Wednesday, 29 December 2010

Charlie's Missionary Impossible

Rodger got very excited on Boxing Day. He had decided to stuff the turkey curry and feed it to the birds instead. He was outside my abode merrily tossing the parson’s nose across the lawn when a seagull dive bombed and nearly missed the elderly bread throwing neighbour.

‘To compete with the parson’s nose’ she mumbled into her day old crust, ‘is a mission impossible.’

And it was if a blow torch lit up in my lover’s bald spot.

‘I have a novel in me’ he shouted up at my boudoir window.

‘Well don’t sit down,’ came a voice from the washing green.

Ignoring the voice from the washing green, my Rodger carried on shouting. ‘Missionary Impossible a Sci Fi for the dyslexics.

Now the only impossible missionary I know takes an afternoon on pints followed by an evening on whisky ...thank god my Rodger doesn’t not drink.

Rodger raced up the stairs and as he lunged for the chandler he shouted, ‘a heroine called Sheila, a whip and a midget called Woody, what you think my little sugar lump?’ (He only ever mentions my sugar lumps in a totally state of creativity).
And as I watched my little love pot swing his torso with more gusto than a chimp on speed I began to ponder.

How many times do you look at you mobile after first date, worst still after the first lumber (Shag for those not Scottish), worst still when they both happened at the same night? Not the sort of question you would expect from a pensioner, especially one who is being entertained by myself at the Rest & be Thankful Nursing Home.

Still she seemed more that enthusiastic when my Rodger pulled out his Zills during the performance. In fact she grabbed them and with remarkable timing started belting out Auld Lang Syne on them. Rabbie Burns would have been fair impressed.
Well she and the other followers at the R & B T will no longer be privileged to hear Rodger’s Zills. He has taken to the shed; yes by the washing green and can be heard muttering to himself - ‘no Sheila not the whip’ , ‘Woody! Woody! the Starship’s out of diesel’.

And as for my chandelier, it suspends silently on my bedroom ceiling barely managing more than a tilt when the bin men's lorry drives by.

Sunday, 19 December 2010

The Lady is not for waxing

You'll have noticed a new award has appeared on my blog site. Which Sheryl would describe as the ‘TITS’!
So as she was the last blogger I have decided to let you in on seven secrets about our Sheryl - 7 things only her belly dancing teacher would know!
She has a laugh like no other (an undisguised blessing)
Her timing is incomprehensible
Her diction betrays her origin; she is Australian and it shows; tomato sauce on everything
She once refused to eat octopus on TV
She has had her hand in more than one ewe and has even lambed one
She hates Country and Western music and is not too keen on The Beetles either
She sings along to Abba when no one is around
She once had a crush on her dentist - personally I think it was just the smell of rubber but then I am an erotic cynic

So this is me back after my guess blog decided to spill the beans on being single...She may as well have put a notices on her door.
No men; no sex; this lady is not for waxing!!
Well for a women who chooses to drink in The Argyll and O’leary’s Oyster Bar this is understandable. Pickings are grim.
Take the Argyll it is about as posh as peanuts on a paper plate. It’s the sort of place that has Iron bru (Scotland favourite orange coloured bubbly) on tap, karaoke on Friday night followed Bobby Bingo and his Wing Nuts (never stayed for that). Their idea of a buffet is a plate of cold chipolatas, some cheese and onion dip and a packet of whatsits with Shifty singing ‘My Way’ in background.
O’Leary’s Oyster bar ‘does’ Karaoke too. The difference is the Karaoke machine is a CD player from Tescos’ with a selection of ten songs written on the back of a beer mat. It’s run by Lumpy the postman and Mary a woman who dresses from Tesco and is not afraid to show it.
Chubby the butcher has a thing for me ... it all started when I was in her shop. I was standing there pondering the wisdom of beef olives when in walks Imogene – Imogene calls herself a calligrapher although why someone wants to advertise the fact that they write like monk is beyond me –
Imogene orders 4 links and some potted tongue then makes some remark about mutton: lamb and padded bar while looking at me!
Me with a padded bra; my Rodger would be livered;
Well I told Imogene where to shove her quill and Chubby was impressed. How do I know? Cause I got any extra link with my mince and a wee mention in the local paper about my exploits with the elderly folks and their rhythms.
Every week Chubby writes a small column in the ‘oot and aboot’ section.
She sees herself as a woman of wit and intelligence, whose talents stretched far beyond the realms of butchering.
Not that her butchering skills aren’t known; I mean her ability to sculpt meat into the tenderest of portions is the talk of the WRI. She has more customers than the Coop on Christmas Eve selling almost out of date B.O.G Offs...And her loins are spoken about in hushed tones..
Hector who owns the butcher shop says his sales have doubled and he is more than happy to indulge in Chubbie’s fantasy of being Lochgilphead’s answer to Oscar Wild.
‘For a lesbian built like a brick shithouse,’ she sure can sculpt a sentence he says. Rumor has it she can roll a rissole - construct a sentence and bone a joint all at the same time. What a woman.
I wonder if she waxes?