Dotty

My idea of the perfect Christmas present has changed over the years… particularly over the last 6 child-filled years. I am sure that strikes a chord with many….

Gone are the days when, as one half of a high-earning couple, I could go to my favouite jeweller (the very handsome, charming and utterly delectable David Dudley of Marlborough), spend many happy hours dressing up dripping diamonds, pearls, aquamarine and my favourite of all: a star sapphire, unmatched in its understated beauty.  We would choose our favourite and carefully pick 2 stooges to be displayed alongside on the magic black velvet. After a relaxed (boozy) lunch Mr Dotty and our dearest friend would be led into the lion’s den and given ‘the choice’. David would gently guide, Uncle Kerr (as he is now known) would bluster and egg Mr Dotty on – and the prize would be mine.

This year my list is quite different. In no particular order, I share with you my heart’s desires:

A £20 book voucher and 3 hours to spend alone in http://www.mainstreetbooks.co.uk/. It is a gem of a bookshop, fully deserving of its award for Best Independent Bookshop 2009 and amidst the warren of books is a place of calm to sit and read, drink real coffee or tea and pick delicately at mouthwatering cakes. It is a haven.

A driving lesson to drill into me the magic formula for reverse parallel parking. I believe this would save me at least one week a year in my bid to find a 3-car-length space in which to drive straight into.

A wardrobe assistant to pick out a smart, appropriate, slightly quirky/funky outfit for the next day to keep me away from the old lazy fail-safe of the jeans and fleece at the bottom of the bed. I have many beautiful clothes – and they are seldom worn.

A swimming lesson to teach me grown-up front crawl. The idea of actually moving arms and kicking legs in synchronicity *and* moving forwards is a joy only those confined to breast-stroke can dream of. The swimming instructor also happens to be an official hunk of the highest order

Anything at all from the ever innovative, stylish and amazing Khoola Designs www. khooladesigns.co.uk

And my last wish of all – true acceptance of mental illness and maybe one day a cure or two….

And on a humorous note – here is what stirred me from my lassitude and got me back into the Christmas spirit: a message from Father Christmas himself sent by my dear friend on Twitter @grizzlyfish: http://portablenorthpole.tv/watch/507e822ab36032eda5f8e993342d8870

Bookmark It

Hide Sites

When I was a little girl, my sister and were taken to the seaside: I think, once a year. I say ‘I think’ because I can’t be sure… my sister’s memory is worse than mine in that respect, my father would respond in a gruff voice ‘you need to ask your mother – she was in charge of that sort of thing’ and my mother, who lives in a parallel universe which rarely if ever comes into contact with the rest of us, would remember, quite sincerely, that we practically lived at the seaside during the summer. So, I am sticking with once a year.

On the great Day Out, we would pack the car with folding stripey nylon seats with unstable tubular aluminium frames (for grown-ups only), picnic rugs interwoven with dog and cat hairs, a candlewick bedspread for sitting on, swimming costumes, towels and The Picnic.

Bookmark It

Hide Sites

A year or two after my life of impoverished independence (but what larks I had!) the lovely Mr Dotty stepped over my threshold, made an honest woman of me and whisked me off to our new home: a beautiful cottage in a sleepy lane in a pretty Wiltshire village.

We lived a happy, happy life… working hard during the week and supporting the local liquid refreshment economy at the weekend. Our first Christmas was to be a special one – nothing would be too much trouble. We had my lovely s-i-l and her Very Chocolatey Husband coming back over from Namibia with their darling little boy, and we wanted them to have an English Christmas like no other.

So… inbetween working, getting sloshed and nursing hangovers, I beavered away making the Christmas Pudding, Cake, Preserved Pears (Delia said I had to), home-made Mincemeat, etc, etc. I bundled cinnamon sticks and tied them with pretty ribbon, dried orange slices, studded oranges with a thousand cloves… and I made the most beautiful Holly Wreath – all by myself. This final touch of rural domestic yuletide perfection was one too much for the universe to bear…

The day came (for me it is Boxing Day, but I waited on this occasion until our lovely visitors had left) when the Christmas glitter and gaud had to be cleared away. Everything went well until I remembered that the Holly Wreath was still hanging on the door waiting to attack anyone daring to knock  (but more specifically the postman). No problem, thought I… I considered the compost heap, but decided that it would take too long to rot down and I didn’t fancy being attacked by the Zombie Holly Wreath come Spring, so the next best solution: the FIRE!

How merrily it burned! So merrily I had to prevent it from flying up the chimney by holding it down with the poker. Mr Dotty popped his head round the door.. ‘Everything all right, darling?’. ‘Oh, YES’, I replied anxious to get him back on the other side of the door, now holding onto the poker with both hands and considering using my foot. Then the doorbell rang. It was our neighbour: ‘Do you know that your chimney is on fire?’. ‘Why no’ said Mr Dotty ‘Is it?’. ‘Well’ said neighbour ‘I presume that’s what the 10 foot high flames mean’.

I waited with knees together (I don’t know why they do that when I am nervous, but they do) hoping against hope that the fire would subside in the next 30 seconds. It didn’t. ‘Should I call the Fire Brigade?’ I asked rather sheepishly…

999… FireBrigade… Chimney Fire, Cottage, Little Lane, Pretty Village… Is it Thatched?… Oh NO… Thank Goodness, we’ll be over in a minute…Oh, NO!!! Wait!!… Yes… Next door’s is thatched, and opposite is thatched, and next door down is thatched… Oh NO! We are RIGHT there…

Nee naw, nee naw, nee naw… Blue Lights flash, flash, flash… Neighbours running…. Firemen… Oh My LORD Firemen… Uniform… Hoses… In the house… How many chimneys?… Errrrrr…. Firemen…Uniform… Hoses…. Chimneys? How many?…. Errr…Firemen, Uniform, Hoses… Right: YOU: KITCHEN, TEA, NOW.  So, so masterful…

Ohhhhhh…. Firemen, Uniform, Hoses… why did I not know of this when I was single?

Bookmark It

Hide Sites

I was brought up with a healthy respect for fire. I grew up in the depths of North Coldshire where the only source of heating came from the sitting room fire, coal was carried in from the outhouse from 1st October until 30th April (no matter how cold it was either side of those months) and by the age of 5 I could clean out and lay a fire as skilfully as the next chap. I withstood a thrashing at the age of 10 having been caught with matches in my coat pocket: so ingrained were the perils of playing with fire, I chose to be punished for smoking cigarettes rather than for my true crime: lighting a fire in my tree den. It was a tear-streaked face which promised never again to touch a filthy ciggy, while all the time looking forward to toasting barley in my carefully hidden empty battered baccy tin.
Time marched on and I found myself alone in a world of double glazing, central heating and even a tumble drier. What luxury thought I, still remembering the green metal hot water bottle, the eiderdowns so heavy you thought your ribs would break and the thick slabs of ice over the windows in the morning (how we laughed at the thought of Jack Frost leaving his delicate patterns!). One Friday evening, in a state of new-found independence, at the tender age of 23, I left my darling little flat and went off on a jolly, to return on the Sunday evening. I walked into the communal hall, smelled an odd, yet strangely comforting smell, and proceeded to open my door. The odd thing was that even in the hall I hadn’t registered that a smoke alarm was squealing, still less that it was my smoke alarm.
The flat was not large (my mother commented on first seeing it that the hall was rather small: she was looking at the sitting room), so it didn’t take too long to discover the cause of the smoke. My bed was pushed up against the storage heater – there was nowhere else for it to go (great design…), but as the little air vents at the top were still reasonable uncovered, I thought no more of it. However… at some point during the weekend the storage heater pixies had got in and done their dirty work. The storage heater had overheated and in overheating had melted its own controls to a fixed ‘furnace blast’ position. The mattress was charring and melting away quite happily, the duvet had caught fire and the feathers glowed red and flickered. I disconnected the fire alarm (it would NOT shut up), threw a pan or two of water over the bed, put the duvet outside, sat in my sitting room and cried. Now, the other problem that I had was that I was proud. I was so proud it hurts me to think of it now. I was also quite poor. The price of my independence was 1 full-time job and 2 part-time jobs, working 7 days a week: and that enabled me to have my flat and run my little white Mini. It did not afford me storage space, spare bedding, etc, etc. Pride stopped me from ringing a friend and asking to stay the night, or from borrowing a sleeping bag… and so I was left in my quite-small-for-a-hall sitting room on two cushions from the armchairs as a mattress and the curtain from the window as a blanket, feeling more than a little sorry for myself.
Of course – if I had known then what I know now (but then Wee1 and Wee2 might never have been…) I would have: called the FIRE BRIGADE! (see part 2).

Bookmark It

Hide Sites