Tales from my handbag

On Friday, I had occasion to purchase a sleeping bag. What with all the groovy festivals and camping extravaganzas I’ve got planned for the summer, I figured I could do with something bright and snuggly to hunker down in. I go into Millet’s and linger around the sleeping bag department, umming and aahing in a way that would suggest to any fully-functioning, non-brain dead shop assistant, that I need a bit of help. Eventually, I shout across the empty shop to a boy/girl (the sex was confusing but for the purposes of this blog, it shall be a he) who looks barely old enough to do a paper round, let alone be trusted to actually serve people. Me: ‘can you take me through your sleeping bags’, him: ‘I don’t really know much about sleeping bags’, me: ‘Is there anyone here who does?’, him: ‘I’ll ask’. He then approaches surly, grown-up woman who is window-dressing. She shrugs her sloping shoulders in a ‘I have no idea and don’t actually give a shit anyway’ sort of way so pre-pubescent boy heads back to me, asking, what is it I need to know, exactly? I ask what 2 seasons refers to. He shakes his head and retreats to the stock room for a consultation. Ten minutes later he returns: ‘it would be good for a fairly warmish winter’ he says. I ask to see invisible man from stock room but pre-pubescent boy says stock room man doesn’t really know any more than that. I huff, puff, tut and finally flounce out, vowing never to enter the shop again. Later on that day, at a beautiful country park hotel, I’m taking tea on the terrace with my mother. Despite the plethora of waiters, we wait 45 minutes for our finger sandwiches, scones, jam and clotted cream and assorted pastries. On enquiring what the delay is, our waiter informs us the kitchen is a mess and an unexpected number of tea-takers means they’ve run out of scones. A girl with big gums and bulging eyes eventually gives us coffee instead of tea and drops one of our precious finger sandwiches on the gravel. A stiff email is in the offing.

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!

With the Season of Suicide upon us, I thought I’d tickle my misery gland good and proper with a screening of possibly the most depressing film of all time - The Road. To sum up: man and boy go for an almighty long ramble without changing their underwear. En route they find some tins of Del Monte and a group of peckish cannibals. Man goes  skinny dipping and dies. Boy finds new rambling partner. It put me in mind of the Co-op last week when people went berserk in the bread aisle for want of a white bloomer. Having said that, I regularly go berserk in the Co-op, usually owing to low staff IQ and poor layout whereby till queues extend way past the bog paper into dog food rendering those on a hunt for bog paper and/or dog food unable to secure said articles without rubbing body parts or treading on loose babies. Having said all of that, even if it got so bad I actually killed someone in there, I wouldn’t want to eat them, bloomer or no bloomer.

The demi-century is upon many of my compadres and therefore, a big excuse to party and let it all hang out before it all drops off. Last weekend it was Sue’s Big One in Nantes so, I got my party frock out and crossed La Manche ready for some Gallic action. They came from all quarters to celebrate: the Algarve, the Holloway Road and Watchet so it was a bit of a squeeze, plus the bathroom was a building site so we made do with strip washes in the garage. Oh how we laughed (and cried) and reminisced about the good old days (it was a bit like Peter’s Friends but without the bad hair and chunky knit sweaters). Of course, once the French posse joined the party, the talk turned to existentialism and cheese but we just laughed again and had another Ricard. Sue had laid on some fine entertainment; we had a Belle and Sebastian type combo, a one-man band called Pierre-Claude with a pocket ukele, two ten year old hip hoppers, high on Le Tizer and, this being France, a bit of nasal wailing courtesy of Serge Gainsbourg and Edith Piaf. The next day I rose from my lilo and after a great big fry-up,  threw myself into the pan-European ping pong championship, obstacle race and penalty shoot-out. The lethal combination of hang-overs and hysteria meant, of course, that the grown-ups weren’t operating on full cylinders although there were a few surprises, eg Nigel, despite wearing a cardigan and having slim fingers, can bend it like Beckham while Eddie is quite handy on a Space Hopper. Sadly, amid all the screams and shouts of ‘zut alors’, the kids made steak tartare of all of us. Happy days.

Alleluia. The worst time of the year has passed and it was bearable. The highlights: I didn’t make anyone cry. That’s it. The rest is a blur. So here I am back in snowy Brighton trying to get back to normal. I’ve made my annual pilgrimage to Freak Street and the Marie Curie Emporium of Clothes that People have Died in. This year I was proud to donate a bag of lavender fragranced nicky nacky noos and assorted bath bombs. Nice if you’re 90 but I’m not. Thanks anyway. I have two New Year’s Resolutions: a. at the risk of encouraging rats, I will feed the birds in my garden. b. I will expand my vegetable repertoire to incorporate Pak Choi, broccoli and butternut squash . c. I will stop obsessing about expanding my vegetable repertoire. d. I will take inspiration from Harold Pinter’s passing to finish my play.  That’s it. Over and out.

I’ve just found out that a namesake of mine, Louis Dewis, was a Belgian post-impressionist painter. I always knew that I had Flemish ancestors but none so illustrious. Apparently, in between paintings, he hung around in bars, drinking absinthe and contracting syphilis. When the love of his life - a prostitute called Arnold - rejected him, he cut off his nob. See, I knew I was special. �