AFTERNOON TEA-HEE

My mother was 85 last Saturday. Not wanting to risk holding out until her 90th, I decided to throw her a ladies afternoon tea party as a little celebration. 11 ladies were invited, the oldest, but certainly not the least coherent, being 96. This is how the afternoon went:
2.59PM: Two kettles are filled and on standby. Three teapots have their lids off, teabags in place. The sugar bowl is a glistening mountain of sugar cubes - especially bought for the occasion - with polished silver tongs atop. A plate of iced biscuits in the shape of teacups and teapots neatly arranged sits ready to be stripped of its clingfilm cover.
3.01PM: The first guest arrives. It's Marjorie, my son's other grandmother and my ex-mother-in-law. As I usher her in she says she has been sitting in her car listening to Stevie Wonder, obviously for fear of arriving too early and confirming that old people are notoriously punctual. Waiting in the lounge is my mother, resplendent in a new turquoise number from the Damart catalogue. Marjorie takes first pick from the cobbled-together selection of chairs squeezed around the room to form a circle. Harvey makes the first pot of tea.
3.02PM - 3.10PM: All but two of the other guests arrive - Mum's friend Pat; cousins Rosalind and Sylvia; cousin-in-law Frances (she's Spanish you know)and my friend Jo (who I never see but has adopted my mother as her own). As the youngest, Jo gets the wobbly director's fold-up chair. Harvey makes two more pots of tea. I offer round the fancy biscuits. No-one takes sugar.
3.15PM: A flustered Marjory arrives (different spelling, different woman), the bus was late. I offer her a cup of tea, she goes off menu and asks for a coffee. In the kitchen Harvey rolls his eyes and reaches for the Carte Noir.
3.20PM: I notice that Lydia, the 96 year old upstairs neighbour, is missing from the party. Nervous glances betray a panic in the room but this is soon calmed by the suggestion that she has most likely fallen asleep. A quick phone call from my Mum awakens her from her afternoon slumber and she glides down in her stairlift to join us. It turns out Lydia does take suger, albeit only one lump. I no longer feel I've wasted my money on the sugar lumps.
3.30 - 4.00PM: While I lay the plates of bread canapes and savouries on the 1960s glass topped G-Plan coffee table (worth a few bob nowadays)everyone else remarks on the numerous bouquets that fill the room like a funeral parlour after a cold snap. Rosalind is spotted slyly comparing hers to the others sent, unaware that the headache-inducing lillies in her gift had been pulled out and disposed of earlier that day. No-one likes the goats cheese and Mediterranean canapes. Somebody sneaks an extra smoked salmon and cream cheese, leaving me without one. Harvey makes more tea.
4.00PM (until her last breath, probably): Cousin Rosalind dominates every conversation, opining on everything from declining A Level standards to the singing ability of a local entertainer. The older ladies sit silent, their eyes on their tea cups. All they want to discuss is the weather and what happened in Emmerdale.
4.30PM: A baby seagull, the size of a small dog, lands in the garden. On seeing its reflection in the lounge window, it waddles right up to the glass and begins to squawk incessantly. My mother, who loves all wildlife except seagulls and squirrels, jumps up from her chair and with arms flailing like windmills makes for the door to the garden to see off the bird. Panic ensues as friends and relatives hold Mum back. There's a mother seagull out there somewhere and she's ready to attack.
4.45PM: After a failed attempt by Mum to sneak out the side door, everything calms down. The baby seagull loses interest and flies off. I serve up assorted cup cakes and chocolate eclairs. Harvey makes more tea. Despite at least 5 cups each, no-one has had to use the toilet except me. I become concerned about Lydia's bladder control.
5PM: Tired of our catering stint, Harvey and I decide hurry things along to their conclusion by bringing out the birthday cake and bubbly. The two bottles of cava open, we both have a large glass before taking round to the guests. Harvey fields questions about his love life and job prospects with the skill of a diplomat.
5.30PM: Mum poses for photos cutting the cake but my photography skills let me down. The cake is out of shot, making the delight on her face and the large carving knife in her hand look like a still from The Shining.
5.45PM: Harvey makes his escape. Lydia glides back upstairs. I start to clear away plates. No-one shows any sign of leaving.
6.00PM: There are mutterings about making a move. No-one does. Cousin Rosalind regales us with the sorry tale of a woman whose house caught fire, after which she tripped and broke her neck, only to wake from the surgery to find that her husband had died of cancer. There's no more enjoyment to be had out of the afternoon after that. Everyone leaves.
9.00PM: I finish clearing up and join my mother in the lounge. She's knitting blanket squares to send to Africa and watching a recording of Bargain Hunt. I lie exhausted on the sofa and resolve to do it again next year.

St Valentine's Day Mascara

For those of without partners, lovers or admirers, St Valentine’s Day is spent wrapped in an overcoat of cynicism. The commercialisation! The shop-bought sentiments! Who, they say, would want to receive those? Yet underneath peeks a lacy trim of romantic petticoat which rustles ‘I would, I would.’

Maybe not the red ‘satin-look’ Ann Summers underwear, or the small fur fabric red devil with ‘Sexy Beast’ embroidered on its chest - but a floral tribute of some kind, yes that would be acceptable.

But to admit that would make them traitors to their singledom, their independent nature and so they roll their eyes and curl a lip each time they spot a flushed, dewy-eyed recipient cradling her bouquet of over-priced, greenhouse-forced blooms on the tube home.
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How much worse it is though for those who do have a ‘special person’ in their lives. At least the singletons know that they’re not going to get anything whereas PWPs (people with partners) suffer the uncertainty of whether they will or not and if they do, if it will be a gift to surprise and delight or a predictable pre-packaged trinket for which they will have to show unending gratitude because ‘it’s the thought that counts.’

There are those couples that eschew the whole Valentine’s thing. They don’t need a particular date in the calendar to prompt them to be romantic, to show their love for each other. They’ll be carrying on as normal, maybe having a takeaway and watching a DVD in the evening, followed by lazy half-hearted sex. (It’s always those that choose the quiet night in and those that never have wild nights out anyway.)

Of course some go to the other extreme – fly to a cold, grey Paris for the weekend, have their pubic hair professionally trimmed into a heart shape, truss themselves up with furry handcuffs and smear each others bodies with chocolate flavoured paint like faux copraphiliacs. (Usually those that look better clothed than naked.)

Whichever bracket you fall into, there’s one thing to remember on Valentine’s Day and that is, whether through disappointment or joy, tears will be shed. So always wear waterproof mascara.

2010 - The year so far...

Three weeks into January, Christmas and New Year seem like a half-remembered dream and summer too far off to even begin to anticipate. Even spring feels months ahead rather than just around the corner.

The recent snow and ice prevented an easy glide into 2010. The first full week back at work turned into a struggle, not only against the elements but the whole British public transport network. Those who lived at the furthest corners of civilisation – Kent and Surrey – were stuck at home, unable to move their cars and their trains cancelled. Poor them, they had to ‘work from home’, which entails nothing much more than watching tv with their mobiles and laptops switched on.

Us Londoners had the worse deal. Skidding along icy pavements more slippery than Streatham Ice Rink, we donned wellingtons, scarves, hats and earmuffs. Coats and jumpers normally saved for gardening duties were brought into service for their warmth. A lot of people appeared to be wearing their whole wardrobe bar the swim wear. Fashion was forgotten and the commuters crossing London Bridge resembled the exile scene from Fiddler On The Roof. Every morning, as soon as I got up, I’d peer through my curtains into the darkness hoping to see enough snow to keep me at home and in my pyjamas. It was not to be. The Northern Line for once in its miserable life was fully operational with no major delays. There was nothing to stop me getting to work. Once there I spent most of the day obsessively reading travel and weather reports. BBC weather and TFL websites were constantly open, along with regular phone calls to Harvey at home, just in case there had been a freak fall of snow in Wimbledon that would require me to dash immediately home. No such luck.

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With the snow melted and keeping warm no longer the top priority, I turned my attention to weightier matters, very weighty as it turned out. I’d noticed a certain snugness to my clothes for some time, indeed some had grown so snug that they prohibited all but the shallowest breathing. My choice of outfits had become reduced to a small selection of figure-concealing smocks. This couldn’t continue, Elizabeth Taylor may have spent the last 20 years in kaftans but I wanted a bit more variety to my wardrobe.

Last Monday, as soon as I got home from work I dusted down the Wii Fit, which had been sitting forgotten underneath the tv stand for many months, to take the body test and begin exercising. I stood on the board and waited for it to measure my weight. I had put on 10lbs since the last time I’d stepped on it 154 days before. Disaster! I’d been overweight then, now my Wii told me I needed to lose 1st 8 lbs just to reach an acceptable weight. Reader, it was all I could do to stop myself from crying.

Harvey patted my back consolingly and said it was just after Christmas and everyone put on a bit over the holidays. But I knew this wasn’t due to a few too many After Eights. No, the reason why I was so overweight was because I’d reached a stage in my life a year or so back where I just said ‘fuck it’. I was fed up with constantly worrying about what I ate, endlessly on a diet of some type or other, always trying to shift that stubborn last 10 lbs. Enough was enough, I was going to eat what I fancied and to hell with it. Well look where it got me, 22lbs heavier without having to try. Whilst I sat silently staring into the distance wondering how it all went so wrong, Harvey decided to get on the Wii himself. His results were even more shocking, he was in the ‘obese’ weight range.

Later that evening when we sat down to a dinner of Thai chicken curry with noodles neither of us ate with the usual gusto. We both ate slowly and left some in our bowls when normally they would have been wiped clean with a naan. I felt like a participant on Fat Families, half expecting Gillian McKeith to knock on the door at any minute demanding to inspect our poo.

Needless to say, Harvey and I have embarked on a weight reduction programme. Nothing fancy, simply eating less and moving more. I’ll let you know how it goes.

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Although I may be far from lean, there are slim pickings in my bank account. For most of us January is our poorest month. Why then do all the stores have sales on? Why not wait until we’ve been paid at the end of the month? I’ve seen so many great bargains that I’ve had to disregard because there’s nothing to buy them with, credit cards and overdraft being exhausted.

If you can get a few quid together though, January is a great month for going out. There are so many bars and restaurants - knowing that business in January is slow because people are on diets, detoxing or plain broke – offering 50% discount on food and in some cases drinks. Shame I can only order the salad and diet coke.

Yule Blog - The 'Festivities'

Christmas Day

Reluctantly I packed up the car, said goodbye to the cat and headed off to my mother’s in Broadstairs. As I settled into the driver’s seat I noticed that someone (no doubt one of the scores of grocery delivery vans that had squeezed down the road in the last few days) had knocked off the passenger door mirror. Merry bloody Christmas.

The journey down was quick, quiet and not unpleasant. Two things I saw amused me; first was a sign at a farm shop offering ‘sprout storks’, the other was a street sign for a road called Poorhole Lane on which someone had rubbed out the ‘r’. It made me laugh anyway.

When I got to my mum’s she asked me how the roads were, I told her they were long, straight and covered in tarmac. She offered me a cup of coffee which entailed asking the same two questions she always asks ‘how much coffee – flat or heaped spoon?’ and ‘One sweetener or two?’ I’ve been taking my coffee the same way for the last 40 odd years yet still she asks, so sometimes I like to throw her a curve ball and ask for milk.

We exchanged gifts. My mum adored the Harrod’s teddy bear, resplendent in his knitted jumper. She clasped him to her with such delight you’d have thought I’d presented her with another grandson. The tapestry cushion featuring a golden retriever came as a bit of an anticlimax, I should have given her that first.

Predictably her gifts to me were less well received, although I think I did a pretty good job of expressing delight. First up was a set of make up brushes. She buys me a set every year but they are always the cheaply made kind that are guaranteed to graze eyelids. This set was no different. Second up was an office diary; however this contained some £10 notes within its leaves so all was not lost. My only remaining present to open was from my ex-mother in law (Harvey’s other Nan). More disappointment in the shape of a shawl – a black, lacy, fringed one that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a gypsy fortune teller. I guess it might come in handy if I ever take up Flamenco lessons again.

Lunch followed. I saved the turkey for Boxing Day when Harvey and Marjorie (the other Nan) were joining us, so we had salmon en croute followed by lemon mousse which we ate off of trays on our laps. Despite this light lunch we both spent the afternoon asleep in our chairs – my mother due to her advancing years and me from sheer torpor.

We were woken by the doorbell. It was a drunk and boisterous Harvey with Marjorie in tow. Within the hour Harvey had managed to escape to a friend’s, leaving me with the two Nans and three hours of back to back soaps to endure.

My mother watches all the soaps regularly but still claimed not to know who was who or what was going on. Between Marjorie and me we tried to explain but my knowledge of the Archie/Janine/Mitchell family saga is quite scant and Marjorie’s descriptions are confusing to say the least, so despite our best efforts Mum was none the wiser.

I’ll give you an example of Marjorie’s mixed-up vocabulary. At one point we were talking about gas and electricity prices when she said that her last gas bill was ‘frantic’. Then, when explaining the lack of furniture in the Bradley’s house in Eastenders, she told my mum that they’d had the ‘baileys’ in. No wonder my poor mother was bewildered.

Marjorie finally left about 11pm and I was able to retire for the night. Another Christmas Day over, thank the Lord.

Boxing Day

Having been cooped up with my mother for 24 hours I was desperate to escape. After a quick bath which I had to share with her electric bath chair (no shower at my mum’s), I put the turkey in the oven on a low light and took off in the car for the short drive to Ramsgate town centre. The town is in decline, it’s not a particularly prosperous area and with a relatively new out of town shopping centre there’s more empty properties than there are thriving stores. Those that do survive are at the bottom end of the high street retailers – Poundland, 99p Store, Peacocks, Wilkinsons etc and of course charity shops.

I didn’t particularly want to go to the shops, I’m actually quite against Boxing Day trading, but it was a cold, wet day and a cliff top walk was out of the question, so I found myself wandering aimlessly around WH Smiths and Boots. As I walked past MacDonalds I was amazed to see that it was doing a roaring trade with queues at the counter. Surely at Christmas of all times people could give that crap a rest? Apparently not.

After an hour or so I went beck to my mum’s. She’d done a good job of disguising the white plastic outdoor table she uses for sit down meals with a jaunty Christmas themed tablecloth (which she’s used every year since I can remember), champagne glasses, napkins and a table centre with candles. Harvey and Marjorie turned up, we broke open the Cava and the festivities began.

After dinner which, if I say so myself, was a triumph, we were slumped in front of the television (i.e. being festive) when the doorbell rang. It was Harvey’s cousin Deborah and her partner Dermott O’Leary (yes, him off the X Factor) - they always make a point of visiting my mum when they are in the area. It is quite surreal to have someone famous off of the tv sitting in your mum’s front room amidst the chintz and antimacassars. We’re used to it now though and he is just a normal bloke like everyone else when he isn’t working, it’s not like he bursts into the room with his arms flung open shouting ‘Hello everyone!’ he’s actually quite quiet.

They stayed for about an hour and left my mum with a present which she opened after they’d gone. It was a CD. Mum looked at the front cover and said ‘It’s Crazy Michael Bubbles. I don’t know that one.’ It was actually Michael Buble’s Crazy Love CD which Dermot must have got him to sign when he was on the X Factor, with the inscription ‘To Thelma, Love Ya! Michaeal x.’ A very sweet thought but completely wasted on my mum who’s still waiting for Glen Miller to turn up and thinks of Paul McCartney as a young pretender. I shall ‘borrow’ it next time I go to see her.

Yule Blog Part II - the food issue

Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas without the traditional dinner and accompaniments. Which brings me to another repeated yuletide misjudgement, otherwise known as the reverse miracle - rather than feeding 5,000 people with a few loaves and fishes it entails just four people attempting to eat enough food for 5,000.

This begins with the festive food shopping, so it was that on December 23rd I set off on a solo mission to Sainsbury’s Savacentre, armed with a list and a hired Ford KA and a bundle of bags for life as back-up. Two hours, 170 quid and 10 carrier bags later and my work was done.

Back home I ferried the bags from the boot of the car, through the flat and to the kitchen and then crammed the perishables into the fridge in readiness for the big day. I was very tempted to try some of my tasty hoard but I held back, there might not be enough to go round if I started tucking in.

Christmas morning saw me reversing the process, emptying the fridge and filling the car boot with bags of food and drink to take down to my mothers and when I got there, once again out from the boot and into another fridge. But wait, there was something missing, I’d forgotten to buy the sausages wrapped in bacon. My reputation was in tatters, a vital ingredient of the meal was absent and there’d be nothing but disappointed faces around the table. Back in the car for a quick rekkie around the area hope was at hand, the Budgens at the petrol station was open. I grabbed a packet of streaky bacon and the last pack of mini sausages and joined the queue of relieved individuals clutching tubs of gravy granules, jars of cranberry sauce and other forgotten key items.

As it turned out my turkey dinner was a triumph. The M&S starters were also very well received, as was the cold supper. I managed to introduce my mother to some new foods – spring rolls with sweet chilli sauce, lobster mousse, garlic sausage and coronation rice. Although familiar to most people, my mum’s reaction to them was like that of Elizabeth I when presented with the potato – suspicion followed closely by delight. The duck pate with orange was a step too far though and remained untouched.

Also untouched were two Christmas puddings, a dozen mince pies, a box of dates, two boxes of After Eights, three tubes of Pringles, a tub of double cream, a bag of mixed nuts, a bunch of grapes, a bowl of satsumas, a box of Turkish Delight, a tin of shortbread biscuits, a gammon joint and a Christmas cake (except for one slice).

By the time I was ready to return to London, I’d consumed so much food that I could have hibernated until Easter and still have needed to lose 10 pounds by the time I awoke.

So now I begin the year, as always, overdrawn and overweight.

Yule Blog - part one

Some lessons are never learned. Like a demented goldfish, I've already begun to repeat the same mistakes that I've made every Christmas previously. This was the first one.

The work's Christmas party
Having reached an age where getting pissed as a fart is no longer a top priority, I thought that this year's party would be, for me, a short and fairly sober affair.

The party was held in a flash new bar near work. We had an area reserved for us in the downstairs bar. 57 of us were penned into a space normally used to accommodate a table and four chairs. Loud, anonymous house music pumped out of numerous speakers above our heads, making conversation (despite our proximity to each other)almost impossible. To add to the discomfort, the smoking contingent of the bar's clientele trod a constant path through our area in order to reach the outside courtyard.
An hour into the party I was not enjoying myself, I felt tired and irritable and so decided that I would sneak off home - after one more drink.

However after the fifth, or maybe sixth, rum and coke something magical happened - suddenly I was having the best night of my life. My workmates were all charming and funny; the DJ was playing some great tunes and I was dancing with the grace and style of a professional.

Next thing I knew the bar was closing and it was time to leave. Out we went into the night - and heavy snow. A group of us stumbled our way to Bank station. We made our way down the stairs but were stopped by a London Transport employee. There were no more tubes. Why? It was 1 a.m. Back up on the street we tried to hail some cabs but every one that passed had it's light off and a quartet of smug passengers in the back. We wandered the streets of the City battling against the blizzard. It was mid-winter and things were looking bleak, there was more chance of getting a suntan than getting a cab. Our little group split - the northsiders and the southsiders went their separate ways.

Myself and two blokes from the office headed along Cannon Street, guided by a shining light - not the star of Bethlehem but the golden arches of MacDonalds. A quarter pounder meal later we headed back out into the snow and over London Bridge to the station where we joined the long queue at the taxi rank. It was no longer the best night of my life.

I eventually got home at 3.30am and just about managed to take my clothes off before passing out in bed. Three hours later my alarm woke me up. I'm not sure how I got to the bathroom but once there I was unable to do anything but sit on the toilet with my head in my hands. I slid along the hall wall back to my bedroom and having laid down again, with one eye closed to help me focus, text my boss to say I would be taking the day as holiday.

At about 2.30 in the afternoon I was finally able to lift my head from my pillow, albeit gingerly. As I sipped a glass of water and waited for the pain killers to take effect, snippets of the previous night replayed in my head. Was that me throwing my arms around my boss in a warm embrace, twice? Did I really get twirled around the dancefloor by a man the size of a Munchkin? Unfortunately, yes.

Later that evening, when I let a phone call whose number I didn't recognise go to voicemail, I discovered that I'd also given my mobile number to a bouncer at the bar - presumably with the promise of a date by the gist of his message. The following two days were spent ignoring his calls and texts until he gave up.

What happened to my plans to leave the party at a reasonable hour and be in bed by midnight? Those same plans that every year somehow go awry, leading to embarrassing behaviour, not to mention mental and physical deterioration.

As I said at the start, we never learn.

The Unusual Suspects

Friday night saw me in West London having dinner with 3 friends. For reasons which will soon become clear, I shall give them aliases and refer them as Irene, Pam and Linda.

We had a very pleasant evening dining in a restaurant affilliated to a certain football club. At the end of the meal we asked for our bill and, slightly fuddled by the wine we'd drunk, divided the bill in four. Pam and Linda chose to pay by credit card whilst Irene and I paid by cash. We put our cash on the table and waited for someone to come and take the card payments.

It took some time but a waiter arrived and asked how much we wanted to pay on each card. Pam and Linda paid their share and the waiter went away. Our cash stayed where it was. I went to the toilet and came back to the table. The cash was still there. We put on our coats - by now the waiting staff had changed out of their uniforms and were donning their coats too. No-one came back to our table.

We exchanged glances, had they forgotten to pick up our money? It seemed so. Coats on and handbags over arms, we hovered by our table and looked around. The few remaining staff were busying about resetting tables. What should we do?

We did what any right-minded people would do - we grabbed the cash and headed for the door. Pam and Linda scuttled off ahead, I was left bringing up the rear with Irene who, at 82 and in heels, was struggling to keep up and leaning on my shoulder for support.

We made our way up the road to the tube station, checking over our shoulders to see if we were being followed and laughing hysterically at our derring-do. At the tube station we split our booty, £17.50 each. Pam, Linda and I said goodbye to Irene and still laughing went down to the tube platform.

As we sat waiting for the tube Pam's mobile rang. It was the restaurant! We'd forgotten that she'd phoned to make the reservation so they would have her details. Linda and I had to look away as Pam did her best confused middle-aged woman act and spoke to the restaurant manager. She said that she was sure we'd left the cash on the table. No said the manager, all that was there was £3.50 in change. Pam said she couldn't understand it, we'd definitely put £70 down on the table. She would ring her other friend who'd gone home to see if she knew anything and ring him back.

On the tube back to Wimbledon, in between crying with laughter, we frantically thought of what to say. There was only one thing for it - blame Irene.

At Wimbledon station Pam called back the restaurant manager. There had been a mistake on our part. The elderly lady that was with us had inadvertently picked up the cash thinking it was her change. When Pam had called her, she'd checked in her handbag and there was £70 in there.

The manager was very understanding, these things happen. As Pam read out her credit card details, Linda and I sheepishly took out the £17.50 from our purses and gave it back to her.

How the restaurant manager fell for that story I don't know. Fair enough if you'd never met Irene - you could be forgiven for picturing her as frail, bent, hard of hearing and possibly slightly demented. In reality though Irene is straight as a pole, sharp-witted, elegant and glamourous beyond description. She looks how would imagine Joanna Lumley or Helen Mirren at 82.

Still, all said and done she is an octagenarian and, teamed with three ladies of a certain age, who would suspect her of anything underhand?

Moral of the story - if you want to pull a fast one take a granny with you, but don't book in advance.