black and half white.

"Put us a pint of Black Gold in there please" he replied, passing me a handled silver drinking mug with the name 'Dave' inscribed on it. It took me only a second to look up and have my eyes focus as I realised that everybody in the place had their own drinking cup. It was like being at a medieval banquet, watching the fellas rest their cups on the oak bar whilst singing and laughing to the sounds of a violinist and a guy on the accordion. "I wish papa was here" I thought to myself. "He will so not believe me when I tell him this later".

"Right!" a bearded man suddenly shouted. "Outside for the dancing, rain or no rain!" he cried. The masses made their way to the backdoor.

I gave it a minute and cleared away any empty glasses and straightened the chairs in the bar so that it looked a bit less like one hundred and eighty Morris dancers had gone mad in it, and then followed the sounds of drums and strings.

It was amazing! There were ribbons and flowers and people clapping and the rain seemed to have miraculously stopped! Fully grown men hopped and skipped and banged sticks against other sticks and laughed and whooped and cheered. They spun in circles and got faster and faster until even I, a mere spectator, felt dizzy. It was the single most amazing thing I have seen since the marching brass band at the local 'Well Wishing' weekend played Kylie Minogue's 'Better The Devil You Know' whilst marching up and down a boggy field to the beat.

And to think I nearly said no to the shift, too.

See? Wankers.

"Excuse me love, have you still got a pool table in here?" a burly bloke with a tattoo on his neck asked me as I pulled his pint. I did a cheeky quick shift for the pub down the road yesterday afternoon. I am only in it for the money.

"Urm, it is downstairs in the function room" I told him, "But I am not sure if the room is open".

"And you don't have fruit machines any more either?" the other one said, who had tattoos on his arms.

"Afraid not" I told him.

The neck tattoo one turned to the arm tattoo one and said, "Mate, what are we expected to do then? Sit and look at each other?"

Hmmm. The word 'conversation' springs to mind...

Mistaken Identity

Ohmygosh- You know sometimes people can say the most stupid things? So stupid or silly that as soon as the words leave their mouths, leap across the sound waves and worm their way into your ears and brain you furrow your brow and close your eyes a bit and cringe?

Well.

Man, to woman with four children, at the bar of pub: Bad luck then eh? All girls for you.

Woman, quite indignant: Charlie is a boy, actually.

I swear to God this man's face visibly DRAINED of colour as the woman pointed to a boy of about ten years old. Poor thing.

Linky You, Linky Me

I do not normally do this, but I'd like to post a link to a blog that really touched my heart this evening. Click here.

Rock Bottom

"I got licked by a customer last night" I told Mama and Papa at the breakfast table.

"WHAT?!" Papa exclaimed.

"Before or after he ate?" asked Mama, like it mattered. "You got li-" she continued, before being interrupted by a long, drawn out, "Brrrrrrr..." from her bottom. Papa and I stared at her in disgust.

Silence.

"Finished?" I asked.

"Sorry" she blushed.

"Right," I shook my head. "So I went to this table of six people and asked if they wanted to see the pudding list" I began. "And one of the women said, 'I'm sorry, did you just ask if we wanted to see the girls?'" Mama and Papa nodded, wondering where this was going.

"So I said, 'No! I asked if you wanted to look at the pudding list. You can all go and look at the girls, by all means, but please- do it in the privacy of your own homes!' Obviously, they all laughed like maniacs at my wit and charm" I acknowledged to Mum and Dad. Mama snorted.

"So then this guy to the right of me, sat at the height of my boobs, turns to my chest and says, 'I'd like to see the girls'"

"That's outrageous" Papa said, shaking his head that somebody would do that to his daughter.

"So I asked who was the man's carer, you know- was his outing like a Care in the Community project or something, and everybody except the chap laughed. He looked at me, and then LICKED MY ARM instead!" I shrieked a little for effect.

"Ohmygosh!" Mama said, "That is horrible!"

Yup. Getting licked by a stranger. I have hit a new low.

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.

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...

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.

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.

It Takes All Sorts

"You're not from round 'ere, are you? 'Cos you talk dead posh and that- like, proper, don't ya?"

"No I am not from here, I am from York" I answered, carefully measuring my intonation and pronunciation to counter-balance the girl in my passenger seat's 'Youth Speak'. "I just moved here three months ago to live with my parents."

I had agreed to give a lift home to a young girl from work, and the conversation was flowing awkwardly. I don't think I was driving fast enough to be considered 'cool' so I was floundering somewhat.

"Ah, riiiiiight". Her vowels were elongated and drawn-out.

"My mum is from here though, just down the road. And my dad too".

"Ah, riiiiiiight". She stared, bored, out of the window.

There was an awkward pause.

"So, urm, do you go to school in the village?" I sounded like somebodies mum.

"Nah, man. I don't go school"

"Oh" I said, a bit taken aback "I see. Why not?"

"'Cos I got kicked out and that, didn't I?"

"Oh."

We drove in silence for a while.

"What did you do?" I couldn't resist asking.

"I didn't do nothing! I might go back next year though. I din't like, y'know, cause trouble or owt, but I don't like doin' things I don't wanna do"

"Oh. I see"

"I know I do what I am told at work and that but I don't know anybody there yet. I can be well hyper."

"Oh." I wasn't really sure what a mature, responsible adult might say to make this girl understand that to be honest, her attitude was a bit... well, common, so I just concentrated on the road ahead and passed my judgements silently.

She changed the subject. "How much did this car cost you?"

"It was a present" I tell her.

"A present?"

"Yes. From my parents, for my birthday, just after I learnt to drive".

"You got a car as a present?!"

"Yes".

"How much do ya reckon it cost them?"

"Urm, I don't know... We don't talk about money." Suddenly I felt very Middle Class. "Maybe about eight grand?" I winced at my attempt to be 'with it' as I said 'grand'. It sounded funny coming out of my mouth.

"Shiiiiiit! Somebody spent eight grand on you for a PRESENT?! Man!"

"Yes. Which turning did you say I was to take?"

"Here"

She got out of the car.

"Later, bitch!" she smiled.

The mind boggles.