Tales from my handbag

Ever since Christopher Boulter’s Bill Sykes bludgeoned my Nancy with a rubber mallet in 1970, I’ve had a soft spot for Oliver, the musical. At the weekend, I went to see some other 10 year old with a uni-brow and matching tash commit murder most horrid behind a bit of mdf. Rather like the Bill of my youth, this Bill couldn’t act to save his life but he had a marvelous lisp which made up for it. Dodger was ginger and Fagin kept fluffing his lines. Nancy, bless her heart, was three feet taller than the rest of the cast and had obviously been to the London Bridge branch of SpecSavers but her Oompahpah was tremendous. Other highlights: Mr Brownlow’s Peter Wyngarde sideburns and the valiant efforts of the assorted extras to casually mill around the postage stamp stage without a. bumping into each other or b. crashing into the cardboard book shop and Victorian vegetable barrow. Talking of vegetables, next day, on the allotment, Len, the hairy road sweeper with the Filipino, vegetable hating internet bride, approached me with an offer. If I wasn’t too bothered by excess gas, would I be interested in taking a bag of Jerusalem artichokes off his hands. It was a very windy night.

Dogs. What are they for? What do they want from us? Why the smell? Last night I got up close and personal with a bull terrier called Moo, and I have to say, I quite enjoyed it. Ever since our Blackie licked Nivea Cream off my knee then licked his bits (I think it was that way around), I’ve had a soft spot for dogs. And when I say ‘dogs’, I mean proper dogs - the ones with deep voices, a musty whiff, and the flexibility of Olga Korbut, enabling them to chew their genitals with ease. Oh those heady summer nights of 1976 when the family visited Dorset in a Sprite caravan and Blackie had an irritated ball sack. How our caravan rocked to the rhythm of his chomping as the poor mutt struggled to relieve himself of his terrible affliction. Thinking about it, I reckon he might have had dog VD; well he did put it about a bit. Dogs eh!

It’s not often that you get to use the word ‘treacherous’ but I’ve used it several times recently to describe conditions outside my front door. I ‘oohed’ and ‘aahed’ when the first flurries appeared and gaily laughed at the children shoving snow down each other’s pants on their way to school. But then my road became a death trap. ‘Aaaaarrrggghhhh’, ‘wooohhhhhhh’ I cried as the ice rink conditions sent me hurtling head long into a neighbour’s bush. My low point was getting stuck in the middle of the road and having to get down on all fours and crawl home from the pub. On a lighter note, I’ve discovered that the wildlife in my back garden does not like chocolate and chestnut terrine but does like rough puff pastry.

…I was washing my dusters. Christmas makes me go a bit mental on the cleaning front. I’ve been down on my hands and knees washing my skirting boards and have even tackled that oft neglected rear of tap blind spot with a sprinkling of bicarbonate of soda and a squirt of lemon. Came up a treat. Carrying on the Biblical theme, I have also taken on the role of Good Samaritan, walking my neighbour’s dog, pulling another neighbour’s curtains twice daily to confuse burglars and even feeding the poor little sparrows with my left-over cheesy pasta bake. I am now quite au fait with dog shit and after a week of rather challenging curtain duties, have pinpointed the exact amount of ‘yank’ required to avoid pulling them off the rail completely. As to the sparrows, well, there aren’t any but I did get two really ugly crows fighting over a floret of broccoli.

I do miss not having a man in my kitchen so imagine my delight when Ed appears with his big hands and plastic bag full of danger. He’s here to do a bit of carpentry but has a sideline in smashing things. Already I’ve lost a favourite flower pot and he’s almost ripped my light fitting out just by flicking his hair in between cups of tea. I’m worried he’s going to saw his finger off but he just laughs and asks what’s for breakfast. Bloody hell, I’m not a b&b you know.

It’s a bitter-sweet moment in the brave new world of my kitchen. My refurbishment is all over bar the shouting/snagging. I have shiny new surfaces and handle-less cupboards that don’t close when you want them to then mysteriously open on their own in the middle of the night. Trust me to have cupboards with attitude. I have spent a week deciding where to stash my mung beans and whether to get an orange teapot to offset the sterile, dentist’s surgery ambience as the man in the worktop shop suggested. This from a man who wore waist high jeans and had no genitals that I could easily discern. I told him not to worry as I’d be incorporating an aqua marine splashback; at this he winced. In Brighton we do things differently which is why I have had Guardian reading tradesmen called Hamish and Orlando who don’t take sugar and put the seat down when they’ve had a wee. They have been most conscientious and accommodating; indeed, when they left I kissed them. Adieu my little fitters, ’til the next time….

Last night I dreamt I was Anne Frank on the run from the Nazis in Devon - and wearing rather too much lipstick for a girl of my age. Then suddenly, just as I was about to get carted off to Barnstaple Concentration Camp, I was miraculously transported to a Travel Lodge at Heathrow Airport where I was caught up in a love triangle with an unknown woman and the man off the GoCompare.com advert. The gist of it was that I was in love with him but he was enamoured with the blurry woman so I packed my suitcase and got a plane to Jakarta. The swine! I think the travel/on the run dream theme is down to my chaotic home life. I have no facilities - no cooker, no washing machine, no sink. I am getting very good at slicing bread on my bedroom floor and washing my pants and my dirty dishes while soaking in the bath. Rinsing is vital - I’m sure my lovely builders don’t want a nice cup of tea with my pubic hair floating around in it.Â

I have men in my kitchen. They are doing things, manly things, with hammers and drills. They are very dirty. I want to watch them at it but I think this may be off-putting. They’ve ripped out my oven and hob and sink so I will have to rely on the comfort of a. strangers or b. pot noodles.Â

This week I’ve had a …what is the collective noun for builders….. a bumcrack? a tardy? (couldn’t be on time if their lives depended on it) or what about a wince? - that being the usual response to simple requests like ‘can you rip out my drawers and give me something brand new and spanking please John/Dave?’ Now I’m not being unreasonable. I do not want an island unit that transforms into a hot tub for 9 1/2 week style orgies; I have no need for music in my pantry or flashing lights in my pan drawer. I just want some common-sense and a can-do attitude. Is that really too much to ask?  �

I don’t want to sound like I’ve got an environmental-related OCD but I need to talk about the weather again. Yesterday, I was practically house-bound due to the Monsoon. Thankfully, I had all the comestibles I needed in my cupboard so didn’t need to go out but when it came to jazzing up my roast potatoes I was forced into the deluge in order to pick a sprig of rosemary. Then, later on, as I coursed down the road in my canoe, I got to thinking, as Carrie Bradshaw says in Sex and the City, when is this fucking weather going to stop and when can I get my flip flops out? My winter broad beans have died in the ground, my hardy Agaves, the Ranulph Fiennes of succulents, are drooping and I don’t even want to talk about my onions..Â