Let's just say I am not having an Edith Piaf moment. I could not regret this haircut more.
I nearly have a heart attack when I spot myself in the mirror this morning.
"Holy shit," I say to Max. "What the hell happened to my hair in the night? Was I actually swirling around?"
"It's just sticking up a bit," he says.
Given the lack of gold stars, I don't know how he considers himself an expert on such matters, but I refrain from mentioning that. Instead, I start trying to resurrect my hairstyle, which takes a lot longer than you'd think.
"Brilliant," I say. "Now I'm going to have to go through all this every bloody morning."
"It does look much better short, though," says Max.
As far as I'm concerned, this is right up there with "You have a great body for your age" in terms of being a backhanded compliment. Why didn't Max tell me my longer hair looked terrible at the time?
My ostentatious sulking seems to have no effect whatsoever on anyone, though - probably because there's no-one at home to witness it. Josh and Max decide to go into town, while I go back to bed in an effort to stop the room moving.
When they arrive back home - after what appears to have been a diversion to the pub - I decide to risk returning to an upright position, and am rewarded with both good and bad news. The bad news is that lying down has made my hair stick up again, but the good news is that Dad has sent me another email.
There are more photographs attached but, yet again, there's no text to give me a clue as to the contents, so I call Josh and order him to open the files. You can't be too careful, after all.
As I put my hands over my eyes, just in case of a sudden vertigo-inducing attack of naked Thai brides or man-boobs, Josh starts double-clicking.
"Here we go," he says.
We both stare at the screen in disbelief.
"Fish," I say.
"Yes, indeed, Mother," says Josh. "Nothing gets past you."
"Very funny. But fishing? For fish?"
It's hardly a common hobby for a man with a short attention span, is it? But at least Dad's got a new interest. Maybe he'll decide to come back home now, and the Porn-Poon saga will be over. Stepmother Mark IV averted.
"Yes!" I say, and punch the air. Josh raises his eyebrows.
"Yes, what?" he says. "Since when do you like fishing?"
"I don't," I say. "But this means Dinah's right: Dad must be bored."
"He's probably just passing the time 'til he can get score some more Viagra," says Josh. "I wouldn't get your hopes up."
After yesterday's triumph of reality over optimism, this is probably good advice, but it has given me an idea: I wonder how Max would react to Viagra? You could probably extract it from my hair. That's definitely got a problem with frequent erections.
Showing posts with label Viagra. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Viagra. Show all posts
Sunday, 21 November 2010
Saturday, 13 November 2010
Learning Difficulties - (Grand)Parental Style. Hopefully Not An Omen.
Max has decided to go on a flying visit to Sam's overnight, as he says this is likely to be the last weekend off he'll be allowed before Christmas. He doesn't invite me, but when I look a bit unimpressed, he says,
"You could have come if you'd wanted to. I thought you'd like a weekend to yourself. You can catch up on all that woman stuff you don't like me to see you doing."
Is that a hint that I should have another go with the hair removal wand? Or is it just an excuse? Whichever it is, there doesn't seem much point in arguing, so I wave Max goodbye, and then decide to go for a wander around Primark.
Bloody, bloody Christmas. Why does it have to start so early? The florist I pass on my way into town still has pumpkins piled up in the window, but now they're swathed in Christmas tree lights. Talk about trying to cover all bases. I bet there'd have been hearts in there somewhere, too, if I'd stopped for a better look.
My blood pressure always goes up at the mention of the so-called festive season. Or, at least, it does these days. I didn't used to mind it when the children were young, despite the inevitable Christmas morning fight that would break out between Connie and Josh within five minutes of them waking.
This was usually about ten minutes after Max and I had gone to bed, but watching the kids open their stockings was such fun, even if Josh did get a bit stressed.
Connie's obsession with laboriously un-peeling every bit of Sellotape and folding the wrapping paper as if it were an origami masterpiece - before she even looked at the present - almost drove him into a frenzy. Josh has always been a fan of immediate gratification.
He would rip his presents open as fast as he could, then cram anything remotely edible into his mouth - including an unshelled Brazil nut that he confused with a piece of Chocolate Orange on one memorable occasion. He'd almost always need to be sick by about 10:00am. Or hospitalised. (Maybe not quite as much has changed as I thought.)
Now Christmas just isn't the same. Well, the fun's gone, though the tedious bits remain exactly as they were. I still have to write one hundred and sixty-four Christmas cards every year - another dubious benefit of having an over-extended extended family.
And why do wives automatically become responsible for buying, writing and sending cards to their husband's family too? That wasn't at all what I meant when I said, "I do." Five million years ago.
Top of the enthusiasm-killers is definitely the "Who gets which parent?" question, though. Dinah's already on the case when she phones in the evening.
"You having Gary Glitter for Christmas, if he comes back from Thailand before then?" she says. "He already sounds a bit bored."
"Well, even he probably can't have sex twenty-four hours a day," I say.
"Not without spending all his pension on Viagra, anyway. So - are you going to invite him?"
"What?" I say. "Dinah, it's not my turn. I did it last year. Why can't he come to you?"
"He's too annoying." I suppose that's undeniable, but even so...
"And he hates my kids," Dinah continues. "He will insist on calling Jake Damian."
"Damian?" I say.
"From The Omen. Dad thinks it's bloody funny, but I don't appreciate him looking through Jake's hair every five minutes, and saying he's only trying to find the number 666."
Dinah inhales, then carries on:
"And Dad always picks the remote up the moment he arrives and doesn't let it go until he leaves. He won't even let Jake watch CBeebies, for God's sake. How can you expect a four-year-old to appreciate Rugby Sevens or The Terminator?"
She's got a point there. Whenever Dad comes to stay with us, he insists on having the TV on all the time. As far as anyone can tell, there appears to be no reason for this, except to allow him to change channels. Every thirty bloody seconds.
"Yeah, what is wrong with him?" I say. "I thought Josh was going to have a coronary by Boxing Day. We didn't manage to watch a single film all the way through."
"It's ADHD," says Dinah. "As witnessed by his serial marriages."
I really hope that's not an omen. Max is easily-distracted - especially by naked women - and aren't there more divorces over Christmas than at any other time of year?
"You could have come if you'd wanted to. I thought you'd like a weekend to yourself. You can catch up on all that woman stuff you don't like me to see you doing."
Is that a hint that I should have another go with the hair removal wand? Or is it just an excuse? Whichever it is, there doesn't seem much point in arguing, so I wave Max goodbye, and then decide to go for a wander around Primark.
Bloody, bloody Christmas. Why does it have to start so early? The florist I pass on my way into town still has pumpkins piled up in the window, but now they're swathed in Christmas tree lights. Talk about trying to cover all bases. I bet there'd have been hearts in there somewhere, too, if I'd stopped for a better look.
My blood pressure always goes up at the mention of the so-called festive season. Or, at least, it does these days. I didn't used to mind it when the children were young, despite the inevitable Christmas morning fight that would break out between Connie and Josh within five minutes of them waking.
This was usually about ten minutes after Max and I had gone to bed, but watching the kids open their stockings was such fun, even if Josh did get a bit stressed.
Connie's obsession with laboriously un-peeling every bit of Sellotape and folding the wrapping paper as if it were an origami masterpiece - before she even looked at the present - almost drove him into a frenzy. Josh has always been a fan of immediate gratification.
He would rip his presents open as fast as he could, then cram anything remotely edible into his mouth - including an unshelled Brazil nut that he confused with a piece of Chocolate Orange on one memorable occasion. He'd almost always need to be sick by about 10:00am. Or hospitalised. (Maybe not quite as much has changed as I thought.)
Now Christmas just isn't the same. Well, the fun's gone, though the tedious bits remain exactly as they were. I still have to write one hundred and sixty-four Christmas cards every year - another dubious benefit of having an over-extended extended family.
And why do wives automatically become responsible for buying, writing and sending cards to their husband's family too? That wasn't at all what I meant when I said, "I do." Five million years ago.
Top of the enthusiasm-killers is definitely the "Who gets which parent?" question, though. Dinah's already on the case when she phones in the evening.
"You having Gary Glitter for Christmas, if he comes back from Thailand before then?" she says. "He already sounds a bit bored."
"Well, even he probably can't have sex twenty-four hours a day," I say.
"Not without spending all his pension on Viagra, anyway. So - are you going to invite him?"
"What?" I say. "Dinah, it's not my turn. I did it last year. Why can't he come to you?"
"He's too annoying." I suppose that's undeniable, but even so...
"And he hates my kids," Dinah continues. "He will insist on calling Jake Damian."
"Damian?" I say.
"From The Omen. Dad thinks it's bloody funny, but I don't appreciate him looking through Jake's hair every five minutes, and saying he's only trying to find the number 666."
Dinah inhales, then carries on:
"And Dad always picks the remote up the moment he arrives and doesn't let it go until he leaves. He won't even let Jake watch CBeebies, for God's sake. How can you expect a four-year-old to appreciate Rugby Sevens or The Terminator?"
She's got a point there. Whenever Dad comes to stay with us, he insists on having the TV on all the time. As far as anyone can tell, there appears to be no reason for this, except to allow him to change channels. Every thirty bloody seconds.
"Yeah, what is wrong with him?" I say. "I thought Josh was going to have a coronary by Boxing Day. We didn't manage to watch a single film all the way through."
"It's ADHD," says Dinah. "As witnessed by his serial marriages."
I really hope that's not an omen. Max is easily-distracted - especially by naked women - and aren't there more divorces over Christmas than at any other time of year?
Friday, 29 October 2010
Back To Coventry, Metaphorically-Speaking. And The Birth Of A Youth Activist.
Marvellous. It's Friday again, and The Boss isn't speaking to me, also again. This is probably how things are between Boris and Dave at the moment, too - but it makes surgery rather difficult to handle, to say the least.
I start off by trying to persuade Andrew to be moderate in his responses to enquiries, but he soon makes it plain that he's not willing to listen to a word I say. This results in things becoming farcical quite quickly.
The first constituent is an ex-con, who wants The Boss to write to his GP to persuade him to issue a prescription for Viagra.
"I can't get it up no longer," he says. "It's right traumatic."
The Boss nods sagely, as if he can imagine this only too well.
"Terrible thing, terrible," he says. "Have you tried asking your doctor yourself?"
"Yep. He won't agree to it. He's prejudiced against offenders."
"What were you in prison for?" I say.
"Rape."
Now The Boss wants me to write to the doctor to point out that this constituent has served his time and is as entitled to a sex-life as anyone else. (That's debatable, from my perspective. It's not as if everyone is having rampant sex, after all.)
The next constituent is no better. He's a convicted paedophile. (Is the bail hostel running a day-trip to our office, or something?) Now I'm supposed to persuade the man's victim to meet him - to help the paedophile deal with his feelings about the event.
By this point, it feels as if the world has gone stark staring mad. God knows what the press will make of The Boss' intercession in either of these bloody cases, if the news gets out.
The last constituent's a bit of a shock, too. When I go to the door, and call for Mr Johnson, a teenage youth stands up. Followed by Josh.
"Oh, hi, Josh," I say. "I'm busy at the moment. I'll be about half an hour if you want to wait for me."
"I'm with Ben," says Josh. 'I'm his McKenzie's friend." (I wondered why he asked me about that the other night! Reminder to self: always dig deeper before answering.)
"Oh. I see." I don't, actually. I have no idea what is going on.
"We've come to see our MP," says Josh. "There's something very dodgy going on at the cinema, and someone needs to do something about it."
Now it seems as if The Boss agrees. When Ben has told Andrew that he's been forced to resign, Josh takes over. (I think he may have missed the bit where the McKenzie's friend is supposed to remain silent.)
He explains that the cinema has just taken on another batch of new employees. Before anyone can think that this is an early indicator of the private sector stepping in to fill the gap left by public sector redundancies, Josh says that most of those who already have jobs are being got rid of - by stealth. Like Ben.
Apparently, a steady stream of cinema workers are being called in to see the managers, accused of small misdemeanours such as taking a day off sick, and then advised to resign "if they want to make sure they have a good reference."
Josh says that these culls of employees happen fairly regularly, according to the few staff who have managed to keep their jobs for longer than a year.
"But what's the point of that, if the company then has to recruit to fill the jobs again?" I say.
"Well, Mum," says Josh. "Oh, sorry, Mrs Bennett - the rumour is that the company gets financial incentives for every worker it takes from the dole queue. And they don't have to employ them for long to earn it."
"Bloody hell," says The Boss. "So they can claim for a new lot every six months or so?"
"Seems that way," says Josh. "If everyone goes quietly. Only I don't see why they should, do you?"
Well, that was a surprise. Even The Boss is impressed. When we get back to the office, he actually speaks to me.
"Quite the young activist, your son - isn't he?" he says. "Seems he's inherited your reforming zeal. It's just a shame yours seems to have disappeared, eh, Molly?"
Then he picks up his briefcase, says, "Come on, Vicky - I'll buy you a coffee," and walks out of the door.
"Well, we can't all be red-soled philanthropists," I say - to his retreating back. All my best lines, doomed to remain unheard.
I start off by trying to persuade Andrew to be moderate in his responses to enquiries, but he soon makes it plain that he's not willing to listen to a word I say. This results in things becoming farcical quite quickly.
The first constituent is an ex-con, who wants The Boss to write to his GP to persuade him to issue a prescription for Viagra.
"I can't get it up no longer," he says. "It's right traumatic."
The Boss nods sagely, as if he can imagine this only too well.
"Terrible thing, terrible," he says. "Have you tried asking your doctor yourself?"
"Yep. He won't agree to it. He's prejudiced against offenders."
"What were you in prison for?" I say.
"Rape."
Now The Boss wants me to write to the doctor to point out that this constituent has served his time and is as entitled to a sex-life as anyone else. (That's debatable, from my perspective. It's not as if everyone is having rampant sex, after all.)
The next constituent is no better. He's a convicted paedophile. (Is the bail hostel running a day-trip to our office, or something?) Now I'm supposed to persuade the man's victim to meet him - to help the paedophile deal with his feelings about the event.
By this point, it feels as if the world has gone stark staring mad. God knows what the press will make of The Boss' intercession in either of these bloody cases, if the news gets out.
The last constituent's a bit of a shock, too. When I go to the door, and call for Mr Johnson, a teenage youth stands up. Followed by Josh.
"Oh, hi, Josh," I say. "I'm busy at the moment. I'll be about half an hour if you want to wait for me."
"I'm with Ben," says Josh. 'I'm his McKenzie's friend." (I wondered why he asked me about that the other night! Reminder to self: always dig deeper before answering.)
"Oh. I see." I don't, actually. I have no idea what is going on.
"We've come to see our MP," says Josh. "There's something very dodgy going on at the cinema, and someone needs to do something about it."
Now it seems as if The Boss agrees. When Ben has told Andrew that he's been forced to resign, Josh takes over. (I think he may have missed the bit where the McKenzie's friend is supposed to remain silent.)
He explains that the cinema has just taken on another batch of new employees. Before anyone can think that this is an early indicator of the private sector stepping in to fill the gap left by public sector redundancies, Josh says that most of those who already have jobs are being got rid of - by stealth. Like Ben.
Apparently, a steady stream of cinema workers are being called in to see the managers, accused of small misdemeanours such as taking a day off sick, and then advised to resign "if they want to make sure they have a good reference."
Josh says that these culls of employees happen fairly regularly, according to the few staff who have managed to keep their jobs for longer than a year.
"But what's the point of that, if the company then has to recruit to fill the jobs again?" I say.
"Well, Mum," says Josh. "Oh, sorry, Mrs Bennett - the rumour is that the company gets financial incentives for every worker it takes from the dole queue. And they don't have to employ them for long to earn it."
"Bloody hell," says The Boss. "So they can claim for a new lot every six months or so?"
"Seems that way," says Josh. "If everyone goes quietly. Only I don't see why they should, do you?"
Well, that was a surprise. Even The Boss is impressed. When we get back to the office, he actually speaks to me.
"Quite the young activist, your son - isn't he?" he says. "Seems he's inherited your reforming zeal. It's just a shame yours seems to have disappeared, eh, Molly?"
Then he picks up his briefcase, says, "Come on, Vicky - I'll buy you a coffee," and walks out of the door.
"Well, we can't all be red-soled philanthropists," I say - to his retreating back. All my best lines, doomed to remain unheard.
Tuesday, 6 July 2010
Bigger Is Not Always Better
Mum rings me at work. Her preamble is not promising.
"Sorry to bother you at work, dear. I just wanted to ask you whether you'd noticed my eyelid last time you saw me?"
"What eyelid?"
I am trying to scroll through my in-box, which already contains 227 emails received overnight. I have no idea why the House of Commons spam filter picked up an email in which I described a local councillor as "disappearing up the arse of a certain MP," when it seems incapable of removing the 48 adverts for Viagra I receive daily, not to mention those for fake watches and penis enlargements.
"My right eyelid. I've been looking at it in the mirror, and it looks a bit droopy," continues Mum.
"Was that the 25-times magnifying mirror like mine?"
"Well, ye-es. But it definitely looks a bit odd."
"I think the best thing you can do is to stop looking in the mirror, Mum - especially that one. 25-times magnification is not good for the self-esteem. I'm sure it's fine and you just need to find another interest."
"Oh, well - if you didn't notice anything, maybe it's okay," says Mum, and rings off.
I'm as blind as a bat, but Mum just doesn't get that the whole purpose of your sight deteriorating as you age is so that you have no idea of how truly hideous you're becoming. Those mirrors should be banned - but then they are so useful for those stray hairs. I'd be lost without mine - though I'm not quite sure how many supposedly stray hairs it takes to merit classification as a beard. The one plus of receiving phone calls from my mother whilst at work is that I am more inclined than usual to be tolerant, as she doesn't seem half so mad when in the virtual company of most constituents.
Unlike me, Connie is loving her job and talks about it without pausing for breath - at all - for the first two hours after I get home. This fills the void left by Josh's continuing silence. I'm dying to know what he told Mr Thumb about his performance in the Skateboarding Championship when he had to go and hand in his skateboard yesterday, but I lose my nerve when Josh reacts to my attempt to give him a hug by shaking me off as if I had worse B.O. than Edmund Beales. Josh is my baby!
When Connie finally goes out with her boyfriend, and the house is quiet again, Max says,
"Talking about work - "
"Yes?" I don't like the sound of this already.
"I have to go abroad again - next week." Max busies himself in the depths of his briefcase.
"What? Why?" I am amazed. No business trips at all - ever - and then two. In a month? This is surely pushing credibility.
"Business," says Max.
"But I thought the company was struggling," I say. "I'm always reading that furniture sales are down. Massively."
"They are," says Max. "So, if the company want me to go on a course, what bloody choice have I got?"
Outmanoeuvred. Again. Why does my bullshit detector desert me the moment I get home? If I listen very carefully, though, I'm sure I can hear a faint, though familiar, sound.
"Sorry to bother you at work, dear. I just wanted to ask you whether you'd noticed my eyelid last time you saw me?"
"What eyelid?"
I am trying to scroll through my in-box, which already contains 227 emails received overnight. I have no idea why the House of Commons spam filter picked up an email in which I described a local councillor as "disappearing up the arse of a certain MP," when it seems incapable of removing the 48 adverts for Viagra I receive daily, not to mention those for fake watches and penis enlargements.
"My right eyelid. I've been looking at it in the mirror, and it looks a bit droopy," continues Mum.
"Was that the 25-times magnifying mirror like mine?"
"Well, ye-es. But it definitely looks a bit odd."
"I think the best thing you can do is to stop looking in the mirror, Mum - especially that one. 25-times magnification is not good for the self-esteem. I'm sure it's fine and you just need to find another interest."
"Oh, well - if you didn't notice anything, maybe it's okay," says Mum, and rings off.
I'm as blind as a bat, but Mum just doesn't get that the whole purpose of your sight deteriorating as you age is so that you have no idea of how truly hideous you're becoming. Those mirrors should be banned - but then they are so useful for those stray hairs. I'd be lost without mine - though I'm not quite sure how many supposedly stray hairs it takes to merit classification as a beard. The one plus of receiving phone calls from my mother whilst at work is that I am more inclined than usual to be tolerant, as she doesn't seem half so mad when in the virtual company of most constituents.
Unlike me, Connie is loving her job and talks about it without pausing for breath - at all - for the first two hours after I get home. This fills the void left by Josh's continuing silence. I'm dying to know what he told Mr Thumb about his performance in the Skateboarding Championship when he had to go and hand in his skateboard yesterday, but I lose my nerve when Josh reacts to my attempt to give him a hug by shaking me off as if I had worse B.O. than Edmund Beales. Josh is my baby!
When Connie finally goes out with her boyfriend, and the house is quiet again, Max says,
"Talking about work - "
"Yes?" I don't like the sound of this already.
"I have to go abroad again - next week." Max busies himself in the depths of his briefcase.
"What? Why?" I am amazed. No business trips at all - ever - and then two. In a month? This is surely pushing credibility.
"Business," says Max.
"But I thought the company was struggling," I say. "I'm always reading that furniture sales are down. Massively."
"They are," says Max. "So, if the company want me to go on a course, what bloody choice have I got?"
Outmanoeuvred. Again. Why does my bullshit detector desert me the moment I get home? If I listen very carefully, though, I'm sure I can hear a faint, though familiar, sound.
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