Tag Archives: humor

Poo Diddy

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It’s 3pm on Sunday and as we drive past a car garage, the husband decides on a whim he might want to buy a new sports car. 

This is classic behaviour for a man who has just reached 35 years of age, I think. So, for now, I am going to play along.

We enter the Porsche garage and the husband immediately sets about sizing up the car he’s after. I’m not sure what car it is exactly but it has the word ‘turbo’ in its title.

My limited experience of luxury car garages is that unless you arrive in a chauffeur-driven Bentley, wearing shades and lots of bling, you largely get ignored.

When the husband wanted to buy his last car three years ago, he walked into Leeds Audi to hand over the readies – and simply couldn’t get anyone to serve him.

This happened on two occasions and eventually we were forced to drive to Wakefield Audi, where there was no end of car salesmen queuing up to help us. Unfortunately, the one we ended up with was called Julian and had recently recovered from a nervous breakdown.

Here’s what we learnt about Julian: he has a phobia of tomatoes and instantly shakes and vomits at the sight of them; he can’t stop biting his nails; he appeared to know nothing about the cars he’s attempting to sell.

In fact, Julian was so useless that for some unfathomable reason, he forgot to input any of the husband’s optional extras onto the computer system so that the regional manager of Audi actually had to phone through to the production line in Germany to sort Julian’s mess out.

Still, we grew very fond of Julian and talk of him often. The husband is still planning on sending him an anonymous crate of tomatoes in the post as a thank you.

Back at the Porsche garage, in true form we stand around for about half an hour, patiently waiting for someone to see us. Eventually, the manager disappears into the back room and re-emerges with the most hapless salesman he can lay his hands on. This new simpleton goes by the name of Vinnie and is a thinner, more pudding-brained version of Vinnie Jones.

Inevitably, Vinnie has only just started working at Porsche and knows nothing about the model the husband is interested in.

‘He’s another Julian!’ I whisper. ‘It’s a code red. Evacuate! Evacuate!’

We say goodbye to Vinnie and climb back into the car. The husband concludes that although he likes the Porsche, he thinks he still likes his current car more, even though it is exceedingly dirty.

We arrive at the gym and I hand the keys over to the guys at the car wash.

An hour later, we exit the gym. Now that it has been washed and is gleaming again, the husband decides that he still loves his old car.

Having the car washed is the best £5 we’ve spent this year.

Still, I decide to surprise the husband with new number plate. This may be a foolish move, as the husband doesn’t like showy personalised number plates.

After a lot of delicate negotiating on the phone with a man called Dean (Mean Dean!), I finally close a deal on a plate with the husband’s initials.

There’s a reason I call him P Diddy and it’s not just his love of shower puffs.

1 PDD arrives in the post two weeks later. I proudly unwrap it and present it to the husband.

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He squints at it for a while. ‘From a distance, I think it looks like 1 POO,’ he says.

I narrow my eyes.

‘I know what you mean,’ I said.

‘In fact, it looks more like ‘I POO’, he adds.

‘It’s not that bad,’ I said. ‘After all, everyone DOES poo.

‘I POO, you poo… we all poo.’

‘I’m going to be driving around in a car that announces to the world I POO,’ says the husband, shaking his head.

‘Oh dear,’ I say.

Right Plaice, Wrong Face

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It’s Friday and I’m anxiously awaiting a delivery of a rubber fish.

I need a rubber fish as a prop for my annual school musical production (along with a giant hotdog, a super-sized pair of knickers and – amongst other mad things – a pantomime cow).

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About this time every year, I expend a lot of energy trying to teach 10 year olds how to act – and failing badly.

By day, I sit in my director’s chair haranguing hapless children and bellowing clichés such as, ‘This acting is as flat as a pancake!’ and, ‘Don’t tell the floor; tell the audience!’

By night, I scour Amazon for more props and hare around the thrift stores of Leeds, haggling over battered suitcases and old-fashioned typewriters.

In the final weeks leading up to the play, I sigh a lot in the staff room; I puff out my cheeks in an exasperated fashion and tell other teachers, ‘I’m VERY worried about the play. None of them seem to know their lines and there’s only TWO WEEKS TO GO!’

Secretly, I love it.

The phone rings. It’s the Amazon delivery man with my parcel containing the rubber fish. I’m actually sat in Starbucks, having recently eschewed my usual haunt of Caffé Nero.

This is because Porridge-loving Pensioner (who I found out today is 85 years old!) keeps coming over and grabbing hold of my cheeks saying, ‘You need to get some sun’. He’s done this on three separate occasions now and I’m starting to get scared.

That, coupled with the unwanted attentions of a host of other strange retirees, has led me to the relatively safe anonymity of Starbucks up the road.

‘I’m on my way to your apartment,’ said the Amazon delivery man. ‘I’ll be there in half hour and I’ll phone you back when I get to Chapel Allerton.’

Half an hour passes and the phone rings.

‘Do you watch Emmerdale?’ cries the Amazon delivery man.

‘Er, no…’ I said.

‘Well, you’re never going to believe who I just delivered a parcel too… Debbie Dingle!’ he went on. ‘She lives on the next road to you.’

This Amazon delivery guy sounds like A LOT of fun, I thought.

‘Where are you right now?’ I said.

‘Pulled up outside the Nag’s Head pub,’ he replied.

‘Wait there,’ I said. ‘And I’ll come to you; I’ll be there in three minutes.’

(I had an important appointment with a nail technician around the corner; I thought this would save me time).

As I drove to meet him, I thought, ‘I never knew that a minor celebrity was living round the corner from me.

‘I don’t know who Debbie Dingle is but she could be my NBF. We could meet for coffees in Caffé Nero and share acting tips.’

I decided I would try to elicit Debbie Dingle’s address from the Amazon delivery man.

Minutes later, I pulled up alongside him and gave a beaming wave.

He wound down his window. ‘I.D please,’ he said.

I handed over several bank cards.

He shook his head. ‘No can do. I’m going to need some photo identification.’

‘Really?’ I said.

‘Yep. You could be anyone off the street,’ he said.

‘Well I’m hardly anyone off the street,’ I said. ‘All the clues point to the fact that I am Katy Palmer. I’m driving around with her credit cards, her mobile phone and her car.

‘You could be anyone,’ he repeated, the joviality of earlier having evaporated completely.

‘The only way I couldn’t be Katy Palmer, is if I had kidnapped her and stolen her identity, which seems a little extreme given that in the parcel you are holding is a RUBBER FISH.’

‘A rubber fish?’ he said, sceptically.

‘Yes. It’s a prop for my musical production,’ I said, rather grandly.

‘I don’t care if you’re taking delivery of the crown jewels,’ he said. ‘I ain’t handing anything over without photo I.D.’

‘BUT YOU PHONED ME!’ I wailed.

‘I.D,’ he repeated again.

‘Right!’ I stomped back to my car, crunched the gears into action, and set off at speed to my apartment, the overly-officious parcel man following me in his van.

I made a great show of pulling up, slamming the door, and striding into the apartment. Re-appearing on the street, I held my passport aloft in an exaggerated Sergeant Major manner.

He stared at it for an infuriating amount of time, cross checking it with my name.

‘Just admit this is slightly silly,’ I said.

‘It is not silly,’ he said.

‘Just concede that red tape has taken over from basic common sense,’ I said. ‘You know deep down that I couldn’t be anyone else other than Katy Palmer.’

‘I will not concede that,’ he said.

‘Just concede 10 per cent then,’ I said. ‘Give me a NUGGET!’

‘No,’ he said, stubbornly.

Satisfied with my particulars, he handed over the parcel and hoisted himself back into his van with a shake of his head.

I leapt back in my own car but not before ripping the parcel open, wrenching the rubber fish out of its plastic packaging, and hastily holding it up at the passenger window – wild-eyed – mouthing ‘SEE!’

For a split second, our eyes locked through our car windows. He stared back at me like I was a Truly Crazy Person before roaring off into the night, leaving me clutching my sad-looking seabass.

It was only then that I realised I’d forgotten to ask him for the address of Debbie Dingle.

New Kid On The Blog No More

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Happy 1st Birthday to the blog.

That’s one whole year of whimsical witterings, narcissistic natterings, and very first world woes. Thank you for suffering through it.

Here’s what I’ve learnt about blogging:

1. People read the blog but never, ever comment.

I seriously thought no-one read my blog apart from two friends and my sister. Then, I kept meeting up with random people who would say, ‘I like your blog by the way’. Apparently, some of the husband’s work colleagues read it too (much to his alarm). When you’re writing to a largely silent audience, you would just never know.

So, without wanting to write a gushing Gwynnie-style Oscar speech, thank you to the small band of people who do like, share and comment on a frequent basis. It really is appreciated.

2. Friends live in fear of me blogging about them.

My friend’s husband – a loveable hybrid of a harried Hugh Grant and a bumbling Mr Bean – is a walking calamity, frequently getting himself into sticky situations and social awkwardities. As a result, he lives in a perpetual state of fear that I’m going to blog about him.

He should be worried.

I mean why wouldn’t I want to write about the time he leapt up from the seat in our local bar and got a lampshade stuck on his head?

Or the time he came bounding out of his house – arm outstretched – to meet The Husband for the first time, hollering: ‘Great to meet you Phil, I’ve heard SO much about you,’ (The husband’s name isn’t Phil).

Or just the other Saturday, when I was conversing with him in Caffe Nero, he absent-mindedly STOLE another man’s £10 note off the counter, popped it in his wallet and ambled off with his cappuccino.

3. People actually want to be written about.

Contrary to point 2, people do actually love a name check. My friend Anna (actress/ psychologist/ Jacqueline-of-all-trades) said, ‘If I’m not in the blog by Christmas, something’s gone awry.’

Shortly after, she clambered up on to the bar, started dancing, and then set her hair alight with a nearby candle.

Another zany friend Abi – owner of the boisterous dog, a yacht that she impulsive purchased in St Tropez, and many other loveable qualities (terrible tardiness not being one of them) – also longs for a starring role. Given the amount of material I have on her, I think she should be worried.

Here’s a taster: This Saturday, Abi was hungover, tired, and faced with the prospect of cooking dinner for five people. So she did the only sensible thing: throw money at the problem.

Following a trip to Marks and Spencer’s – in which she somehow managed to part with £106 – she threw all of her vacuum-packed purchases into ceramic pots to give it a homemade feel, and passed it off to her dinner guests as her own three-course culinary concoction.

4. The blog evolves over time.

My Family And Other Oddities (inspired by Gerald Durrell’s famous novel of a similar name) began as a little way of charting my parents’ quirks and foibles, which I found so endearing I believed they deserved a platform of their own.

Over time, this kind of progressed to little stories about other eccentricities, including our nosy neighbours, strangers in the coffee shop, yours truly, and, of course, the long-suffering husband – poking fun at our largely middle class lifestyles.

Last week, I made an impulsive decision to change the name of my blog. I happened to be ordering my usual latte, when One Shot Extra Hot sprang to mind.

On a whim, I emailed the helpful people at WordPress and before I could say one-shot-extra-hot-no-foam-soya latte, they’d transferred the whole site to its frothy new name.

Things seemed to be going well until I was faced by a host of technical issues: lots of images hadn’t made it across in the transfer; my tiny fan base (Hi Ted!) couldn’t get the link to the latest post via their email; and all my old links were broken.

Things might not have been so bad, had I not have met up with friends Anna and Sam that very evening, who took one look at my new blog name and said curiously:

‘One’s Hot, Extra Hot?!’ (note the apostrophe).

Yep, depending on how you viewed my new URL oneshotextrahot, it could be read as either:

a: the way the author orders her coffee.

or

b: a posh mentalist proclaiming how ‘hot’ she is/ the Queen having a hot flush.

I hastily emailed WordPress back, who managed to switch it all back again (thank god!). My Family And Other Oddities is currently back in business.

I’m still thinking of new names… Cheese At Fourpence (a proper Lancashire saying) is a favourite. It means to be left standing awkwardly, as in ‘I felt like cheese at fourpence’. Lancashire folk actually do say it as well (my mother included). I like it.

5. People don’t like what you write.

Blogging about everyday stuff and escapades of your nearest and dearest invariably leads to upsetting the odd friend or two. I’m still living in fear of our busybody neighbours-at-large SuDick getting wind of my posts.

And who could forget Barry Scott the man who turned his shower power spray on me? ‘I’ve never read such vacuous, self-indulgent nonsense in all my life,’ he wrote.

I thought I was a pithy Carrie Bradshaw but it turns out I’m more of a loathsome Liz Jones.

I had a little read back through my posts. Old Cillit Bang Barry has got a point. The blog is frivolous, vainglorious and any other self-seeking synonym you want to throw my way.

But I hope a healthy dollop of self-irony still makes it through.

To quote another of my mother’s favourite phrases: you can’t please all of the people all of the time.

I suppose if you don’t like what I write, there is a simple solution: just don’t read it.

(But please let me know if you do!)

Fear And Loafing In London

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The husband and I walked 20 kilometres around London on Saturday – just for fun.

I have a bit of an obsession with walking around cities. When I lived in London, I would wander around the streets for hours on my own like a vagabond, peering at unusual buildings and discovering new thoroughfares; I would set myself strange little challenges to get to places purely on foot.

The husband is less enthused about trekking for miles for no apparent reason. But over time, he’s begrudgingly become an hiking urbanite too.

On Friday, we walked to the Natural History Museum to see the Wildlife Photographer Of The Year Exhibition. (If you haven’t been, it’s ace. The images are awesome but you have to be quick: it ends this month.)

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And then, during a wander through the tawdry tourist-trap of Leicester Square, our eyes fell upon this:

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It was an advert for a play called Ghost Stories, with the tagline ‘You haven’t seen horror until you’ve seen it live’.

Have you ever seen two people look more fearful? Take a closer look.

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The husband and I became a little obsessed by The Faces Of Fear (their terrified expressions were also plastered all over the tube too). So obsessed, in fact, that we woke up on Saturday morning and decided we wanted to see Ghost Stories ourselves, simply to see just how scary/ naff it actually was.

I tell a lie: the husband really wanted to see The Book Of Mormon, which by all accounts is one of the best West End shows in recent years. It’s also sold out weeks in advance. But every day at 2pm (and again at 5pm) they do a raffle draw for 20 random people to be offered spare seats for a bargainous £20.

Entering the raffle is quite a lot of fun in itself. You have to head down to the theatre in person, fill out an entry form and pop it into a giant tombola, while a slightly irritating thespian type bellows jokes to the assembled throng through a megaphone.

At 2.30pm, the theatrical joker started pulling names out of the tombola machine, with dramatic fanfare. As the names started being called out, a little part of me secretly hoped that we wouldn’t be chosen (after all the hype, I kind of had my heart set on Ghost Stories).

Looking at the hopeful faces of the crowd around me, I even started dreaming up a scenario whereby if our names were drawn I would rather grandly announce, ‘Of course, I’m pleased that I’ve just won two tickets to the hottest West End show of the year.

‘However, there’s a little play down the road called Ghost Stories that we simply can’t miss. Here, have my tickets.’

I started scanning the flock of people trying to identify who was most deserving of this over-blown gesture. I settled on two little old ladies, waiting patiently at the edge of the crowd.

Our names never got called.

At 5pm, we found ourselves crammed into rickety chairs at the edge of the stage in the ramshackle Prince of Wales theatre, awaiting the curtain call for Ghost Stories. These are the kind of seats you get lumbered with when you pay £20 for a last-minute ticket. Spooky music was wailing from the speakers; a sense of anticipation filled the air.

We even attempted to recreate The Faces of Fear for ourselves.

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There was a warning sign stating that anyone with a nervous disposition should leave now. As the lights darkened, I started to feel a bit nervous. Just how terrifying was this spectacle going to be? Could my heart (which has recently become prone to palpitations after too much coffee) even take it?

Turns out, I shouldn’t have been worried.

It was dire.

Heard the story about the man who is driving through some woods when a ghostly figure suddenly runs out in front of his car? A few miles down the road, his car predictably breaks down, leaving him stranded with only a ghoulish figure for company who starts ominously tapping on the roof of his car.

Let’s just say this story is best left for round the camp fire: trying to recreate it on stage ends up being rather comical.

More silly stories ensued: the security guard who was on a night shift at an empty warehouse. After lots of creeping around and banging of doors, he then gets attacked by a… mannequin! Yes, one of those waxy shop window dummies suddenly comes alive and grabs him at the throat. Cue shrieks from the audience and chortles from the husband.

Jonathan Ross was clearly on drugs when described it as ‘awesome, scary fun’.

There was, inevitably, a weird twist at the end. At this point, I feel I should honour the old West End etiquette: that one should not give away the ending to other potential theatre-goers.

But let’s just there’s a reason why I tell my pupils never to end a story with: ‘It was all a dream.’

After Ghost Stories, we decided to work up an appetite with a three-mile stroll to Mayfair. What I love about London is you can just roam for miles, before stumbling into a darkened bistro to gorge on a three-course feast. Following this gluttonous binge, the husband suggested that we might get a cab back to the hotel.

‘A cab?!’ I said, incredulously. ‘But it’s a mere 2.5 miles back to the hotel.’

The husband sighed. And off we went again.

We strolled back through Mayfair; we sauntered across Trafalgar Square, saluting the Boris’s Big Blue Cock as we passed.

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Finally, at the end of Fleet Street, the ghostly silhouette of St Paul’s loomed into view.

Back at the hotel, the husband declared himself so worn out that he could barely brush his teeth. I, meanwhile. eagerly checked my Jawbone UP band.

28,000 steps and 20 kilometres!

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I went to bed very happy.

And then had a nightmare that I was attacked.

By a ghoulish mannequin.

In The Shade Of The Palms

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I seem to have developed an obsession with palm trees. It kind of crept up on me. I’m not even sure I actually like palm trees. All I know about them is that they’re prickly, high maintenance and only thrive in warm climates. A bit like me really.

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My passion for palm trees developed purely because of my surname. When I was younger, I got called Palms or Palmtree. It kind of stuck.

At Sheffield University, I had a weekly horoscope column in the uni newspaper called ‘Mystic Palms’. It involved a really bad picture of me staring vacantly into a mock crystal ball. I had to come up with 12 different forecasts, as pithy and humorous as possible. Every single week. And I didn’t even get paid to do it.

In the university bar, fellow students would occasionally peer curiously at me and say, ‘Are you that weird Mystic Meg character from the uni paper?’ It didn’t do much for my street cred.

When I was 19 years old, I did some work experience at a media company in Manchester (this sounds a lot grander that it actually was; the reality being that I had to spend a whole week writing articles about gnarly feet for a podiatry website). At the end of the week, the man in charge actually wrote out a cheque for my expenses to ‘Katy Palmtree’, believing my email moniker to be my actual name. I thought this was very funny.

To my knowledge, no one has the surname Palmtree. But there are a few genuine people called Palms knocking around.

I was approached by one such person in Harrogate, resplendent in a cream suit and a man-from-Del-Monte hat – the kind of get-up you’d expect from someone who goes by the name of Mr Palms.

‘My name is Ted Palms,’ he said, shaking my hand. ‘And I wondered if you would be interested in selling me your number plate.’ (My number plate is P4LMS).

‘I’ve only just acquired it,’ I said.

But Ted Palms wouldn’t be palmed off that easily.

‘What’s your surname?’ he asked, suspiciously.

‘It’s Palm-er,’ I stuttered.

Our eyes locked in a competitive Palm-off. He was probably thinking, ‘I’m a bona fide Palms; I deserve this number plate more.’

‘But lots of my friends call me Palms,’ I hastily added.

Ted Palms shuffled off, not before pressing an embossed business card in my, er, palm – if I should ever change my mind.

And then there’s the clothes. Palm tree top? Tick. Palm tree skirt? Tick.

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Palm tree dress? Tick. Tick.

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Palm tree shoes? Not quite.

In the first throes of love, the husband was only too happy to embrace my love of palm trees, purchasing said number plate, and then – on the eve of our wedding – procuring a little palm tree pendant from Tiffany’s (cheese alert).

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These trendy palm tree slipper shoes, as endorsed by Alexa Chung no less, were on my Christmas wish list too.

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The husband, whose interest in all things palm-based has begun to wane, took one look at them and said, ‘Do you actually like these shoes, or is it simply the fact that they’ve got palm trees on them?’

‘It’s simply the fact they’ve got palm trees on,’ I said, in a small voice.

Santa never brought the shoes.

Things came to a head in Topshop Oxford Circus this Saturday, where I found myself wrestling with a two-piece palm tree suit. It looked ridiculous.

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That afternoon, I had two missed phone calls from Someone Important. Someone Important was terribly baffled because she was greeted by a recorded answerphone message of my 21-year-old self saying: ‘You’re through to Palmtree Productions. Please leave a message.’

She was convinced she’d mistakenly stumbled across some Miami-based TV studios. It took a lot of explaining.

I’m afraid there is no such thing as Palmtree Productions. I’ve had vague intentions of removing this silly message for the last 13 years – usually after a call from Someone Important – but then promptly forget.

‘You need to remove that answerphone message,’ said the husband. ‘It’s really, really embarrassing.’

I told my friend Anna about my intention to purchase the shoes with palm trees on.

‘Be careful,’ she said. ‘A woman I know once decided she liked hippos.

‘She’s now basically drowning in chintzy china hippos. Her house is cluttered with them. Soon, she might start looking like a hippo too.

‘If you’re not careful, people will start buying you ceramic palm tree ornaments,’ she went on. ‘You’ll end up being known as that weird woman with the peculiar obsession with palm trees.’

I’m not sure I want to end up as a mad old woman head-to-toe in palm leaves and surrounded by porcelain palm trees.

I think it’s time to say goodbye to Palms.

The Duke of Wellington

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Thought Hunters were the daddies of the welly world? Me too.

But allow me to introduce you to Aigle: the king of rubber footwear.

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These bad-ass boots, handcrafted in France, turn everything you thought you knew about wellingtons (rubbery and er, green) on its head. I first heard whisperings about them in the last year or two (although they’ve been around since 1853).

But it wasn’t until the husband entered the market for a pair of new wellies this winter, that I knew there was only one brand I was going to turn too.

(Quick ‘foot’note here: Aigle are arguably usurped by French brand Le Chameau – the absolute crème de la crème for those in the know. But at £200+ a pop, you have to basically be Prince Charles to own a pair.)

Naturally, procuring a pair of Aigles wasn’t as straightforward as simply popping down to the local shoe shop (is it ever?). I won’t go into details but let’s just say it involved much internet research and a train ride to London. Excessive, I know.

I finally settled on a pair of Aigle’s ISO Parcours 2. With their neoprene surface, special ankle-hugging contours and anti-fatigue insulation, these water-repellant bad boys laugh in the face of puddles and sneer at cold toes.

The husband was a little sceptical about his new wellies at first. Like the electric toothbrush, I had to convince him that these really were WELLIES FOR LIFE.

But as soon as he’d paced around the lounge a few times, he deemed them incredibly comfortable and very warm (in fact there’s even been internet rumours of them being TOO warm. First world problem alert).

Today’s walk from Addingham to Ilkley was the perfect day to try them out: the first sunny day after two months of torrential rain.

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If you’ve never been to Ilkley, I urge you to get in your car and head there immediately. It’s an attractive market town nestled in the Yorkshire Dales. There’s a Betty’s tea room, independent book shops and an air of English finery about the place. It’s little wonder that is was recently dubbed the happiest place to live in the UK.

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We sat and ate a M&S sandwich on a bench outside Betty’s (the only downside to donning wellies for a muddy walk is that they don’t quite cut the mustard in posh tea rooms). Still, we love park benches (and there wasn’t a Pizza Hut pizza in sight!).

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If there’s one criticism, Ilkley is trifle twee and a bit middle class. Heck, even the buskers appear to be straight out of the local grammar school.

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Addingham is Ilkley’s little sister further up the River Wharfe: all bubbling brooks, cutesy cottages and waddling ducks.

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The village is also home to the husband’s favourite-ever house: a Georgian beast of beauty that he believes he will one day retire to.

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Anyway, before I digress into one of those smug ‘lifestyle’ blogs rambling on about bracing country walks and Gywnnie-style organic juices, let’s get back to the boots.

The husband bloomin loved them. He sloshed through sludgy mud, sploshed in bulging becks, and splashed in over-sized puddles.

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As more and more walkers passed us in their hoi-polloi Hunters (moi included), he felt like the Duke of Wellington.

And then the inevitable happened.

Striding towards him – looking every inch the country squire in his flat cap and black Labrador trotting obediently at his heels – was a man, wearing… an identical pair of brown Aigle boots.

As he passed, the husband locked eyes competitively. They exchanged a knowing look.

‘He has your boots on!’ I whispered.

‘I know,’ said the husband. ‘And he knew that I knew he had!’

‘But did he know that you knew that he knew that you knew?’ I said.

‘That makes no sense whatsoever,’ said the husband.

Back in Addingham, the duke lingered longingly over the gate of his favourite house.

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He might be the duke of wellingtons…

But he wasn’t quite the lord of Addingham.

Exercising My Patience

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It’s 6.30pm on a dismal Monday night and I’m circling the car park at the gym trying to find somewhere to park. Problem is, there is nowhere to park. Out of 250 parking bays, not a single one is free.

This is because the gym has become overrun by sanctimonious gym-goers, hellbent on toning up their blamangey bottoms after an extended period of grave overindulgence and gluttony (me included!). By March, this madness will be over. But for now, the chaos continues.

In the end, I parked in the only free parking bay left: a ‘mother and baby’ space, while glancing anxiously around, should a wild-haired earth mom appear out of the bushes to berate me. I figured nobody would be bringing their baby to the gym at this late hour. But post-Christmas, anything is possible.

I’ve always thought that the gym attracts some of stranger members of society. But January brings with it a whole new species of treadmill-pounding peculiarities.

First up, it’s the teenagers. The place is overrun with them. There they are… clogging up the running machines in their Superdry togs: chatting, flirting, giggling and typing on their iPhones – basically doing anything except actually breaking into a sweat.

A teenager on the cross-trainer next to me yesterday – all glossy hair and Sweaty Betty attire – clambered on board and started slowly moving up and down on Level 1. Level 1, for those of you who have yet to make the acquaintance with a cross-trainer, basically involves as much exertion as passing wind.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m all for healthy habits at a young age but seriously what are they all doing here? Shouldn’t they be swigging bottles of Kiwi-flavoured 20-20 on a park bench somewhere?! The idea of running on a cross-trainer, aged 14, wouldn’t have even crossed my mind. 

Teenagers aside, I’ve begun to develop an irrational irritation for one particular woman who is constantly hogging one of the special cross-trainers that I like to go on (there’s only two of them in the whole gym). This grey-haired, bespectacled being seems to spend half her life slowly moving up and down on it. 6.30am in the morning, she’s there. 6.30pm in the evening, she’s still there. I even went at 8pm the other night and she was STILL there.

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The dotty old dear wears a knitted jumper and spends hours playing solitaire on the cross-trainer’s built-in computer screen, peddling away in an infuriatingly slow manner (Level 1, no doubt). No sane person would come to the gym simply to play solitaire – or wear a knitted jumper on a cross-trainer, for that matter.

I’ve begun to scowl at her and make a ‘harrumphing’ sound as I pass. She hasn’t registered this (too engrossed in Solitaire) but it makes me feel slightly better.

Further infuriation can be found in the swimming pool, where a whole clutch of glacially-slow swimmers seem to have descended in the mornings, feebly traversing the pool like gormless goldfish – doing breast stroke and extending their delicate necks so as not to get their hair wet (anyone who attempts to go swimming without getting their hair wet is, in my eyes, ridiculous. Sorry mum).

They are seemingly oblivious to the unwritten etiquette of the pool. ie. Don’t clog up the fast lane; don’t meander across the pool in front of those coming up behind you; and – above all – DON’T TREAT SWIMMING AT THE GYM LIKE A LEISURELY DIP IN SPAIN.

And then there’s the gross changing room habits: people who patrol up and down completely naked with absolutely no modicum of modesty whatsoever. Granted, I’m a total prude but there’s no way I’d casually wander around the changing rooms starkers.

Boys, shield your eyes now, but I once witnessed one of these nudists nonchalantly lift up one leg and insert something, ahem, intimate in an intimate place – in full view of everyone.

And only yesterday morning, there was another naked woman, one leg extended up on the counter, proudly exposing her front bottom to the world, as she feverishly dried her toes – with a hairdryer.

At the gym, it seems, there is no decorum left.

Shooting The Breeze With OAPS

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I already have a very unhealthy relationship with Caffè Nero, spending around £1000 a year there purely to fund my coffee addiction.

But now I’ve managed to encourage a whole band of eccentrics who seem determined to befriend me, despite my generally aloof demeanour.

First, there’s the old man who sits in the corner all day eating porridge. He’s become a regular fixture in the last six months and now he’s there so often he’s practically part of the furniture.

When Caffè Nero opens at 7.30am, here’s already in position by the window, spoon in hand. Goldilock’s Three Bears have nothing on this old dude; he eats a least five pots of porridge a day, often staring forlornly out of the window.

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When I first set eyes on him, I thought he looked a bit lonely, so I threw him a beaming smile as I clattered out with my take-out coffee on my way to work.

And you know what he did… he scowled back at me cantankerously.

Undeterred, I continued to smile every morning, always receiving a frown back. This little game went on for about a month.

And then finally – a breakthrough! The scowl turned to a grimace… which finally became a smile. In recent weeks, I’ve even been getting a little wave from him. It feels good.

And then today, as I type away… the biggest breakthrough yet. Porridge-Loving Pensioner actually mouthed over to me, ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’, holding his teapot aloft.

‘I’m okay,’ I mouthed back. ‘I’ve got a coffee.’ I held up my cup to prove this, and hid back behind my laptop.

Porridge-Loving Pensioner appears to have turned from a miserly Victor Meldrew to a warm-hearted Werther’s Original grandad in a matter of months.

I even saw him offering a small child a sweet the other day.

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I was just getting back to work when there was a bang on the window – and a round, beaming face peered through the glass at me. Oh lordy… it was my portly friend The Italian Wanderer. I’ve known of The Italian Wanderer for a couple of years now but I’ve purposely been keeping a low profile for fear of encouraging him.

The Italian Wanderer is one of the stranger characters out of the motley bunch. He’s in Caffè Nero nearly every night with his Italian brother: a taller, goofier version of himself.

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I think they quite fancy themselves as a pair of extras in Goodfellas. But if I was to cast them in a movie, they’d play two hapless henchman, permanently scratching their heads and bumping into each other in a clownish fashion (if you think of those bungling burglars in Home Alone, you kind of get the picture).

I gave The Italian Wanderer his moniker due to his strange penchant for wandering the streets for hours on end. Come rain or shine, he walks up and down Harrogate Road all evening long (brother nowhere to be seen). This is no exaggeration. Sometimes he takes a break from the roam – and sits at the bus-stop watching the world go by.

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I’m mildly intrigued by his nomadic lifestyle but I haven’t dared to probe beyond a friendly wave for fear of Getting Too Involved.

Getting Too Involved is basically where you go beyond a simple smile and wave and descend into full-blown conversation. Don’t get me wrong, I like a smile and wave with an eccentric on the best of days, but I’m a solitary soul at heart – and the last thing I want to do is start sharing coffees and ruminating on life with these oddities.

Last week, The Italian Wanderer accosted me in Caffè Nero and starting firing a series of probing questions my way, ending with, ‘Is it okay if I say hello to you from now on?’

‘Of course!’ I said, smiling in what I hoped was a friendly but not-too-encouraging manner.

Talking of Getting Too Involved, one person I have Got Very Involved with is widower Peter (documented in My Coffee Shop Friend). He looks scarily like the bad guy ‘Mike’ from Breaking Bad.

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Well, it turns out Peter has a friend: Malcolm – another retiree at large, who keeps coming over to talk to me. I say ‘talk to me’ but he sort of wanders over and mumbles for a while, smiling in a vacant way before wandering off again – sometimes mid-sentence.

I usually hide behind my laptop under the guise of Being Terribly Busy but the other day, I was on the receiving end of a two-pronged attack from Peter and Malcolm, who came and sat with me for an hour regaling me with tales of Leeds’ glorious past. I secretly loved it.

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It transpires that they were both avid body builders back in the day, and trained with none other than Arnold Schwarzenegger, who joined them in Leeds for a year, living in a small flat in Crossgates (who knew?!), along with local legend Reg Park (former Mr Universe, no less).

Peter and Malcolm love to jest that they’ve managed to pick up a young girl (me!) and sometimes even comment on the length of my skirt!

‘It’s a nice outfit,’ says Peter. ‘Let’s just say, I’m not complaining.’

Malcolm nods along, approvingly.

When I go into Caffè Nero at the weekend with the husband, I’m now getting waves from all corners of the room – mainly from the over 60s.

The Husband is astonished.

‘Don’t you GET INVOLVED!’ he says.

Barking Mad

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I went to our local bar Further North for a glass of wine – and found myself sharing a table with a giant dog.

This was no ordinary Fido; it was a gargantuan, slavering brute of a thing that took up a whole space of its own.

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When it opened its mouth to yawn, its jaw was so big, I was nearly swallowed whole.

Perhaps its presence wouldn’t have been quite so odd if it wasn’t a: Friday night and b: the bar wasn’t the size of a shoebox.

My friend Sally-Ann thought this was the most preposterous thing she had ever witnessed.

‘What is that dog even doing here?’ she hissed, sipping on her glass of Sauvignon Blanc.

‘I think it’s actually having a pint!’ I whispered back.

‘He’s only brought it here because it says ‘Dogs Welcome’ on the door,’ mused Sally-Ann.

‘I’m sure my pet hamster would be welcome here too but I’m not going to go home and get him – just because I can!’

The next week, we went for another drink at Further North. This time there were two mutts in residence – a Labrador reclining by the door and another dog of indeterminable breed lying flat-out in the middle of the floor.

The bar only holds about 25 people in total – soon we could be overrun by hounds!

I’m generally quite frightened of dogs, especially if they jump up, lick or bark loudly. I once got bowled over by a neighbour’s dog, aged 3 – and I’ve never quite recovered. My friend’s dog recently licked my bare leg and I had an overwhelming urge to dash home and have a shower.

I still like the idea of having a companion to take for walk. But if I was to ever acquaint myself with a four-legged friend, it would basically have to be lazy, mute, with limited salivation. And if it could refrain from moulting all over my Laura Ashley sofa, that would be a bonus.

The husband would love a dog, after the death of his childhood pooch: Trixie. 20 years on, he can’t talk about Trixie without his eyes misting over. He loved that dog.

My mum, on the other hand, believes that getting a dog is a bad idea because you’ll just be too upset when they die. This is quite a strange theory. But then she has got some peculiar ideas.

But what dog should one get? My friend has a Wire-Haired Fox Terrier and it resembles a giant teddy bear. When you’re having a conversation, it cocks its head to the side as if listening carefully. It also has a fairly aloof personality, which I admire.

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In my eyes, the Wire-Haired Fox Terrier is only usurped by three other breeds: the Bearded Collie; the Old English Sheep Dog and the Cockapoo. Here’s a selection that I’ve encountered recently – including a sad-looking St Bernard.

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The Husband has ruled out all of the above for a variety of reasons; too hairy; too lively; too slobbery; not MANLY enough. He also pointed out the problem with having a dog is that dogs attract other dogs, many of which I’m frightened of.

On reflection, I think we’d have to plump for the humble – but no less loveable – Golden Retriever.

My friend Abi has recently acquired a dog; a Shar-Pei. It’s lovely but very boisterous. It jumps up a lot and licks me voraciously. I’m terrified.

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When I go round to her house, she shouts through the letter box, ‘I’m going to open the door now. The dog’s in training – can you just ignore her.’

‘Don’t worry – I was planning to!’ I cry, before the door swings open, a blur of brown fur and pink tongue rushes to greet me, and I pin myself up against the wall – like a plank – until the commotion is over.

Here is a picture of me attempting to take it for a walk, although I suspect the reverse is true.

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One bonus of having a dog – particularly if you’re single – is that it attracts a lot of attention. Last summer, Abi found herself fending off advances from fellow dog walkers in the park.

We tried to coin a phrase for the newly-discovered phenomenon of dog flirtation but couldn’t. Smokers have ‘smirting’ – but ‘dirting’ and ‘flogging’ just sounded plain seedy.

Abi phoned me the other night.

‘Fancy a drink at Further North?’ she said. ‘I’ve just found out you can take dogs there!’

I had visions of the dog careering around the tiny bar, knocking over wine glasses, and using my leg like a giant lollipop.

‘Absolutely not,’ I said.

Booty Vicious

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I realise that the very idea of purchasing a pair of custom-made ski boots might make me sound like I’m married to a Russian oligarch. But due to having enormous feet (recently documented in my Big Foot blog), I’ve had an ongoing battle to find a pair of ski boots that can adequately house my sizeable clodhoppers.

And the long-suffering husband became so fed up with my incessant moaning about ill-fitting boots, that when we stumbled upon a custom-made ski boot shop, he frog-marched me straight in there.

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The shop in question goes by the name of Surefoot. Sounds comforting, doesn’t it? If you happened to be in the market for a pair of bespoke ski boots, you’d feel in safe hands with a company called Surefoot. Or so I thought.

It all started off quite positively. After a bit of a wait, we were served by a thoroughly pleasant man. He was a kind of ageing surfer dude – all bleached hair and rolled up sleeves – with a relaxed but confident manner.

Ageing surfer dude talked us through the Surefoot process (based on 25 years of scientific development, no less!): first, my big feet would be measured in 3-D by a special machine, in order to create a sole that hugs the contours of the foot; next, a boot is selected based on the shape of the foot and skiing ability; finally, hot resin is injected into the shell of the boot, which cools to create a mould to hold said foot and ankle snugly in place. Simples.

And then he hit us with the price… £800! I was flabbergasted.

‘It’s too much,’ I whispered to the husband. ‘Let’s go!’

But it was too late. The husband had already been sucked into the whole Surefoot process, hypnotised by Ageing surfer dude’s steely blue eyes, soothing sales patter, and – moreover – the promise of the comfiest pair of boots you could ever ski in (ie. no more moaning wife).

‘I think we should just go for it,’ he said. ‘Just think: no more stressing about finding a pair of boots that fit. It’s an investment.’

Two hours later, we were still in the shop, waiting for the boots to bake in the oven.

Ageing surfer dude emerged with the boots, holding them aloft triumphantly. I slipped my feet into them.

They immediately felt like they were entombed in concrete.

‘How do they feel?’ he said, in his hypnotic tones.

‘Very, very tight,’ I said. This was no understatement; I was worried.

He assured me this was perfectly normal and before you could say ‘Not-So-Surefoot’, we were bundled out of the shop – £800 lighter.

The next morning, I set off skiing in my new boots. The first run was mildly painful. By the second run, a hot throbbing pain had begun to pulsate across the bridge of my feet. By the third run, it had escalated to intolerable burning that had spread through my ankles, toes and calves.

By noon, I was in so much pain that I thought I was going to pass out. I was forced to abandon the slopes and head back to boot camp.

I hobbled through the door of Surefoot and nearly collapsed face down.

‘I’m in so much pain,’ I cried dramatically.

Ageing surfer dude simply smiled at me in the way a doctor might try to placate a mentally unhinged patient.

‘Not to worry,’ he said. ‘We’ll pop them in the oven and re-shape them a bit. This is quite normal.’

I waited an hour. There was an alarming amount of bashing and clattering behind the scenes. During this time, several other disgruntled customers came in – including one man who had been having his boots chipped away at for the last three years!

‘The right boot is just about okay now,’ he said, cheerfully. ‘But the left one still needs a lot of work.’

Jesus.

Eventually, one of Ageing surfer dude’s lackies emerged with my newly-heated boots. It might have been my imagination but he looked a little sheepish.

I tried them on. Nothing had changed.

Back in the oven they went.

Meanwhile, several new customers entered the shop sniffing around, while I woefully massaged my swollen feet.

‘Don’t do it,’ I mouthed at one of them. ‘It’s a living nightmare.’

Ageing surfer dude caught wind of my moans and the blue eyes hardened.

‘You’re not chasing off my customers, I hope,’ he said, maintaining his Cheshire cat smile but with none of the earlier warmth.

‘No… no… of course not!’ I hastened, grinning back.

After their second oven bake, the boots felt no better and I had wasted a whole afternoon’s skiing. Ageing surfer dude naturally assured me that they just needed a bit more breaking in.

I trudged home rueing the day that I had ever set foot in Surefoot.

A year on and we’re back in the French Alps. I begrudging lugged my Surefoot boots all the way out here. I tried them for the first morning’s skiing, tolerated the pain for as long as possible, and then had to head to the boot-hire shop to get some different boots.

My redundant Surefoot boots are currently sat mocking me in the corner of our hotel room.

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I passed the Surefoot shop last night. Ageing surfer dude is still there: same soft sales pitch, same bleached hair and same irritating grin in place – as he snares more victims.

And behind him, a line of weary victims waiting futilely for their boots to be re-shaped by Surefoot’s backroom boys, wielding hammer and chisel.

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‘He’s a snake oil salesman masquerading as an affable ski buddy,’ said the husband. ‘He sows dreams but reaps nightmares.’

So far, I haven’t had the energy to go ‘toe-to-toe’ with Ageing surfer dude. But I’m building up to my next battle with him.

And I’ve got a feeling that during our next encounter, surf bum will be getting the boot.