Halloween came and went for me and my Rodger. Thanks to an unfortunate incident with a dog costume and a female impersonator my Rodger is very Halloween phobic. The mere mention of apple bobbing and his cravat takes a turn for the worst.
Last week, I was merrily teaching gothic tilts to my flock of three (keeping with the Halloween theme) when ‘our’ Margret, as they like to call her, decided to have a rant.
‘There is nothing more Halloween that a demented mother silently mouthing obscenities at an unyielding turnip while knocking up yet another costume with egg boxes and crepe paper!’
I tried to console her with my Rodger phobia of Halloween – trick or treating can fair put a droop on his chandelier swinging.
‘One knock knock joke’ I joked ‘and he is as limp as a dunked rich tea biscuit.’
I almost got a smile from Margaret when Sheryl (a practical woman with the thighs to prove it) chips in. ‘What about a pumpkins?’
According to Margate pumpkins are for wimp’s and a turnip is far more traditional in Scotland. The caretaker who has taken to ‘popping’ in now and then on the pretext of checking the heating system also agreed but then he has a thing for women with rigid hair styles …. ‘Chipping away at the granite of life’ is apparently what gets him up in the morning.
Margret continued she was on a rant and nothing much was going to stop her not even Sting whose tunes are as tantric and his reputation in bed. He dose go on a bit, sometimes one just prefers a quick radio 1 pop tune especially in the morning. A few fast beats and you done and ready for a coffee.
‘And where is hubby while I am doing all this Halloween malarkey?’ says Margaret. ‘Glued to Come Dancing; drooling over Felicity Kendal abilities to do the splits. He looks at me for a moment and then do know what he said, “Do I still do yoga?”’
Margaret was livid. She was standing in the middle of the dance floor with a look that took 35 years of marriage to perfect. I almost felt sorry for her husband.
‘I was standing there with a turnip in one hand and my paring knife in the other. And do you know the only thing keeping that git safe was his dad in the corner muttering on about the “good life”.’
‘We all have our fantasies’ said a brave new comer from the back.
Margaret stoically took no notice as her tilts took on a new dimension more befitting a garbage collector than a dancer.
‘Fantasy?’ she said ‘This morning I fantasized about choking my hubby with my ‘yoga legs’ did I tell him? No? I got up; chucked the turnip in the bin, ripped the egg boxes in to pieces and then toasted my efforts with a coffee.