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.

A Frisky Lass

I had been working for the BBC World Service as a news typist for a couple of weeks when, one evening during a quickly grabbed meal of standard Beeb fare, I was asked how I was settling in.  Don, who posed the question was the shift supervisor. A tall, gangly, Donald Sutherland lookalike who ruled the editors' desk in a bored,  laconical manner in between writing pithy plays which were performed in off-Shaftesbury Avenue productions. His cynical remarks could decimate and lacerate in a nanosecond.

Being new and nervous, I sputtered out a reply without thinking. And instantly regretted it.  "Well," I squeaked, in tones akin to Victoria Wood doing her hilarious "University Interview" sketch.  "Most people are nice and friendly, but some of the journalists are downright snotty!".  I felt my face reddening even before I came to the end of my brief outburst. Don leaned back into his chair, which was no mean feat considering his legs alone stretched half way across the canteen, and repeated my last words. He took his time, rolling them around in his mouth, enunciating in his London drawl:  "Down-right snotty - eh?", guttering out the Ts as vowels.

He gazed into the distance, not deigning to regard my squirming form.  Maybe he was being kind, sparing me even more mortification.  "Doooooooowwwwwwwwn-right snotty", he repeated slowly and thoughfully.  It seemed to take about a hundred years before the last "y" floated out across the room and disappeared.

He made no other comment. It wasn't necessary.

After a while, I did settle in and managed to get along with journalists, editors and fellow-typists alike, including Don who even came to one of our tightly packed, crowded parties in Muswell Hill. Actually it was East Finchley, but Muswell Hill was more upmarket and Sara, my flatmate, and I had no qualms about bending the truth when necessary.

Gradually I was able to relax and be comforted by the fact that I was not the only purveyor of odd expressions in this haven of carefully-chosen and endlessly edited words.  I emerged from the lift one day, to be complimented on my new dress by an older journalist.  "My, that's a fetching frock", he commented.  "Fetching frock, fetching frock", I murmered quietly as I made my way to my desk.  Hmmmn!".

My favourite was a warning comment this man made to my friend, Tony, with whom I enjoyed a harmlessly flirty friendship: "She's a frisky lass, and no mistake!". Nothing's changed in that respect, but I have never, ever again accused anyone of being "downright snotty".

Disciplinary Measures

The phone rang this morning, I answered, and found myself greeted by a friendly policewoman from the local police station.  "Oh, Hi!" I said. "What's up?  My son in trouble again?  Been caught wetting his pants again? (I didn't pose the last question, but only because I didn't think of it). "No", she giggled. Well, not quite a giggle but an approximation of a well-meaning policewomanly show of humour. She asked to speak to my ex-husband and I explained that he is away for the next ten days and could I help?  "Are you 'X's mother?", she asked, cautiously.  (I put the 'X' in because I don't want to risk being sued by any of my sons for exposing their antics publicly). "I bravely admitted that I am  indeed his mother and could I help?".

"We need to know what disciplinary measures you have taken regarding your son".  "Disciplinary what?".  I was about to ask her what that meant, when I realised this was not a prank call and that she was dead serious.  "He's already been down to the police station, accounted for his actions and a report has been sent to the relevant authorities. What more do you need?", I politely inquired.  "We need to know what disciplinary measures ..." she parroted again.

My brain switched to overtime as I thought up the kinds of pubertal punishments which would satisfy the authorities.  "Urm, well, we've docked his pocket money indefinitely, he's hardly ever allowed to go out and he has to do twice as many chores than usual and for twice as long."    "Does this mean he has to come home earlier than usual?", she prodded.  Damn! Hadn't thought of that.  "Urm, no. He's only allowed to go out six nights a week instead of seven." I didn't say that either, but I thought it. I told her that his going-out allowance was strictly limited (all the while hoping she wouldn't catch him wandering around town with his mates at some ungodly hour), but that we had not given him house arrest. You try giving a strong, well-built young man house arrest!  Again, thought but not spoken.

She was duly mollified and we bid each other farewell.

By now you may be asking yourself what was the crime?  If not, then you certainly deserve to have your pocket money docked and to stay home scrubbing the cellar for at least a week.

This young criminal stole a chair from a pub while out with his mates one Saturday night.  Now before you all throw up your hands in horror ...  hands-up all those who have never taken on a dare, or been tempted to do so.  Ha!  Gotcha.  I'm not condoning the unlawful acquisition of other peoples' property, whether it be a chair, a cheap trinket from Woollies or someone else's wife or husband.  We all know that stealing is wrong and should not be encouraged.  If in doubt, look to the tax man or, if he's not at home, a couple of world leaders for confirmation of this fact. 

Back to the stolen chair. Do any of these people seriously believe that a XX year old "yoof " was that interested in acquiring a grotty old pub chair, honestly or otherwise?  Do they really think he intended to drag it all the way home in order to furnish his bedroom  with that extra touch, thus satisfying his obsession with interior decoration?  It could also have occurred to them that, had he really wanted to steal, he might have been more clever about it.

He fully intended to return the chair, and would have done so if he hadn't been prematurely caught. His fault for being so careless, and I told him so. Teenage pranks I can forgive, within reason, but badly thought-out ones - No.  Which is why, having had time to rethink my hastily constructed punishment regime, I have decided to up the ante and make him do his own laundry, empty the dishwasher, cook his own meals and mow the lawn regularly.

On second thoughts, that's what he has to do in the normal run of things.  Hmmn. Who am I to talk about carefully thought-out plans? Or punishments, for that matter?