Cannonball Run

Yesterday was the day I discovered first hand that policemen are indeed looking very much younger than they used to. I should have known how Tuesday was panning out when I managed to lock myself in the toilet at lunchtime – but that, as they say, is another story.

And this particular story doesn’t need lengthening, so I will cut it short and just say that yesterday afternoon Kite Flying Friend and his father, the Pocket Druid, were helping me to clear out an old shed that used to belong to a neighbour but now belongs to me.

We had moved the countless rusting tools outside and emptied the cupboards of half used paint pots. We had put the small stash of leftover holiday currency in a bag for Husband to sort through later and disentangled the numerous old shoes from the yards of bird netting on the floor. I’d never realised my neighbour’s late husband was the male equivalent of Imelda Marcus. In short, we had reached the exciting point where we could almost see concrete beneath our feet and KFF decided to put an old rake to good use to remove the remaining debris.

It was all going splendidly until he reached under a cupboard and met with an immoveable object. Immoveable with a rake, that is. So he gave it a good tug with his hands and at least part of a rotten seed tray came away, with a beautifully preserved mummified rat on top. Fascinated, we took our find out into the sunshine to take a closer look, leaving PD to explore the remaining contents of the tray.

It wasn’t long before he followed us, carrying a rusty orb in his hands. “I think it’s a cannonball!” he joked and put it down on the grass. Taking a closer look he realised that although parts of it were flaking away, the stopper for the hole where the charge goes was clearly visible. We looked at each other uncertainly then decided a hasty retreat to the house for a coffee was the only course of action.

It took us two cups and quite a few digestive biscuits before we decided to call the police. Of course we hadn’t really found a bomb, that sort of thing happens so rarely and only to other people – it must be a bowling ball or something. But there was still a nagging doubt; the stopper-like protrusion and the fact that Imelda had been in the Merchant Navy.

I was quite taken aback when the lady on the police switchboard decided it was an emergency and put me through to the 999 number, but it was still a very long while before PC Dave arrived. So long that KFF and PD had gone home and I was left to take him up to the shed alone. I removed the bucket PD had carefully placed over his find and PC Dave crouched down to take a closer look. Then he straightened up, flipped open his notebook and all but licked his pencil. “I don’t like the look of it” he said. “I’m going to write as detailed a description as I can and phone my Sarg. We had one of these on a building site at Tangmere last month and the army blokes said it could have killed someone!”

When he had finished writing he placed the bucket back over the offending object with exaggerated care and we processed back to the house. While I made him coffee he called his Sarg. And then we waited while Sarg called the Bomb Squad. And then we waited for the Bomb Squad to call PC Dave. And then the Bomb Squad decided they were going to come – blue lights blazing – all the way from Aldershot. I started to laugh. I apologised, but I just couldn’t help it – this sort of thing does not happen to me. PC Dave looked at me glumly. “They’re going to arrive, take one look at it and tell me I’ve wasted their time. I’m going to feel a right tit.”

He said he would wait for them in his car and do some paperwork, but a few minutes later he was back, following hotly on the heels of Husband who had just come in from work. “I’m really sorry” he said, “but I’ve been told I’ve got to wait in the house – in case you decide to go and throw yourselves on top of it or something.” I suppose at least he didn’t have to stand by the shed, truncheon in hand, to ward off passing rabbits and pheasants.

When the Bomb Squad arrived it was something of an anticlimax. A plain white van and a few guys in camouflage. PC Dave took them up the garden, only to return about five minutes later. “You did the right thing” he told us solemnly. “It was a cannonball and it was full of live explosive. They’ve taken it away to deal with it.” A look of admiration spread across his face. “Actually, they just lobbed it in the back of the van. Said it had been a nice trip out.” Better than Helmand Province, anyway.

Welcome to my World

Kite Flying Friend has flu. Or man flu. It’s all the same to the weaker sex anyway. But whatever you call it, it doesn’t alter the fact that the poor duck is roasting hot one minute and freezing cold the next, dripping with sweat and flinging off the duvet only to have to tuck it firmly around him again. He had a terrible night, he told me. Welcome to my world.

He was suitably chagrined. “I don’t know how you put up with it!” he said, with something which I hope was close to awe. “Oh, it’s only for two or three years” I replied jovially, just as if it was no problem at all. Yeah right. I am taking so many herbal remedies you could grate me onto a pizza for a very interesting effect.

I have also learnt there are some very bad times to have a hot flush. In yoga class while doing a down face dog comes to mind. It’s not nice to drip on your yoga mat – you could slip and have a nasty accident.

It’s not great if you’re wearing a wetsuit either. There’s simply no quick way out of one of those – even before your hands are slithering too much to grasp the zip.

And it’s a total and complete pain in the arse when you’ve just dried yourself after a shower to discover you have to start all over again. Slippery When Wet for middle aged women. Not what Jon Bon Jovi intended, that’s for sure. Especially not when you find yourself sliding out of a fond embrace with all the elegance and aplomb of a jellied eel.

Of course, you adjust. You know exactly where the nearest window is at all times and make sure it’s a moment’s work to fling it open. You ditch your man-made fabrics and become an expert in layering cotton clothes. You buy yourself a softtop. You consider having a tattoo. You make plans with your girlfriends to acquire matching shopping trolleys the moment you retire. You buy yourself a softtop. You learn to surf. You fly kites. You build sandcastles. You buy yourself a softtop.

It’s not all bad.

Away with the Fairies

Photo courtesy of KFF

Never before have I wanted to hug a tree. I mean, I like nature and all that, but I’d never classed myself as a hippy-dippy long-flowing-skirt-in-the forest sort of woman. Nothing wrong with that of course, but I’ll leave it to the more natural earth mothers thanks very much.

But here I was, in a really pretty wood, surrounded by bluebells, wanting to give a tree a really big cuddle. Only I couldn’t. Not because Kite Flying Friend would have laughed – although I think he might have done – but because it was too plastered in ‘stuff’ for me to be able to hug it without doing serious damage. To myself, that is, or to the stuff – but not to the tree though, she was far too strong for that.

You see this particular tree is the one where the fairies live, and when people come to visit them they often leave gifts. Old wooden cuckoo clocks and weather houses seem popular, but also dolls, and necklaces, and stick pins, and coins wedged into the bark. KFF even spotted a green plastic goblin leering from the balcony of a weather house – and I’m sure there was a little pink teddy bear somewhere too. All the kind of stuff that would have adhered itself disastrously to my coat if I had got as close as I wanted to.

As well as the stuff, there were letters. Letters left by the children to the fairies. Some were mini inquisitions: How old are you? What are your names? How long have you lived here? Others were telling the fairies about themselves, or asking for wishes. One little girl wished for a happy family – just try reading that sort of letter without it bringing a lump to your throat.

And do you know what? The fairies had replied. In a plastic pocket on the side of the tree were letters waiting to be collected by all the children who had written. Thanking them for their good wishes and pictures, answering their questions and wishing them a happy time in the wood. Very well mannered fairies these – obviously brought up to mind their Ps and Qs. You can only imagine the delight on the face of a child who came to collect such a personal reply.

Which is probably why I wanted to hug the tree. To thank it for giving shelter to these delightful and polite creatures of the forest who are heaven bent on giving so much pleasure to people only just a little larger than themselves. Surely wanting to hug the tree was nothing to do with its older face, its pagan face, of connection through the earth to a greater power?

So instead of a hug I opened my purse and slotted a coin into its gnarled bark. I found a place where it would stick fast until it was harvested by the fairies for their regular donation to Barnado’s. And I made a wish. A very big wish. But it’s a secret because it won’t come true if I tell.

Driven to Distractions

You know the night sweats are getting bad when you see a moisture loving woodlouse making a bee-line for your side of the bed next morning. Honestly. I mean, the damp towel flung on the carpet is a bit of a clue – as are the giant sized bags under your eyes – but the woodlouse is proof positive that things are getting out of hand.

So there is only one logical and reasonable solution: revert instantly to mid life crisis mode and decide that you want a tattoo. To be honest I have been playing with the idea for a while but all of a sudden I found myself meaning business. I sounded out Husband first, and he is completely ambivalent. Either that or he’s humouring me. Good move, under the circumstances – he ain’t stupid.

Next I told Kite Flying Friend (aka the Friend formerly known as AWOL) that I was proposing a small seahorse placed so it just peeped over the top of my bikini bottoms. His only comment was that I’d better be careful not to put on weight or it would end up looking like Puff the Magic Dragon. Very funny. (Actually, it was!)

Of course the only sensible people to discuss this with were Funny Friend and Truly Good Friend. Funny Friend is the expert; she already has three tattoos herself, and naturally knows a skilled and creative tattoo artist. Truly Good Friend is thinking of taking the plunge too, although the design and situation are yet to be decided. A Cheryl Cole style wrist motif seems to be the front runner.

I am full of questions. Will it hurt? Will it fade? How long will I have to keep it dry for? How much will it cost? In the end Funny Friend decides that the best thing would be for us to all visit the tattoo parlour together. But will she just be holding our hands? Not a bit of it – she is toying with having another one herself; just a little lower than mine, a rather Lowry-esque stick figure… pushing a lawnmower. We creased up laughing. Think about it.

Oh dear, Ikea

They knew it was going to be hard to drag me across the threshold, but for Truly Good Friend I would do anything. And that includes going to Ikea. Because it was her birthday treat. And she loves it there. Funny Friend wasn’t exactly keen either but we both knew it had to be done, and to be honest, she took to it better than I did.

So there we were, hovering at the entrance, having been instructed by TGF to park on level 1 (because it would be where we came out) then go up in the lift to level 4, where we had to go in. Four levels… my heart sank. While TGF issued instructions about the yellow bags, shopping lists, pencils and tape measures (all provided, of course) I sent a sneaky text to AWOL Friend (who really needs a new name these days) ‘Stranded in Ikea – argghhh’. His response? ‘Please don’t send any photos!’ So of course, I immediately took one. A little solidarity would have been nice.

For the other person in the world who’s never been to an Ikea, it is all set out with a great deal of Swedish efficiency. You visit the room settings first to absorb all the bright ideas, and then have your chance to buy. I got to the second room before finding a comfortable chair next to a well stocked bookcase. “I’ll just stay here…” I ventured. But my friends weren’t listening. And anyway, on closer inspection the books were all in Swedish.

Several (well OK, countless) room settings later the baskets of merchandise on offer were becoming increasingly frequent. Ideal Home Exhibition eat your heart out – this is up selling at its best. Next to sinks and taps, the tool for making the hole in the sink to fit the tap. Very neat. Because most people wouldn’t even had thought about the tool. Or would have bought a sink that already had the holes punched in it. And some of the items available were completely incomprehensible; for example a foot long piece of plastic shaped into two semi-circles with a ridge between them. It was next to the spice racks, but none of us could even venture a guess at its function. And the labels, naturally, are in Swedish.

Once TGF had found a trolley I knew we were in trouble – but I cannot claim by that time I was completely empty handed myself. I have to admit to finding the perfect storage solution for my entangled collection of belts. And Mother has been looking for a 4.5 tog duvet for a very long time. At £4.99 it was a total bargain. And my purchases just about fitted into the trolley with TGF and FF’s burgeoning yellow bags of stuff. Stuff none of us knew we needed until we’d seen it. Very clever. First class Swedish marketing.

But it was a piece of first class Swedish engineering who had the last laugh. It was a glorious day and heading out into the New Forest for the afternoon we had planned to go cheerfully topless. But Midi was having none of it. She needs a fair amount of space to put her hood down and we had far too much stuff in the boot. Bugger. On the other hand, she should have been grateful for small mercies – the women parked next to us were resorting to removing the child seats from their car to fit everything in. I wonder if they left them on the tarmac, two lonely little monuments to advanced consumerism.

Hard Hat Area

Petit Fromage has taken to calling our office Helmand Province. Very funny. But also scarily accurate. The amount of hormones flying around up here is nobody’s business. Plus the fact that Senior Colleague is giving up smoking. Pity help any hapless workshop apprentice who is sent up here for a pencil.

Actually, Senior Colleague is doing rather better than we expected. She’s normally pretty acerbic, so nothing’s changed there. And now she’s ditched the tablets and focussed simply on smoking fewer fags she seems to be making progress. Biscuits are going down quicker than normal though, and Grand Fromage is grumpy because it’s harder for him to grab a sneaky one. So Golfing Colleague and I are trying extra hard to keep our heads down and our mouths out of trouble.

Not easy when we’re both living in hot flush city. Go on guys, laugh (if you dare); you try waking up five or six times a night (every night), with your skin doing a reasonable impression of a leaky sieve. The only answer is to fling the duvet as far away as possible, knowing full well that in five minutes you will have stopped shimmering and started shivering and will be clawing it back again. But that’s just the quick fix – living with the sleep deprivation is somewhat harder.

On reflection I am not sure that my initial response – giving up caffeine – was an entirely sensible one. Well, I say giving up… I still need that first thing in the morning boost, but just the one. I have become the sad muppet who arrives at friends’ houses clutching her decaf teabags. I have realised that the caffeine content in tea is important as I struggle through a day without it. I am convinced I will become Lucozade dependant instead. And I have only been doing this for a week. AND IT ISN’T EVEN WORKING.

And no, I’m not shouting, not one little bit. I’m fine, really I am. As if any one of you would dare to contradict me…

Shhh – biscuits at work

It was Grand Fromage who started it. All week he’s been rustling in and out of the top drawer of the filing cabinet and plaintively asking Senior Colleague if it’s time for a biscuit. The trouble is, he knows they’re there – and they’re calling him.

Despite giving him a seriously hard time over his addiction I can relate to it. The moment he left the office to go out for lunch, I could hear the biscuits calling me instead. They’re rather nice chocolate ones, you see, so reasonably loud. Not as noisy as the Crunchie biscuits that were there earlier in the week, but I didn’t get to try any of those because Grand Fromage demolished them first. They must have been positively yelling and screaming.

That said, no biscuit – or cake – or chocolate bar, is quite as vociferous as a Soothills Bakery chocolate flapjack. Real chocolate, thick and brittle, oozed over a chewy melange of syrupy oats. They don’t just call out to you as you go past the shop; they whisper gently almost as soon as you start planning a trip to Fareham and get louder and louder until you park the car then become quite impossible to ignore as you walk up East Street. Worse, once you are inside the bakery, the cheese straws join in. It’s a wonder I’m not deaf. Or fat as a mole.

But do you know what the really strange thing is? I have a whole packet of no fat low salt fair trade organic rice cakes on my desk. And they never, ever, make a sound.

Practical Yoga

It is as we are dutifully saluting the sun that I realise how stiff I have become. Bugger. Five weeks without yoga isn’t good for me. I think jealously of AWOL Friend touching his toes with ease as we walked through the woods, but then, he does have a few years’ advantage over me. Thankfully he hasn’t taken to saying ‘age before beauty’ when he opens a door for me, but it’s only a matter of time.

Anyway, I digress. It is not entirely my fault I have missed so much yoga. Of course there was the snow, then my holiday, but also French Yoga Teacher’s trip to an ashram in India. It’s something yoga teachers do, I guess; make pilgrimages to worship at the feet of the gurus, and learn to meditate with their ankles behind their ears, or some such other pose beyond us mere mortals.

As it is, FYT waits until we have our right legs stretched in front and our left legs tucked behind (“Can you feel the stretch? No? Then lean back… gently… gently…”), before telling us about his trip. The daily routine of stretches between 9 and 10, chanting from 10 to 11, meditation from 2 to 3 and philosophy from 3 to 4. It all sounded pretty hectic, and FYT obviously thought so too. Chanting was quickly ditched after a night on the rum (didn’t help the hangover), and meditation replaced by an intensive relaxation session by the pool. But he did go to one yoga class while he was there. No need to overdo things, after all. And anyway, he’d upset the vegetarian teacher by saying he could murder a steak. It was as if he had puffed smoke into her scandalised face, he told us.

We move into a half lotus but it is hard to tuck your foot securely into your groin when you are aching with laughter. FYT’s visit to the guru was so well described I find it hard to do it proper justice. Let’s just say that the guru turned out to be (and I quote) “a grumpy old man.” Initially FYT thought he had missed something. He asked one (terribly earnest) travelling companion what they had thought of the session. Apparently it was ‘amazing’. But then, as he questioned his English colleagues and found them using words like ‘different’ and ‘interesting’ he knew he wasn’t alone in his view. He has been in this country quite long enough to know what those words mean. “It was rubbish” he told them. And they were relieved to agree.

FYT is a man after my own heart. Perhaps because he is French, he encourages postures where you can relax and still reach your glass of wine while your muscles are doing their work. That isn’t to say that his teaching isn’t technically correct, because it is; it’s just perfectly in tune with his pupils. I’m sure I’m not the only one who heads off home afterwards for a pizza and a glass of white. Yoga’s meant to be relaxing, after all.

Upper Class Virgin

There is no hiding the fact that we haven’t flown Upper Class before. And anyway, we don’t even look the part; Husband in jeans and Bon Jovi top and me in a cheap denim skirt from BhS and an old T shirt bearing the legend ‘rain stops play’. Mind you, an American had admired it at breakfast this morning, and I suppose only I know it’s 15 seasons old. I remember that because Husband bought it for me when we were courting.

I know very well (from my reading of Hello in the dentist’s waiting room) that when you are invited to enter the plane by the first staircase you are meant to be wearing pressed linen trousers, a crisp white shirt and full make up at the very least. Full make up, like the ladies on the Sandy Lane beach – right down to the last slick of lip gloss. They wouldn’t have been able to strip off and race into the sea to get close to a turtle. Or they’d have looked a right mess if they had. (But that, as they say, is another story).

However the steward is perfectly charming, just makes a joke about us being first on (oh no – too keen!) and fetches us a glass of champagne while we sort out our hand luggage. We are in the nose cone, so there is ample space to do this – about three yards between our places, which are on opposite sides of the plane. Room for at least three cattle class seats then – if not more. Hard to talk across the space though, and Husband looks positively relieved I won’t be able to clutch my sweaty paw into his and practically break his fingers during take-off. Instead I surreptitiously slip Marmy, my flying lion mascot, out of my bag.

I have plenty of choice as to where I put him. The area around my seat is jam packed with cubby holes for various items; there’s even one specially shaped for your book. But none of them are custom made for a three inches of cuddly lion. I stuff him into the pocket with the safety card and menus and hope nobody will notice. Then I wander across the aisle to sit on Husband’s footstool, sip my champagne and try to look as though I was born to this.

After a while the steward comes back and offers us sleepsuits. I snap one up with alacrity – I want to experience this treat to the full. (I have already noticed a fluffy pillow and duvet stashed behind my seat). Husband is more cautious, and looks at the steward quizzically. With a perfectly straight face he explains that they are so your clothes don’t get crumpled while you sleep. Husband has the good grace to decline.

Later, when dinner is served, it is done so on a pull out table so big two people could sit at it. Some couples do; the wife on the footstool on one side and the husband in his seat on the other. Husband and I remain separated by three yards of empty aisle. There is a linen table cloth, china plates and little silver salt and pepper pots shaped like aeroplanes. The food is delicious but to my mind, the choice of white wines is poor, so I opt for another glass of champagne instead. Instantly, I feel like a chav.

After dinner, while Husband enjoys coffee and brandy, I slink off to the loo to put on my sleepsuit. Black has never been my colour, but the long sleeved top and baggy trousers will be comfortable to sleep in and will be useful to wear in the gym afterwards. I clean my teeth and head back to the cabin to sort out my bed.

The trouble is, I don’t know where to start. This will not surprise anyone who has seen me struggle with a new type of food packaging, or even have trouble opening a door which is clearly marked pull. Obviously converting a seat into a flat bed is going to be beyond me. I sit on Husband’s stool and watch the man next to him go about the task, but by the time I arrive he has gone beyond the critical stage and is already fluffing up his duvet. So I go back to my seat and look around me.

Stowing the table is relatively straight forward; I just slide it away from me and downwards into its place. I consider the buttons to my right. They have little seats on them and arrows up and down – this looks promising. But they only tilt the seatback (I was wondering how to do that earlier, but thankfully they didn’t make a fuss about Upper Class seats being upright for take-off. Presumably we’ve purchased the right to die comfortable.) A fellow passenger comes to my rescue, pointing out the switches next to the footstool. I reach out for them but he politely cautions not to press them while I’m sitting down.

Obediently I stand up and clear all my possessions from the seat. Then I hold my finger firmly on the switch. Before my eyes the seat folds itself in two, does a backflip, and becomes a perfectly flat bed. In the most ladylike manner I can muster (remember, I’m wearing baggy black jimjams) I clamber over it, grab the bedding and set to work making it comfortable. As I disappear beneath the duvet and fasten my seatbelt over it the cabin lights are turned off. Thankfully. And only about ten minutes too late.

Siege shopping

I pull on the handbrake and pick up my phone.
“I’ve got as far as Waitrose” I tell Organic Friend. “Do you want anything?”
“Waitrose!” She screams back “don’t you know there’s a war on? I went there this morning and it was carnage. Couldn’t get into the car park for pensioners sliding around in their Polos!”

I have to admit she has a point. I had originally thought the queue back to the roundabout was because they were trying to reverse a delivery lorry in. But no, I had then stopped and started on something close to sheet ice while the good folk of Chichester waited for parking spaces. Of course there were plenty of spaces further along, but no-one seemed interested in those.

I passed the time by watching middle aged couples in desperate battles with ice dancing trolleys. It was amusing, but held a practical lesson – if it didn’t fit into two bags it clearly wasn’t a good idea to buy it. So it was down to the bare essentials for me; fresh veg, bread, and of course beer. Forget the niceties of life like silver foil and fizzy water.

Even so I was lucky to lunge for the last cauliflower. But if I’d wanted fresh milk, well, it would have been easier to find a passing cow and milk it myself. I consider myself positively blessed that there was at least a small amount of UHT – which I always buy anyway – left.

Organic Friend wasn’t wrong when she called it a war – but there’s none of that famous Dunkirk spirit. It’s dog eat dog (or TOG eat TOG) in here. No-one is smiling – it’s a serious business overstocking your cupboards in case it snows again – and queues for the check outs stretch back down the aisles.

So I am hiding out in the coffee shop. Then I will sneak down to the quickpay till and slither back to my car (the 4WD, not Midi), ready to join the line of Polos that stretches out as far as the main road. Snow? I love it!