Go with the Flo

If you think I’m carrying a few wrinkles then, let me tell you, Flo’s complexion makes a man’s scrotum look as smooth as a Pierrot mask. She told me the other day that she’s thinking of getting a face-lift. “What on earth for Flo?” I asked, sounding a little disingenuous. “Sometimes I look in the mirror,” she said, “and it’s Gollum that looks back at me.”

“Can you afford a facelift?” I asked. “After all that root canal work last year.”

“I’ll go to eastern Europe,” she answered. “Get it done there. They don’t have the same rules and regulations; it’s a lot cheaper.” Clearly this was not an on the spur of the moment thing; she’d thought this thing through.

“What are you thinking of having done?” I asked her, steeling myself.

“I want Ann Robinson’s chin, Jordan’s lips, Harriet Harman’s nose, Cheryl Cole’s cheekbones and Selina Scott’s eyebrows.”

“Well it sounds a hideous combination,” I told her. “You’ll look like a Crimewatch photofit.”

“I want a tummy tuck and a want this loose turkey skin around my neck gathering up,” she said, shaking the shammy leather-like folds vigorously.

“Is there nothing about yourself you like and want to keep?” I aked her.

She thought about this.

“I like my internal organs,” she said. “They’ve served me well. The constitution of an ox… unfortunately the face to match.”

“Anything else?” I ventured.

“My bingo wings; they need to go,” and with that she raised one arm and slapped a pendulous deposit of fat.

“You’ll change your mind,” I told her, “You always do.”

“Not this time Doris,” she said. “It’s time to peel back the years.”

“Not before you’ve peeled back your ears,” I pulled her leg.

So, it looks as though Flo and I might be holidaying in eastern Europe next year. Until she changes her mind that is.

I’m running out of Christmases

Each year I put the Christmas tree back in the loft I think, that’s one year nearer the grave; not so many more Christmases until I meet my maker I tell myself.

Does that seem a little morbid? It isn’t meant to be; it’s the way it is. When I pop my clogs, they’ll sell the house and everything in it and a new family will move in and they’ll change everything, starting with that avocado bathroom. They’ll get it just the way they like it and every trace of Doris Brazil will be eradicated; well, almost every trace. One day they’ll venture into the attic and there, tucked away in the corner, under the rafters, they’ll find my Christmas tree. And they might dust it off, and adorn it with baubles and tinsel, and allow it to be the centre of attention one more time… then again, they might see it for the inadequate little thing they think it is and throw it in the boot of their smart family hatchback and drive it to the municipal tip and, without ever knowing it, destroy the last trace of Doris Brazil, ladies’ outfitter and widow of this parish.

That my Christmases are in short supply is an undeniable truth, so should I savour every one that comes my way? That’s not how it works, not for me anyway. Imagine knowing that every present you receive will outlast you;  it used to be clothing, soon it will be the chocolates! More stuff for my relatives to pick over. I find the festive season quite sad, not that I’d ever say it to anyone, apart from you. Actually I do like Christmas; I go around to Flo’s house for Christmas lunch and spend the afternoon with her family but I always make a point of coming back home in the evening so they can have time together, without me. I come home and light the fire and usually I’ll make myself some soup and listen to something on the radio, a Christmas concert if there’s one on.

Although Christmas fills me with trepidation, I don’t like it when it’s all over and I have to put that tree back in the loft. I always say a few words when I do, something like: “See you next year,” and I do feel an obligation to it, as if I’d be letting it down if I’m not there for it in a year. You see, it’s just me and the tree in that house, and we’ve been together a long time. Perhaps the solution is to be buried together although, good luck to them trying to get it into the coffin with me, I always struggle to get it back into its box after Christmas. I want to be cremated anyway, which I thought was eco-friendly but with an articial tree packed in alongside me, I’m not so sure. I bet we’d burn though!

Tony Gordon

Flo has always had a thing for bad lads. Lately she’s had the hots for Coronation Street’s Tony Gordon who, I must admit, is an improvement upon previous bad-beau Simon Cowell. But, as Tony faces up to a long stretch in chokey, the furthest thing from Flo’s mind will be to wait for him. She has the attention span of a gnat with Attention Deficit Syndrome drinking fizzy drinks and she’ll soon be on the prowl for her next bit of rough.

I wrote down the following words by a young poet called Alexandra Burke but they could have been written for Flo:

The bad boys are always catching my eye, I said the bad boys are always spinning my mind. Even though I know they’re no good for, it’s the risk I take for the chemistry. With the bad boys always catching my eye, ooh bad boys.

Herman Van Rompuy

Herman Van Who? Herman Van Belgium Prime Minister of course, and he’s favourite to become Europe’s first Prime Minister. Based on nothing at all he already gets my vote over Tony WOMD Blair but surely, with a population of 500 million to draw upon, we can do better than this pair. Has anyone even bothered to ask Michael Caine? Perhaps I am a little biased when it comes to the next Mr Brazil, I’m not even sure how interested he is in politics, but plenty of other  names spring to mind. Terry Wogan would be good. Gary Lineker would be popular with the youth of Europe. Flo thinks that Kevin McCloud would do well; he has a certain rakish charm. If we’re looking beyond these shores then Julio Iglesias is a definite possible. And if it is some political acumen that you’re looking for, then fill your boots with Lech Walesa, Poland’s very own Ricky Tomlinson and former Prime Minister. At 66 he’s a full three years younger than the actor Michael Gambon  although that’s irrelevant; nobody would take Michael Gambon seriously as European President.

Throwing the book

How often do we hear on the news that somebody is throwing the book at somebody else. What I want to know is, which book is it these people are throwing? I have some suggestions for you:

1. A Brief History of Time by Stephen Hawking. A Brief History of Wasted Time, more like. Feel free to throw that book anytime you like. Superstring theory, light cones and black holes have no bearing on ladies’ fashion and have no relevance in Appleton Marsh.

2. Love is the Reason for Living by Barbara Cartland. Over the years I have read every Barbara Cartland novel. She wrote them faster than I could read them and it took her death, just six weeks shy of her 99th birthday, for me to catch up. Highlights for me would include: ‘Love is an Eagle’, ‘An Archangel Called Ivan’, ‘The Hell Cat and the King’, and ‘Cupid Rides Pillion’. So what is my particular beef with ‘Love Is the Reason’? Just this; the title. It always seemed a little preachy not to mention sanctimonious. Book titles should never be so emphatic. Perhaps if I knew of a book called ‘Puffed Pastry Will Give You Wind’ then I would be recommending you throw that, but I don’t so it will have to be ‘Love is the Reason’.

3. ‘Legend?: The Autobiography’ by Bernie Slaven. Bernie who? Apparently Bernie Slaven, was a footballer who played for Middlesbrough, Port Vale, Darlington, Queen of the South, Albion Rovers and Airdrieonians. I say apparently because I’d never heard of him until I was unexpectedly hospitalised a couple of years back. Finding myself bedridden and with no reading material to alleviate the boredom, I was passed this book by the lady in the next bed. God knows how it fell into her possession , it did not come with her recommendation and I’m not sure she’d even read it herself but I snatched it eagerly from her hands. The next thing I remember was waking up… six weeks later. I had slipped into a coma. The doctors muttered medical gobbledegook about unexpected complications but there little doubt in my mind. The stultifying and overblown ‘Legend?: The Autobiography’ by Bernie Slaven was to blame. Since Bernard poses the question, let Doris Brazil answer it. Winston Churchill, we can all agree, a legend. Mahatma Gandhi, definitely a legend. Martin Luther King, a legend of course. Elvis Presley, probably a legend. Nelson Madela, without doubt, a legend. John Lennon, perhaps a legend. And Bernie Slaven…? Throw that book.

4. Lord of the Rings, strictly speaking a trilogy. Throw all three volumes, they will hurt.

You will have your own preferences (and I’d be interested to know what they are) and remember, don’t throw pots, throw books.

Phooorrrrrr

Maurice Micklewhite can blow my doors off any time he likes. I’m going with Flo to the Rialto on Sunday to see Harry Brown, the new movie from the next Mr Brazil, Michael Caine. He plays a vigilante  pensioner who goes on a killing spree on a south London sink estate. I must say that the town of Appleton Marsh is relatively crime free but, nonetheless, I do like to think of myself of something of a vigilante pensioner. Please don’t imagine that I would ever ‘pop a cap’ into someone but, trust me, you wouldn’t want me as your enemy. I have been the nemesis of many a litter lout and dog-fouling owner over the years. If I’m honest, it’s not really the stuff of movies and anyway, how many actresses do you know who could take on the part of Doris Brazil, and portray the inner fire, the intellect, the sparkling wit and then the coquettishness? Meryl Street, possibly. Julie Christie, once maybe. Pam Ferris, at her very best. I am what is known as, a hard act to follow.

Age defying wrinkle cream

I was in Fearn’s this morning collecting my prescription and, while I was waiting, I inspected a range of “age defying” products which were on a three for two offer. For a moment I was tempted by L’oréal’s (de Paris) “Age Perfect Reinforcing Serum” but it’s so expensive and, to be completely frank, I’d need a spatula to work it into the deep crevices on my face. It comes with a pipette applicator whereas I would need a turkey baster. According to the marketing, this serum:

- helps combat sagging… a block and tackle couldn’t combat my sagging

- leaves a radiant complexion… my skin is like old parchment, a dust bowl, it absorbs all light like a black hole, it radiates nothing

- skin surface contours appear smoother, more refined… so, not like the Cheddar Gorge then?

The pharmacist called out my name and I made the decision not to buy the Reinforcing Serum. Why?

Because I’m not worth it.

The green, green grass

The grass isn’t always greener on the other side. As Flo found to her cost when she married husband number two, sometimes the grass on the other side is  quite brown and parched.

Dave Bushnil had it all: his own flat in Tedburn St Mary, a two year old Hillman Avenger, a passable sense of humour if a little ribald, and undeniable stature and gravitas. He also had a name that was an anagram of evil husband! I felt uncomfortable taking on the role of portent of doom when I pointed this out to Flo but she failed to grasp its significance and treated it as one big joke. I can remember her throwing back her head and laughing. A month later, after a whirlwind courtship, Flo became the second Mrs Bushnil.

Judging by the honeymoon pictures, if there was any green grass then it was soon treated with a triple dose of Pathclear, Weedol and Roundup. Those scorched earth snaps show a scowling Flo and a disgruntled Dave posing in front of a variety of Stoke-on-Trent landmarks. By the time they returned to Appleton Marsh the marriage was as good as over. Eight days after making their solemn wedding vows and pledging themselves to each other forever, Evil Husband number 2 moved back to Tedburn St Mary.

“I’ve had bouts of indigestion that have lasted longer,” was all that Flo had to say on the matter.

I’m secretly envious of Flo’s reckless streak and wish a little of it would rub off on me. I am too cautious by half but can an old dog learn new tricks? Can a leopard change its spots? Hope does, after all, spring eternal.

I read in this week’s West Country Gazette that Dave Bushnil passed away, peacefully in a care home in Okehampton.  He was eighty six and he never re-married. And the strangest thing, the obituary called him Leonard ‘Dave’ Bushnil; so his real name wasn’t Dave after all. Reading that made me feel quite uncomfortable.

Expedition to Bristol

Flo and I have just returned from ‘up country’ after our annual shopping trip to Bristol. Each year we make a point of visiting the former slave trade capital of Britain to do our Christmas shopping. It’s become something of a tradition; we made our first pilgrimage there way back in 1978 making this our twenty first year. I shudder to think how much money we’ve put into the Bristol economy over that time.

The city centre has changed beyond recognition and mostly for the better. This time Flo and I investigated the new Cabot Circus, Broadmead shopping centre. If you haven’t seen Broadmead, it’s quite beautiful with lovely shops and restaurants arranged, under cover of glass, on several levels linked by escalators. We never need encouragement to shop until we drop although these days we do drop rather easily. So we were very grateful for the selection of eating places that Broadmead had to offer. Flo wanted to try Yo Sushi, the sushi bar but the idea of eating anything uncooked was too much for me; I suggested going Italian to Bella Italia but Flo isn’t keen on pasta – it’s the texture she doesn’t like. We flirted with La Tasca, a Spanish tapas bar, but uncertain what tapas are exactly (Flo speculated it was peasant food), we decided against it. After also ruling out French (Flo doesn’t like garlic or, so I found out, French farmers) and Mexican (more peasant food) we decided upon Frankie and Benny’s – an American diner where we took advantage of their lunchtime menu ‘special’ with free top-up on all soft drinks. Flo had several large glasses of Coca-Cola which was an error of judgement; pumped up with sugar and caffeine she was impossible for the rest of the day.

Leaving the shopping centre we stumbled upon a darling little piazza called Quakers Friars. The most exquisite shops were nestled around a stone flagged square with its sculptures and water features. Flo, by now like a startled rabbit caught in headlights, almost manhandled me into Harvey Nichols and, although it didn’t look like my sort of thing, I have to admit, once inside, it was so unquestionably stylish that it made me think, for the first time, that Doris Brazil Ladies’ Wear might be looking a little jaded. I resolved to remove the yellow cellophane from my windows, for the winter at least, when the sun in low, and to consider moving more stock from behind the counter into the shop where customers can see it.

When we eventually climbed onto the 7.28 train out of Bristol Parkway, laden like old pack horses, we concurred it had been another successful trip and, God willing that we were still alive, we would return next year. I am happy because this year, as well as my Christmas shopping, I have returned with something else; inspiration. Now I am wondering, what happens when you cross Harvey Nichols with Doris Brazil Ladies’ Wear? The answer is certain to be something quite marvelous.

What’s love got to do with it?

“What’s love got to do with what, Doris?” you may ask.

“Pâté,” is my answer.

Tina Turner probably didn’t have pâté in mind when she belted out this song from her 1984 breakthrough album Private Dancer.

“So what’s the connection?” I hear you saying.

“My ex-husband’s fists,” is my answer.

Intrigued? Let me explain.

I used to consider my husband, Joe, a bit of a rough diamond. Now of course I can see him for what he was, which was a rough lump of coal. My Joe had a penchant for tattoos, when they were fashionable the first time around. In those days (and I’m going back to the fifties here) it was not unknown for men, especially those with high pain thresholds and low I.Q.s, to tattoo themselves. Joe was one such man; armed with a needle and a bottle of black India ink, one Saturday afternoon, he set to work on his knuckles.

LOVE. He started work on the left hand, using his steadier right hand to do the deed. I wasn’t happy about it but he seem pleased by the results and, give him his dues, Joe had nice handwriting and I’d say the finished result was close to a Garamond script.

Next came the right hand and, undeterred, Joe set about the task with considerable gusto… with his shakier left hand. It went wrong from the off. Joe made a real hash of the letter H but ploughed on with the A, T and E, resolving to return and make good the H as if these were pencil strokes he was dealing with. Return he did, only to make even more of a pig’s ear of it. The letter grew, and grew,  in size as he attempted to cover over his initial mistake. Eventually Joe decided to cut and run. Making the best of a bad job, trying to salvage something from this dreadful situation, Joe wrought the H into a passable P.

And so it was, LOVE AND PATE

If only I had a pound for every person who asked Joe for the story behind the tattoos on his hands! At times his efforts to justify his apparent tribute to this meat-based paste, were laughable. Too proud to admit the truth, he preferred to extol the virtues of this continental spread. Ironically Joe was always a meat and two potatoes man; he couldn’t abide foreign food and yet, he would have defended pâté to his dying breath.