I was patronised twice this week. And it's only Wednesday. This doesn't happen very often, and I am always slightly taken aback to find it happening at all. The patroniser in each case was a chap, one youngish, one my age. When people start talking to me as if I had recently been hit on the head with a brick, I tend to look behind me for the person they really mean to be addressing. I'm not even blonde, just now.
One of my friends believes that women become invisible after they reach middle years, and ought to be grateful for any attention at all. I would rather fancy actually being invisible,maybe for one or two days each month? I have many ingenious pranks lined up in my head against such an opportunity arriving.Hats would whizz through the air, ill-mannered children would be terrorised, and I regret to say that the odd bottle of Sailor Jerry might go adrift. Although walking down Church St today, I think most people go about as if they were both drunk AND invisible. I had forgotten it was half-term generally, because the GB had gone forth to stamp all over a village and demand magic beans, so the house was strangely quiet. I wandered, lovely as a clown, as the poet has it, into Waterstone's. They have a coffee thing upstairs, and lots of leathery pouffes ( insert own Julian and Sandy gag), upon which you can rest and finger a hardback. Sorry, I have stopped now.And I was a happy little creature, browsing and scheming, up there in the quiet bookery. Jolly good thing I had topped up my tranquillity levels,because when I got back to Downturn Abbey, all hell had shaken itself loose. Bob The Builder had decided to do some complicated drilling, my Mother's Lady-Who-Does was yodelling over the Hoover, and the window cleaner had arrived. An innocous gentleman with a sponge on the end of a pole (ladders now outlawed due to the widespread problem of window cleaners plummeting to the ground ), he is the sworn foe of The Dog. I have mentioned The Dog, in passing,but may not have done it full justice. Despite what my Mum thinks regarding its superior intelligence, I doubt if it will read this, so here goes. It is stupid beyond words.It looks like a nightdress case.It smells , and its main aim in life is to be where it isn't. When it is out, it wants to be in; if on the sofa, it wants to be on the floor. You get the picture. Should its needs not be attended to instantly, it scrapes,scrabbles, scratches your stockings, and whines. It goes to a posh hairdresser,which is more than I do. My Mother loves it passionately, and so we have to pander. Today, it went completely barmy, and flung itself bodily towards each and every window at which the Sponge-On-A-Stick appeared. Then it sank slowly to the floor, with claws going squee-squee-squee down the glass. All the people who live on my Mum's estate seem to have dogs and small children . Her next door neighbours have two ginger tots, and a dog the size of a rhino. Every time anyone comes to their door, the dog leaps into the air, scattering small red-headed children far and wide, like falling autumn berries. The children seem to take this in their tiny stride; if they survive they will be immensely nimble and with nerves of steel.Good preparation for LIFE, which can often throw the unexpected at you. I have had to make my peace with The Dog, as it is so important to Dear Mamma, in the way that one might be compelled to embrace an unfortunate in-law or the loutish spouse of a beloved . But now she has started to refer to me as its "Sister", partly out of puckishness and partly to see how much I will take. My brother laughed immoderately at this, until I pointed out that it reflected on him, too. As he has spent most of his life with people who go round on all fours, he might not mind being related to a West Highland Terrier. Anyway, I have to go and cook it a chicken dinner now (too refined for dog food), and heat up its "Beddy Bear". And, as the GB would say "I am not even pure jokin' you". I can provide photographs,if you write in.
One of my friends believes that women become invisible after they reach middle years, and ought to be grateful for any attention at all. I would rather fancy actually being invisible,maybe for one or two days each month? I have many ingenious pranks lined up in my head against such an opportunity arriving.Hats would whizz through the air, ill-mannered children would be terrorised, and I regret to say that the odd bottle of Sailor Jerry might go adrift. Although walking down Church St today, I think most people go about as if they were both drunk AND invisible. I had forgotten it was half-term generally, because the GB had gone forth to stamp all over a village and demand magic beans, so the house was strangely quiet. I wandered, lovely as a clown, as the poet has it, into Waterstone's. They have a coffee thing upstairs, and lots of leathery pouffes ( insert own Julian and Sandy gag), upon which you can rest and finger a hardback. Sorry, I have stopped now.And I was a happy little creature, browsing and scheming, up there in the quiet bookery. Jolly good thing I had topped up my tranquillity levels,because when I got back to Downturn Abbey, all hell had shaken itself loose. Bob The Builder had decided to do some complicated drilling, my Mother's Lady-Who-Does was yodelling over the Hoover, and the window cleaner had arrived. An innocous gentleman with a sponge on the end of a pole (ladders now outlawed due to the widespread problem of window cleaners plummeting to the ground ), he is the sworn foe of The Dog. I have mentioned The Dog, in passing,but may not have done it full justice. Despite what my Mum thinks regarding its superior intelligence, I doubt if it will read this, so here goes. It is stupid beyond words.It looks like a nightdress case.It smells , and its main aim in life is to be where it isn't. When it is out, it wants to be in; if on the sofa, it wants to be on the floor. You get the picture. Should its needs not be attended to instantly, it scrapes,scrabbles, scratches your stockings, and whines. It goes to a posh hairdresser,which is more than I do. My Mother loves it passionately, and so we have to pander. Today, it went completely barmy, and flung itself bodily towards each and every window at which the Sponge-On-A-Stick appeared. Then it sank slowly to the floor, with claws going squee-squee-squee down the glass. All the people who live on my Mum's estate seem to have dogs and small children . Her next door neighbours have two ginger tots, and a dog the size of a rhino. Every time anyone comes to their door, the dog leaps into the air, scattering small red-headed children far and wide, like falling autumn berries. The children seem to take this in their tiny stride; if they survive they will be immensely nimble and with nerves of steel.Good preparation for LIFE, which can often throw the unexpected at you. I have had to make my peace with The Dog, as it is so important to Dear Mamma, in the way that one might be compelled to embrace an unfortunate in-law or the loutish spouse of a beloved . But now she has started to refer to me as its "Sister", partly out of puckishness and partly to see how much I will take. My brother laughed immoderately at this, until I pointed out that it reflected on him, too. As he has spent most of his life with people who go round on all fours, he might not mind being related to a West Highland Terrier. Anyway, I have to go and cook it a chicken dinner now (too refined for dog food), and heat up its "Beddy Bear". And, as the GB would say "I am not even pure jokin' you". I can provide photographs,if you write in.
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