June 2020 - Anti-dotage

For my Gran – Rene Broome

Today, 30 June, would have been my maternal Gran’s birthday. She was born in 1905. She raised my mother and aunt on her own in the 1940s, having left my grandfather when they were both very young. Those were not the days to be a single mother with a living husband and it must have been immensely hard. But she was an amazing woman with whom we spent every Sunday for as long as I can remember during my childhood. Here are two short pieces that I wrote with some random, specific memories of her.

My Gran gave me my name. And she taught me how to dance. She loved to dance but was a tall woman, something she said prejudiced the boys against her when she was growing up in the 1920s.

When she did find a partner, he turned out to be no good.

We spent every Sunday with her. She always made roast lamb lunch ‘with all the trimmings’. And jam roly poly.

I loved to watch her roll her stockings neatly up from toe to garter belt.

She always blotted her lipstick after applying it and checked herself in the tarnished wardrobe door mirror before leaving the house.

Even though the aroma of roasting lamb assailed us as we mounted the windy stairs in the funny old house where my grandmother lived, we knew there was also a chicken treat awaiting us.

For years, our Sundays never changed. Gran greeted us from the bus, hugging us warmly and then we set off for her flat at the same brisk pace that I keep up today. The house was a 3 storey Victorian mansion, its former grandeur much faded.

Its occupants were all single elderly ladies who, like the house, showed signs of advancing decrepitude.

The rooms had been randomly divided up, so the flats were of widely differing sizes, some with their own bathrooms and kitchen, whilst others shared. Mrs Cairns and Miss Welsh each had a one room bedsit, whilst the formidable Mrs Shardlow had a whole suite.

My Gran occupied the attic which had three rooms and a kitchenette, but she lived in just one which was kept warm and cosy.

After recounting our school week to her, we had lunch – the lamb. But, in between Sundays, Gran ate chicken. The special Sunday expense was just for me and my sisters. Lamb was expensive and apart from the leftovers which took her to Tuesdays, the rest of the week called for frugality.

After lunch was cleared away, we would go to the top shelf in the kitchen and reach up for the dried wishbone that was waiting for us. Gran had devised a rota to accommodate three sisters and the two ended wish bone.

I couldn’t wait until it was my turn to hook my little finger round the bone and pull. Like a Christmas cracker, whoever got the larger piece as it snapped in two, was declared the victor and got to choose the story.

Wimbledon 2020

The 2020 Wimbledon tournament should have started today but it was cancelled back in April – for the first time only since World War II. Novak Djokovic of course wouldn’t have been there anyway, given that he went ahead with his own tournament amidst the pandemic and promptly contracted COVID-19, along with a number of the other participants, and his wife. Let that be a lesson to us all.

I lived around the corner for a few years from The All England Lawn Tennis Club which hosts Wimbledon, but have never had the pleasure of attending, so this short piece written for the prompt’ Lawn’ in 150 words is culled from imagination and the boasts of friends that have.

A swathe of purple and green throngs the pavement. People push towards the turnstiles. Touts hold out tickets, naming eye watering prices. Few people take notice, whilst others haggle in the hope of accessing the hallowed grounds.

Inside, the maze of courts spreads left and right. The majestic Centre Court commands attention.

Some visitors enjoy an exorbitant bowl of strawberries and cream or a glass of Pimm’s to say they have. Then walkways begin to thin out as the flamboyant parade of hats, dresses, jackets and ties makes its way to the stands.

Score boards come alive and blink the players’ names for the first matches of the day.

At two thirty sharp, umpires are atop their perches, players emerge from the change rooms to the crowd’s gentle applause and the familiar sound of tennis balls being pounded back and forth fills the All England Lawn Tennis Club.

Iconic Wimbledon.

Clocking In

This week we started going back to the office 2 days per week, by department. Our biometric finger print access has been disabled to reduce the number of touch points around the office, so there is no longer an accurate recording of our comings and goings. This piece was pulled from memories of jobs I have hated (only two as I recall – although neither was in a biscuit factory!) and as a result, I have kept the promise to myself that is expressed in the final line.

She pulled the buff time-card out of the rack on the factory wall and punched it into the clock. Her tardiness was recorded in red, adding to the columns where black digits made an infrequent appearance.

She hated this job and couldn’t motivate herself to make it to work on time. Each day when she woke up she did an inventory of her arms, legs, fingers and toes, her ears, nose and throat, checking for any ailments that might warrant her calling in sick.

Her personnel file showed a woeful attendance and time keeping record and the supervisor never missed an opportunity to remind her of the fact, but still they kept her on. Few people were desperate enough to perform the repetitive task of plucking misshapen biscuits off the line.

She vowed she would never in her life again take a job she didn’t go to with joy in her heart.

Curtain Call

I have forgotten all the pretty words

And the clever, witty lines

I had rehearsed over and over.

They were light and vivacious

Just how you make me feel.

And the closing line, well you know how it was supposed to end.

I love you.

But instead of sticking to the script, you improvised

and took the words out of my mouth.

They have been replaced with a bitter taste

And my mind has gone blank.

The prompt from the wings falls silent

I am no longer your leading lady, there is an understudy.

My performance has been found wanting.

The final curtain falls and I take my bow. No applause. No encore.

It’s simply the end.

Sunshine – Giver & Taker of Life

Right now it is freezing cold in Johannesburg, and unseasonally grey and miserable. Our winters are usually bright and sunny, so these last few days prompted me to post this piece that I wrote as a warning against sun worship.

The sunshine had always lifted her spirits. She questioned why she’d been born in the northern hemisphere. She preferred to imagine herself a native of a sun-soaked island in the Caribbean where the weather never changed. She was convinced she had Seasonal Affective Disorder – as her moods swung from euphoric highs down into despondency with the fluctuating weather of her grey northern home town.

At school, she defied the headmistress who told the girls that only ‘mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the noon day sun’, sitting out on the field during lunchtime. Her grandmother – from the same generation as the school principal – told her that a lady was always ‘ pale and interesting’ but she saw nothing attractive about being white and insipid.

Back in the day she had slathered herself with pure coconut oil on the beach, in the garden – wherever she was when the weak British sun poked out from behind the clouds. She would move around, following the trajectory of the sun, and like a sunflower tilt her head in the direction of its rays.

When sunbeds were a thing, she was a regular visitor to the salon, her only concession to the harmful UV rays a special pair of goggles. She loved the tan, her skin glowed and she felt more alive.

But what had enlivened her was now taking her life from her. Cancer had pocked her face, arms and legs and would kill her in a matter of months.

A crazy mixed up world

So 300 words on the subject of Men & Women doesn’t go very far when you think of everything that’s been written on the subject of Venus & Mars. Quite fortuitously, this iconic track came on the radio as I was contemplating my story using this particular prompt…so with thanks to The Kinks for the inspiration.

I elbowed my way through the mass of people. I was utterly unused to city life, having left home only a week before. The music, dim electric candle-light and dense smoky atmosphere were disorienting. I stood alone in a dark recess.

A tall, dusky beauty sashayed up to me. She leaned her head on my shoulder and whispered in my ear. Her chocolatey voice was low, but I heard her ask me to dance. We swayed up close to each other, and she squeezed me tightly, almost crushing my spine.

The combination of her sexy, feminine movements and husky voice was intriguing and intoxicating. She was strong and determined, passionate and intense. We moved off the dance floor, found an empty booth and slid in. The waiter raised his eyes at me quizzically as we ordered a bottle of champagne which we finished without exchanging any more words. Pulling me closer to her so that I was almost on her lap she whispered, “Won’t you come home with me, little boy.”

I looked deep into her eyes and felt myself falling for this magnificent creature. If her intention wasn’t already clear, she murmured, “I can see that you’ve never kissed a woman before, so tonight I’m going to make you a man.”

Taking me by the hand, she led us through the undulating crowd. I felt woozy and uncertain. I stumbled, falling to my knees, but she picked me back up in her strong arms.

Outside, in the cold light of the dawn, I looked harder at the women with whom I was surely falling in love. I could discern a faint but unmistakeable dark shadow of stubble under what I could see now was heavy make-up.

“What did you say your name was?” My voice cracked.

“Lola”, she replied.

Sticking it to the man

‘Glue’ was a sticky prompt to work with (Seriously?- Ed) but this story came to me from the recesses of my memory. I’m sure I read it somewhere…

Finding a seat on the 07h39, Bob cast a look around the carriage. He was unaccustomed to anything other than strap hanging the entire journey into Waterloo, and so rarely brought his own reading matter. Today was no exception.

He surreptitiously glanced at his neighbour’s newspaper. The neighbour quickly executed an efficient refold of the broadsheet, with the well-practised skills of the seasoned commuter, who keeps his elbows tucked tightly in and his reading surface as compact as possible. The neighbour also repositioned his shoulder, the better to exclude Bob from rubber necking his £2.50 Telegraph.

Just then, both men caught sight of the same article. Bob sniggered first. The man laughed out loud and in an uncustomary gesture, expanded the page and held it out between himself and Bob.

Soon, tears of mirth were rolling down their cheeks.

A 39 year-old man from Halifax had reached into his bathroom cupboard during the night seeking relief from his painful haemorrhoids. What he mistakenly picked up and duly administered was however, a tube of superglue, the report read.

Your colour is green

This is a poem about the destructive personality trait that is jealousy.

How has it taken you so long

to show your true colour?

It is a livid green,

That was running like a thick deposit

Buried deep below the surface waiting to be mined.

But I didn’t detect it, I didn’t drill through your veneer.

Your pristine exterior is now scarred with the welts

Where your jealousy has been exposed,

Laid bare,

Fault lines across the landscape of our lives.

I thought you were someone else

But you are not that man

You are less.

Your toxic green core has caused the ground to shift and fracture.

Our love now lies buried beneath the rockfall

Of your recriminations.

On choosing a wedding dress…

So a couple of posts ago I wrote about a wedding that, perhaps fortunately, had to be cancelled due to current circumstances, but which was probably doomed long before COVID19 scuppered it!! Still on the wedding theme, here are two pieces specifically on dresses…one responded to the prompt ‘Plunge’ and the other to ‘Fitted’. The former speaks to my guilty tv viewing pleasure and the latter is about the ordeal of making sure my own wedding dress (back in 1996!) fitted on the day…

Choosing the Right One

They sat in a silent row, my mum, my gran, my sisters and my best friend.

Boredom and irritation were beginning to show. They fidgeted and no longer laughed and joked, exchanging only hushed whispers.

The woman gave me a sympathetic look but carried on doing her job. She yanked and tweaked, pulling in and letting out where she needed to.

This time as I finally emerged, I could see their faces light up immediately. With the exception of my gran, they all beamed, and my mum discreetly wiped away a tear.

‘So, this is the eighth, and hopefully the last,’ I said, feeling confident.

‘Ah love that’s magnificent,’ said mum

‘Yes, yes!’ Exclaimed my sisters and best friend simultaneously.

‘Very nice, but you’ll need a plunge bra with it,’ said my gran.

We all laughed.

‘So, are you saying yes to the dress?’ asked the long-suffering bridal consultant.

A Dressmaker’s Challenge

Ours was a crazy whirlwind romance. A chance meeting in Berlin in March and a series of magical weekends in European cities in spring as he continued his travels. A long visit to South Africa in August clinched the deal. By October I had sold my apartment, quit my job and days later was in Johannesburg.

A year later we flew back to London to get married. I was one of few brides whose figures got fuller as her wedding day approached. The dress was cunningly designed to disguise my growing bump. It was hot in Johannesburg and I sweated as the seamstress pinned and tucked, making alterations here and there to make sure it fitted perfectly on the day.