Farewell To All that (2)

FAREWELL TO ALL THAT (2)

'Well, 'ello there my Dearie. A long time, no see. . . I hear you've been shifting. Now, have you missed me?

'Oh, I've thought of you, longed for you, prayed every night that you'd find your way home and then all would be right.'

The Priestess elbowed her way passed the group of disadvantaged children and support workers, and pressed her fleshy jowls against my cheek.

'I've just sold my house,' I muttered.

'And . . . I know how that's stressful, indeed, I've heard said it's as bad as divorce and interring the dead. Yes, I know what they say; there's not much in this life worse than moving and grieving and dumping the wife.'

'I quit work, too.'

'Ah! now that my Sweet Pea is just stupidity. How on earth will you earn your own crust?'

She looked pensive for a moment.

'Ha! I've got it, of course. (I am quite the gift-horse). You can work for me, Darling. A must.'

I, Priestess (2)

I, PRIESTESS (2)

I didn't know what to do with the cat, so I sewed up some mittens, a nice furry hat.

The butcher stood over his barbeque; the smell of kebabs left me feeling quite blue.

I trudged up the hill to Keele University campus. Usually quiet and devoid of rumpus, the place was a-buzz - with girls' dancing troops.

The mothers sat round in slovenly groups with their pop-music blaring, and all of them bingeing. Their daughters were both over-excited and -fed.

And, for the record, their routines amounted to little. (Their commitment to exercise was shamelessly fickle.)

The heftiest girls you ever have seen; all dressed up in pink, they acted like queens but their bodies lacked tone; choreography was poor. (Clapping loudly and whooping, their feet rare left the floor.)

Each troop had its van: white Mercedes or Ford. The dads at the wheels smoked roll-ups, looked bored.

Each van had a logo painted on the side that, I wrongly assumed, was ironic or snide for the names implied quality beyond the girls' reach (for the most part, resembling something washed up on the beach).

I might start my own group - an adolescent dance-troop - comprising fat girls on the verge of puberty. Not to sound disparaging rude or derogatory, but the name I'd christen them - all pastelled-up and pasty - is The Lazy Little Cows.

After all, it's the little lazy cows that always triumph.

I, Priestess (1)

I, PRIESTESS (1)

Well, the heatwave was killing, I'll bet you a shilling, you were glad as I was when it ended. 

Headache and nauseous, lethargic and langourous: my ankles were swollen, my stomach distended.

(Thank God, for the sauvignon blanc.)

When the sun left the sky, I watered the garden. I had to do something to stop the soil hardening.

The plants, for the most part, survived - all but one. 

But, the roundabout cats are too many to number. (They belong to my neighbour: the town's local butcher.) 

It distressed me to notice one evening (in passing) his ginger tom pissing on my ornamental grasses.

I decided to buy a shot-gun.

Now the cats number many and the butcher still loves them - minus one.