The wall in France is finally being built. Sadly, in an effort to save money we have decided to get photos sent out to us as the work progresses. This could prove disasterous. So here I am looking at a photo of some bags of cement. ‘Very informative’, I tell Ronny the Belgian guy who is helping oversee the work in our absence. ‘I can obviously relax now. I can tell so much from the way he is stacking the sacks he’s obviously a craftsman to his fingertips. I don’t wish to be picky but is there any chance of a few pics of the wall perhaps? By the way these sacks are some of your best photographic work. I see an exhibition coming on.’

His reply came back: ‘Do you think I should copyright them?’
‘I feel Hollywood knocking on your door for the film rights.’ He knows I’m joking right?

Do some families attract more mayhem than others? As they go, mine is not a big unit, one child, one ex husband, one mother left standing and one long suffering partner in crime. For something so small it creates a lot of activity, most of which seems to revolve around casualty as far as I can see.

It’s been a bit of a week so far, and most of it involved blood, non of it mine, which is good as I’m a tad squeamish. It went something like this:

Monday 11pm – frantic call from daughter. Cheeky, her neurotic ginger tomcat had just been badly mauled by one of the pack of urban foxes living under a tree in a wasteland garden next door. We should have seen this coming, as she had only moved into her new flat six weeks earlier and already the friendly neighbour ‘diamond’ Dave had announced over a glass of wine that Cheeky was not a very ‘streetwise’ cat. How did he know this we pondered? True, he wasn’t very big, in fact he’s rather on the twiglet size. Very slim hips. The cat, not Dave. But only that morning I had witnessed him on tiptoes, hair all puffed up looking like Joan Collins in a mink coat, as he hissed and screamed at a big black tom that has taken a fancy to Hayley’s garden. The standoff ended when the black cat got bored and with a grin and a swagger he turned his back and strolled off.
Had this showdown given Cheeky a new sense of power? Did he imagine he had seen the opposition off? We will never know for sure, but right at this moment there was a lot of blood apparently, according to my daughter.
You just know that at 11pm at night this isn’t going to be cheap.
But let me tell you. In an emergency, forget NHS A&E. Get yourself over to an open 24hr a day vetenary hospital. Hayley alerted them about the arrival and the operating room was ready and waiting. No sitting around in casualty talking to the drunks and wondering how that man had managed to get the peg caught on his private parts. Oh no, straight in and an overnight stay for observation. If you do try this route instead of casualty , I think the only tricky part would be squeezing oneself into the small metal cat cage, but other than that, it’s just as comfortable, with the loo in your cage. How many hospitals can boast that I ask you? And horse tranquiliser on hand as well.

So that was Monday night and Tuesday sorted. Cheeky is now recovering at home with bedrest and a vast assortment of new ‘treats’. A sheepskin bed, nibbles, fine wine. Definitely a cat that has got the cream. £300 of it in fact, once we got the bill.

So that left Wednesday. I had plucked up the courage to tell the carpenter at Hayley’s flat that this was indeed his last day. He’s worked for me many times but this had to be the last. It’s not that he’s slow, but five days in and we had accomplished a small shelf behind the bath and a very simple cupboard. What we also had was a lot of numbers, sums and crossing out on the newly painted wall. Was he studying particle physics perhaps or cracking the meaning of life? These figures on the wall certainly didn’t add up when it came to my cupboards which were on a lean and rather wobbly.
What happened next is rather a mystery. He wasn’t terribly happy that this was his last day so I cleared off and went to the bank. On my return no sooner was the key in the door, than I heard the following
“Caz, I’m afraid there’s been a bit of an accident.” Another broken bit of furniture perhaps? I thought uncharitably.
“I’m afraid there’s an awful lot of blood. It’s all up the walls, the floor, everywhere.”
And he was right. The new cupboard was no more. It was a pile of bits on the floor. What greeted me was the shower scene from Hitchcock’s film Psycho. The carpenter had a large wad of tissues round his hand. The chisel had slipped.

Let’s just say that as a nurse I am really no loss to the NHS. We managed to cobble something together with gauze and some sellotape and off he went to A&E. He wasn’t impressed with my suggestion of the the vetenary clinic. He’s fine though. Two stitches and a week off work. Two stitches? Only two stitches? What about all this blood then? Where’s that come from?

Maybe he’s faked it. I am watching the post for compensation claims.

A firm grip on life

Thursday 13th May, 2010

“Darling, what did you think of that film? Wasn’t it amazing?” Francis and I clattered down the stairs in the wrong direction, heading for the security fire exit.
“Hello? It’s like a geriatrics outing, get a grip and follow me.” Mandy had taken firm control and like rounded up sheep we followed her out towards the shopping mall. I know Fulham has million pound houses and flash motors, but frankly Fulham Broadway missed out somewhere.
Me: “Shall we share some tapas before we head off?”
“I tell you what, it’s only 8.45 so I’ll just have a quick drink with you, but I won’t eat as I don’t want a late night.” Francis piped up.
Ummm, where have I heard that before?

This then is an abbreviated version of what went down.

Francis: “Darling (to the waiter), Can you just do me a small mozzarella and tomato salad. Oh and a beer too, thank you”.
Francis: “Oh yes, and perhaps some dough balls and olives would be nice.” That’s’ the ‘no eating’ sorted then.
Two hours later.
Francis: “If either of you two said I should have another beer, do you know, I think I just might.” And there we have the ‘only one drink’.
Francis: “Mandy, should we share an icecreamy chocolaty something do you think?” That’ll be more ‘I’m not going to eat’.
11pm
Francis: “Well, darlings, really must dash, don’t want to be late.
11.15pm. Francis on knees in underground carpark, contents of handbag surrounding her knees.
Francis: “This always happens. Where did I put the ticket?”
11.30pm Ticket found on the dash of her car.

Result. Another early night for the three of us. Hurrah!

God

How has this happened? My blog seems to have ended up amongst the Godslot blogs. Either side of my site you can find religion. Am I surrounded? Should I give up without a fight? Should I accept my fate and join the congregation? Maybe I can start my own movement? Maybe I can learn a thing or two from these chaps. I'll let you know. In the meantime

Bless you my children.

Volcanic maverics

I know, this is a little late, but I have much catching up to do. It's amazing how well travelled everyone is these days. Me? I loved the fact that they grounded the planes because of the volcanic dust from iceland. How amazing to look up and see no vapour trails throught the sky. I wonder if it improved our health for a few days? The following are extracts from friends messages as they tried to get home to Blighty.

Mandy:
Hi Girls
Just wanted to moan to someone. Being trapped in Miami for an extra few days was fine, but now it's raining and I've run out of clean underwear, disposable contact lenses, money and HRT! So- smelly, blind, poor and hysterical. The next bookable flights are in May! (This was written on Sunday April 18th) But may have a stroke of luck, as someone we met in the Bahamas is trapped here too with his family and has chartered a private jet for tomorrow flying to the closest available airport and he's offered to take us with him. What a star.

Mandy update (abridged)
Plane held till 3pm tomorrow and we're hoping for a miracle. Anyway off to meet the private jet people to buy them loads of drinks on the roof top bar. Let's hope the HRT doesn't wear off and they find out what I'm really like!

She got home in the private jet. Let's hope they don't receive the bill.

Girls behaving badly

Here's to the girls, eternally young at heart and juvenile by nature. I have included an extract from a text by one of them on receiving the pics which goes as follows.

...They are fun photos although I can't stop obsessing about my grey hair showing through and I only recently had it done... couldn't help but make a comparison and I thought Philippa looked particularly smooth - is it to do with lifestyle do we think... maybe she has had a little work done (she says hopefully, knowing it's not true) Is it those lovely facials and expensive creams (that she remembers to put on instead of letting quarter empty pots mount up in the bathroom, but be too mean/scared to chuck them out). Perhaps more restraint with the chocolate/buscuits/gin ensemble that I am rather keen on at the moment - having replaced the crisps/curlywurlys/beer one of last month - looking forward to moving on to peanut butter/toast Pimms/cashew nuts for the summer. Ah well, must get those roots looked at.

Builder's dust

Ok, so I'm slowly regaining my life as we know it. Not sure what that's worth but it's mine so what the hell. Having spent a month supervising the small 're-fit' project of my daughter's flat, we ended up removing everything bar the walls. I'm sure these would have gone to if it hadn't been for the three flats above. I've now got two tennis elbows and a stoop like you see with those very old ladies born before WW1. Not only can I not bend at the waist (if I still had one)but I can no longer bend at the elbow and to make matters worse, I tripped over my knickers getting to a well earned bath and now cannot move my big left toe either! Thursday two weeks ago was probably the low point I think. Dismissed the Polish builders finally. They made the last day so memorable as they smashed through a plate glass table, spilt gloss paint on the black carpet and I think the last straw was the fight that ensued on the street outside as they tried to apprehend a group of thieves stealing their wood saw. The day was topped oof by partner Paul who arrived at said daughter's flat very well oiled form a business lunch. Having 'tripped' (his words not mine)on the stairs to the flat he managed to fall asleep with his face in the cat(to which he is very allergic). There went my dinner out! I changed back to work clothes and continued scrubbing.

France is all at sea

The drive back through France is not getting any easier. Whichever route we choose, seven hours in and the bum has gone numb, the car smells of hot fruit and smelly cheese and there is still no end in sight. And worse, the Peripherique around Paris has yet to be tackled. Still, despite triggering a speeding camera flash and smiling as the nice gendarmerie took our photos as we flashed by at 90 mph (perhaps they want our pictures for their album?)we were feeling a little smug as we ground to a halt at Calais passport control. Two hours early. Result! Earlier ferry if we're lucky.

Mais non!

Sea France are on strike and have been for three days. Regretting the decision not to watch or read the news whilst away we are told that there is no hope, no solution and to wait for further instructions. Two hours later and I am suprised how chirpy everyone is. That's the English for you. Bus loads of grannies, kids and foreign sports fixture enthusiasts milling around on the tarmac. It's beginning to resemble a refugee camp. By now we are quite overcome by the smell of the cheese which has been lost under a mountain of furniture in the back of the car.

'Quick, you can go, zee new tickets for P&O are ready. Allez vite!' The passport control man suddenly barks through the window.

Hurrah, but go where, how?

We storm en mass for the barrier, as the gate slids open. Like the first day at the Harrods sale all recent comaraderie is forgotten, as men, women and small children polish off a healthy sprint, heading for the ticket office. Paul is overtaken by a grannie who skids to a halt near the back of the queue, barely raising a sweat. Back of the queue? Why a queue, we were first off the starting blocks? Oh, of course, silly me this is the queue still waiting from the previous boat.

'Excuse me, but will we get on the next boat with P&O?' I am still polite at this moment as I ask a port attendant.
'No, the train'.
I wonder if she has overlooked a small point.
'But we are in the car'.
'Eurotunnel madame.'
'Of course, I knew that really.'
'Will we get the next one?'
'I don't know, maybe tomorrow.'
'WHAT!'
She walks away, which was wise for her own safety. I'm a woman of a certain age who has been deprived of sleep, smells of cheese and can't remember where she left her hairbrush. It could get messy.

Fifty minutes and 160 Euros later we are back at passport control. I gave up waiting for a voucher and grabbed one of the last tickets on the next P&O sailing.

'I've been here before.' I can't help hissing at the border guard checking the passport.
'Well, that's nice.' she smiles back. 'Have a nice day' she adds a little too sarcastically for my own liking.

The inside of the lounge on board the ship already looks like a pub lock in. P&O may be running tonight God bless them, but boy could they do with a makeover. I haven't seen anything this shabby since taking the Greek island boats back in the late 1970's. I check the bar for signs of goats.

Centre stage a group of fathers hold court; well hold anything really in their attempt to stay upright. Obviously returning from a sports fixture they are so drunk that one has just fallen sleep on the table, mid conversation. Circling the group are their teenage sons. I wonder if their fathers sheepishly promised their wives that this trip was not a 'rights of passage' and no they wouldn't allow a drop of lager to pass their boy's lips. They would be safe with them. Boy has that badly misfired. Still, they are having a laugh. I only hope they have a chauffeur, coz they can't stand let alone drive.

In the corner a small boy dressed in a plastic Viking helmet with wings was playing the slot machines whilst behind me an Eastern European woman was in tears and screaming at her husband, whilst holding her child upside down. Had she forgotten which end was up?

To the side of me seven large and squat Indians perched on the edge of their chairs. Their mothers had certainly fed them a diet of ghee when they were
younger. Their suits very shiny, their manner intense. they were certainly setting up a new chain of retirement homes. It was a done deal.

A woman straight out of an Amish village in America ignored the whole thing and played Solitaire on a table by herself, her long straggly hair obscuring her face. Well she certainly didn't have my hairbrush. Next time I looked round she had started a poker table and the table had spread to at least ten. Appearances are very deceptive.

Somewhere over the tannoy the emergency instructions droned on but frankly, short of a re-enactment of Titanic, we couldn't have cared less.

A last backward glance at the Sea France boats languishing in port and we were on our way.

I know I said I'd never use Sea France ever again, but hey, the boats are cruise liners by comparison to P&O ferries and last time we travelled on Norfolk line the boat caught fire.

We'll see...