Tag Archives: people
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.
A Pearly White Christmas
I have a small confession to make: in the last two years I have spent £750 on toothbrushes. Please don’t be alarmed. At the time, it seemed perfectly rational. But now, in the cold light of day, I can see how things got a little out of hand.
My poison pen nemesis Barry Scott already think I’m the most frivolous and vacuous person in blogosphere. And when he reads this latest spell of frivolity, he’s going to have a field day.
My addiction to toothbrushes began innocently enough. In November 2011, my sister texted me to say that she’d like an electric toothbrush for Christmas. This might seem strange in itself but if you knew my family, this is the kind of thing we buy each other (see My Parents… and the Christmas Wishlist).
Unable to simply hop on Amazon and click ‘buy’ at the first brush I saw, I immediately set about researching the best electric toothbrush. It’s quite normal for me to spend up to three weeks reading reviews and researching voraciously. At the end of this research spell, I might be finally ready to commit to the purchase – but then spend the week ahead of its delivery racked with anxiety that I might have Bought The Wrong Thing.
In the case of the toothbrush, it was fairly clear from the onset that there was only one contender to the crown of Best Brush In The Business.
Let me introduce you to… Philips Diamond Clean – aka The Daddy of Dentistry.
Beautiful, isn’t it? I’m not quite sure which of its many merits I should mention first: its supreme sonic cleaning action with five different settings from whitening to polishing; the glass it sits in which automatically charges it; or the fact that you can charge it up through your laptop when on the move.
I was so taken with the reviews that I decided to buy myself one as well as my sister.
And then I bought my dad one.
And then – in a moment of extreme madness and possibly because it sprang up in my inbox as part of a £95 flash Amazon sale – I bought my father-in-law one too!
The Husband came home, took one look at the credit card bill, and had to sit me down for ‘a chat’.
It wasn’t normal behaviour, he said, for me to be spending £100 – £150 on toothbrushes for members of his extended family.
The husband likened me to a deranged milky bar kid, handing out over-priced electric toothbrushes to distant aunts like toffees.
He couldn’t stay cross for long though because awaiting him in the bathroom was his own shiny new Diamond Clean toothbrush: a limited edition black bad boy – matt finish and with a sleek black carry case; basically, the Ferrari of the toothbrush world.
Have you ever seen anything quite like it? I haven’t.
After one use, the husband said he couldn’t believe he had ever attempted to brush his teeth with anything else. And while he didn’t exactly endorse spending half of my monthly salary on top-dollar toothbrushes, he grudgingly admitted that he could certainly see its benefits.
As for the father-in-law, I’m not sure whether he even uses his brush. He did look a bit perplexed when he unwrapped his Christmas present last year. When I asked how things were going in the dental department, he muttered something about the brush being too tickly for his teeth. Too tickly?!
Last time I visited the in-laws, I peeked in their bathroom and it was nowhere to be seen. Sometimes I lie awake at night worrying that it’s lying abandoned in a dusty cupboard somewhere and that his teeth will never know what they’re missing.
I went to the dentist the other week. He took a peek in my mouth and, as usual, declared my teeth the best set of pearlies he’d seen in a long time.
I’m strangely proud of the fact that I have reached the ripe old age of 30-something without a single filling, despite my twice-weekly Haribo gorge in petrol stations across Leeds.
I thought I should let the dentist in on the secret, given he’s in the trade and all that.
‘It’s all thanks to the Philips Diamond Clean brush,’ I said. ‘Currently retailing on Amazon for a bargainous £99, RRP £250.’
He looked completely non-plusssed by this news.
I paid my usual £18 fee and trotted off, relishing the fact that I wouldn’t need a check-up again for another year.
The Barry Scotts of this world might scorn my toothbrush splurge.
But when I think of what my teeth could be costing me, £150 seems almost a bargain.
The Elusive Nando’s Black Card
Beckham’s got one; Jay-Z can’t live without his; Justin Timberleg’s in; and even scraggy-haired crooner Ed Sheeran’s somehow got his paws on one. I’m talking about something more exclusive than membership to Coutts and rarer than hen’s teeth themselves…
The Nando’s Black Card.
Whisperings of its existence first surfaced on the web a few years ago but I’ve never heard of anyone outside of schleb circles being given one. It might even be an urban myth.
According to legend, owners of this exclusive card – also known as the High Five – can waltz into any Nando’s in the world, slip the card to the cashier (perhaps there’s even a secret handshake involved?) and receive unlimited food for free. There’s even a whole website dedicated to it.
In the heart of our local stomping ground of Chapel Allerton, a huge restaurant/ bar has just closed down. It’s a great venue: all glass fronted and on three levels. In its heyday it was called Angel’s Share and many a night was spent jostling glasses of wine, dodging doughy divorcees, and bumping along to Boogie Luv.
But despite the vintage bird wallpaper, great wine list and locally-sourced grub, its latest incarceration as a more high-brow eaterie called the Hummingbird just didn’t quite cut the mustard.
The husband and I mulled over the sad demise of Angel’s Share/ Hummingbird with fellow Chapel Allerton-ers in the pub the other week. We came to the conclusion that it needed to attract a more loyal clientele – one that perhaps enjoyed spicy chicken, with a side of rice or fries, all drizzled in lashings of an addictive peri-peri sauce.
Basically, it needed to be a Nando’s.
By their second pint, the husband and friend Sam had decided, with 100 per cent certainty, that they were going to set up a franchise of Nando’s, right here on our doorstep.
‘We’re already spending £1500 a year on Nando’s,’ figured the husband, referring to our weekly addiction. ‘We might as well go the whole hog and buy a Nando’s. It’s the next logical step.’
The next morning, the husband hopped on the laptop to enquire about launching the all-new north Leeds leg of this spicy chicken success story.
But to his dismay, he found that Nando’s franchises weren’t an option in the UK.
We pondered this problem for a whole.
‘I’ve got an idea,’ I said. ‘Perhaps we could still have a Nando’s business model but call it…’
‘…Nondo’s?!’ we both chimed at once.
I decided to write to Nando’s.
Dear Mr Nando,
My husband and I are weekly visitors to several of your establishments across Leeds, where we regularly enjoy a butterfly chicken breast and half-chicken respectively (with peri-peri salt fries, spicy rice, and an occasional side of halloumi).
Given our expertise, we feel there is a definite gap in the market for a Nando’s restaurant in Chapel Allerton, north Leeds, namely at the vacant premises formerly known as a the Hummingbird restaurant.
In return for this information and in light of the millions we believe you are likely to make, we are happy to forfeit our finder’s fee in exchange for one of your coveted Nando’s black cards.
Please send to the address above.
Yours Sincerely
I was about to hit send when my eyes fell upon ‘10 Things You Need To Know About The Nando’s Black Card‘.
I refer to point 8: ‘No-one who’s requested a card, no matter how politely, has ever received one. Asking for one is the biggest tattoo.‘
I immediately scrapped the letter.
But there is hope. Nando’s claims that anyone who can prove they’ve eaten in every restaurant across the world would receive free food for life.
I estimate we’ve visited 20 Nando’s across the UK.
Which means we only have another 1015 restaurants to go.
Dick Gets Nicked
Two blogs about our nutty neighbours in a month? It seems a little excessive. But when the story’s this good, I just have to share.
For those of you not in the loop, Susan and Dick, aka SuDick, are a pair of curtain-twitching, moaning retirees, who keep tabs on the movements of all other residents in our apartment block in the most busybody way imaginable.
Last month, a pair of new residents moved in and had a rather raucous party, which disturbed many other neighbours into the early hours. Inevitably, SuDick sprung into action the following morning; emails were flying around from as early as 8am to gather support for their nuisance tenants campaign.
Belligerent Bill (another curmudgeonly retiree of Post-It Note Parking fame) also waded in on the action – complaining direct to the council’s noise nuisance squad.
Dick followed up the complaints with a strongly-worded letter, which he half-slipped under their door the following evening. Before the party-loving tenants arrived home, I managed to sneak a peak at the note itself (who’s the nosy neighbour now? I hear you cry).
Here’s a snippet:
‘I think you’d do well to start apologising to your neighbours and show more consideration in the future…’
‘I’m telling you this in your own interests… Don’t get off on the wrong foot.’
It was a little heavy-handed perhaps but nothing too serious.
That’s not what the new neighbours thought.
At approximately 4pm on Monday, a police car pulled up outside the apartment block and two police officers got out, handcuffs jangling at their hips. Entering the premises, they headed straight for SuDick’s apartment, where they invited themselves in ‘for a chat’.
A complaint of harassment had been filed against poor Dick. The new tenants, it seemed, had decided to go nuclear on him, complaining that he was intimidating them.
Sparrow-hawk Susan sent out an email to us all, recounting Dick’s police encounter. ‘Dick wouldn’t hurt a fly,’ she cried.
She added: ‘Dick’s note was not threatening; it was just convenient to construe it in that way. He simply pointed out that such behaviour had not set them off on the right foot here and suggested an apology to those kept awake might be appreciated. None has come, of course.’
Under no circumstances are we to contact the new tenants directly about noise again. I’ve got to hand it to them.
But I do feel a bit sorry for deflated Dick, now the long arm of the law has put a stop to his over-zealous neighbourhood watch.
Susan ended her email saying that the police seemed to know a lot of information about them.
‘Are our emails being hacked?’ she pondered.
Complaints, conspiracy theories and late-night confrontations… I fear it’s only a matter of time before Dick gets an ASBO – and Susan ends up in the slammer.
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.
Skirting The Issue
I’m stuck in a black opaque tights fashion trap. I wear them pretty much every single day. I don’t own a pair of jeans and I don’t feel comfortable in trousers. In fact, I only wear skirts or dresses and tights. I’m weird.
Black opaque tights are the Volkswagen Golf of the fashion world – fail safe and trustworthy. I’ve begun to dislike my ageing knees but enveloped in 60 denier, all nobbles are covered (Marks and Spencer’s Autograph Velvet Touch 60 denier, since you’re asking – trust me, I’ve tried them all); I can’t even begin to comprehend a future without them.
For a couple of years, I was quite happily cantering around at work, 60 denier-clad shanks on display until… disaster! Someone at work allegedly bent over a child in a strappy top and managed to expose an inappropriate amount of cleavage. This led to a lot of serious talk from the powers-that-be, followed by a new dress code thrust into our hands – ironically, on the very same day I had chosen to showcase my rather short pillar-box red Whistles mini-skirt.
The dress code said: No strappy tops (obvs – see cleavagegate); No leggings; Skirts to just above the knee; Culottes acceptable.
Skirts to just above the knee? CULOTTES?!
One stray boob and we were all paying the price.
I trudged dismally home and peered ruefully into my wardrobe. Of my many skirts, 90 per cent fell into the category of ‘above knee’.
I wasn’t alone. A stealth group had formed at work. Let’s call us the Skirt Crusaders. We had one thing in common: hitched up hemlines and a depleted work wardrobe.
For a few weeks, we all played it safe: trousers and pencil skirts being the order of the day. There wasn’t a flash of thigh in sight – 60 denier or not. I even went as far as purchasing a long maroon circle skirt. The husband said I looked like a member of the Amish community. I toyed with the idea of a pair of culottes but then realised that I’d look like a Victorian school ma’am. The threat of only being able to shop at Long Tall Sally hung over us all like a grey cloud.
One Skirt Crusader broke protocol and arrived at work in a thigh-skimming grey number. In my mind, the length of it was okay. But later that day, she was summoned to the big cheese’s office and told that although she had a ‘lovely figure’, she needed to show a little more decorum in her choice of skirts. Can you think of anything more mortifying?
After the hemline hoo-ha had died down, the skirts gradually began to creep back in: an a-line skirt here and pair of leggings there. I began to wear the odd above-knee skirt again but unzipping it slightly at the back to gain a few extra inches. It’s like when you used to roll your skirt up at school – only in reverse. My long legs had become the enemy.
I’ve been on ‘Skirt Watch’ for a while now. The worries of old seem to be diminishing. My fellow Skirt Crusader decided to brave another risqué skirt the other day. I observed it quietly, with a knowing nod of acknowledgement – but later made the following report:
‘Hello Long Limbs. Well, today’s skirt was certainly borderline, with the split at the front flashing the odd extra inch of thigh. It wasn’t quite grey skirt territory but I would describe it as your boldest move yet. However, the length was tempered by the black tights and black pumps, complemented further by the black polo neck. This created a slightly deceiving silhouette. In conclusion, this particular number was passable – just.’
She appreciated my honest feedback.
There’s a new boss at work. Rumours have circulated that he’s already said, ‘I don’t want to be able to see up it or down it’. This might be a myth though.
The black opaques are still going strong.
But, for now, the red Whistles mini-skirt has gone into retirement.
The Husband…. and the Euromillions Scam
The husband left a receipt on the passenger seat of the car.
I idly glanced at it. It was a receipt from the local petrol station and said ‘Euromillions £2.00’.
To my knowledge, the husband has never bought a Euromillions ticket in his life, let alone at 7.12am on a Friday morning.
In fact, the man I thought was my husband wouldn’t do that.
I sat and stared at the receipt for a while and thought, ‘My husband is a stranger to me.’
Entering the house, I immediately pounced on the husband.
‘What did you buy from the petrol station at 7.12am on Friday morning?’ I said clutching the receipt to my chest and sounding like Miss Marple, uncovering her spouse’s secret gambling habit.
‘A coffee?’ said the husband.
I showed him the receipt. We both stared in at it in bemusement.
‘I bought a £2.00 coffee from the machine,’ said the husband. ‘I’ve never bought a Euromillions ticket in my life!’
We pondered this for a few moments.
‘I know what’s happened,’ said the husband. ‘You know that nice Asian man at the petrol station. Well, he’s clearly putting coffees through as Euromillions tickets – and then claiming the ticket for himself. It’s the perfect scam!’
‘He wouldn’t!’ I said, aghast. ‘He’s such a nice man.’
‘He’s a true gent,’ agreed the husband, ‘true gent’ being his catch-all expression for any kind and chivalrous stranger. ‘He’s always so nice to old women too.’
‘I bet he’s nice to old ladies,’ I said, grimly. ‘He’s probably waiting for his moment to PLUNDER their building society accounts.’
‘He probably chose me as a victim because he knows I’m so gormless,’ said the husband, sadly. I didn’t disagree.
Later, the husband announced: ‘Actually, I hope the nice Asian man does win the Euromillions.’
‘But not through illegal means!’ I cried. ‘If you spot him driving past in a Ferrari next week, you’ll know he’s won – but technically that’s someone else’s money. He’s a professional conman!’
‘I’m going to get to the bottom of this,’ said the husband, fishing £2 out of the loose change bowl and scooping up his car keys.
He roared off in the direction of the petrol station.
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.
My Family and Other Oddities 