Broken finger nail blues

On Wednesday night I learnt why women swear when they’re in labour. Not that I was in labour, I hasten to add – but I was in hospital. In fact, as I type this, I still am. But I digress.

No, on Wednesday night, when the doctor lanced the festering lump that was my finger – and then explained that the infection may just have stopped the local anaesthetic from working (she wasn’t wrong) – I found myself repeatedly and without any deliberate volition using the F word with every new cut. Not that my language is perfect, by any means, but I normally do manage a little more restraint than that. My mother wouldn’t have been very proud, but the understanding doctor said I’d done very well.

Unlike the triage nurse, who had refused to believe the amount of pain I was in, even before that.
“On a scale of one to ten?” she asked me.
I hesitated. “Eight”
She looked down at my finger and raised her eyebrows. “Where ten is having your leg cut off without anaesthetic…”
I revised my choice. “Seven.”

It is perfectly ludicrous that I am in hospital at all. Firstly, because all that happened was I broke a fingernail and somehow it got infected. I ask you. My first ever emergency admission and it’s a broken nail. Almost too girly to be true.

The second reason it’s ridiculous is that I am only here because I need intravenous antibiotics every six hours. That’s the theory, anyway. I had the first batch in A&E but now I’m on the ward everyone is far too busy to administer the second batch at anywhere near the right time. And no-one, but no-one, has been able to explain to me why I can’t go home between sessions and not take up a valuable bed. Oh well, at least this way I get £100 a night on the medical insurance – which should just about cover the car parking. Husband, who is in Germany – a safe distance from all the fuss – has calculated that if I manage to stay over the weekend we can show a tidy tax free profit. And I can still be back at work on Monday.

It is slightly surreal being in a ward with five other ladies; three beds neatly down each side and a bathroom in the corner. Strangely reminiscent of boarding school. We are a sociable bunch and in different circumstances I can imagine us opening illicit bottles of wine and having a midnight feast. As it is, we compare brands of yoghurt (very important if you’re on antibiotics) and praise the maxed out and perfectly wonderful nurses.

We also have a good laugh. It is testament to my belief that if you put half a dozen women of reasonably good heart together – even in a pretty awful situation – they will find the funny side. Silly things and some pretty black humour too; like the lady opposite, when she was almost passing out and a nurse was joking with her not to do it on a Saturday, simply saying “sorry, it’s not like this is a hospital or anything.” Hard to have your tongue in your cheek when you can’t breathe.

We are so unlike the other wards we begin to get a bit of a reputation. We joke with the cleaners, and handymen and catering staff. We christen one young and rather camp male nurse our ward toyboy and not only laps it up but looks after us too; slipping us extra cups of tea and those oh-so-valuable yoghurts when he has a moment. And at staff changeover the day nurse says proudly to the night one “You’ll like this lot – they’re so friendly”. She still doesn’t look greatly impressed when those of us with visible ailments re-arrange the bedside lamps so we have enough light to use our mobiles to take pictures to send to our friends and family, while the others look on, giggling helplessly.

OK, so I wasn’t particularly ill (I’d broken a finger nail, not my back, thank God) but the other jokers included a retired teacher waiting to hear if she was suitable for a desperately needed liver transplant, a beautifully turned out sixty-something with cancer in more places than you could shake a stick at, and my black-out humorist pal who later had to be moved to coronary care in a hurry. The NHS may be a much maligned organisation, but you certainly can’t fault the patients.

Mice

It’s autumn and all manner of creatures are leaving the garden to make their way into the comfort and warmth of the house. And that’s whether we invite them to or not. The top landing is plagued by ladybirds – until I find out where they’re coming in and stuff the hole full of kitchen roll. Spiders are colonising the fireplace, but thankfully haven’t yet reached the bath. And the mice have returned to the airing cupboard.

Since we’ve been in our house quite a while now, said airing cupboard must have been home to several generations of mice. Although we are very particular about letting them in in the first place, somehow they find their way into next door’s bathroom, under our bath, and thence into the cosiest of little lairs amongst our hot water pipes. Which wouldn’t be a problem really, except that the airing cupboard backs onto the head of our bed, and our mice are definitely party animals.

The first time they made their presence felt, Husband was on his own in the house as I was away on a course, and so he was lazing around in bed listening to the radio and reading. All of a sudden a movement caught his eye, as a mouse sauntered into the bedroom, stood on its hind legs and sniffed the air; no doubt trying to appraise the quality of its new abode. The shoe that flew down the stairs after it must have missed, because that night it brought all its friends home to the airing cupboard to show them around. By the time I came back the gaps in the floorboards had all be filled with bath sealant, a couple of traps primed with tasty lumps of melted cheese, and at least four mice efficiently despatched.

Not that dealing with little visitors is purely Husband’s domain – I have had some involvement in the process myself. You see they love the melted cheese so much that they are very quick to succumb, and one morning when I was at home I heard a trap – this time set in the lobby – flip shut. I took no notice and decided I would deal with the deceased later. The trouble was that I forgot all about the mouse, and when I opened the lobby door several hours later, I realised to my horror that the mouse was still alive. Suffering, exhausted, but very much alive. Even worse, it took me quite a while longer to pluck up the courage to kill it.

Having done the dirty deed and disposed of the evidence in the wheely bin I retreated to the kitchen for a nice restorative cup of tea. Now Husband always sets his traps in pairs, and no sooner had I sat down than I heard the other one go off. Determined not to let another little animal suffer I hurried into the lobby, only to be treated to the sight of a mouse desperately trying to clamber up the coats, the trap firmly attached to his tail and dragging behind him. Laugh? Well, one of us didn’t… but once I had recovered myself I grabbed the gardening gloves and released him into the garden, kinked tail and all. Somehow, he’d earned the right to live.

It’s probably his descendants who are settling into the airing cupboard right now, complete with the little wooden clogs they tend to wear around the house at night. But Husband has become particularly weight conscious over the summer and the only cheese we had was low fat Cheddar. And d’you know what? The fussy beggars turned their noses up at it. All night they danced around the traps, but not once went near them. And not just one night either…

This morning we found a scrap of finest Manchego in the back of the fridge and the mousetraps were suitably re-bated. We were hardly back down the stairs when the first one banged shut. No doubt they’ll be wanting olives and chorizo with it next.

Six Inches

Amazingly, my loyal old 4WD, shut in the garage over the summer while I fooled around with Midi, started first time. In went the key and on went the engine – bless. So despite the fact it was covered in bird shit (courtesy of nesting swallows) I took it for a long drive up to West Dean and over the hill to Goodwood. And then for a long scrub in the car wash. It looked quite respectable afterwards.

In fact everything to do with getting Tucsy (because he has to have a name now that Midi has one – no, don’t ask me why because I haven’t a clue) back on the road went swimmingly. A few frustrations with the DVLA website, but eventually he was de-sorned, re-taxed, re-insured and ready to go. A little earlier than I’d planned, but then Husband wanted to use him for a boys’ day out – Tucsy’s a proper 4WD you see, not a pretend Chelsea tractor – he’s got big wheels and a lot of clearance for going properly off road.

Inevitably Tucsy’s re-emergence from the garage meant it was time to prepare Midi for her turn to go away. First, it seemed like a car cover was a good idea, because although the swallows have flown to sunnier climes (sensible creatures), the garage certainly isn’t bird proof and I really don’t want her lovely canvas roof damaged by anything potentially corrosive. So off to Halfords – top of the range jobby – largest size – so that Tucsy can share it as well.

Next came the MOT. Her first. I was horrified when Service Manager came up to my office waving a red failure notice – how could he? And he was grinning too, sadistic bastard. It was her tyres, you see. The one I had dinked earlier in the summer had given up the ghost, and the other front one wasn’t far off. Retail at £150 each. I nearly choked… but then Grand Fromage stepped in and suggested a price that didn’t leave his accountant quite so blue and gasping for breath. He really is very good to Midi.

Finally, the warranty check at the local Saab dealer. I knew the heating needed a tweak, but what I didn’t expect was for them to replace the cup holder I’d managed to break as well. You know some vehicle warranties aren’t worth the paper they’re written on? Well Saab’s ought to be printed on pure gold leaf. Well chuffed, I was.

Anyway, time came to re-arrange our three cars, as usual taking up two parking spaces and a garage but now in decidedly the wrong order. Husband needed Tucsy at some unearthly hour of the morning, so I decided to pop Midi into the garage instead. I tucked in her mirrors and edged her in; thankfully she’s nice and slim so fitted between the doors and into the gap with no problem, so all was well. I turned off her lights, assured her this was only for a day or so, locked her doors and made my way out into the daylight. Only to find her bum sticking out by a good six inches. It had never occurred to me that she was longer than a 4WD and wouldn’t fit.

I stood there and giggled. I posted the news on Facebook and got all sorts of unhelpful comments. I pondered the alternatives to leaving her in the garage all winter with the door open to the elements. And there was only one option really. Much as it will pain me, I’m just going to have to keep driving her, saving Tucsy for the really bad days. Shame…

Bad parking days

Is it me, or does everyone have days when they just can’t park? I checked it out with Funny Friend and she has them too, but that doesn’t necessarily mean they’re a global phenomenon. I mean, can you imagine a man admitting to having one? Oh, and hold the jokes about eight inches, because however long eight inches is, on a bad parking day, it isn’t half long enough.

I was struck down today, a bright and sunny Friday, taking Midi to meet Funny Friend and her Blue Motion Golf for a coffee in Emsworth. The car park was pretty packed, but on my right I saw a space almost straight away – it was just a little small though, and one of the adjacent cars was at a bit of a strange angle. I fingered the steering wheel nervously and decided to give it a miss.

Because on my left was a much bigger space. It required parallel parking next to a wall, but that was OK. I can do parallel parking. I pulled up next to the Santa Fe in front, but then had to wait while about three other cars squeezed past. Check in the mirror, see the clear road, into reverse, swing around… and totally bugger it up. And you know how it is with parallel parking – get it wrong the first time and you can never quite wriggle around enough to get it right.

So I went back alongside the Santa Fe and started again. Better swing at it this time, but all of a sudden eight foot (not inches) of brick wall is looming just beside Midi’s rear bumper. She’s not enjoying this and neither am I.

The car park is very crowded by now and I am determined to ignore the fact that I am fast becoming a tourist attraction. Midi and I slink off around the corner and lo and behold, someone is getting into their car, about to reverse from their space. I pull hard left to wait, a small string of cars behind me. I’m getting sweaty palms again – the reversing car is only a Peugeot 206 – this space might be tiny too.

It’s not great, but I have to go for it, under the watchful eye of the elderly lady sitting in the car to my right and the drivers of the cars waiting behind me. It’s very, very tight – but I just about make it far enough in to let the stream of traffic past. No-one cracks a smile, but at least they weren’t all honking like maniacs. Once they have gone I edge backwards and forwards, trying to make Midi comfortable and making sure her bottom doesn’t stick out too much. I am so relieved when I do it I am almost pleased to push my pound into the slot in the ticket machine.

As I wait for Funny Friend I hear the village clock strike eleven. At that exact moment, four cars leave their spaces almost simultaneously. Nice, big spaces. Easily accessible spaces. I sigh. I was obviously ten minutes too early.

Boob II – an altogether more rounded perspective

My first guest blog… by my good friend Lisa Holden

Ah breasts, the double-edged nipple.  I thought they were the things that caused men to notice you and draw them to you.  This was certainly the case for Jackie who was in the year below.  She debuted her chest with a splendid backstroke in the school swimming gala.  After that boys spoke to me about her availability as if she had just arrived water-goddess-like on the scene.  Meanwhile as the flatter friend I couldn’t wait for mine to come in which they did eventually but without being feted in the way that Jackie’s had.

It was all about the package I realised, being upfront wasn’t enough.  Mandy did well by being well-endowed but also had the comely eyes and wanton lips into the bargain.  Louise had boobs and was rather plain but she was quite keen to go all the way.  Alison was top-to-toe gorgeous but this led to her becoming a sex object too young in life.  She went on to make it in Hollywood with her ‘treasure’ chest and passable acting skills.

These days with careful propping mine can attract attention but it will usually be from older men with fond dreams or poor eyesight so I can only conclude that over the years they have mostly been of practical rather than decorative value.

Boob

The customer service desk in Marks & Spencer is unusually quiet for a Saturday, so while the youthful sales assistant rigorously checks the slippers I am returning for signs of wear, I earwig the conversation going on at the till next door. A lady is bringing back a bra bought for her teenage daughter, complaining bitterly that it is padded. Don’t they do unpadded ones? They don’t do unwired ones, either, I chip in.

The sales assistant is aghast – I am quite wrong – they do, and in some quantity. I might want to try their Angel range, she enthuses, although they are for teenagers… and she peters out, blushing. I look deliberately down at my unimpressive cleavage, clearly on display under a strappy top, as though considering my tiny bust for the first time. I look at the sales girl, and say, as straight faced as I can “You could be right.”

She doesn’t know where to put herself. “I meant because of your general build” she stammers “You’re so narrow across the shoulders…” Of course, what she doesn’t know is that I really don’t mind. I have got to this advanced age without the lack of a D cup (or even a C cup, or any sort of cup to be honest) and I don’t have the feeling it’s held me back in life. Perish the thought, but there have even been men who’ve wanted to have sex with me, despite the lack of obvious mammary attractions. But then she’s young; she probably doesn’t think anyone over 40 has ever had sex anyway.

To be honest, being tiny up top has its advantages. For a start, you don’t get a pair of black eyes after an over enthusiastic session on the running machine. You don’t need to worry about showing unsightly bra straps under a summer top (not that anyone seems to worry about this any more – have you noticed that? Purple bra straps sticking out from under white tops – yuck!), because you don’t need to wear one.

But most importantly, men look at your face while you’re talking to them, without their eyes wandering south. Come on guys, admit it; a fine pair of breasts and you’re transfixed, however hard you pretend otherwise. I’ve seen it happen a thousand times – to other women. It has happened to me once, to be fair, but that was the one and only time I met Shane Warne and he had a reputation to live up to.

Top Down Days

Grey. It definitely started grey. Inside and outside. Inside because a long-standing colleague of Husband’s died yesterday. Inside because hormones are total and complete little bastards. And, to hit a really trivial note, I have the zit from hell brewing on my cheek.

Outside, because of the weather. I believe the Scots call it dreich and I suspect it’s quite romantic and mysterious on their mountains and moors. On the South Downs, especially in early September, it’s bloody miserable. My washing hung limply and damply on the line; I’m getting well fed up of this – and the forecast for today was pretty good too. I feel decidedly cheated. Anyway, Midi and I have a course to go on (my cup runneth over – woohoo) so we set off cross-country towards Winchester.

A morning learning about the vagaries of tax – quite interesting really – but then, I am a geeky accountant and we don’t have much fun – but at lunchtime we’re set free. And guess what? The sun is out! It’s glorious, glorious hot and there’s only one thing for it; fling my raincoat in the footwell, plug in my iPod, and press that wonderful little button that slides Midi’s roof down and tucks it neatly into her boot.

Bugger the M3 – we’re going into the office the long way. Down country lanes so narrow we need to breathe in when other cars pass; along leafy suburban streets (turn that music down, you vandal!), waiting at junctions and looking up to the sky; watching the birds circle and dive and play against the clearest blue. Feeling cheeky following a cyclist with a particularly nice bum I am tempted to tell him so when we pass, but I wouldn’t want to cause an accident, and anyway, the sweaty lycra kind of spoilt it a bit. As you would expect.

The iPod plays Beautiful South: “I want my sun-drenched, wind-swept Ingrid Bergman kiss, not in the next life, I want it in this…” And I do. I want it to be top down summer all year round. And just for the moment, I need to believe it will be.

A bit of sentiment

We have scraped together supper from what is left in the fridge. Small, sweet tomatoes from our own greenhouse; the last few olives in the bottom of the jar; a week old loaf of bread; and three scrag ends of cheese.

I pick up the goat cheese and examine it, then put it down again.
“Don’t you want it?” he asks me.
I shake my head “It’s too far gone for me.”
He picks it up and puts it on his own plate.

As I slice the bread I am aware that he is busy with the cheese. Out of the corner of my eye I see him cut away the rind, then scrape off the soft gooeyness I dislike so much. Moments later, small parcels of crumbling fresh cheese arrive on the edge of my plate. My eyes fill with tears.
“I love you so much” I tell him.

Yes, this is the reality of love. This is what matters. That we have been together so long he knows just how I like my goat cheese; and that after all these years he still cares enough to do for me what I am too tired to do for myself.

It was our anniversary on Tuesday. Keep your cards, your champagne, your flowers and jewellery; this is the moment I will treasure. This is what is real.

I Was There (as we say in Wales)

I phoned my mother, choked with emotion. “We’ve just won The Ashes” I told her. She was amazed; only an hour or so ago Australia were just five down. Then she was suspicious because if I was still at The Oval, why was it so quiet?

And it was. After the initial celebration, there was a definitely a lull. Not the normal listlessness you experience waiting for the presentation stand to appear, while people mill around or more likely drift away. This was a still point of calm, of reflection maybe, or disbelief, or just pure wrung out emotion.

Wickets had been slow to come, you see. Just after tea I had been on the point of phoning Cricketing Girlfriend to make our arrangements to come back on Monday, but then it all happened. Haddin skying to Swanny; a brief but vicious spell from Harmy and another Swann ball ripping into Mr Cricket to finish it all off. In about eight overs (or a little over half an hour to non cricketing folk). And then we were on our feet; yelling and cheering and hugging for all we were worth.

For four long years I had dreamed of being there when England raised the little urn, but after the initial wave of emotion swept past, something closer to detachment began to creep in. Of course I was excited, delighted and proud, but then the analytical began to take hold. I collected souvenir chunks of red and white confetti while all the time thinking that someone had pressed a rewind button on 2005, because the celebrations were visually identical. I smirked at the karaoke-style words of Jerusalem being put up on the big screens, but sung along lustily all the same. I cringed at yet another crumpled beige suit from ECB Chairman Giles Clarke (no upside there then).

And Husband and I, from our vantage point in the stand in front of the dressing rooms, stayed to applaud every single England player back up the stairs. However long their media interviews took. Walking away from the ground were people already wearing Ashes victory T-shirts and crowds spilling out onto the sunny pavements from the local pubs. We followed one very well dressed gentleman as he failed miserably to walk in anything that remotely resembled a straight line. Yes – this Ashes victory had certainly made a lot of people very happy. Myself included.

But it wasn’t 2005. As the news reporters gathered outside the team hotel I could have told them that. The strange thing is, as yet I have no one clear idea why.

Ways and jeans

I’m trying on new jeans. I used to buy my jeans in Principles, but they went bust so now I am at a loss. I like them figure-hugging tight; a few years ago I decided the question was not ‘does my bum look big in this?’ but ‘does my bum look fantastic?’ There are too few years left before it sags to even countenance thinking otherwise.

Someone – I can’t remember who – has sent me in the direction of Next. I haven’t shopped here for years – it looks too much like a jumble sale to me, but I am at a loose end on a wet afternoon in Northampton (no, don’t ask…) and I hit upon a retail park with a branch of Next, and make my way in. At Monsoon, where I normally shop, the girl at the door just greats you; here she tries to sell you a catalogue. But the place is stacked full of jeans and because I don’t know if I’ll be an 8 or a 10 I turn up at the changing room with a veritable armful; skinny ones, as well as my usual bootcuts.

First I try on a skinny lycra pair with no fly and an elasticated waist. They cling from my hips to my ankles and for a moment I am tempted; my bum is hugged, my thighs don’t bulge, my calves are pretty shapely… but then I stop. I am not twenty any more – I simply should not be wearing these. At my age you need to think about the face appearing above the clothes, not just what you’re wearing.

The thing is, a few weeks ago I might have bought them, but recently I have been made to think twice. Sad stories of the forty-somethings trying to please toyboys have been coming home to roost around me like a flock of homesick chickens. OK, I have Midi and a husband, but there but for the grace of God…

First case – local Virgin-V rep; divorced, same age as me. Meets (much) younger man, and gradually, over time, swaps spunky spiky multi-coloured hair and post punk attitude for supposedly sexy frocks and blonde hair extensions. Goes from colourful, characterful and confident to a pale (literally) imitation of a twenty-something and toyboy promptly ups and leaves. No Dorian Gray mirror in the attic then. Not for her, nor for Recently Separated Colleague.

If it wasn’t so sad, the case of RSC would be funny, and personally I blame the Prozac. Is massively increased libido an unpublicised side effect or is she taking Viagra as well? Because frankly she’s become a danger to men; boasting about her new wonderbra and showing the salesmen in the showroom her new tattoo. Which is on her bum. Apparently. I really don’t want to know.

Greased on jeans

Plus she’s been on the sunbed and is beginning to look like an out of season walnut. And she’s lost far, far too much weight – a size six is nothing to boast about, believe me. (And that’s from someone who’s marked absent if they turn sideways). And walking around giving off the vibe that if it’s vaguely male she’ll shag it is not attractive in a grandmother. Now don’t laugh – it isn’t funny – it’s actually quite tragic. What on earth is happening to these women – is it their hormones… or is it the lure of younger men? A last attempt to taste the fruits of youth before they over-ripen and fall to the ground in a sticky mess?  Because a sticky mess is what it’s going to end up in, that’s for sure. And not in a good way.

And why would I be any different, running around in a pair of spray-on jeans, thinking I was Olivia Newton-John in Grease? (Which really gives my age away, incidentally). Instead I put them back and try on a pair of bootcuts. They give my legs space to breathe – I do actually want to walk in them, after all. They are the right height to disguise any incipient muffin-top. My bum does look fantastic, even though I say so myself, so Husband would approve. And most importantly, a twenty year old wouldn’t be seen dead in them. I take them to the till.