The Aquarium

The mood in Pavers Place this week has been one of disquiet, I can think of no better word for it, which is not in itself shocking, but unusually it is the women who have fallen out.

Catherine is still on the hunt for the ideal pet but has finally decided that she needs something low maintenance to care for, and is not concerned at all if it will care about her in return. As the owner of a cat who sees me as a warm cushion who provides food I recommended a kitten or an older rescue cat, but she feels this is still far too much responsibility and has settled on a water based creature.

I heard her discussing it with Jacinta and Susie in the street last week and like them I had assumed that she would be going for a large bowl with some small goldfish in it, nothing too difficult to manage, like a starter kit for pet owners. Catherine’s own views were that she was looking for something much more exotic and was researching the possibility of a seahorse. The outrage from her two friends was evident on their faces.  

‘Keeping a seahorse as a prisoner in the house, how could you even think it?’ As usual Jacinta was holding nothing back.

‘I wasn’t actually thinking about a prison, I’m going to buy a tank, a proper one with breathing apparatus and everything.’

I couldn’t help thinking that Catherine either had the wrong terminology, or she had some skewed idea about the setup of an aquarium, however Susie’s worries were much more basic.

‘A seahorse, do they actually exist? And if they do aren’t their needs more specific, can you even get water proof hay?’

I think she may have been spending far too long with Mand, the conversation ended quite abruptly soon after with Jacinta declaring that as a vegetarian, she disapproved of animals being kept in enclosures that were too small for them. Susie, a fellow vegetarian, did agree with her but I’m sure her mind was imagining a waterproof paddock and a jockey with breathing equipment and flippers.

The next day Jacinta and Susie met in the street and their conversation was still focussed on Catherine, she had been seen talking to Tom about her plans, a sure sign she was going ahead with them, he would tell everyone he knew, and quite a few he didn’t, so it would be hard to go back on the decision.

‘I think she said something about a mini octopus, a bit like one of those micro pigs, it’s all so upsetting’. Susie looked completely alarmed and once home told Roger that she was thinking of ringing the environmental health, if there were to be dangerous animals in the road, of any variety, she wanted the authorities to be informed.

The three women avoided each other for the next few days, which is quite difficult in our street, I did see Susie send Roger out to check up and down the road before she ventured out and Catherine peered out of her window almost as much as me.

On Thursday Catherine arrived home with a large tank and a number of plastic bags, I could see no sign of breathing equipment, or for that matter a carrier for water based creatures. In the afternoon she issued invitations to Jacinta, Susie and Tom to see her new installation.

As it turned out, once she was in the shop Catherine had become completely enamoured by the number of lovely plastic ornaments she could fit into a tank, it was like being a child again but with legitimacy, she was setting up a home. The creature itself was the smallest orange goldfish you have ever seen, completely dwarfed by its plastic mermaid companion and overwhelmed by its ruined castle, Catherine however, was delighted. Jacinta and Susie agreed that their friend had chosen a setting fit for any goldfish and the newfound peace was cemented with a glass of sherry as they all stared at the overcrowded tank.

 

 

 

Anyone for tennis

 

I’d be lying if I said I was a big fan of sport, I’m not, I do understand how other people get enthusiastic about the events on television, but I don’t understand why they then feel the need to have a go. In April, around the time of the London marathon, we seem to have more joggers running along Pavers Place than any other time of the year. This week everywhere you look there are women in short white dresses and men in any colour of shorts with pristine trainers.

At the Spar Gary and Harry were celebrating Wimbledon with luxury strawberries and cream, the price they are charging you would think they had been prepared by Sue Barker, with the cream churned by Boris Becker. Many people in the street had boycotted the Spar strawberries and one of the outspoken lobbyists had been Reg, who was outraged at the price.

‘Those strawberries will be eaten by members of my family, over my dead body’, had been the actual words he used, which I thought was a tad extreme, but that’s Reg for you.

In fact him and Margaret were two people in Pavers Place who had taken up the tennis mantle along with Ian and Raphe. No one would chose to see Reg in shorts for any occasion, his varicose veins do a fine impression of an ordnance survey map, and his stomach escapes from the bottom of his tee shirt revealing a cavernous belly button. It’s enough to put you off your strawberries and cream. Raphe and Ian are always dressed pristinely for any event that they undertake and their outfits this week have been no different.

After the run in over the allotment I would expect these two couples to avoid each other over the net of a tennis court, but apparently they were practising at the Pavers Rec at the same time and decided to go for a game of mixed doubles.

It was an unusual combination to behold, Reg in his grubby tee shirt and shorts and Ian and Raphe looking like Andy Murray could ask them for style tips. Margaret was very nervous about the game, and reminded Reg many times before the first serve to be nice to their opponents.

‘I’m always nice’, came Reg’s gruff reply, but everyone else on the court knew this not to be strictly true, Raphe was still reliving the time he had been told by Reg, in no uncertain terms, to kill the mole he had uncovered at the allotment.

The game started well, the four being reasonably successful at maintaining rallies, and there was a definite flow to proceedings. Margaret and Raphe in particular were enjoying the match, but neither of them predicted the sudden turn in events when Ian lost a couple of points to Reg, and was suddenly overcome with a burning need to, ‘thrash the sausage loving pain into the ground’. Raphe’s face took on a glow of admiration and fear as he witnessed this unseen side to his partner, Margaret on the other hand was in abject terror, she had long suffered the results of her husband’s competitive spirit and was in no mood to cope with it now.

The pair meandered feebly around at the back of the court in their respective ends, giving Reg and Ian the chance to battle it out between them.  Ian had previously revealed to Raphe that he intended to hold back to ‘give the old couple’ a chance, but the spirit of gamesmanship had been lost along with the last two points, he was, as he was wont to shout out, ‘back in the zone’.

Reg’s face grew increasingly red as he ran around to meet Ian’s aggressive shots, losing point after point. Unfortunately rather than blame himself for his lack of skill he focused on Margaret, who by this time was cowering in the corner.

‘Come on woman’, he screeched, ‘hit the ball, hit the ball.’

Things reached fever point when Reg lost another point and surrendered the game; losing all semblance of control he threw the racquet down at the ground cursing Ian, Raphe, Margaret and the net itself. Margaret rushed towards Reg to console him at the same time as the racquet rebounded from the pitch covered court, landing with full force on her head.

I watched the forlorn couple walk back towards the house, Margaret is a pretty woman who would have been the focus of much male attention when she was younger, but still I was surprised to see her wearing a red and pink coloured adornment in her hair. As they neared the house I could see that the decoration was in fact a large bump which was turning from pink to red and would soon be a lovely shade of purple, she had tears running down her face and for the first time ever I could see that Reg was looking ashamed.

‘Perhaps I could cook you up some nice sausages for your tea?’

Margaret was having none of it, ‘No, you won’t Reg, I want strawberries and cream, and what’s more I want them now and I want them from the Spar.’

Through her tears I could see that revenge for Margaret was very sweet indeed.

 

Heatwave - it's official

 

As most of you know, yesterday in Britain we had a heatwave. We know it was a heatwave because it’s was declared as such on the news, a classification given by the Met office. The way it was announced you would think none of us knew, even though across the country people were bathing in any piece of water they could get near to, from fountains to broken water pipes. Travel on public transport was said to be worse than being lost in the desert, although I would hazard a guess that there would be a lot less odorous armpits and a distinct lack of music leaking from noisy headphones.

In Pavers Place the heat brought its own set of concerns to each of the inhabitants, but the businesses seemed to have the most issues. In the Spar, Barry and Harry had chosen this week to launch a new range of ice cream, it had been pushed on them by a local producer who had the gift of the gab and an effective line in ‘You’ve got to love local’.

Nicey icey came in a number of flavours and was, according to the producer, sure to hit the big time soon. Harry, the less cautious of the brothers, had already suffered sleepless nights over the new product and watched with dismay on Tuesday as the temperature rose and the freezers started to struggle. He had looked at the vanilla batch far too often for Gary’s liking, by the end of the day it was suggested that it was the heat from his brother’s breath that was melting the sweet dessert, not the sun.

Matters came to a head for Harry on Tuesday night when either due to the heat, or as a result of a hallucinatory episode, he had a dream that a man was surfing in the tub of melting ice cream. The image had been so vivid that at 4 o’clock on Wednesday morning he found himself in the shop, in his pyjamas staring down at the freezer cabinet. The next morning several large fans were purchased to encourage the air flow and hopefully to calm the whole situation down.

Over at Kens the normal busy flow of clients had dried up completely, after two days of no customers he was trying to think of new ways to drum up trade. It was unusual for the hairdresser to take any approach other than ‘No worries’ and this caused consternation amongst the other residents.

Ian offered to circulate leaflets advertising Ken’s business, but it was a fruitless idea, mainly because Ken had no leaflets. Raphe put himself forward as a model, this was quickly dismissed because his main audience were the inmates at a residential home and the vast majority sported a blue, permed rinse.

Reg suggested a free sausage with every cut, even offering to produce a special range, the ‘short pork and sides’, but even this was turned down. The only idea that brought a smile to Ken’s face was Catherine’s, she thought he ought to offer an ice and slice, a cold cube down the back while he sliced into the hair.

I thought these were all ingenious ideas, well apart from Reg, how can that man associate a sausage with almost any subject. I was disappointed that none of the suggestions helped to lift Ken’s spirits, instead he took to the seat outside his shop and spent a good hour sorting through his beloved records, falling asleep clutching them to him; things were clearly looking grim.

Over at the Spar the whirling fans had seemed to cool the air quite considerably but the ribbons that had been tied to them by Gary, in an attempt to make them fit into the ‘funky feel of the shop’, had resulted in a lethal weapon. Suzy and Mand had been lashed in the face and Tom was declaring that he was going to sue for the weals that he now sported on his face.

The commotion at the Spar had nothing on the noise coming from Ken when he awoke from his deep sleep. During the day the heat had become more intense and as the time had moved the on, the shady spot where he had fallen asleep was now in the full blaze of the sun. The heat was no problem to this man who bathed in the warmth but it was a very different story for the LPs that now lay at his feet, Bob Marley had started out the day accompanied by his Wailers, now they could only be described as the warpers.

There was no consoling Ken, he shut up shop and went home; later that night the talk at the Short & Curlies focussed around the suggestion that the residents would help Ken to restock his record collection. I feared for his mental wellbeing in the morning, as far as I can gather so far they had collected the best of Terry Wogan, a single by Katie Price and the birdy song.

 

 

International Yoga day

 

The yoga aficionados in Paver Place decided to celebrate International Yoga Day last week with an open session, allowing anyone who wanted to manipulate their body into an implausible position to do so. I have trouble bending down to pick up a dropped crisp so didn’t put myself forward for this event, although according to the gossip in the Spar it was going to be well attended.

The session had been the brain child of Jacinta and she was pleased to secure the group’s usual venue, Pavers Primary, it was being held at 11 on Saturday with a follow up barbeque at Reg and Margaret’s. Reg had made a new range of sausages and patties for the occasion incorporating a wide range of eastern spices. It seemed a strange follow up to me, I thought yoga was all about the lifestyle as well as the stretching and I couldn’t imagine pork patties being included in any ancient doctrine.

Margaret, Catherine, Jacinta, Suzy and Mand were all regular yoga attendees and apart from a few teachers from the school, the only other new participants were Ken, Shane (the vicar) and Garth. I couldn’t wait to hear how Ken would get on, he seems to fall into a deep sleep every time he sits down, any floor relaxation could have him snoring loudly.

The yoga tutor was very gentle with the newcomers introducing them to a few positions that they could easily manage. As normal Garth had turned up in an unusual choice of clothing, of course his flip flops were firmly stuck to his feet (although he did remove them during the stretches), but he wore black shorts, no top and a beany hat. I can’t help thinking that the man’s internal heating system needed some fine tuning.

Catherine reported back to me later that Mand had been misty eyed when Garth had entered the room but had become almost hysterical when he removed his coat to reveal his body. I understand the session was quite tame, although by the end of it Garth had declared himself as a master of yoga having affiliations to it through his Jedi roots, as if to demonstrate this he twisted his body into an unnatural shape which had the tutor begging him to be careful and citing health and safety regulations at the top of her voice.

There were a lot more people at the barbeque, the vicar took it upon himself to say a few words, which I have come to realise he will offer himself up for at any occasion, Joe lying beside him demonstrating the upward facing dog position.

Reg’s spicy pork patties were flying off the grill along with his eastern style sausages, I stuck to the vegetarian option of a cheese and salad bap, not cherishing the possible repercussions later.

Jacinta was declaring the event a resounding success and Garth was just about to recreate his twisted body position when a loud moan escaped from Tom. He was leaning over, grasping his tummy and looking quite grey, Margaret acted quickly and pointed him in the direction of the toilet.

The sausages and patties suddenly lay untouched on people’s plates, apart from Reg who was eating them with his normal gusto. Ken summed up the feeling of the guests when he said, ‘Ah, the gippy tummy position, that’s the one no one ever wants to practice’.

 

 

The Pirates Not In Penzance

Have you ever had one of those days when you keep seeing pirates? No, me neither, but last week there was rarely a day went by without one being spotted in Pavers Place.

It started on Thursday last, two of them in the Spar, Harry was behind the counter and he is far less inquisitive than Gary so didn’t enquire as to what they were doing in the area. However, he did have to ask them to leave the shop, animals aren’t allowed and one of them had quite a large parrot sitting on its shoulder.

‘I did feel sorry for the parrot, it looked a bit fed up, but still rules are rules’.

I don’t think spending any time in the Spar would have helped to cheer the parrot up, Tom is in there half his life and happy go lucky would never apply to him.

They turned up again later in the Short and Curlies, this time four of them (and the parrot) dressed in full pirate regalia, hat, eyepatch, black teeth, the lot. After a grilling from Shirl it was established that they were on the way to a gathering of pirates in Penzance, the town attempting to break the record for the most pirates in one place. They had stopped here so that one of them could visit his Aunty Ethel, who lives round the corner in Pavers Lane. This information seemed to satisfy Shirl and even Baz but I was disappointed, being an aunt to four nephews, if any of them turned up at my house in full pirate costume they would be told to change their clothing at once, there are certain standards to maintain.

Mand was in the pub that night with Catherine, she was on a break from Garth who had decided he needed some time to gather some power, as he found her quite ‘sapping’. That man comes up with the best excuses, but at least he didn’t say, ‘it’s not you, it’s me’, the reason that most of her previous partners had used.

One of the pirates had taken a shine to Mand, Catherine was doing her best to encourage the flirtation in an attempt to lift the malaise that had descended on her since Garth’s decision. Mand was unsure,

‘I don’t like know really, I mean I’ve just come out of a relationship with a religious man and I’m like not sure I could cope with another one.’

Catherine looked from Mand to the pirate and back again, I don’t think piracy is a religion and I’m not sure they are real pirates, he’s only here for a few days, just enjoy the attention.’

Mand was unconvinced, why, she had argued, would they dress up as pirates on a visit to see Aunty Ethel if they were not the real thing? At last, Mand and I were on the same wavelength, I’ll have to watch out, I could find myself saying ’like’ next.

The next day they were still hanging around in the street but this time they were clearly upset about something; after several large ciders the previous evening they had progressed to a bottle of rum and being generous in their drinking this had resulted in a lock in at the Short and Curlies. Aunty Ethel’s house is just a short walk from the pub but it had taken them several hours having turned right out of the pub instead of left, on the journey they had lost a back pack with essential items in it. My mind raced with a list of possible contents that was causing so much concern, a hook hand, a peg leg, eye patch, there had to be a treasure map and hopefully some pieces of eight.

After several hours searching, the belongings were declared lost for good, and they found themselves back in the Spar complaining to Tom that they had lost the sat nav that they were relying on to get them to Penzance. Tom allayed their fears, he had an encyclopaedic mind when it came to maps and directions and would write out the main motorways for them. The pirates left, still annoyed about the missing technology but determined to be in Penzance on time.

On Sunday I read a news article about the failed attempt to get the record for the most pirates in Penzance, apparently some people failed to turn up, I do wonder if Aunty Ethel’s visitors are still driving around the M25.

 

  

A Tribute Act at the Short & Curlies

 

On Sunday there was a tribute act at the Short and Curlies. I don’t often surrender myself to these community events, but this is an occasion that’s hard to resist. Baz runs one about every three months. The first time we had Pelvis Resley, a bloke of about 60 in a white suit that was far too tight in the crotch area, and who sang as if he had a mouthful of marbles; although when up close I couldn’t help feeling it would have been preferable with extra strong mints. Last time we had Barry Mangolow, whose facial skin was as tight as the real Barry, had a voice that was slightly better, but danced as if two badgers were having a ruck. It was a miracle that no one was hurt; during the singing of Copa Cabana he swung the microphone so vigorously that many of the punters assumed the crash position.

Anyway, that is all by the by, this time he had managed to get Garibaldi Barlow.

Mand was exceptionally excited, especially as she has the knack of confusing fact with fiction and had told herself that this was the genuine article. It took some persuading by Jacinta and Garth that we were going to be seeing an imitation, in the end she was only convinced by the fact that the real Take That (or what is left of them) were about to embark on a run at the 02, and therefore unlikely to be appearing in the Short and Curlies.

The pub was packed on the night in question, even the miseries had managed to get a baby sitter, although after the hug between Suzy and Garth at the Grand National event Roger kept his wife in the corner of the bar, wedged between him and Margaret. Personally I was hoping that this would be of some consternation to Garth and that he would do a dance routine with Suzy later in the evening, finishing with the words, ‘No one puts baby in the corner’, but instead he and Mand seemed to have their lips glued together, so this particular flight of fancy was unlikely to happen.

Even Shane the vicar had shown up for the occasion, although he sat on the seat outside the pub for most of the evening, with his dog Joe sitting peacefully beside him. I get the impression that Shirl had the glad eye for Garibaldi Barlow, she had worn a blouse that was even lower than normal and praised him enthusiastically throughout her introduction. He took to the stage area, with a wink in Shirl’s direction and launched immediately into a ‘Million Love Songs’.

Garibaldi's voice seemed quite high to me and after a few verses he appeared to be joined by a backing singer, but even though I looked round the pub I couldn’t see anyone else, if it was a recording he clearly needed a new set of ears, it was awful.

Garth and Mand managed to disengage their lips, I was standing quite close to them and heard her tell him that Gari had been known to sing at people’s weddings. I don’t think the full implications of this statement sank in until she went on to describe the long white dress and silver flowing veil that she was intending to wear, at this point Garth made a swift exit to have a smoke outside with the vicar. Mand did not deter from her description, turning instead to Jacinta, who was trying to focus on Gari,

‘…and in tribute to my love I will wear silver flip flops’.

Jacinta’s look could only be interpreted as a signal to stay silent but by this time Mand was on a roll, when Gari finished his song she dashed up to him to whisper something in his ear.

Before bursting into, ’Baby you can light my fire,’ Garibaldi said a few words, ‘This one is for a couple with truly original names, but I bet it makes their love even stronger, here’s to Man and Grass.’

Mand looked mortified and fled outside to find the object of her desire; as the door of the pub opened I finally realised who the backing singer was, Joe had his head flung back and was howling at the top of his voice.

Garth took one look at Mand and pointed to the dog, ‘I dunno who you are marrying darling but forget the wedding singer in there, just book Joe’, and with that he sauntered off home.

 

 

 

National Smile Month

I had wondered why the television and papers are currently full of horror stories of people who have repaired their own teeth with super glue, or pulled rotten molars with the help of a husky and sleigh; then I realised it is National Smile Month.

I should have guessed this fact sooner, Gary and Harry have had a poster on the wall of a woman’s gleaming smile for a week or so now, although neither of them are particularly good adverts for pearly whites. Harry has long since had yellow teeth after years of smoking and Gary had all of his removed, after most of them were knocked out in a particularly nasty scrap when he was a youngster.

‘You can’t beat a good set of falsies, have kept mine in a glass by the bed for years now’, he pushed them forward with his tongue as if to illustrate the fact. I had to leave the Spar at this point as this particular trick turns my stomach. I have grown up in a family where a host of aunts and grandparents would pop out their dentures at the drop of a hat, when was this ever considered entertainment? I can only be grateful that Simon Cowell is not a fan of false teeth.

Tom, a frequent visitor and stool sitter in the Spar also has very bad teeth, mainly due to a lackadaisical cleaning routine and meanness.

‘I don’t believe in wasting money on expensive toothpaste, I just pop the brush into the sink after I’ve had a wash and a quick scrub round my mouth does the trick...when I remember.’

At this point I would have considered inviting the BBC to come and continue with the ‘Great British Floss Off’ in Pavers Place, but I was too busy retching to follow that particular train of thought.

In celebration of National Smile Month, Gary and Harry have been encouraging the local children to bring in pictures of themselves smiling, to be exhibited on the community board that they have in the shop. Those children who could manage an image of themselves smiling and holding a toothbrush were entered into a prize draw, being inclusive as ever they would accept pictures that the children had drawn themselves.

There was some debate over the prize, Harry favoured a box of sweets and a colouring book, Gary felt it should be teeth related. They were already courting controversy as every entrant was given the choice of a brightly coloured and no doubt sugar enhanced lollipop, a deterrent to positive tooth care that Jacinta was quick to point out.

In the end they settled on a toothbrush with a novelty face, some toothpaste and a bag of candy false teeth, a prize to cover all bases.

After Jacinta banging her drum loudly and widely about the thoughtlessness of the lollipops as a prize, the take up had been somewhat minimal by the children, although both Ken and Garth have had one sticking from their mouth every time I have seen them this week. In a desperate measure to get rid of the lollies they had even been offered to Tom, who has never been known to turn down food. However, Jacinta’s message had clearly also reached him and he declined, opting instead to help himself to an apple that was on the cusp of its sell by date.

The next time Tom was seen he had a hot water bottle welded to the side of his face with a thick scarf and a look that screamed lack of sleep, he was also seeking the phone number for the local dentist. Apparently the healthy option had tipped his decaying molar over the edge and it had broken clean in two, leaving exposed nerves and a lot of pain.

A week later Tom was still blaming Jacinta, Harry and Gary for both the physical and mental anguish and the dentists bill, but every time I heard the story it always ended with the words, ;…and you should have seen the size of his drill!’