Senior Moments - Quack Teacher?

This week I managed to get to my English class with the golden oldies about 10 minutes early, which was just as well, because I discovered that the coffee had leaked out of my thermos flask and onto my ring-binder file. I hurriedly wiped down the dripping edges of the file, dashed out to the loo to rinse out the  bag in the little wash basin and dry it with wads of paper towel.  I then returned to the classroom and stood the ring-binder, pages fanned-out, on the floor in front of the radiator. Luckily the class were still standing around and chatting, but I did notice one woman giving me a curious, yet resigned, look.
The lesson got started and I announced that we were actually going to use the course book this week for a change. About five minutes later, we were off on a tangent as usual, thanks to someone asking what is the difference between "must not" and "don't have to".  An especially interesting grammatical topic for my German students.
I had the brilliant idea to get the class to tell, in turn, what they had not been allowed to do as children. There were two anecdotes which I particularly liked. One was from A, who had not been allowed to play with boys, but did so secretly, because she was used to her three brothers and she was too rough with the girls. The second  was from R., who said that she was not allowed to ride her father's bicycle as it was as valuable as 'diamonds', as she put it, in those early post-war years.
Of course, as is the way with forbidden fruit, she could not resist taking the bike and going off for a ride. It was a bit awkward for her, being a man's bike, and she had to sit almost side saddle, as far as I could tell from the way she described it. This made it impossible for her to brake when she found herself careering directly towards a cart piled high with cattle dung, but at least the crash landing was a soft one.
Then there was "C", who told us that she wasn't allowed to steal apples as a child. A paradoxical statement, but we understood what she meant. "You stole plenty of apples during our walk last week", piped up her regular hiking companion.
Nearly all of them completed their accounts with, "... but I did it anyway".
 The second group are a pleasant bunch, but more demanding. One of them always has her dictionary at the ready and double-checks my answers to their questions, which can put a bit of a strain on my proceedings, depending how relaxed or not I am. Last week she gleefully informed me that there is a hyphen between 'back' and 'off' as in 'back-off'. I didn't burst her bubble by telling her that the hyphen is a capricious member of the punctuation dynasty, along with its sisters, cousins and aunts, and its insertion often depends purely on which way the wind is blowing.
R was insistent that another expression for "Back-off!" is, "Get off my cloud!". "Urm, not as far as I know", I said. "Yes, yes! The Rolling Stones even used it in a song", he insisted. I had to bite firmly on my tongue in order to stop myself retorting, "Yes indeed, and I could never figure out whether they were singing: 'Star fucker', or 'Fuck a star' ... what do YOU think?"
The most awkward moment for me today was when I handed a piece of paper to a relatively new member of the group and asked him to write down his phone number for me to add to my carefully-prepared class phone list. What could possibly go amiss there, you might well ask? Not a lot, except that this man's name is "Herr Quack". I kid you not. For the past few weeks since he joined the class I have managed to avoid addressing him in this way, having immediately established that we are all on first name terms here. I managed perfectly well with "Hans", thank you very much. Until today.
"What's this?", he asked, pointing accusingly at his name which I had hastily written on the budding telephone list. I peered at the incriminating piece of paper and there, written in an unusually neat hand (for administrative purposes) were the words: "Herr Duck". "Oh, you know," I babbled, "'quack - duck, duck - quack', a gal can get confused". Fortunately, the desire to prove his command of the English language to me took precedence over his indignation at my mistake. "I understand. I can tell my quacks from my ducks", he said proudly with a smile.
Well, not exactly.
But at least I'd managed to duck out of a tricky Senior Moment - and Herr Quack's briefly ruffled feathers had been smoothed.

Gangsta MuM

     In the wee hours of yesterday morning, my son was threatened via cell-phone by a hysterical Turk. It was a girl - related matter. The man screamed that he would come over here and: “... rape you in front of your mother. I know where you live!”

     What particularly interests me are the cultural implications of this threat. Why threaten to carry out this assault in front of the mother? What image does this young man have of a typical mum? Does he really think he can show up here and rape my 6 foot-something, well fit son in front of me while I cower under my headscarf and squeak in distress?

     I don’t doubt for a moment my son’s ability to defend himself but, given the chance, I would have this young Turk’s guts for garters, accessorized with his balls wrapped in a pretty cotton scarf.

Why Sit When You Can Stand Up For Yourself?

I'm still rattled after my brief exchange with a shop assistant this morning, regarding the potential acquisition of a second-hand sofa. I need another sofa in my sitting room.  This became clear to me last Sunday when I was confronted with the sight of my visitors sitting in a row on the one and only sofa I possess. They looked as though they were at the movies, waiting for the Coming Soons to end so that they could get stuck-in to the main feature. I felt sorely tempted to dash into the kitchen and rustle up some popcorn, but I don't have any. (Note to Self: must buy sofa and popcorn).


Having ascertained that my social life would come to a standstill unless I obtained a second sofa, I hied me to the local second-hand shop, deciding on the way that it would be a jolly good idea to suggest a trade-in: one sofa for an ugly and imposing old dining room dresser currently languishing in my garage.


My suggestion was met with a look of scorn and disbelief. "Make an ex ... chaaange?", exclaimed the shop assistant incredulously. He grinned at my obvious stupidity and looked around as though expecting a chorus of shoulder-shrugging fellow workers and shoppers to join in his triumphant disbelief. "Yes," I replied, undaunted. "I give you a perfectly good dresser, you give me a sofa". "We don't do that," he smirked, nastily. "Oh", I remarked, snippishly,     * "so you get the furniture for free, sell it and pocket the proceeds." He nodded in the affirmative, a supercilious smirk spreading across his weasly features. 


With nothing more than a slight sniff and a raised eyebrow, I admitted defeat graciously. Luckily I had recently subjected myself to a bout of tweaking, so the eyebrow-raising was effortless, though apparently not impressive. Before leaving I took what revenge I could by sauntering around the second-hand clothing section, rifling through the clothes and wearing an expression on my face which made it clear to anyone who might notice, that I wouldn't be seen dead, oops, passed-on in any of these garments. 


Buying clothes was not on my agenda anyway due to (1.) the fact that funds are low right now and (2.) I am trying to avoid buying anything which is not absolutely necessary. Another reason for not spending money on clothes, second hand or otherwise, is that I have gained a few (good old British understatement) pounds since giving up smoking last year. Quite a quandary. Can’t fit into my old clothes, can’t afford to buy new ones. This didn’t stop me from trying on a few sale items at a shop in town. I might have bought some of the items had the shop assistant not eyed me up and down and suggested that I try a LARGE size! Since when was a size 14 (British) considered to be LARGE?


Surely every purveyor of women’s clothing should know that the L word should never, on no account, be uttered, no matter what size the customer may be. Even if the customer has just tried on a tent, it is the saleswoman’s duty to observe that it looks perfect, the colours complement madam’s eyes beautifully and it is the last size 8 left in the store. 


I handed back the few items I had tried to squeeze into, remarking that they looked better on the clothes hanger than on me. On the way home I decided that I would rather brave the supercilious sofa-seller than the totally tactless shop assistant. At least I wouldn’t have to try the sofas on.

* To be fair I indulged in poetic licentiousness here. In truth the shop is a charitable concern, providing employment for (downright snotty) people who would otherwise be out of work. 

Passing On

Since when did the past participle of "to die" morph into a dirty word? Nobody refers to someone as having "died" any more. No, they "pass on", or simply “pass”. Where to? In what condition? Have they actually expired, or have they just gone on a long hike? It is not as if the prospect and ultimate event of death is anything new; yet people tippy-toe around it as they might a mugging on the street.

Where does linguistic political correctness begin and end? Words such as "Bitch, Ho, Bum, Asshole", to name but a few, bombard us daily but when buckets are kicked, clogs popped and mortal coils shuffled, throats are nervously cleared, glances turn shifty and a universal conspiracy of allusions and awkwardness permeates the atmosphere.

There was a time when people passed "over", but this preposition has, in turn, been superseded. What did "to pass over" mean? Did this refer to the indubitable fact that those who had "passed" were over the hill to the point of no return? Has it become politically incorrect to infer that a person be fatally elevated above and beyond the peak of their earthly existence?

Why is it considered preferable to pass “on”, rather than “over”? In our materialistic world passing “on” fits better to the Zeitgeist of self-improvement and achievement, the goal being to move on to better things. Passing “over”, indicates an unearthly dimension. Spirituality is just about socially acceptable, within its fashionable limits, but there is so much on offer, from the sublime to the ridiculous, that it is still mainly regarded with suspicion as the property of New Age Whackos.

Will this “Urban Dictionary” type vocabulary-pimping stop at death? How about birth? Will babies be born in the future, or will they just materialize? Will women become pregnant, or will they simply gain a few pounds during the course of nine months?

"I have some good news, but I waited till I'd gained a few pounds before revealing my happy secret. I'm going to gain more weight before the next 6 months are up! “

"Wonderful news! You mean your earthly temple will compulsively and uncontrollably expel a red and wrinkled screaming entity at a future date?”

"No, no. My progeneration consultant has advised me to have a Cleopatrean”. (Caesarians will have been abolished for being sexist by association with their male namesake).

Then, the birth announcement: "Joe and Mary are proud to announce that little Jehoshaphat has successfully been expelled from his female parent's nether regions, weighing in at x pounds, xx ounces". (The exact weight will not be revealed for fear of offending the fashion industry who will most definitely turn in their future earthy plots in horror at the very idea of those extra ounces).

Arrest your ongoing motion for a few microscopic particles of an aeon! I am jumping the proverbial instrument for speedy emission of circumferentially-challenged metal orbs here. Let us rewind to the centrifugal episodes between compulsory expulsion into, dare I be succinct here? - Life, and the aforementioned inevitable outcome.

How will engagement and subsequent marriage be described? Future headlines might read: “Prince X of Whyland has set in motion the means whereby the tying of the knot to his Intended will be finalized on a mutually accorded date, at a well-known establishment of regal matrimonial forgery”.

Once the knot has been forged, headlines may well exclaim: “REGAL NUPTIAL NOOSE IRRETRIEVABLY TIGHTENED – TILL LIFE DOTH DEPART!” Sighs of relief all round. Until, perhaps one of the participants finds themselves compelled, as has been the wont of previous high-bred elitist entities, to pass the other one “over” in favor of a newer and more diverting model and pass “on” to fresh pastures. At least these days they get to keep their heads.

S.O.B.

Save Our Boobs!

I recently heard (from a reliable source) that "doctors" are seriously considering removing the breasts of all women over 30, as a preventive measure against breast cancer, regardless of whether or not they are at risk.

The ramifications of this are endless. I can already envisage the headlines: "Mature woman arrested for being in possession of illegal tits!".

These doctors should be castrated, in my humble female opinion. (I'm assuming they're male as I cannot imagine any self-respecting woman would agree to this).

Why not save a lot of time, bother, and money by doing as the Greeks did and leaving new born girls out on mountaintops to freeze, starve or be eaten to death by vultures? It took a few thousand years for their prescience and forethought to pay off. Just look at the current economic situation in Greece.

Phew ... got that off my "chest". Now I'm going to set-to and start designing knitted falsies in the hope of selling enough of them to finance my future hideout. "My bazooms are my weapons" ... and I refuse to allow anyone to disarm me!

Look out for those headlines.

When I was a little girl, I would go into town with my dad for the weekly shop. We had a set routine from which we never wavered. First stop was the big department store where I would regularly wander off and get lost while dad browsed the book section. It didn't take me long to discover that this had its advantages as he always found me, surrounded by a circle of kind ladies plying me with sweeties.

That was a safe environment for a small girl to get lost in.  Not so, the large market which I visited with my youngest son some years ago during a visit to my in-laws. Before you start to worry, this tale has a happy ending.

While negotiating my way through the madly thronging crowds, tightly clutching my son's hand, I noticed a small girl wandering alone, crying in distress. I approached her, carefully, and asked if she were lost. She gulped and nodded in the affirmative but was rightly suspicious at being approached by a stranger. I managed to walk beside her, not wanting to alarm her by taking her hand, keeping a careful but vigilant distance. We passed a group of people taking a rest on a bench.  They laughed at the sight of the weeping child: "Look at that little girl, crying", they grinned. I wanted to slap them but focused on keeping her in sight and staying as close to her as possible.

Eventually I dared proffer my hand, which she took, and I managed to get her to tell me where she had last been with her mother. We headed in that direction and I called out her mother's name, which she had been able to stammer out after some gentle probing. People stared, but I didn't care.  I pushed my way through, flanked by the two children, yelling this woman's name at the top of my voice.

I was just about to give up and head for the local police station, when a highly distressed woman came flying towards me and swept her daughter into her arms. She was hugging me in gratitude when I heard a voice calling my name.  There stood an old friend who I hadn't seen for years. "Hang on a mo", I said. "Let me finish this embrace."

Hugs, tears and reunion over, I turned to greet Susanne. "This is amazing", she said. "I've been helping this woman look for her daughter."  "Amazing indeed," I replied.  Then she frowned: "But I wanted to be the one to find the little girl! Where did you spring from all of a sudden?"

She forgave me and we enjoyed a cup of coffee together before I announced that it was time for me to leave, reminding her that I had my duties to attend to: "Children to rescue, planets to save ... "  All in a day's work.

Cracked Mirrors and Raised Eyebrow(s)

While waiting for the lights  at the railway crossing to turn green I idly checked the rearview mirror.  My lipstick was still in place but I was surprised to discover that my eyebrows were decidedly bushy.  They had looked fine in the bathroom mirror that morning but here, in the rare beam of sunlight which critically scanned the waiting traffic like a laser, they were unquestionably taking on Groucho proportions.

This morning I remembered to take action but first I had to clean the magnifying mirror which swings out on one of those criss-cross extendable arms.  My sons use it for shaving and, as they are taller than me, I had to stand on tiptoe which was precarious to say the least.  Also, the mirror is broken, so I had to peer into whatever parts I could manoeuvre in my direction.  Having set it all up to my satisfaction, I went in search of the eyebrow tweezers which weren't in their usual place, of course.  I dug them out of my knitting basket, traipsed back up the stairs to the bathroom and set to work.

In spite of the brilliant morning sunshine beaming benevolently through the bathroom window, I could only clearly make out my right eyebrow, so I relied on guesswork to complete the one on the left. It occurred to me I might be more successful were I to remove myself to the car and make use of the rearview mirror.  But then I realised that I would have to drive to a quiet, unpopulated spot somewhere.  My neighbours are used to my antics, but the sight of me parked outside my house, plucking my eyebrows might just be pushing things a little too far.  Especially as they are all busy washing their cars, scrubbing their front doorsteps, mowing the lawn and indulging in the usual joyful neighbourhood Saturday morning activities.

I wondered if one could get arrested for parking and plucking one's eyebrows. What with all this wondering and cogitating I noticed that I had got carried away with the left one and was now sporting a permanently quizzical expression.  I resisted the temptation to even up its partner and downed tools before ending-up resembling a feisty elderly French dame from a Toulouse Lautrec poster.

This look could be useful, I decided.  People might assume that I possess a critical and inquiring mind.  Hopefully it will work to my advantage when I drive later to check the row of parked cars for a broken or cracked side mirror incurred by my having cut it a little too fine while driving my son to school yesterday.

I had heard a faint snapping sound as I eased by, but didn't register until my son said: "Mum, I think you hit someone's side mirror", thus scotching the thought that there were snipers operating in the hills of St. Wendel.  I must have temporarily blacked-out, like that time at the supermarket car park when a man accused me of driving into his car.  I truly and honestly had not noticed a thing, but apologised profusely.  Luckily, he forgave me and waved me off.  I'm still not convinced he wasn't making it up.

I did notice, that time I drove into the row of supermarket trolleys at the same car park, while becoming   aware of a man standing and staring in amazement.  "What's that guy staring at?, I muttered.  "Well," my long-suffering son replied drily, "he's probably never seen a woman drive into a row of trolleys before".

As I set off yesterday evening to visit a friend, the sight of a crack on the back of my wing mirror dragged up the suppressed memory of that morning.  Being a mature, grown woman (I know, I've mentioned this before and some might quip that the lady doth protest too much) I resolved to return to the scene of the crime the next morning, check the parked cars for damage, own up and cough-up. I could either tuck a polite note under the windscreen wipers or be really brave, march up to several front doors and search out my victims. Then again, I might get arrested for loitering with intent, or ringing doorbells and running away.

I think I will brazen it out and go for the direct approach. Who knows?  Maybe the unfortunate car owners will be so intimidated by my quizzical, inquiring eyebrow, they might find themselves overwhelmed by insecurity and assume it was their fault for parking so carelessly.