Sojourn.

Just after cock crowed on Saturday morning I was like a rat on a sinking ship and abandoned mine. Hubby and the children were blissfully unaware as they woke an hour or so later that I was gaily driving to the Royal Cornwall show. By the time they were compos mentis, I had already meandered around the site and bought ‘stuff’ including an irresistible rake for the dog’s fur that promised wonders, a magic cleaner for the kitchen, a depilatory device that did not require wax, razors, pain nor mess and, after half an hour of lying on it, would have gladly paid £4000 for an amazing back loving bed. Problem was, had I signed on the dotted line then I’d have been sleeping in it alone. Hubby would have had a cardiac.
As it was he wasn’t best pleased. “Where the hell are you?” he asked.
“At the dog show at the Cornwall show in Wadebridge”, I whispered.
“You never said you were going”, he said, mightily cheesed off.
“Well I didn’t want to cause a furore”, I said even more quietly as I was very aware of a very large, cross lady, sitting astride a rather unforgiving shooting brake. At the end of a pink, sparkly lead laid a hot and panting Pomeranian, who looked as though he would have given the world to have been anywhere in the world other than a sunny field in Cornwall, all brushed and groomed and ponced up. I looked at him sympathetically and stroked his head.
“I have to go”, I said to Hubby, “I won’t be all day”.
I finished my coffee and walked up the rows and rows of stands. At the SeaSalt stand I bought Hubby an appeasement sweatshirt and the girls some jaunty Cornish t-shirts. Then I entered the food hall marquee. Apart from the farm animals this is my favourite bit. A bit of cheese here, a Cornish fairing there, a dip of this and a sip of that. Marvellous.
Stuffing my face at Baker Tom’s bread stall I got caught out by some farming friends.
“Alice! Rosemary foccacia is not ideal for the waistline”.
“No, but it’s wonderful for the soul”, I said, relishing the gloriously fragrant, olive oil infused bread.
“Shall we get you out of here and take you to see some animals?”
I nodded complicity before nabbing a little pot of chicken vindaloo. One needs sustenance at this show; one end of it is bloody miles away from the other and I’d be damned before catching a showground, shuttle-bus.
“Which are your favourite farm animals Alice?”
My friend rears pedigree sheep and whilst they are fine looking beasts and the lambs terribly sweet, you can’t, in my view, beat a pig.
“That’s handy”, said, Jer, “My father is a pig steward. Come and meet him”. Minutes later I shook hands with an awfully dashing gentleman, in a very pucker check suit and bowler hat. I was intrigued as to what a pig expert looks for in a pig, after all most of them are just massive and pink, the boars with the most enormous set of testicles I have ever seen.
“Ahem”, coughed my expert, “We call that their development”. Oh I see. He then went on to explain that what he looks for in sow is what he looks for in a woman, firm to the touch, sturdy, good pair of legs. I think he was teasing me. These farmers are fruity chaps.
I looked at the pigs anew and tried to use a steward’s scrutinizing eye but to be honest they still all looked the same, although some it could be argued, were decidedly more ‘developed’ than others. Leaving my friends and the fine swine behind me I went and sat at the main ring for a while, took in the atmosphere, watched a few turns then made my way to the car park. An hour later I was still there. God only knew where my car was.
Hubby was getting frantic. “Alice, c’mon, we seem to have a deal. You’ve been gallivanting so I’m going to the pub with your brother to see the football. You need to be here”. I know I did, the children and I were also meant to be at Mags’s barbeque in forty minutes. I tried another field. It all looked so different from this morning when the fields were relatively empty. I came across a girl of about twenty, crying. She couldn’t find her car either. And she had to be at work. We walked and we walked. And finally we found mine. Perhaps she’s still there, searching.
I had news for Hubby when I finally came home. “Whilst you’re already in a bad mood, you might as well know that I’m going to Cardiff on Tuesday”.
When I arrange these coach trips we leave at the crack of dawn to have a full day at our destination. On Tuesday we didn’t leave until just before nine. I couldn’t complain though as the local Pensioners Voice had allowed me to gate crash their party and for only £12.When we arrived at 12.30 after a comfort stop that saw one of the ladies so bewildered by the automatic flush in the loo that it went off as she was bent over trying to haul her panty-girdle up, my God-mother was there to meet me.
We had just enough time for lunch at Jamie Oliver’s before going ball gown shopping. I tried on a stunner. By the time I’d got dressed, she bought it for me. She’s more a fairy god-mother. At 4.30, clutching bags with tissue billowing out of them I was the last to board the coach. Waving and blowing kisses out of the window at my God-mother I swear that she seemed to disappear into a puff of smoke, or was it just perhaps the coach’s emissions?

Doppelganger.

“Enough!” bellowed Hubby one evening over dinner, thumping his fist on the table, “Do I bloody look like Hugh Dennis?”.
His family put their cutlery down and peered back, scrutinising him. The ensuing silence was eerie.
“Well dad,” offered our son, pulling one earphone out of his ear, “You’re tall”.
“But not as funny” added the 14 year old.
“Thanks for that but I wasn’t thinking of the persona on Mock the Week, but more the poor sod of a father in Outnumbered. I don’t remember him cracking jokes. In fact he spends his time walking around as though in shock and awe”
“Wassup?” asked our son, “You sound grieved”.
“Grieved is a good word for the way I feel. This isn’t dinner. This is snack time in Babel. It literally confounds me. God alone knows what you are all talking about.”
“Well I’m pretending to be the princess”, offered the eight year old, an old skirt of mine belted around her chest, a bra of mine acting as a crown.
“Yeah and I’m the frog”, added the Red-Head, “We are talking ribbit-ribbit language”.
As if that explained it, Hubby then asked, “And you two?” of the teenagers.
“I was texting Laura”, said one.
“And I was singing some lyrics” said the other.
“And you?” Hubby asked me.
“I was just talking to myself”.
“Dinner”, said Hubby, “should be a time when the breadwinner is rewarded for his efforts. A time when he sits at the head of the table after a busy day and eats in peace, his family awed into silence by his very presence. This newspaper”, he waggled the paper under his plate, “ought to be for me to read in quiet, to catch up on world events and not, as a place-mat to shield me from the paintings and sequins that lie beneath it”.
“Sorry”, I said huffily, “But we’ve been for a long walk today and since I’ve got back, I’ve unloaded and reloaded the dishwasher, unblocked the bathroom sink of PlayDoh...”
“You promised you wouldn’t tell”, whined the eight year old.
“..Put away the laundry, put a white shirt of yours to soak”, I looked pointedly at the Red-Head, “and made dinner. I’m sorry that I didn’t quite manage to clear the dining table as well. I have just tried to adapt and overcome.”
“Would it be too much to ask of you all, if I were offered just a modicum of respect? A hiatus in the day when we all just eat in peace and I can think and digest without feeling the need for Gaviscon afterwards. Can’t you revere my authority from time to time?”
“God dad, you sound like a character from a DH Lawrence novel”.
“Sooner that than a besieged character from a BBC sitcom”.
“Have you ever laughed Dad?” asked the Red-Head.
“Of course I have”, answered Hubby stunned, “What a preposterous question”.
“I’ve never seen you” and she nonchalantly popped an olive into her mouth. I looked at Hubby and shrugged my shoulders. There was a certain resemblance between him and Hugh Dennis; I think it lay in the grim, straight line of a mouth, grey skin and furrowed brow. I think most modern fathers would recognise this expression and agree that is less a facial look but more the effects of a syndrome of living in a large family where one’s authority has been eroded over the years by self-assured children who have rewritten the ‘seen and not heard’ idiom into, seldom seen yet always heard.
It was with great relief that Hubby went to work the following morning. Stepping into his uniform, I could sense his growing confidence, as if by donning gold stripes it gave him a super hero quality, a sense of ‘no-one messes with me now’, because at work, hundreds of young people, many younger than his son, quake in their boots when they see him approaching. No wonder dinner in a chaotic household is such an adjustment to him.
“Have a good day Commander”, I said as he leant over to kiss me goodbye, “What are you up to today?”
“V.I.Ps up the ying-yang. Divisions. You name it. You?” A Red-Head popped her head out from under our duvet.
“Can we go to this guard?”, she asked.
“This guard what? The Guard? You can see ‘the guard’ on the parade ground”. Then he whispered, “Please don’t bring them to divisions Alice”.
I was very confused.
“What is this guard?” I asked our daughter.
“You know where we go swimming”. Oh. Liskeard.
Later that evening after a full day of half term activities, I lay on my bed. Pooped. Hubby came bounding up the stairs.
“Hey gorgeous”, he said, throwing himself onto me, “This is where I like to find you. Where is everyone?”
“The eldest are at various parties and the youngest playing in the garden”.
“Friday evening, kids all busy, best time” he said, nuzzling expectantly into my neck. Before I was able to respond one way or another, the eight year old appeared around the door holding a Waitrose carrier bag.
“I found a dead mouse”, she said, indicating to a lifeless creature inside the plastic bag.
“Oh my God”, said Hubby. Suddenly I saw water dripping onto my bedroom carpet.
“Why is the bag dripping?”, I yelped.
“Because I rinsed the mouse out. It was covered in blood”. Child, bag and dead, wet, mouse were deposited outside the house within seconds all thoughts of amorousness booted out with them.
“See what I mean Alice?”
“The Hugh Dennis thing?”. He nodded. I squeezed his hand. There was nothing I could say, we are, literally outnumbered.

Overcooked.

Hottest day of the year thus far and Mags had the bright idea of a picnic at the beach.
“Why is that such an alien concept to you Alice? It’s what people do. It’s the summer”.
“But it’s so bloody hot”, I complained, icky sweat trickling between my generous bosoms as, bent over, I studied the darker recesses of the kitchen cupboard to see what I could rustle together for a picnic. There wasn’t much in.
“Share ours” said Mags.
“That wouldn’t be fair”, I replied, frustrated on unearthing several packets of half eaten posh crisps at the back of the cupboard which were now as damp as a British barbeque.
“We could have a barbecue this evening when we get back”, added Mags as though reading my mind.
“Oh okay. You win. I’ve found a couple of packets of out of date Quavers. I can make some marmite sarnies and I’ve an apple”.
“See you on Kingsand beach then in half an hour” and she hung up.
Hubby once again declined the invitation of spending time in familial pursuits.
“What’s the matter with you?” I asked him, narked, “Is it the fact that now two of your children have gone beyond bucket and spade age you are so ‘over’ going to the beach? Been there, bought the t-shirt?”
“Alice, don’t be ridiculous. I was going to do some gardening actually”. I looked at him accusingly, a copy of the Times on the garden table along with a fresh pot of coffee.
“Seriously”, he offered, aware that I obviously didn’t believe that as soon as I’d driven away he’d be out there with the Flymo and Weedol, “There is a lot of cutting back and potting up to do. Go and enjoy yourself and I’ll make a coleslaw for this evening.”
That clinched it for me. Hubby knows how much I detest making coleslaw. Life is too short for all that shredding.
So, somewhat reluctantly I bundled the youngest children into the car along with the buckets, the spades, the sunblock, the spare set of clothes, the towels and the rather meagre picnic. It’s only a ten minute drive but by the time we arrived the 8 year old was fidgeting in the front seat. I parked the car.
“I don’t feel very well”, she said, before quickly opening her door and vomiting spectacularly onto the pavement. Passers by rushed past with wrinkled up noses. Tutting.
“It’s very hot”, said my little girl. I gave her a bottle of water and plonked her sun hat on.
“Hopefully you’ll feel better once you are by the sea”. She looked as unconvinced as I felt. We found Mags reclining on a beautiful, ethnic, Fair Trade, throw.
“Yoo-hoo”, she waved, sitting up, her still pert boobs barely covered by two triangles of gold bikini.
“God Mags”, I said, throwing myself, not particularly gracefully onto her blanket. It was a long way down, “You haven’t got much on”.
“I know”, she giggled, “I couldn’t resist this little number. A fiver. Ebay”.
I took my skirt and t-shirt off to reveal an old cossie that had seen better days.
“I think you’d better put your skirt back on”, said my eight year old handing it to me, “I think you may have forgotten to shave”. I looked down and was shocked by my hirsuteness. Jeeze when had that happened? I’d only recently been for a Fake Bake; I know for sure that I’d addressed my bikini area then.
“A lot can happen in a fortnight”, laughed Mags, “Drag my sarong around your bum”.
I wrapped a few metres of cotton around my waist and sat down. Immediately the Red-Head wanted to go to the loo. I clambered up again.
“Are you ok now”, I asked the eight year old, “I’m just taking your sister to the loo. Do you need to go too?” She shook her head. I left her next to Mags, a little lacklustre but chatting away.
Ten minutes later we got back and once again I parked myself on the beach. The eight year old had gone to join Mag’s children in the rock-pools. That was a good sign.
“But I want to go too”, whined the Red-Head, “It’s not fair”. Bloody hell. Mags shrugged her shoulders, “See you later”, she said.
Once more I heaved myself off the shingle and picked my way across the rocks, the sun beating down on my shoulders. I realised that in plastering the girls skin in sun-block, I’d forgotten to apply it to my own. I’d pay for this later.
Finally I caught up with the rest of the gang. My daughter ran over to me, jigging up and down.
“I do need to go to the loo after all”, she said, a pained expression on her face. Bloody hell.
“Let’s go then”. Of course, I couldn’t leave the others on their own and so amid much bellyaching and whingeing, I dragged them back to the beach and deposited them with Mags. To cut a seemingly very long day short, my butt hardly made contact with the sand all afternoon, although my sandwich did which is just as well as Marmite couldn’t really compete with Mags’s picnic. Tupperware after Tupperware was opened to reveal bruschetta with Parma ham and mozzarella, a Greek salad, strips of pitta bread and homemade houmous. Juicy strawberries and pineapple followed. I felt most inadequate. My kids looked at their Quavers forlornly.
“Can we go home soon?” asked the 8 year old. We made it in time for her to be sick again. In the kitchen.
I still had a barbecue to host. And the coleslaw was in the fridge. I had no alternative. I set the coals alight although an hour later there was little distinction between the skin on the chicken and the skin on my shoulders. Both had first degree burns. We put mayonnaise on one and calamine on the other.

Sing for your supper.

Sorry this post should have been posted last week. A little out of synch now!

As Hubby and our lofty guests discussed proportional representation, I for once, was more than happy to be stuck in the kitchen addressing my plump, gnocchi. There was nothing I could contribute to the conversation anyway as I didn’t really understand it with any authority and instead of explaining it to me nicely, Hubby had, before our guests arrived, called me a dullard and had instructed me to “Google it to find out”.
Funny old thing but I didn’t feel too confident after that to enter into an intellectual debate. Instead I fiddled around a little more in the kitchen, grated some parmesan and wiped the plates, so that as I entered the dining room carrying large plates with a just a few gnocchi, each plate decorated with little blobs of pesto oil, a la Masterchef, I felt rather proud of my efforts.
The conversation stopped momentarily whilst my guests politely oohed and ahed over their starter but in no time at all they resumed political dialogue as I feebly handed around olives and tore off hunks of rosemary focaccia. The chilled Prosecco slipped down my throat far too easily after which I found the main course a doddle. By the time pudding was served, I was quite content with being ignored. We had after all, in the eventual interests of politeness, abandoned politics in favour of the Royal Navy, a subject, having been married to one of its incumbents for 20 years, I felt I had some experience of but after an hour of swapping ‘dits’ more jack than Captain Ahab and the usage of more acronyms than a Government Agency text message, I’d lost the will to live when suddenly the spotlight was on me.
“This has been a wonderful dinner” said one, wiping his mouth enthusiastically with a napkin, “One of the best meals I’ve had in a long time.”
“And such a good idea to use paper napkins too, much more convenient than linen ones but I’m such a glutton for punishment, I insist on using the starched article” added his wife, giggling airily. Whether buoyed by Prosecco or too old to care I just replied,
“Consider yourself lucky it’s a John Lewis paper napkin and not Andrex’s finest loo roll. I only just made it to Waitrose in time after work”. Stupid cow.
I went back to the kitchen and returned with eight individual dessert glasses.
“Tiramisu!” squeal ed Stupid Cow, “How retro! Do you remember darling when he had an Italian dinner in Tuscany that year and I made that dazzling zabaglione? This is so much wiser Alice; foolproof in fact”. Her husband looked as though he couldn’t give a jot whether it was Zabaglione, Tiramisu or Bird’s Eye, Arctic Roll. He just wolfed it down greedily.
More wine bottles were opened as well as a couple of Beaumes de Venise. My earlier consumption of Prosecco had slowed down a pace as I’d been busy creating; looking at the empties littering the table it seemed as though I had a fair bit of catching up to do. I took a quick sip of the dessert wine, finished my pud, gathered the dishes, and then went out to the kitchen to retrieve the Cornish cheeses supplied by my boss. She has also supplied a skillet, the eight white pasta dishes, eight white dinner plates and eight white side plates.
“How on earth can I possibly have a formal dinner party when I don’t have matching Wedgewood?”, I’d groaned to her and like a fairy God-Mother she disappeared out the back of her cafe and returned within moments doubled over by the weight of said matching crockery. I’d kissed her.
Stupid Cow passed on the Mennallack Farmhouse cheddar.
“No thank you Alice, far too many calories already” she said, tapping her non-existent, size eight tummy, “besides when in Rome..”
“What do you mean by that?” asked her husband.
“Well it seems such a pity after all this Italian food to spoil the flavour. Whilst I value you nobly supporting local producers Alice, you can’t beat a creamy bit of Gorgonzola”.
“Actually you can”, said another of my guests, “With some soft cheese. Then stick it to a prune and wrap some parma ham around it”. Awkward silence. Then Hubby stuck some music on quickly. Always a bit of a muso, he seems to have every track anyone has ever heard of.
“Any requests folks?” They came in thick and fast and before I could make coffee, at least three people were disco dancing on the rug in front of my dining table. Putting the kettle on seemed pointless. Instead more wine was opened and the marsala that had been bought for the Tiramisu was secretly being poured into Stupid Cow’s glass. She thought nobody had seen her.
After a few numbers, it was obvious that no-one was going to go home quietly and that all efforts in formality or indeed ordering a taxi, had, thank God, gone by the wayside. I ran up the stairs to my son’s room.
“Get the Singstar thing going will you sweet. I don’t know how to do it and dare I say it, my guests are having fun, carousing”.
It took no time at all for a middle aged dinner party to degenerate into rowdy karaoke.
Hubby and his boss did a fine rendition of Sonny and Cher’s ‘I've got you babe’, another guest and his wife sang a mean rendition of Johnny Cash’s Ring of Fire, and when I say mean, it was bloody awful but, the piece de resistance came when Stupid Cow returned from the loo with her bra on the outside of her dress. We will all have an abiding memory of a sozzled Commander’s wife, living it large, believing she was Madonna and belting out, with the odd squint at the screen, Like a Virgin. Hubby had never been more relieved that for once it wasn’t me up there.

If you can walk with kings nor lose the common touch...

Hubby has washed his hands of me. It would seem a Haven holiday is not his cup of tea.
“It’s not just that Alice”, to which he then added with extra hoity-toitiness, “but some of us have to work”.
“I understand that”, I replied loftily, “It’s just that I diligently saved up my tokens in the evening paper to take them on a cheap holiday”.
“And so you’re going to take them out of school as well?” His tone was such that I wanted to punch him on the nose. Of course I didn’t. I’m too much of a lady to do that. Instead I called him a terrible name and walked out of the room shouting behind me,
“I had a tan done as well. Especially”. I’m not quite sure what the significance of ‘especially’ was. Perhaps I wanted to emphasise that my golden skin was in some way to be viewed as a trophy, for him to admire and fondle, much like the world cup, as though the elusiveness of such prizes were almost too much to bear.
“Alice love”. Full stop. Here it comes. “Your skin, I am sure agree you would agree is not exactly a Halle Berry brown is it but more of a Jordan orange.”
I flounced off. The cheek of it. I was delighted with my Fake Bake. Never before had I experienced such an instant feeling of well being. Loads of people had come up to me in Sainsbury’s and said, “Alice, I’ve never seen you look so well. You look marvellous. Have you been away?”
I wish I could carry off a little white lie with panache. But I’m hopeless. I did tell one woman I’d been to the Maldives but she looked at me wryly and I immediately blurted out, “No, It’s just a spray. I had it done down the town”. I might have got away with it had I said Lanzarote instead.
So, once more I saw myself packing a case to go on a single parent family, holiday. The older children are in the middle of exams so there was no way they were going to accompany me.
“I wouldn’t really want to go anyway”, they both said at different junctures.
“Why-ever not?”, I asked, “It’ll be great fun.”
“We are just not holiday park people”.
“Don’t be such insufferable snobs!” I exclaimed.
“Mum. Really, you’ve tried this before. We left Butlins early because you fell out with the security guard.”
“He was being absurd”.
“And the place in Wales?”
“I’ve told you never to mention that incident ever again”
They had a point. But hope springs eternal and all that, so, I heaved the last of the clean laundry and toiletries into my case.
“Where do these go?” asked the eight year old, brandishing a box of Tampax at me. I sighed. She picks her moments. Nevertheless, strike while the iron’s hot as they say. So, lifting her onto my knee I very gently explained, as far as was appropriate for a young girl, the biological manifestations of puberty. When I’d finished she took a deep breath.
Oh God. Had it been too much? Had I scarred her for life?
“I knew all that mummy”, she finally said, “Duh. I just wanted to know where do they go as in, which bag do they go” and she walked away slapping her forehead as if I were the biggest idiot. Like ever.
The following morning having kissed the big kids, the dog and Hubby a fond farewell, the eight year old, the Red-Head and I drove to Perranporth. I think the girls were just as excited that we didn’t have to queue to get on the Torpoint Ferry as much as going on holiday.
“You mean we are going the other way?” asked the Red-Head. She was still marvelling at this prospect when we turned off after the Windfarm roundabout.
We parked up.
“I can’t wait to see our caravan” said the eight year old, “Will we have bunks?”
I went into reception. The girl behind the desk was polite but firm.
“You can’t get into your accommodation until four pm”, she said. I looked at my watch. It was ten past eleven.
“There is no chance of an earlier check-in?”
“That’ll be fifteen pounds then”.
“Don’t worry, we’ll find something to do”. Thank the good Lord the sun was shining otherwise we would have been very miserable indeed. As it was we walked the coastal path over hill and dune to the beach in Perranporth. Consumed some delicious paninis, the walked back along the beach and up the cliff.
I looked at my watch. 2.30. Now what? I was a bit popped to say the truth; a lie down would have been lovely.
“Let’s go swimming”, two young girls squealed. So, heaving the suitcase out of the car, I rummaged for cosies, towels and goggles. Finally, eventually, it was four o’clock.
The process I had to go through to pick up the key I don’t want to be reminded of, but after another forty minutes we were in.
Five minutes later the family in the mobile home ten foot away from ours made themselves known.
“Have a glass of wine”, he said, “Life is tough on you single mums. I’ve got my partner and step daughter with me. She knows all about it”. I smiled at the partner. He opened the tap on the wine box.
“Only three ninety eight, this was for the box. From Merthyr’s ASDA and I don’t normally drink wine. It’s normally Jack Daniels”.
“Lush” said the partner, chinking my glass.
Later on they knocked on the door.
“Coming to the slots?”
“Sure”.
The abiding memory of this holiday? The Red-Head’s big blue eyes, wide as saucers when, on putting a pound into the change machine, she ‘won’ 50, two pence pieces. Her delight was infectious. We should all embrace our inner Nessa Jenkins. It’s a lot of fun actually.

Mis-led.

Hubby peered at my grow-bag ruefully, “Just stick to what you’re good at”, he said, shaking his head.
“Like what exactly?” I replied, zipping up my cheap and cheerful, plastic, tomato tent.
Hubby didn’t say anything.
“Oh great”, I said confrontationally, my hands on my hips, “So, you can’t think of one thing I’m good at?”
“My darling Alice, there are myriad things you excel at. Gardening is not one of them”.
“Well at least I’m having a go”, I shouted after him as he walked up the garden path and into the kitchen.
I looked down at my empty growbag. He had a point. No wonder the allotment association expelled me.
My son walked into the garden carrying a mug of tea.
“Wassup ma?”, he asked, handing me the mug. Something fishy was going on.
“I’ve made a bit of a twit of myself”, I replied.
“How so?”, he said, putting his arm around me. He was taking an alarming interest in my feelings.
“Well if you must know, I bought this grow bag and some tomato feed and this tent thing..”
“I wondered what that was. I thought it was some sort of state of the art beach thing”.
“Nope. Tomatoes are meant to grow in it”.
“So, what’s the issue?”
“The issue, it would seem, is that you are supposed to buy tomato plants to put in the grow bags. Hence the name I guess”.
“And what did you think you ought to do?”, my son asked. I started to laugh and blush. It was ridiculous.
“Well, I thought”, I said, giggling, “That I was just meant to cut holes in the plastic and water the compost and then ta-da, as if by magic, tomatoes would grow”. This conversation was lasting longer than any we’d had since we’d discussed his Christmas list. It was lovely to have his undivided attention but my son looked at me with what I’d like to think was compassion but which I knew was, pity.
“But, Ma”, he started, gently, “How could that have been possible?” The more I thought about it the funnier it became.
“Um, well, there are pictures of tomatoes all over the bag and so I assumed, naturally, that there were special seeds or something in the compost”.
“Like mushroom kits?”
“Exactly!” We were silent. Then the penny dropped.
“What on earth do you know about growing mushrooms?”
“Nothing, that’s the point, Jack and I bought a kit when we were about 15 and put it in his dad’s airing cupboard but, unbeknownst to us, he’d turned the heating off and besides we forgot to water the kit. Then his dad went mental because the whole thing was tipped upside down when he went to get some towels out. It was quite a mess, half grown, dried out fungi and smelly spores”.
“I can quite imagine. That still doesn’t answer the question. Why were you growing mushrooms or am I being naive?”
It was his turn to look sheepish, “We just wondered if we could grow magic ones”. Superb. That’s all I needed, a drug baron for a son.
“So that I hope, was the beginning and end of your psychedelic experiments?”
“Yeah, I can trip now just by playing my bass ma”. Sometimes, it really is just like living in the middle of a Rolling Stones documentary.
“Well there we are then. Lovely”, I said, profoundly, “What do you want for tea?”
“That’s what I came to talk to you about”. I knew it. This was the fishy thing I’d anticipated. It transpired that it was his and his girlfriend’s anniversary and he wanted to take her out for dinner, but he was “like, um, financially embarrassed”.
“What am I to do about it?” Why was I even asking? I should just wear my purse on a string around my neck, and then my children could access it any time of day or night.
“I know that I already owe you”.
“Big style”.
“Really? Big style? Sheesh. Anyway, I get paid at the weekend, I’ll give it to you then ok? Please? I just want to make her happy. I ..” Suddenly Dad popped his head around the wisteria.
“Oh A-lice!”, he sang, beaming. “I’ve won on the premium bonds. One hundred pounds! Ten pound each to you and the Commander and twenty each for the children. Here you are son!” My son and father high-fived each other and my son trotted back into the house, grinning from ear to ear, gripping two ten pound notes in his fist.
“Dad, that was really kind but he’s rubbish with money. He already owes loads”.
“Takes after his mother then”, Dad teased. I looked at my feet acutely mortified.
Dad nudged me, “Come on I was only pulling your leg. Growing tomatoes now?” When embarrassed, a change in conversation would generally be welcomed but not today. So I lied.
“Yes, I was preparing everything, just need to get some plants and before you know it; I’ll be in business”.
Hubby stuck his head out of the kitchen door, “Alice? Are we busy on Friday night?”. I shook my head. He put the phone to his ear.
“Friday is perfect Sir. Relaxed, casual. Of course. Yes, Commanders Manly and Kerry and their wives are up for it. Great Sir. See you then”. He clicked the phone and walked out. Dad and I looked at him expectantly.
“Well?” I asked.
“Dinner party Friday. Here. The Captain, his wife and a couple of others. Ok?” I felt the colour drain from my face.
“But I’m working on Friday.”
“You asked me what I thought you were good at and this is it. Cooking and stuff. It’s your forte Alice love. After the tomato fiasco I thought you’d be pleased”.
“So chief cook and bottle washer is now my forte?” I yelled, storming indoors.
“Tomato fiasco?” asked Dad. I left Hubby to explain.

It's just a jump to the left...

“Oh c’mon Alice”, said Mags, “it’ll be a right laugh”. I rarely need persuading to go on a night out, especially one that is on impulse. This was slightly different though. It meant that far from going out in my glad rags, I would in fact be going out with very little on at all. I wasn’t sure if I could quite carry that off.
“Just the two of us?”, I asked warily.
“No, I managed to get hold of four tickets, so, husbands included.”
“I don’t think Hubby will be up for it Mags. He’s a naval officer for heaven’s sake. Sober and dignified. He’s got a sword and a silver topped cane. People salute him. He’ll never agree”.
Not only did Hubby agree, but with alarming, enthusiastic gusto. We only had a few hours to get our outfits together and as I was working, I no time to run into Ann Summers.
“There must be somewhere in Torpoint where you can buy fishnet stockings for me”, is not a phrase I would ever have thought I’d have heard my husband utter, but utter it he did and with genuine concern.
“Get the holdup ones”, he added, “I’m too tall for a suspender belt”. Perish the thought. So as if I had little else to do after finishing work other than walk the dog, get our son’s hair cut, pick the girls up from school, prepare their dinner and going out, I now had scout around the few shops of Torpoint in the vague hope that I’d find what I was looking for. I wasn’t optimistic. We are very well served in this town for pasties, estate agents, hardware, pets, holidays, pharmaceuticals and a handful of toher services that keep a small town ticking over but I genuinely didn’t think that Fore St had much to offer in the way of exotic undergarments.
How wrong I was. Two shops sold the requested stockings and the optional belt and of those two, one also sold a rather saucy line in basques. Another shop, wholly independent of the other two sold a dazzlingly blue, feather boa. Who’d have thought it? The only thing Hubby needed now was a pair of men’s tight briefs. I wasn’t able to find a pair of those in any shop. There’s a hole in the market there.
I rang my brother, “Yo, bro, got any tight knicks?”
“Ladies ones you mean?” he sounded bewildered.
“No of course not. I have plenty of those myself, I mean as in briefs. For a bloke”.
“Nope, sorry sis. I wear boxers. Dad favours the brief style though, try him”.
I couldn’t quite bring myself to explain to dad why Hubby would need to borrow a pair of his underpants and so, whilst he was out at bowls, I went next door and raided his drawers. Literally. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
By the time Hubby came home from work I had his outfit ready for him to wear. An old basque of mine which I’d worn on some amorous weekend when rather more comely, the all important hosiery, a feather boa and dad’s pants. Size 12 high heels would have meant buying at a ‘specialist’ shop and I wasn’t quite up to that, his steaming bats would have to suffice. At least they were shiny.
The children squealed with excitement.
“Daddy, is a gu-url, daddy is a gu-url”. Hubby picked up the lacy girdle.
“Oh my God Alice”, he said, as though the reality of his transvestite challenge had suddenly dawned on him.
“You can’t back out now. Mags has got the tickets and is waiting for us in her office. C’mon”.
“You mean we don’t have to walk on the Torpoint ferry dressed like this?”
“I wouldn’t do that to you! No we’ll get changed at Mags’s and she’ll drive to the car park and bring us home.” We threw our outfits into a kitbag and kissed the children goodbye.
“Oh dad”, said the eight year old, “I’m really disappointed; I wanted to see you look like Beyonce”.
Forty minutes later and I saw Hubby in a new light. It was something akin to what Simon Cowell undoubtedly feels when he spots new talent and sees dollar signs in front of his eyes. The cash register sound of ‘kerching’ went off in my mind too. Hubby took to his new image very much in the fashion of that duck to water and I suddenly thought that when, it not so many years Hubby retires from the Royal Navy, I could be his agent, we could buy a little swish pad in Brighton and he could have a drag act.
Being 6’ 7” gave him a certain something but combined with stockings, basque and an artistic application with Revlon, he was a knockout. I wasn’t the only one to find his alter ego attractive; once at the theatre Hubby was surrounded by hundreds of other ‘queens’ many of whom came up to him asking to be photographed with him. Mags’s husband also threw himself into the role, although the multi coloured spectacles he’d bought to hide behind made him look more Timmy than Tranny Mallett. It was though as Mag’s had promised, a ‘right laugh’. The Rocky Horror Picture Show was a hoot; we got into the spirit of things, the only incident being as we walked back to the car when a Petty Officer Hubby knows saluted him with a rather wry, “Evening sir”.
As we stood, weirdly, side by side in the bathroom later, removing our makeup, Hubby reminded me of our next social engagement.
“Don’t forget we’re having dinner with the Padre tomorrow night”. The juxtaposition did not escape me. Tarts and Vicars are us.