Craic On

There is a fine line between fame and infamy and oh how easy it is to cross that line and achieve infamy by mistake. It was with a bit of trepidation that I approached the idea of speaking to the nation, or at least the part of it that listens to radio four and has not tuned out for an evening of Netflix. Who wouldn’t tune out given the choice, when the viewing is as tempting as some of the steamy period drama that have graced our screens over recent weeks. “The Duck is delicious,” the BF reported in a well-appointed slip of the finger in a recent text, as she commented on the delights of Regé-Jean Pages’ performance in Bridgerton. “Yum”. Undaunted by the competition I pressed on. I have the looks for radio and in this regard no one could fault my less than steamy contribution. I knew I would be nervous. The last time I “bumped into” #Peter White, he offered me a lift home. This time I wasn’t expecting any favours and I didn’t get any. It wasn’t the fastest 19 minutes of my life. It’s an odd th

Famous for our love of animals, the Brits have been busy filling up refuges for unwanted pets for decades. It’s an improvement on drowning or leaving the runt of the litter on the side of the road to be squashed or taken home by some unsuspecting driver who, having felt compelled to give their break pad a good work out, cannot help themselves. We’re full of contradictions. I’m a fan of the dachshund, but when it comes to sharing my home with animals, I’ve often plumped not just for the short-legged hound but for the baby cries of the Siamese cat. I’ve had five of them. Having lived without their cries for some years now, I’ve been hankering after a mog. I’ve been searching the ads for unwanted female adult felines and that’s how it came to pass that Bob and Clive moved in. they’re kittens. They arrived with a free selection of fleas, ticks and worms which is no small achievement for the middle of winter. To add to the intrigue, they came with a packet of cat biscuits, of a type I would consider bette

The subject of blood pressure is enough to give you hypotension. In the quest to stave of hypertension, the GP now commands that all her patients over 50 have regular blood pressure checks. The annual summons arrived in a text message that demanded that I attend the surgery and use the blood pressure pod in the waiting area to ensure an accurate measurement. A phone call was in order, to check whether this was the kind of thing I might be able to see to do. I was fifth in the phone queue and used my waiting time to walk up a hill so that by the time a person who introduced herself as a “Care Navigator” answered the phone, I was a bit on the puffing side of fit. Between gasps I set out my question. Was this the kind of thing that had been designed with accessibility in mind? “Ahhhh…I…am…just…trying…to…remember,” She said. “Yes, it is. It’s in the waiting room.” My expert communication skills had let me down. I tried again. “Yes, I’ve got that, but is it the sort of thing you could do for yourself if y

Having an IT upgrade is not that exciting to me. I know there are some people who are in heaven at the prospect of a five-point switch box. I’m more of a shoe girl myself. I accidentally pressed “command y” instead of the “t”. I never knew that this is the shortcut to checking out browsing history. I’ve never felt the need to have a shortcut function to look at what I was looking at yesterday, but there it was: shoes, shoes, shoes and shoes. So, when the IT upgrade came I logged on to office 365 and put my username and password in. Three times I tried and was declined access. All my bad habits conspired to be revealed as I called the helpline. I wasn’t’ on the office 365 site at all. I was on a well-known shoe shop site of similar name. The dear old search engine was only trying to be helpful in taking me to where it thought I wanted to go. I was only being lazy in my use of my zoom function, which reveals but a fraction of the screen, at any point in time. Oh well, while I was there, surely there was n

In the holiday between Christmas and New Year the stillness of short dreary days is punctuated with bracing walks and meals. Perhaps its more accurate to say that this is the time to run down the contents of the freezer and eat the left over Brussel Sprouts between strolls. At what point though, are leftovers beyond consumption? I usually palm off my leftovers on the Right Hand Neighbours. They aren’t squeamish but this year, they’ve declined. Could they be approaching their sell by date or have I approached mine? The sell by date seems to be fast on the way to expiring. The notion of “best before” is under threat as mountains of perfectly good food ends up in the bin. This is where I like to think I’m ahead of the curve. Only in my late twenties did I realise that “best before” dates on jars or tins existed. Since they are invisible to me I ignore them. I applied common sense in the form of the sniff test. If it smelt OK and it tasted OK, then it probably was OK. The BF did not share my world view o

Some of my relationships have brought great joy. Some have been transitory. Some have been long lasting and deep. None has been quite as shattering as my relationship with glass. Glass is the unseen menace in my world. Its attentions are largely unwanted and unwelcome. Just when you think you are over it, there it is again, making its presence felt. An early encounter with toughened glass left me bruised. It was the seventies and I doubt that smearing butter on the resulting lump on my forehead had any medicinal use. The lie down in a darkened room was probably more useful. Teenage folly meant that I needed more than butter to sooth the lacerations of my next encounter with glass. The resulting lump on the inside of my lip, born of over enthusiastic stitching, has served me well in moment of stress, giving me something else to chew on. A lucky escape came in trying to put my head through the invisible sash window of an upstairs bedroom in order to shout a fond farewell. At the point of contact, th

The Artist, the one who drives the Rollscanardly, told me that her family played a lot of parlour games when she was growing up. Her siblings were keen on the Name Game. That’s the one where someone writes the name of a famous person on a post it note and sticks this to your forehead. By asking lots of questions you have to figure out who it is. It might have been Mary Queen of Scots or Florence Nightingale. She got the Fat Slag. In my family we used to play Charades when Fierce Granny came to tea. This was largely because it gave us all something to do to take our mind off Fierce Granny and put her at a disadvantage if she got landed with “Wacky Races”, which she invariably did. We were more Lionel Blair than Marcel Marceau with our brash, exaggerated and unrelenting house style. We were encouraged to make large gestures for the benefit of the “gozzy” one (that would be me) amongst us. Often this would be accompanied by a murmured narration of what was going on, as well as a lot of guess work and shouting.

My friend, Septic Tank, likes to watch films with the audio description on. It saves her husband the bother of having to listen out for that often asked question “What’s happening now?” There will be no snoozing in the cinema for him without the sought after audio description. She and I had a concerted effort to see more theatre and despite our distain for the musical, we couldn’t resist #Fiddler on the Roof. We’re soppy like that. There were a couple of audio described performances, one of which happened before it officially opened and one soon after that. Perhaps management was worried about my critical eye. Nobody told us that out of a total run of months we had a choice of two. Blink and you’ve missed it. “Thank you for helping us identify a training issue,” the shift supervisor at #The Vue said after the latest audio description failure. “The Manager will be in touch with you within two weeks.” She gave me two more free tickets which I’ve lost. I never heard from them again. Needless to say, they h

“The moment has come. Centuries from now almost all human beings have lost the ability to see.” So says the trailer for #Apple TV’s new series “See”. To set the scene, “Some say that sight was taken from them by God.” “No kidding,” I say. “But something’s different. After so many years. The children. They have the ability to see.” “Whoopee do,” I marvel. No. The power of sight is what you might describe as “magical” or “evil”. “Not that old chestnut”. I thought it was the other way round. On one hand a punishment from God. On the other hand, damned if you can see. All this helpfully provided with subtitles. There are armies of blind people galloping about on horses, wielding swords and spoiling for a good dust up. Blindness does not seem to get in the way of a really good fight. “See” it would seem, is doing for war what #”Scent of a Woman” did for pheromones. I know a few people that I wouldn’t want to cross for fear of a poke in the eye with a white stick, but honestly and truly, I’m not losing any

“Where’s the exit?’ I asked, trying to beat a retreat from Café Nero Piccadilly. “First door,” my tea drinking companion replied. If you have ever been curious about what lives in the cupboards of cafes, I can put you out of your misery: There are more loo rolls than have ever been gathered together in one place. There are buckets, industrial quantities of cleaning material to deal with dirt and spilt urine. Then there are wet mops. I’m not talking damp. I’m talking “open the doors and in your face wet”. Any thoughts, about the union of mop, water, bodily fluids and face are best put aside at the moment of impact. As I beat off the onslaught of tumbling loo rolls and wet stinking mop, I could hear the rise of an ovation from the room. It was more of a sit down outpouring of nervous amusement and relief, that “it was me not me” followed by an applause of pity. “Not the first door then,” I mumbled. “I am leaving now,” said my companion, and departed. I have investigated more cupboards than most peop

In the six months that I have been working form home, I have been meaning to secure my passwords, which are now abundant. I’m with an on line system. I can just about remember the password to get onto the site, but t’s so long ago since anyone explained how to use the system, that I will probably get locked out. Getting locked out was once a job for a socially awkward man who arrived in a van that said “Locksmith” on the side. He knew how to gain entry to your house without a key. Getting “locked out” nowadays means hours on the phone to people who remind you that it’s your responsibility to make arrangements for the recovery of your passwords and that the measure they have put in place to lock you out of your bank account are for your own good. That said, it could be a technical failure at their end. If you lose your tempter at the thought of having slogged your guts out only to find you can’t get at your hard earned cash, the call is immediately terminated. I bitterly regret my lack of attention to pa

I’ve been cursing the turn of the month and the annual arrival of bees up the nose which are a fair indication that the start of a winter cold is upon me. Those bees really went for it. By day two they had made their way into ears and throat and had started to become a bit of a nuisance. No matter how much I coughed they weren’t going anywhere. They’d settled in to ensure a generous level of infection. It wasn’t honey. By day four, doubt crept in and settled. Should I get a Covid test? Probably. Better to be safe than sorry. So I went on line and booked it. Within the hour I was at the gates of the walk in test centre. It all went smoothly until it didn’t go smoothly. It didn’t go smoothly. “Just follow the instruction,” she said. “I can’t see them.” “The thing is, I’m not allowed to help you. You have to do it yourself. Hang on.” Then she vanished. “We don’t have any braille,” she said when she returned. “I can’t read braille. I’m more of a large print girl myself.” “I’m not allowed to help you and

The Flatmate (that was), is now up to her neck in Italian Politics and any chit chat has to be by appointment and booked ahead. We have a provisional date for a week on Sunday. In the meantime, she has celebrated living half a century. Obviously, I was not invited, because of “IT” and the collapse of air travel. I sent her a phone charger and a packet of pants for her Birthday. These are things that I know she is always short of because, mysteriously, I am now short of them. The Goddaughter was in my kitchen while I was wrapping up the parcel. I said to her, tongue in cheek, “I think anyone would be delighted to receive a phone charger cable and a packet of pants for their Birthday, don’t you?” “No,” she said. “It’s a bloody awful.” “What can you possibly mean?” “I’m not being funny, but if it were me, I’d prefer Gucci to a packet of pants and a manky old phone cable.” It was true. She was not being funny. I tried to redeem myself, holding up a basket I had made especially for the Flatmate (that was) Bi

The Grand was having his morning nap. The Son was working away in another room and not to be disturbed. The DiL got out her laptop and was busy. I decided to take myself off for a walk. I thought I’d go for a mooch, have a look at the house I lived in when I was a student. It was not how I remember it. I’d take that walk across the common that I used to do. It had changed. Not even the old laundrette where we sat for hours listening to the sound of our clothes on an endless spin cycle, was the same. It began to rain so I went in search of a café I once frequented. It was there but not the same. At the counter I asked the server if he could bring the tea and the muffin to the table. He said he could. I paid with my card and missed. He gently took my hand and guided it to the point of the card reader bleeping and then let go. “I’ll bring it over,” he said. If you do a 180 degree turn there’s an empty table about two meters behind you.” “Thanks, that’s great.” As I put my card away I noticed a large sign o

The Grand can now walk independently. I have been surprised that he can out manoeuvre those of us who have more than half a century of experience on him, and should be able to anticipate his every move. Apparently I can’t. It’s all coming back to me now. When the Son began his life as a self propelled person I had the same trouble. I could never anticipate the direction he might dart off in if something caught his eye. He had the advantage of being a good few feet nearer the ground than me. What’s more, he had the edge over me when it came to spotting items of interest. It was hard enough to spot the Son let alone a possible trail of breadcrumbs. Where I might be interested in popping into a shop to explore the beauty and tactile delights of a bit of hand thrown pottery, a one-year-old is much more interested in a well appointed manhole cover. If a determined toddler can’t manage to lift the lid to see what lurks beneath then never mind. There is always the gully that runs around the edge. Manhole de

The Sister has a wonderful garden. It’s awash with colour and raspberries. It’s full of interesting quirks: Planting, statues, places to sit, bee hives and fruiting trees. We enjoy a stroll. She tells me what she’s been up to in the garden and I throw out the odd comment. “That’s nice. I like that,” I say encouragingly. “That’s a lump of concrete I dug up.” I’m not deterred from commenting on her efforts even though I seldom have quite enough information to make an informed comment. “That’s interesting. Are those a couple of stone lions standing guard to the artichokes?” “that’s the legs to the garden bench.” She’s only laughed once when I asked “what is that? Some kind of sculpture?” “It’s a plant and it’s dead.” The Sisters’ garden is a place we sit and drink tea and blather together. She’s quite accomplished at blathering as well as gardening, and she makes a decent cup of tea. After she’d made the tea and while she was blathering I began to consider the beautiful wave of pale grey blue under her

We’re living through Goldilocks weather. It’s been too hot to sleep. Then it was too wet for my tomatoes to ripen, too cloudy for the runners to flower. The plums at the top of the garden are now looking glistening pink, but even the satisfaction of an endless supply of plumb jam has limits. I’m restless. All of this against a backdrop of staying at home. The daily constitutional is getting to be a chore. What do you do to pep it up a bit? I take every opportunity that comes my way. I’ve tried the zoom dinner party. I’ve got a film list I’m working my way through. I’ve extended my reading into new territory. All of this is well and good, but what I really crave is something a little more visceral: something that offers a less thought through reaction and just brings a moment of joy. The God Daughter has been going to the beach. “Are you mad?” I asked. It wasn’t a question but more of a statement of fact. “Why would you want to sit in a traffic jam and compete for space with thousands of other people and

The Toad is right up there with the viper when it comes to expressions of morality in literature. He’s the method by which feminine goodness is put to the test and the punishment for mean or shrewish behaviour. What then, is the meaning of this? I like to sit in the garden when it’s dark. The cloak of darkness brings privacy and I enjoy that moment when the sun fades and a feeling of stillness begins to make its presence felt. There is a big old rat that takes short cuts across the garden. I’ve never seen it but others have. The rat doesn’t bother me and I don’t bother the rat. So, when I heard a rustling in the shrubbery I assumed that was just Ratty making his nightly foray into next doors garden. It was not. Tilting an ear for clues as to what that was, lurking in the undergrowth, a toad hopped onto the seat next to me and settled itself in. I knew it was a toad because I had initially mistaken it for a fallen leaf. Putting my hand down to sweep it away was how the toad and I became acquainted. Ac

The topiary at the top of my garden is definitely due a hair cut. I’ve resisted doing it myself because a lack of three dimensional vision has lead me to the conclusion that I have no skills in this department. Months of covid lockdown have lead me to the same conclusion about my own hair. The only thing that I can say about cutting my own hair is that it would be shorter. Some relief has come about, over recent days, at the thought of a garden that is running wild, inhabited by an owner with wild hair, once clipped to within an inch of their lives. It has come about because I lost my reading glasses. I lost them without noticing, which shows how much use they are. I have been looking for my readers, for over a week now. I have looked in the dishwasher. I have done a meticulous finger search of nearly ten days of household waste. I have been through the mounting bags of charity shop donations as well as the ironing, the washing and my phone book, asking anyone who has dropped off food at my door, or sat

If you attend one of the great masked balls of Venice, its said that you will not recognise your own reflection in the waters of the Grand Canal. With anonymity assured, anything goes. So the question is, dare you enter the world of masquerade and let go of your inhibitions from behind the secrecy of a sophisticated and stylish face covering? The rules of social distancing forbid such cavorting. Anyway, the three-layer paper mask, in fetching medical blue or gorgeous medical white, does not offer the seductive powers of carnival and is more asphyxiation than intoxication. On the grounds that it has to be done and you should probably try everything once, I’ve been giving it a go. The on line advice is that you should wear a mask unless it obscures your residual vision. Sitting in my kitchen it didn’t. The on line advice is also to practice walking about at home to get used to it. I did it for a week and every time I moved my head I couldn’t help but wobble. Even though I didn’t fancy a lie down, I felt i