Tag Archives: oddities
Shooting The Breeze With OAPS
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
The Return of the Nosy Neighbours
Regular readers (ie. my sister) might be wondering what ever became of our bothersome neighbours Susan and Dick, aka SuDick.
I am pleased to report that SuDick are very much still a feature in our lives. Hardly a day goes by when I don’t have an email of some kind from them cluttering my inbox. I estimate that 90 per cent of Susan’s life is dedicated to keeping tabs on the movements of all residents, while trying to evict the management company of our apartment block – as yet, to no avail.
She even sent out an email the other week stating: ‘Just seen Isaac from Apt. 14 take delivery of a Dominos pizza at 11.30am’.
I promise I am not making this up.
In fact, no-one can leave the compound without ever-watchful Susan peering at them from her perma-perch in the window. I emailed her recently, simply to ask what the new code for the electric gates was. And this is what she replied:
Hallo Katy,
The vehicle gate is 2958. The pedestrian gate has been failing to open using the code and remote for about 10 days now – not consistently, but intermittently, enough to cause problems to a number of residents (incl Isaac and Julia) and visitors. (This is in addition to the gate staying open, opening and closing repeatedly, opening only half way, etc) I reported it to the management on Monday of last week but got no acknowledgement.
I have had enough of reporting things to them and getting no reaction or an ignorant, dismissive response. I keep my contacts with them to a minimum. I actually prefer the inconvenience of a gate not opening, etc etc to the incompetence and expense incurred when they send a contractor. I won’t be contacting them again.
Susan
Obviously, her pledge to never call the management company again lasted approximately 12 hours and before long, she was back on the blower – complaining about a whole litany of problems, from squeaky door hinges to ill-fitting bin lids.
When she’s not on unofficial neighbourhood watch or pruning her roses as she observes the comings and goings, crabby Susan occasionally heads to the shops with her trusty shopper.
Under-the-thumb Dick is a lesser-spotted beast: last seen pilfering blackberries from the neighbours’ hedgerow, while Susan looked on in glee.
But this weekend… drama! SuDick had a new focus in the form of Troublesome New Tenants at Apartment 4.
Said tenants had a loud and raucous party on Saturday night which went on well into the early hours, disturbing both us next door and Belligerent Bill below. As I lay awake listening to their partying, all I could think was, ‘Bill is going to go NUTS’.
I briefly wondered if SuDick had heard, being on the opposite side of the building. But of course they had. How foolish of me to even question such a thing. No sooner had I sent out a general email to all residents, asking if anyone else had been disturbed by the late-night revelry, a reply came through from ever-vigilant Dick.
Hi Katy,
Some voices and light were noticeable in our (rear) bedroom. I went and listened outside 4; we heard the loud noise inside clearly. We were going to ring on their bell at the outside door, but ran into two women coming in the side door with shopping bags (midnight by now).
I recognised one as the new tenant – her name is Nina. I had spoken to her briefly when their moving van came the previous Sat. I reminded her we’d met. I said I’d call the police if the noise continued. Nina apologised and said she’d get it quieter and that it was a one-off house-warming. (Two-off?).
Susan thinks ‘they’re trouble’. In bed (rear) we could see raised light levels and hear doors banging after 12.30 – woken up again 3 a.m. then went to sleep again. Bill this morning has mentioned the lights at 4 being on all night. They also heard the bathroom fan on all night, and Susan has now identified this fan as the hum she heard constantly in the night, as it vents over our rear deck (below some steps). I understand some lights are still on now.
Bill, I believe, spoke to the agent during the week because they suffered from noise the previous weekend, stomping and perhaps dragging furniture late in the night. Bill apparently also had an unfriendly response at the door of 4 when he went to speak to them.
We need to tackle this PDQ.
Dick
PDQ? I had to Google it, and it means ‘pretty damn quick’. Get Dick and the text-speak.
Bad-tempered Bill then waded in. Never one to do things by half, he’s already emailed the council’s noise nuisance squad to lodge an official complaint. I almost feel sorry for the Troublesome New Tenants; they really have no idea what they’re dealing with.
To be fair, I was going to phone the letting agent myself but now I don’t need to bother, knowing that SuDick and Bill are already on the case. Sometimes our nutty neighbours can be a blessing. They have all the time in the world to moan, rant and complain on our behalf.
But whatever you do, don’t order a Dominos pizza before midday.
Barry Scott… and the Hate Mail
I received my first-ever blog hate mail yesterday – from a man calling himself Barry Scott.
My first thought was, ‘Isn’t Barry Scott that silly man from the Cillit Bang commercials, with a really loud and annoying voice?’
My second thought – upon closer inspection of his message – was, ‘Uh-oh. Forget the bathroom spray, Barry Scott REALLY hates me.’
Here’s a snippet of what Barry Scott had to say:
I have to say I have never read a more, indulgent, vacuous, self-loving load of nonsense in my life. Boastful of your life, you are without a shadow of a doubt a horrible person. It is wonderful that your problems in life are small for you, but the way you write about them is quite frankly detestable.
I know of some people who would love their problems to be turning up late to a wedding in London, or their cleaner buying them presents, but the world most people live in, they would never consider that a problem, never mind posting it onto the internet.
I think you seriously need to do some growing up, stop thinking that people are interested in your ‘perfect’ life, and then find some compassion, and learn how to treat people.
I sat in the bath running these words over and over in my mind. Horrible person… detestable… vacuous… Isn’t it funny how one nasty email can plummet you into the blackest of moods?
I didn’t even realise strangers were reading my blog. In fact, the only people I thought read my silly ramblings was my sister and a handful of friends – more out of loyalty than anything else.
I only wrote my blog for a bit of light-hearted fun; a little hobby because I missed writing. Yes, I could write about truly worthy causes such as poverty, war, cancer… but the whole premise of the blog was just daft, everyday trivia that stuck in my head and made me want to put pen to paper.
My blog is supposed to be self-deprecating and firmly tongue-in-cheek. Does Barry Scott genuinely think that my only worries in life revolve around arriving late to weddings, my big feet, puffed-up ankles, and whether a bearded hunk catches my eye at the gym?
And how does Barry Scott define my life as perfect? What is a ‘perfect’ life anyway?
As my thoughts spiralled, I then started thinking, ‘Oh no, if Barry Scott thinks this, what if EVERYONE thinks I am this vacuous beast of a person, who truly thinks that I’m worried that my cleaner keeps buying me presents (which is – obviously – THE most ludicrous first-world problem I could possibly imagine. That was the point!)
In fact, what if Barry Scott is actually someone I know, hiding behind a preposterous pseudonym and a veil of venom?
The husband, bless him, said that you can’t take anyone who calls themselves Barry Scott and peddles shower spray for a living seriously. He didn’t even leave a real email address.
Still, Barry Scott’s message stung. I decided to delete his comments, and cheered up slightly.
Bang… and the dirt was gone. But it did leave a mark behind.
Big Foot
Someone recently said to me, ‘Ooh, aren’t you lucky taking a size 8 shoe. You’ll be able to get first pick in the sales.’
That’s basically code for, ‘Your feet are so freakishly big that no one else could possibly have feet that big too. You have, effectively, OUTGROWN the competition.’
When I tell people that my feet are a UK size 8, they often don’t believe me. But honestly, they really are. They’re not a size 7 that occasionally require a size 8 shoe. No, they’re a fully-paid up member of The Size 8 Club (schleb members: Kate Winslet, Paris Hilton and Uma Thurman) to the point of – dare I say it – borderline size 9. Small children are terrified of them and, very occasionally, tourists attempt to board them, mistaking them for two passing cruise liners.
Sales or no sales, there’s nothing lucky about having super-sized clodhoppers because about 90 per cent of shoes in a size 8 look utterly preposterous on my feet. I might spot a dainty pair of sandals on display but when the shop assistant (‘Sorry, did you say SIZE 8?!’) brings the same pair out in double the length, they look like two canal barges strapped to the bottom of my legs.
Only the other day, a shop assistant shook her head sympathetically and said: ‘Hmm… they ARE lovely shoes but they just don’t look right in a size that big.’
I didn’t always have this problem. But when I was 10 years old, I blew out the candles on my birthday cake, closed my eyes and made a wish. It wasn’t a pony I wished for, or My Little Pony’s Dream Castle. No, I wished for big feet.
At the time, I was having a competition with a classmate over whose feet were growing the fastest. I was hoping that when my mother next took me to get my feet measured on the machine at Clarks or K Shoes (remember them?), I could skip back to class and proudly announce: ‘My feet have gone up a whole two sizes – beat that, TINY TOES!’
At high school, my skinny legs resembled two golf clubs as the feet continued to grow. Fortunately, they stopped at size 8, sparing me from becoming a true oddity, who could only buy shoes via mail order from BigShoe4U.
But I’ve long since given up on procuring a pair of designer heels – mainly because most stop at size 7. Even many size 8 shoes (Topshop for example) are too tight. And ballet pumps just look like giant, flappy clown shoes.
Every autumn, I picture myself stylishly striding through crisp leaves in a sleek pair of Italian leather knee-highs. It’s a dream that usually ends with me grappling with a pair of boots that are so wide on my legs, they look more like wellies, before fleeing the shop despondently and rueing the day that I was ever cursed with these monstrous stompers.
For reasons which I’m still trying to fathom, boot designers ensure that the calf width of the boot – ludicrously – increases with the size of the foot. So basically, if you’re cursed with huge meaty sausages for legs, are well as big barges for feet, you’re fine. But if you’ve got sparrow’s legs like me, forget it.
Sometimes, I look down at my feet and marvel at the beastliness of them. Occasionally, I hold them up against the husband’s face, and think, ‘My foot is BIGGER than your head!’
The final indignity is that the husband is also a size 8 foot. Technically, we could share shoes. And that’s just plain weird.
The Center Parcs Crazies
There’s a new holiday craze emerging amongst my friends: a growing, unstoppable behemoth that goes by the name of Center Parcs. While friends once regaled me with tales of sipping Singapore slings in Sri Lanka, I’m now much more likely to hear about quad biking and sub-tropical swimming in the forest.
This new breed of Center Parcs staycationers fall into one of two camps: The Center Parcs Obsessives, who have been holidaying there since they were children and are part of a smug group who’ve ‘known the secret for years’, and relatively new Center Parc-ers, who tentatively drive into its big foresty mouth (slowing down for the red squirrels, of course) and emerge seven days later – bedazzled – and telling anyone who’ll listen, ‘I’ll never holiday anywhere else again. It even had a Starbucks!’
My own Center Parcs experience was a little less bedazzling but still high on the fun factor. Having heard so much about this enchanting place, I was excited to be finally getting a taste of huge-holiday-camp-in-a-forest as part of my friend’s hen party.
But for reasons too complicated to go into, while the rest of the hen party were cracking open the prosecco in their snazzy, modern lodges, I found myself alone in a 80s Butlins-style bedsit several miles across the lake, which faintly smelt of tobacco and had clearly had been missed off the list of any renovations this millennium (probably because only strange specimens like me would ever stay in a tiny apartment block at a holiday camp purely geared towards families).
Undeterred, I set off on foot to the party, begrudgingly wearing a pair of silver fairy wings (to comply with the weekend’s fairy theme) and proudly clutching a home-made coffee and walnut cake in my smart Emma Bridgewater tin (the hen party happened to coincide with my cake baking obsession – see Let Them Eat Cake) and I was looking forward to basking in a glut of cake-based compliments. It also happened to coincide with one of the hottest weekends of 2012.
No sooner had I set foot through the door, greeted the lovely hen, and placed my coffee cake in a prominent position in the buffet, I was accosted by one of the hen party’s stranger characters. Every hen has a peculiar friend. It’s usually me. But on this occasion, the girl – Christine – definitely took the crown.
Within minutes of meeting her, she was telling me all about a trail of failed relationships in an scarily-intense, monotone voice, while I attempted to nod sympathetically and wildly scan the room for any means of escape.
As her weary voice droned on, I peered over her shoulder at the buffet. My coffee cake, which had been lovingly hand-crafted only that very morning, was untouched, I noted, and – worse still – appeared to be MELTING in the heat. It made sense, I thought despondently: no one pitches up to a party and wants a slice of coffee cake with their cocktails.
Midnight came and went and it was soon time to depart. Still no-one had eaten my increasingly sweaty cake. Too big to fit into the hen’s fridge with all the bottles of bubbly, I had no choice but to scoop it back into its tin and tuck it under my arm, ready for the journey back.
After fielding a chorus of protests from well-meaning friends (Them: ‘you can’t walk back alone!’; Me: ‘I’ll be fine! I mean, have you ever heard of a murder in Center Parcs? I didn’t think so!’), I was dispatched back into the dark forest and began to trudge back to my bed-sit for one.
As I crept through the trees, I began to feel a little unnerved. It was extremely dark and there wasn’t a soul around. And I appeared to be lost. Had you happened to peer out of your Center Parcs lodge at around 1am that evening, you might have seen a dejected fairy wander past, with wilting wings and clutching a home-baked cake that no-one wanted. It was a sad old sight.
Eventually, I reached the lake. It might have been my imagination but the moon’s reflection seemed to cast a strange, ethereal glow upon the forest. I could see the bed-sit of doom across the water but no matter which path I took, I couldn’t seem to reach it.
Some time later, I finally arrived back at my humble abode and wearily clambered into bed… only to be woke at 3am by the blaring screech of a fire alarm. Huddled outside with the other oddities until the fire officer gave the building the all-clear, I began to question the magic of Center Parcs.
The next day, I woke and realised I’d forgotten to bring my hairbrush. I also had a large, uneaten coffee cake languishing in the fridge. I wasn’t sure what to do.
At the spa later that day, I asked Crazy Christine if she happened to have a spare hairbrush I could borrow. She produced a handbag-sized brush – the kind that folds into itself that you can buy from Superdrug for a couple of pounds – or maybe even find in a Christmas cracker.
But while attempting to detangle my knotty locks, something bad happened: the feeble brush fell apart! Scooping up the bits of plastic, I sheepishly went to break the news to Christine.
‘Broken?!’ She fixed me with a steely glare.
‘Yes,’ I stammered. ‘It just came apart…’
‘Where is the other bit of plastic? There’s a piece missing!’ she demanded.
I hastily foraged around in my bag; fortunately it was there.
She snatched it off me, and set about attempting to mend the flimsy brush, refusing to speak to me again for the entire evening.
But as I was about to depart, some helpful person suggested that as I was heading to see my parents in Lancashire the next day, I might be able to drop Crazy Christine off at Preston train station. Bizarrely, Crazy Christine seemed to think this was a great idea too.
Two hours in the car with Crazy Christine? After ‘hairbrushgate’, there was no-way I could possibly endure it. I found myself slowly nodding my head, in half-agreement.
The next morning, I rose early, donned my sunglasses and skulked through the forest, fearful that Crazy Christine might suddenly loom large, brandishing the broken hairbrush and demanding I drive her all the way back to London. I hastily scampered across the car park, leapt into my car and roared off.
I hoped, at least, the red squirrels liked my coffee cake.
The Return Of Dirty Harry
True love has yet to strike for my old mucker Harry.
He appears to be back on the market – or in the window of the local hardware store again, at any rate.
His original criteria requested someone who is good-looking, with personality AND style. This time, he’s lowered his expectations slightly.
But style isn’t something he will compromise on, citing his need for a ‘special friend’ who can ‘put it together for any occasion’!
Just where is Harry planning on taking this elusive – yet stylish, good-looking and charismatic – companion?
I’m tempted to give him a bell.
The Golden Ticket
I once had a glamorous job as a showbiz reporter-cum-girl about town, trawling the hottest haunts of London and writing about vacuous celebrities. I met them all – from the dregs of lollygagger Dean Gaffney and omnipresent Calum Best, to the A-list highs of pearly-toothed Tom Cruise and scowling Madonna.
My champagne lifestyle was the envy of many; the reality quite different. Most evenings would be spent shivering on the edge of the red carpet at one of the twice-weekly film premieres – cheek to jowl with pushy journos – or standing awkwardly in a darkened night club, deciding how best to broach the subject of Alan Partridge’s penchant for lapdancers. Many a night I cut a forlorn figure – scampering home across Waterloo Bridge, picking up a reduced sandwich from Tesco to supplement my canape diet, and then riding the No. 77 bus home. It was the best and worst of times.
So, when I received a phonecall to tell me that I had ‘won’ two tickets to the VIP opening of the new beauty salon down the road, I think it’s fair to say I was a little underwhelmed – grateful, of course but let’s just say, it wasn’t the highlight of my yearly calendar.
But the organiser of the tickets had other ideas. First, he explained in the phonecall that this really was a VIP event – so VIP that even the beauty salon owner’s friends and family hadn’t made it onto the guestlist. Really? I felt like one of the golden ticket winners at Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory.
Next, I received a text checking that I was definitely coming. Of course. What else could be more important at 6.30pm on a Wednesday evening?
The next text wanted to know which of my friends I was going to bring with me. I consulted my ever-depleting ‘friends who might be free on a Wed evening’ list. Friend 1 – baby to look after; Friend 2 – ditto; Friend 3 – temporarily absconded down South; Friend 4 – packing to move house. This left Friend 5 – recently acquired new puppy but willing to abandon dog duty to accompany me to this ultra-exclusive opening.
But when I texted the organiser with the name of my friend, this was his reply:
‘Oh, *insert name of friend*, okay… Can I just remind you that you are both representing *insert name of local residents’ association* so you will need to be on your best behaviour. The dress code is smart/casual by the way’.
Best behaviour? Smart/casual? Seriously? What kind of tomfoolery was he expecting from a 30-something teacher and a respected homeware designer? Turning up in matching Vicky Pollard tracksuits, bad-mouthing the beauty products, and hustling the guests?
Wednesday came and when I finally swept through the hallowed doors of this much-vaunted event, I had an insane urge to really do something bad. Should I open up my large tote and sweep a whole shelf of nail polishes straight into it, when no-one was looking? Should I drink all the champagne, start emptying the goody bags out of the back door, and make off with all the freebies into the night (actually, I have done that before – the goody bags, that is. Maybe he had a point!)?
Instead, I plumped for stealing an extra cupcake on exit (one for me, one for the husband) and attempting to balance them on my knee as I drove home – yet still managing to get fresh cream all over the steering wheel.
So much for VIP. But it beats catching the bus with my Tesco reduced sandwich any night.
Gym Buddies
The gym is rapidly becoming a no-go area. After my close encounter with a former flame the other week, I seem to have made the acquaintance of another character who I’m avoiding with equal determination.
My new friend – let’s call him Big Grey Man – first made an appearance when I was queuing for a post-swim, pre-work coffee. Me: flustered and late as usual; Him: big and grey – and overly eager to chat.
‘We meet again…’ he said, as I approached the coffee queue. I actually turned around to look behind me, so convinced I was that he couldn’t be talking to me. He was.
It transpired that we had also been queuing for a coffee together the week before (quelle surprise!), and exchanged the very smallest of pleasantries – an encounter so inconsequential that I had completely forgotten it had ever happened. Obviously he hadn’t.
And so began one of those awkward conversations, where I try hard not to engage with him on any level (short monotone sentences usually do the trick), and he tries his hardest to keep up the patter. I feel a little mean because Big Grey Man is perfectly pleasant. But I have a rule about the gym: I don’t believe in communicating with anyone whilst there. I just want to get in, do 30 lengths in the pool, and exit – all with minimum human interaction.
This was tested about two years ago when I was reluctantly befriended by Lipo Liza – a woman who regularly had several pints of fat removed from her stomach and thighs, and seemed hellbent on sharing the details of this gruesome procedure with me – at 6.30 in the morning. It wasn’t just her thighs that got airtime though: I knew all about her job (she hated it), mother (hated her), ex-boyfriend (hated him) and many other details which I would not want to inflict upon you. Luckily, her newly-thinned thighs led her to new-found love and she moved somewhere down South, finally leaving me in peace.
Another strange specimen at the gym is Mad Army Woman. You know those people who like to Make A Scene at the gym by huffing and puffing loudly, pacing up and down and doing exaggerated stretches? She’s one of them. While the rest of the morning swimmers are quietly getting on with their lengths, she’s busy doing her own peculiar routine, which as far as I can see involves angrily striding up and down the pool in a full wet suit (she’s about the size of a small bungalow), pausing to eat half a banana, taking two controlled swigs of Lucozade and then – bizarrely – circling the jacuzzi in figures of eight, thrashing through the water in an exaggerated army march. It’s quite frightening.
Back to my new friend though…
Big Grey Man: We obviously have the same routine!
Me (feigning interest in the coffee menu): Hmm…
Big Grey Man: I didn’t see you last week though?
Me: My car broke down.
Big Grey Man: Really? What was wrong with it?
Me (yawn): The alternator. (Yawn. Yawn.)
You get the idea.
I finally managed to escape but as was crossing the car park, there he was – honking his horn and waving manically.
I hoped that my interaction with him would be limited to the pre-work coffee queue. But when I went down to the pool this week, lo and behold, he was there – sat in the jacuzzi, beaming like a mentalist and waving at me (again!). Crazily, he was chatting to Mad Army Woman (who appeared to be on stage seven of her drill: Stop circling jacuzzi for three minutes and eat second half of banana). They both seemed to be staring at me. Big Grey Man waved again.
What next? Inviting me to join them in the jacuzzi? Chatting to me in the steam room? (attempting to strike up a conversation in the steam room is strictly taboo in my eyes).
At least Lipo Liza had entertaining stories in her quest to fight the flab. Big Grey Man offers nothing but big greyness and Mad Army Woman nothing but drill-sergeant lunacy. I didn’t want to be part of their weird jacuzzi club.
I dunked my head under the water and swam away – with a little theatrical splash of my own.
My Family and Other Oddities 