"Of that which we cannot speak,we must be silent", or somesuch, said that lovable old bumbler, Ludwig Wittgenstein. He is my favourite dead philosopher, due to his good bone structure and fondness for cowboy movies. In fact, I can picture a TV series, in which he whizzes about Cambridge on a bicycle, solving crimes connected with varmints and rustlers,re-Morsefully. Anyway, I bet he didn't get gift tokens for Christmas. I did, and they are the BEST. I know some folk are sniffy about them because they are a bit of an easy option, and not very imaginative, but I have endured Christmas presents into which people have put a bit of thought, and their thoughts are generally quite, quite wrong. Someone once gave me an apron, for instance.And those dreadful hand-made gifts that you are supposed to give people when you are broke , or in prison,or four.."Why not make a pincushion for your favourite Aunt?" suggest the women's magazines. Well, if your favourite aunt is me, I shall tell you why not. For a start, they always end up being stuffed with people's old tights, I mean, really..
So I went to the sales, with my tokens,and I enjoyed it tip top. Except that I have got into the habit of talking to myself, and have to take care lest I find myself muttering "You ARE a funny shape, aren't you?" about some degraded garment, and somebody thinks I mean them. There's always an altercation at the till, because a person has found something they like on the sale rail but it isn't reduced, or someone else has been discovered moving stickers around and applying their own discounts. I worked in shops, on and off, and nothing people do in them now surprises me. The GB is in London at the moment, doing work experience. He texts me, asking if items have been marked down in his favourite costly boutiques, and saying things like "It's ONLY £50.00". Now, he gets £5.00 a week from his Nan, and I get about the same from my paper round, so hard luck. When did fifteen-year-old boys start thinking it was OK to dress in polo shirts that cost £150? I thought that's what a pony cost. My parents had the opposite problem with me; I insisted on wearing dead people's clothes. I mean, they had been cleaned and everything, probably. But I used to set out from my bus stop in Fazackerley looking like Clara Bow; pillbox hat with veil, cigarette holder, foxfurs dangling..and an excellent target for half-bricks I made, too. I was the only female in North Liverpool wearing corsets and camisoles;everyone else was running around in pop socks and no bra.Even the elderly ladies had thrown away their Blackler's vests and were wearing nylon bra slips in "Psychedelic" prints. But now it is de rigeur to wear Hugo Boss and Armani. I forsee a rash of Liverpool toddlers who will be named Hugo, Boss, and Our Marni.
So a big fat Molly Bloom "yes!" to gift tokens. I was in Boots, and they had just reduced all their sale stuff to 75% off; people were going crazy. Wild-eyed ladies were stuffing trollies with recklessly reduced gift sets. Sales assistants scarcely had time to get things out of plastic cartons and on to shelves before disappearing under crazed zombie-like crowds, pawing at boxes of Yardley's English Daisy . Outside, a man was singing one of my least favourite songs; "Imagine". "Yeemageen no perseshuns, issezee if yoooo tri-hi..."At this point God became irritated, and the shop was evacuated due to a gas leak in Lewis's building. I decided to keep my tokens for another, more auspicious day.
It's going to be like "The Million Pound Note", isn't it? I will be doomed to wander the earth ,clutching my unspent vouchers.Each time I attempt to squander them, a terrible thing will happen in whatever shop I choose to patronise... "And well done you, little shop".
So I gave up and went to the dentist. My life is a riot of self-indulgence.
My previous dentisserie was a grim little cabin where people were given to pushing doors open in a marked manner and shouting through bloodied stumps. So I thought I would try a shiny new one. It was rather lovely, actually. My Dentista was an attractive woman, and did not ask me silly questions when my mouth was full of ironmongery, as so many dentists do. She did that introductory blah-blah where a dental nurse takes notes while the dentist reads the " Shipping Forecast" out over your teeth.." Third Lower Bicuspid..occluded..good...Canines Fisher German Bite..fair with light squalls..". She was, however, in possession of new-fangled X-ray equipment. and very keen to use it. I felt that I was doing a modelling session for a Halloween issue of "Saga" magazine, as she took endless pictures of the inside of my mouth. To achieve this, she put what felt like a shoe in there, and then I had to bite it. Very unflattering views of my dental arrangements then flashed up on a screen. I looked like Derek Guyler,but then all skeletons do, I suppose. It also inspires no confidence, when all in the room make a rapid exit while they beam health-giving rays at your gums..I am making an unnecessary fuss, really. I ought to be grateful for modern dentistry artistry, and I am,but just not at the time. Like having a baby. In fact I made myself unpopular with some "Natural Childbirth" women by making loud comparisons with "Natural Dentistry" at the one antenatal clinic I was drunk enough to attend. Oh and laughing immoderately when they started talking about putting cabbages in one's bra. But I was very keen on the epidural,and only wish that there had been one handy during the conception.
I am much obliged to the NHS, as is anyone who has ever had a conversation with an American. I will be sad when Health Care is taken over by credit-reference checking agencies, as these were the same people who gave us the Credit Crunch, buggered around with the Euro, and let me have five credit cards in 1982. Somehow I don't just trust them , do you?
So I went to the sales, with my tokens,and I enjoyed it tip top. Except that I have got into the habit of talking to myself, and have to take care lest I find myself muttering "You ARE a funny shape, aren't you?" about some degraded garment, and somebody thinks I mean them. There's always an altercation at the till, because a person has found something they like on the sale rail but it isn't reduced, or someone else has been discovered moving stickers around and applying their own discounts. I worked in shops, on and off, and nothing people do in them now surprises me. The GB is in London at the moment, doing work experience. He texts me, asking if items have been marked down in his favourite costly boutiques, and saying things like "It's ONLY £50.00". Now, he gets £5.00 a week from his Nan, and I get about the same from my paper round, so hard luck. When did fifteen-year-old boys start thinking it was OK to dress in polo shirts that cost £150? I thought that's what a pony cost. My parents had the opposite problem with me; I insisted on wearing dead people's clothes. I mean, they had been cleaned and everything, probably. But I used to set out from my bus stop in Fazackerley looking like Clara Bow; pillbox hat with veil, cigarette holder, foxfurs dangling..and an excellent target for half-bricks I made, too. I was the only female in North Liverpool wearing corsets and camisoles;everyone else was running around in pop socks and no bra.Even the elderly ladies had thrown away their Blackler's vests and were wearing nylon bra slips in "Psychedelic" prints. But now it is de rigeur to wear Hugo Boss and Armani. I forsee a rash of Liverpool toddlers who will be named Hugo, Boss, and Our Marni.
So a big fat Molly Bloom "yes!" to gift tokens. I was in Boots, and they had just reduced all their sale stuff to 75% off; people were going crazy. Wild-eyed ladies were stuffing trollies with recklessly reduced gift sets. Sales assistants scarcely had time to get things out of plastic cartons and on to shelves before disappearing under crazed zombie-like crowds, pawing at boxes of Yardley's English Daisy . Outside, a man was singing one of my least favourite songs; "Imagine". "Yeemageen no perseshuns, issezee if yoooo tri-hi..."At this point God became irritated, and the shop was evacuated due to a gas leak in Lewis's building. I decided to keep my tokens for another, more auspicious day.
It's going to be like "The Million Pound Note", isn't it? I will be doomed to wander the earth ,clutching my unspent vouchers.Each time I attempt to squander them, a terrible thing will happen in whatever shop I choose to patronise... "And well done you, little shop".
So I gave up and went to the dentist. My life is a riot of self-indulgence.
My previous dentisserie was a grim little cabin where people were given to pushing doors open in a marked manner and shouting through bloodied stumps. So I thought I would try a shiny new one. It was rather lovely, actually. My Dentista was an attractive woman, and did not ask me silly questions when my mouth was full of ironmongery, as so many dentists do. She did that introductory blah-blah where a dental nurse takes notes while the dentist reads the " Shipping Forecast" out over your teeth.." Third Lower Bicuspid..occluded..good...Canines Fisher German Bite..fair with light squalls..". She was, however, in possession of new-fangled X-ray equipment. and very keen to use it. I felt that I was doing a modelling session for a Halloween issue of "Saga" magazine, as she took endless pictures of the inside of my mouth. To achieve this, she put what felt like a shoe in there, and then I had to bite it. Very unflattering views of my dental arrangements then flashed up on a screen. I looked like Derek Guyler,but then all skeletons do, I suppose. It also inspires no confidence, when all in the room make a rapid exit while they beam health-giving rays at your gums..I am making an unnecessary fuss, really. I ought to be grateful for modern dentistry artistry, and I am,but just not at the time. Like having a baby. In fact I made myself unpopular with some "Natural Childbirth" women by making loud comparisons with "Natural Dentistry" at the one antenatal clinic I was drunk enough to attend. Oh and laughing immoderately when they started talking about putting cabbages in one's bra. But I was very keen on the epidural,and only wish that there had been one handy during the conception.
I am much obliged to the NHS, as is anyone who has ever had a conversation with an American. I will be sad when Health Care is taken over by credit-reference checking agencies, as these were the same people who gave us the Credit Crunch, buggered around with the Euro, and let me have five credit cards in 1982. Somehow I don't just trust them , do you?
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