Of course, it wasn't only we children who had to be treated for our aches and pains, and I well remember dad, leaping like a maniac out of the bathroom where he had been doctoring the corn on his big toe... unfortunately, again, he was standing (quite naked from all accounts), with one foot on the rim of the bath, when our cat brushed past him, tickling his nether regions!! Dad jumped up in alarm and the 'Freezone Corn Remover' spilled out onto a portion of his body which, apparently, was not accustomed to being treated with such an application!... How well I recall mum's shrieks of laughter, mixed with dad's cries of embarrassment!
Our granny, she had her own secret remedies for her well-being. Every night, she would approach the fireplace and insert a large iron poker into the hot ashes. On a table nearby would be a flagon of stout, paid for out of her meagre pension, and as soon as that poker went white hot, granny would grab a cloth and yank the thing out of the flames, plunging it at once into the stout, which frothed and bubbled for quite a few minutes before granny took an appreciative swallow of her 'nerve tonic'... As she lived happily well into her eighties, I guess she knew a thing or two about self-preservation! And I hope to follow in her footsteps, but without the aid of the stout!
My sister, Shirley, was a very pale, frail-looking child, when she was actually as strong as a horse, but every morning she was made to swallow two 'Dr. Williams pink pills for pale people', but I was more unfortunate because I was the victim of mum's 'Senna-pod syndrome'. How mum managed to keep an eye on seven of her children's bowels, I will never know, but she did, and Senna-pods it was until she was satisfied that we had all 'performed'. Every morning she would pose the question: 'Have you been'?... And even if we said we had, she would make doubly sure by giving us another dose!!
One of my earlier memories is of the amount of time we spent getting ready for 'Sunday School'. Gloves and hat had to be worn by the girls, and my brothers’ ties had to be correctly knotted under their white shirts.
On our return from church we had to face a ritual which always seemed to delay the tea and biscuits which waited nearby, but our mother rigorously denied us access to these goodies until we had faced the weekly cross-questioning as she stood before us with pen and paper... one by one we all had to tell her exactly what we remembered of the bible lessons of that day, often with hilarious shrieks of laughter from everyone present (including both parents). For example, my nine year old sister’s offering.... 'Baby Jesus was born because Mary had an immaculate contraption'! This was followed by my brother Frank’s statement.... 'Married men are only allowed one wife. This is called Monotony'!!
Good old mum! She certainly did her best to give us a religious view of life.
Now I will move on to my teenage years, and the secret of my love of anything fragrant.
"Heaven Scent"
I belong to that amazing generation who had very little money tot their name, but although my teenage years were no sensation, there is one thing I remember just the same.
For each birthday I got 'Californian Poppy'... When I wore it I felt like a beauty queen. I thought all the other perfumes were quite soppy, just for 'Californian Poppy', I was keen!
My friend preferred the scent she called 'Phulnana'... but when she went out courting one dark night her boyfriend said she smelt like a banana. And he disappeared forever from her sight.
My sister, who emerged in 1940 preferred the scent she called 'Soir De Paree', but that 'Evening in Paris' made her naughty, and she ended up across my father's knee!
Yes, our house was rather like a perfumed garden, and granny also added to the throng, but she mixed her talcum from Elizabeth Arden with 'Wintergreen' ... it made an awful pong!
Our dad, he liked to look like Henry Fonda, with hair slicked back, he looked a proper sight, and mother’s curls made all the neighbours wonder if every Friday was 'Amami Night'. So you see I grew up fragrantly protected, and although times were often very tough, our family was never once neglected, and so, as years decline in some disorder, I hope, as I pass by, you all will know that I do not smell of good old 'Estee Lauder' - But it’s 'California Poppy' as I
go.
CHAPTER TWO
Now I must tell you about my brother, Frank.... The only one of his children who drove Dad crazy with his antics!
When he was 15, Frank refused the offer of an apprenticeship with I.C.I. saying that he had decided to look further afield for work opportunities, and he would rather be 'self-employed' anyway!!
So it was that the next day he hired a Wall's Ice Cream 'Stop me and buy one' tricycle, which he pedalled up and down the promenade, chatting up all the lassies. He never told dad that he was supposed to have a licence for this, because there was no way he would part with the required two pounds twelve shillings and sixpence, so Frank always had his eyes open for a sighting of the local 'bobby', who, in turn, was looking out for licence dodgers like Frank.
All went well for him until one day in June 1946, when he was biking down one of the back lanes which led onto the prom, when he suddenly became aware that his every move was being monitored by a police car directly behind him, and this was being driven by a very determined policeman.
Frank thought, 'They're not going to get two quid out of me', and putting all his weight onto the pedals, he shot straight out onto Blackpool prom, pedalling as fast as his little legs would go, but a minute later he became aware that both sides of the promenade was packed with people, all carrying flags and banners, and he realised, to his horror, that he was at the head of some kind of procession!
He stood up on his pedals and chanced a look backwards, and there, in a beautiful limousine behind, was Sir Winston Churchill, acknowledging the cheers of the crowd, and looking very puzzled at the ice-cream salesman who was leading the way!!
Frank managed to speed forwards until he reached the next corner, and this was where dad had chosen to stand with our two grannies, to see the Prime Minister go by!!
His look said it all as he stepped in front of his son, pointing to the only way off the prom available, and I can tell every reader of this saga that my brother Frank never again got onto that bike!
Now I guess is the correct time to recite my poem about my brother,
THE BRYLCREAM BOY
THE BRYLCREAM BOY
By Dorothy M Rawnsley
My brother was a brylcream boy, his hair it shone like glass,
To him it was his pride and joy, attracting every lass,
Each day, he stood with comb in hand, and dipped into a jar,
And combing out each precious strand, he thought he looked a 'Star'
He tried to look like Errol Flynn, but then he got quite cross,
When father told him, with a grin, he looked more like Joe Loss!
And when Frank's girlfriend stroked his head, she didn't 'bill and coo'...
But spent an hour or two instead, with fingers stuck like glue.
But nothing put Frank off his stride, he didn't even blink,
When flies across his head would glide, just like a skating ring,
But on the back of each arm-chair, he left a greasy mark,
Which had poor mother in despair, and caused a row to spark,
But as the years passed slowly on, my brother was dismayed,
To see how thin his hair had gone in fact, it looked quite frayed
And even 'Brylcream' laid on thick, could not disguise the truth,
That all his shinning locks, so slick, had vanished with his youth!
And so he thought he'd try, instead, a man called Mr Tom,
Who placed a wig upon Frank's head, and marched him to the prom,
And in a wind of gale force ten, he made my brother stand,
Until the wig shot off again, and landed in the sand.
Now, a nearby donkey, rather tired of giving kid's a run,
Passed water, like a mule inspired, upon the wig, for fun,
And then, relieved, the donkey brayed his joy at such a 'wee'.
And with the wig, it quickly made, a clash into the sea.
My brother looked at Mr Tom, who shrugged, then tipped his lid,
And left Frank standing on the prom, with a bill for twenty quid,
And bitterly, my brother thought of the price he'd paid for pride,
To see that hairpiece he had bought, sail westward with the tide.
Now in his dotage, Frank recalls that dreadful day of days,
When, in a mist of windy squalls, it vanished in the haze,
And in his mirror, now he spies, a sight which strikes him dumb
He’s like a lot of other guys,.. bald as a badger’s elbow!
But on the bathroom shelf, you know, is a sight which brings Frank joy,
Reminding him that, long ago, he was a ‘Brylcream Boy’.
TEENAGE YEARS
When I was sixteen, there were two things I wanted to achieve.... One was to experience my first kiss from a boy (all my friends had been kissed, but I had not).... And the other thing I longed for was to be taken onto the double seats on the back row of our local cinema. Month after month I waited, with nobody willing to take me.... But that was until I was approached by Arnold !
ARNOLD.... The thickest lad that my village ever threw up!!
My mother went mad when I told her I was going to the pictures with him! "Never"! She shouted, "I’ll never be able to hold my head up again"!!
But Arnold had got the required shilling entrance money, and eventually, I found myself sitting with him on one of those squeaky, double seats. They made so much noise at every movement you made that the audience spent more time peering backwards at us than looking at the screen.
I waited for Arnold to make a move, but all through the first half he sat there staring at the screen, looking gob-smacked. The interval came, and suddenly, he stood up, walked up to the usherette and bought one tub! ONE! Then he sat down again next to me, the lights went low and all of a sudden he darted towards me 'THIS IS IT' I thought.... But how wrong could I be?? He had just dropped his tub on my lap and was trying to rescue it!
This was the end of my first romance, which set me up for all the many disappointments which were to follow!
My brother Frank was a trainee projectionist in this old cinema, and Frank, at that time, was deeply in love with the usherette, Doreen, he spent most of his time blowing kisses to her through the projection box window, and because of his great passion for her, he frequently forgot to change the reels of film over, so we saw the likes of Roy Rogers, shot off his horse, dancing in a saloon bar in seconds! All this made for a very happy Saturday afternoon matinee for all the local kids, and for me in particular!
Years later, I took my heavily pregnant friend, Agnes, in there, to see the first showing of the film 'The sinking of the Titanic'.... As she sat down, her waters broke.... And we nearly all drowned then!
Looking back, because I was a teenager in wartime, I never realised that our whole community was suffering from 'shortages'. It seemed normal for a family like ours to never have a banana in the household, and sweets and chocolate were a long-forgotten pleasure. I nearly burned the house down once, when I tried to make treacle toffee, and forgot to turn off the heat beneath the pan. This resulted in mum's precious sugar ration for the whole of that week being reduced to a molten mass, stuck like glue to the bottom of her favourite pan.
But we survived these troubles, and my brother took on the roles of head protectors of the entire family.
My youngest brother, Geoffrey, joined the R.A.F. in 1943 and at the age of nineteen was an air-gunner in a Halifax Bomber, but on the 4-4-44, a date never to be forgotten by us all, was in the plane when all the crew were lost over France as it crashed in the French village of Poix.... And this is where they are sleeping to this day.
Our eldest brother, Rex, was refused his request to enlist in one of the armed forces, because a childhood illness of Rheumatic Fever damaged his heart (and his hopes of becoming a soldier), and so he joined the A.R.P. as a warden... and air raid precautions' became his major interest for years.
But enough of all this sadness, for our brother, Frank, gave us much to smile about, as we grew up in wartime Britain.
When he was seventeen, Frank set out to join the local home guard, along with a handful of other local lads who had not been able to join any of the armed forces for various reasons. When they arrived at the village hall (our old scout hut), to Frank’s great joy HE was put in charge of a 'platoon'.
Frank's platoon consisted of: One local butcher, his gormless errand lad... Two gay postmen and a shepherd, whose sheep had been confiscated for the duration! They had no proper fighting equipment, and Frank said they all felt damn silly, marching around with broom handles on their shoulders... but in the fullness of time they were all issued with riffles. No bullets, just the guns (for which dad was eternally grateful) .....
Then Frank was given his orders to take all his platoon and go and protect the small village of Pilling, a place of few inhabitants, apart from a small fanning community. A local chemist entered into the spirit of the thing, and provided camouflage make-up for the platoon, but unfortunately, he added too much scent to the product, and they were all covered in flies for days!
Ignoring all the difficulties of their situation, Frank, and his platoon, set up six tents in boglike field, and in no time at all, Frank discovered that a local farmer had three voluptuous daughters who were eyeing up the lads and winking very suggestively. Very swiftly, Frank organised a barn dance... The music being provided by the shepherd, who had a Harmonica, and the two gay postmen who played on their Maracas!!
All went well until their sergeant (who had been tipped off about the shindig), suddenly arrived in the barn, and immediately ordered them back to base.... But as Frank said, as the sergeant removed his one stripe: "It was a really great experience"!
Now I move on to an experience of my own!! And what an eye-opening experience that was.
I was seventeen, and my friend Greta and I decided we would become business women, providing a catering service to all who dared! We set up this 'Home Baking' service, making pies and pasties in Greta's mum's kitchen, advertising this in every newsagents doorway that we could find. Delivery of this food was by way of two rusty old bikes, complete with panniers, which we laboriously peddled around the district.
On this particular day we had received a written order from a certain 'Madame Bouvier', for six hot-pots (with pickles and red cabbage), and a dozen 'Fancies'... she explained that this was for a surprise party for her favourite customer's 80th Birthday.
Being the innocents that we were, we had no idea that Madame Bouvier was the owner of a brothel ... in fact, when we were told this by my brother Frank, we assumed that a brothel was a soup kitchen!! And so we cycled happily to the address, never knowing what awaited us.
Staring at the red lamp, which was illuminating the front door, Greta, balancing her 'Fancies', knocked gently on the wooden panelling. Madame Bouvier suddenly appeared, taking us aback, because this was no French noble woman, but Lizzie, an old neighbour of ours, whose mother used to take in many 'homeless men'... or so she said!!
When she saw Greta and I standing there she was so alarmed that her red wig stood on end, but seeing the baskets of food, she recovered her composure and beckoned us forward... "Come in and follow me", she commanded... and so we did.
Passing down the hallway over the red pile carpet, I could not help but notice the glass chandelier which was casting shafts of light on the pink and purple striped wallpaper, upon which were some strange pictures.... And a full-length mirror, engraved with cupids, and what I can only describe as a cucumber and a couple of brussels sprouts!
We entered the kitchen and put the food on the table there, whilst Madame Bouvier got out her purse. The seven hours that Greta and I had spent toiling over the cooker was rewarded with two pounds twelve shillings and sixpence, plus a nod of gratitude from the madam.
We were just about to leave via the front door, when down the stairs trundled this elderly man, who almost missed his step when he saw what he thought were two nubile young ladies about to register for employment there! But suddenly, Greta let out a shriek which startled us all, then pointing a trembling finger at him, she shouted "Uncle Albert"!! "What are you doing here"?
We never heard his reply because we were bundled out of the house by Madame Bouvier, who rushed back inside, just in time to pick up Greta's uncle, who had fallen backwards onto the hall-stand.
Later that evening we were telling my brother, Frank, about this happening, only to get another shock as he burst out laughing, and proceeded to add to our limited education (in graphic detail), by explaining that a brothel was not a soup kitchen, although, as he said "You couldn't arf get warmed up in there"!!
Talk about laugh!!
CHAPTER THREE
At that particular time in my life, employment was somewhat scarce in our district, but I managed to secure a position with our local council as a 'Complaint Clerk'.
This job involved my being responsible for all incoming mail to our council offices, and every morning the grievances arrived on my desk from local council house tenants. These complaints were many and varied, and although they were sent by very angry people, they only served to bring great hilarity to the rather sombre council offices! Laughter can be discovered in the most unusual places, and so it was with my work as I opened each letter. I have never forgotten some of the complainant’s remarks, which I record as follows
1 | | "My bush is over-grown at the front, and my back passage has fungi growing all over it". |
| 2 | | "I request permission to remove my drawers in the kitchen" |
3 | | "I want someone to come and repair my cooker, as it has backfired and burnt my knob off" |
4 | | "I am a single woman living downstairs.... Would you please do something about the noise made by the man on top of me" |
And finally.... |
5 | | "I have had the clerk of works down on the floor six times, but I still have had no satisfaction..." |
As risque all the above remarks are, I can almost hear the laughter still flowing, after all these years. Long may it continue!!
What can I can tell you about all the other great memories of my youth?? So many happenings that it is hard to choose one in particular, but, perhaps, the church can claim to be number one in my book of stifled laughter!
I am not alone in finding myself engulfed in giggles when I should be solemn and silent, but I defy anybody to restrain themselves when, for instance, the local minister missed his step on his way up to the pulpit, and fell into the arms of a lady chorister as she was preparing to sing "Lead us heavenly father, lead us".
Weddings were always guaranteed to provide some hilarious moments in our church and one particular stays forever in my memory book under the title... "Betrothals to treasure". This happened when Andy, our local butcher, wed the love of his life, Freda. They had been courting for three years and were a familiar sight in bus shelters around the district. This was due to Freda's mother never allowing them to be alone together, and as Freda was thirty nine, it seemed a ridiculous ban on their activities, but that’s the way it was.
On the wedding day in question, Andy's car broke down on the way to the church, so he and his best man arrived in his butcher's van, which had a large, imitation pork sausage on the roof... then he sent off the van to pick up the bridesmaids, and Freda's mother!
At first, the mother refused to get into the vehicle, but when it was pointed out to her that time was fleeting, she had no other option than to climb aboard. Unfortunately, they were all so squashed up together that nobody noticed the remnants of black pudding, clinging on to the mother's new two-piece, giving it a mottled appearance as she scowled her way into the church.
Freda was given away by her uncle Tommy, a man who liked his Guinness and was frequently inebriated on Saturday afternoons, so he didn’t exactly march Freda down the aisle, but did a sort of stagger from side to side. This involved knocking the hat off Mrs Fanshawe, just as she was settling into her pew, causing her to make a very rude gesture to both the bride, and her uncle.
When the bridesmaids saw this they began giggling into their bouquets, and the page boy ran to the front of the church before anyone could stop him as he made the same gesture to the entire congregation.
THE WEDDING HAT
By Dorothy M Rawnsley
I'm never one for wearing hats, as most of you can see, their shape, if either tall or flat are never really me, but I've one special bonnet, bought in 1999, which I purchased for a wedding of a dear old pal of mine. It took me weeks to find it, and I went to lots of shops, cos I wanted 'something special'. So I pulled out all the stops! I tried on wild creations, that my sister said, "Looked Quaint"! But when I saw the price tags, well, I went a trifle faint!
So I had a look round Preston, and in what was C&A, I tried on caps and boaters for the best part of a day. Then a very haughty salesgirl, with a face like frozen lamb, said, "The store is closing, Madam"! ... and the door shut with a slam.
I wandered around aimlessly, 'til across the road I saw a shop with lights still blazing and a sign said 'Hat Galore'! So I rushed inside it's portals, where I saw a grand display of hats to suit those mortals who, like me, are slightly grey.
And then, at last, I found it, it was really just like spring. I smiled with satisfaction as they parcelled up the thing, and upon my return journey, I kept peeping at the hat to make sure it was still perfect and I hadn't squashed it flat!
So, I wore it to the wedding, and it really was a hit, I didn't feel self conscious or embarrassed, not a bit, and it really didn't matter that my son, all chuckles, said, "You deserve an 'e' for effort, for that thing upon your head".
So now it's some years later, and on many special days, I have proudly worn my titfer, in a dozen different ways. I once added bows and ribbons for my grandchild's Christening day. Then changed it to black veiling when my tom-cat passed away.
So you see, I'm glad I've got it, and I've had my money's worth. It has caused a few raised eyebrows and produced a lot of mirth, and today, it's still providing quite a talking point, you see, because now you know the secret of my wedding hat, and me!!
So weddings are often fraught with incidents, some pleasant, and others instantly regrettable... A bit like my love life really, if I started to relate all the affairs of the heart that I have indulged in, it would fill another fifty pages, so I will over look the early years of courtship with the local youths of my teenage years and move quickly on to the knowledge I gained when I experienced Love with an older man.
It takes a great deal of skill to maintain a relationship with an older man...
When you are young, nothing but romance matters, and even when you reach a pensionable age, romance is still what we crave, but do we get it?? Not without a struggle!! I have had three relationships with older men and all of them failed miserably after about six months... and I shall tell you why.
The first 'older man', I became entangled with I shall call, 'Freddy'. Not his real name, as I wish to protect his identity, but Freddie came into my life when he ran over my foot with his mobility scooter.
He swears to this day that it was all my fault, because I stepped out of a shop doorway straight into his path. He swerved and shot into our local newsagents at full speed, knocking over a display of sweets and twenty copies of the Daily Mirror. The owner managed to halt Freddy’s progress by hurling a bag of Werther’s Original toffees at his front wheel and then both Freddy and the owner had to steer the scooter out of the doorway with a box of salt and vinegar crisps wedged firmly under the basket.
Of course, Freddy offered to pay for everything, but when he looked for his wallet he discovered he had left it at home. So, of course, I paid for the lot... something I got quite used to doing in the following weeks, as our relationship flourished.
We met at regular intervals, but I got a bit tired of always having to seek out the toilets for the disabled before we ventured anywhere, such was the state of his bladder due to his water pills.
This was not the reason for the break up of our romance, as I'm fairly easy when it comes to medical matters... but.... when he was leaving me one evening... he bent forward to kiss me goodnight and recklessly ran over my sausage dog who had come to wave him off! I can still see the look of sheer terror on Freddy's face when I hurled a potted geranium at his head as he retreated down the road, smoke coming from the tyres of his scooter as he touched ninety miles an hour!
On my quest for love I have experienced many choices. The last thing I tried was a 'speed dating' group, organised by an age concern official who was hell bent on getting a man herself! The idea is for men and women, who are still able to walk with or without zimmer frames, to meet up in a local hall and have a three minute chat with a member of the opposite sex.... Just to see if they are still in with a chance.
On my arrival at the appointed place, I was pounced upon as soon as I walked through the door. Not by a bloke, but by the lady in charge of 'admission fees', who took my 50p entrance money before writing my name on a label and pinning it to my bosom. Then she directed me to a wobbly old card table and told me to sit there and wait whilst they got 'the rest' organised. 'The rest' consisted of some very wobbly older citizens, all of whom were looking very wary.
Around the room another half dozen women were already labelled, sitting expectantly at other wobbly tables, eyeing up the few men in the room.
Suddenly an elderly gentleman stood up and blew a whistle, it was like the starting line of an Olympic race.... the men made a dash for the women... well, not a 'dash' exactly! More of a hobble and a hop, but all of them carried a piece of paper and pencil so they could write down their opinions of us as they completed each three minutes.
I glanced up and saw two men both rushing towards my table, just as the more nimble of the two stuck out his foot and tripped up his opponent! The winning bloke plonked himself down in front of me and stared at my label...
"Is that really your name..."?
"Itharod"?, he asked.
"No... it's Dorothy, but my label has swung upside down on my breast... but hurry up and ask me a question... you only get three minutes"!
"Right"....
"Do you like liquorice all sorts"?
"My late wife wouldn’t let me have them in the house, but I love the blue bobbly ones"!!
I thought about this before replying.... "Are you saying that you would base our future relationship on whether you like liquorice or not"??
"Yes.., and whilst you’re at it, are you any good at giving a colonic irrigation"??
"I beg your pardon"?
"It's not for me, but my brother, Fred, lives with me and has a real problem with his bowels"!
I gave him a disgusted refusal, and, thank God, the whistle went again as he winked at me and left, heading straight across to the Nora Batty lookalike who was sitting at the next wobbly table. ..He had not written one word about me on his piece of paper, which was just as well!!
In a flash the seat before me was taken over by an enormous man breathing heavily. I studied him... he studied me! At least he had decent dentures, but the jogging suit he was wearing did not look appropriate for dating, nor did the huge wellington boots on his feet. Suddenly, he spoke, with a sort of wheezing sound "What do you think of the price of prawns"?
I was taken aback, what on earth had this got to do with romance? "I'm only asking", he said, "because I go out shrimp-ping off Lytham beach, and the supermarkets keep reducing the price of prawns, so that the bottom has fallen out of the market"!... "What I'm looking for is a woman who will peel the prawns once I've boiled 'em"!
Before I could utter a word he leaned forward and grabbed my hand, studying it intently, then he tickled me under the chin as he stood up ready to leave... "Sorry", he said, "I’m afraid you are not the one for me"... and I watched as he drew a line through my name on his bit of paper.
I have never felt the need to thank the almighty with such fervour before, but I could have wept with sheer relief as I saw him cross the room towards Nora Batty, who really did look as if she had got shrimpers fingers!!
I was just about to make a dash for the loo when a man with a look of Howard Keel stood before me. "May I sit down"? he asked.
"That's the idea of it" I said, and watched admiringly as, without a trace of arthritis, he bowed and seated himself on the wobbly chair.
"Question one", he began. "Do you think I look presentable enough to be a good partner"?
I nodded without hesitation.
"Question two", he continued. "Do you think that you would describe me as a boring old man"?
"Never in this world"! I said, enthusiastically.
"Then here is my third question".... "Do you think that an active sex life is essential to good health"?
I swallowed hard... this was getting personal, and I didn't even know his name because his label had disintegrated on his lapel. I thought hard before replying. I did not want to appear too eager, but the thoughts of being ravished by Howard Keel had long been a particular fantasy of mine...
"I think a lot depends on the people concerned", I squeaked.
"Quite so"! He shouted, and stood up. "Then will you tell me why my wife is of the opinion that those three questions I asked you apply to me"??
He banged the table, glaring into my eyes as everyone in the room stared across at us.
"Really"! I said, glaring back. "I hardly think this is appropriate for a dating session"!
Now it was his turn to look astonished, as I ran from the room at speed.
It was two days later, when I met, quite by accident, the lady organiser of 'Age Concern', that she told me exactly why the 'Howard Keel' lookalike had misinterpreted my actions... it seems that he had mistakenly thought he was in a meeting of a marriage guidance group, and had directed his questions at me in an attempt to sort out his own marital difficulties!!
So ended yet another attempt of mine to achieve a few marital difficulties of my own! Will I ever learn??
Blundering on in my quest for a soul mate, I encountered many likely and unlikely men, but I think the one who made the biggest impact, one way and another, was George.
I first encountered George on a very wet Monday morning, when I ventured into a local cafe for a coffee and a bun. This man was as dismal looking as the weather, and, as usual, I looked upon this as a challenge!! I thought fate had handed me someone who needed me desperately, so I immediately invited him back to my home for lunch. As we talked I discovered that he had been married twice before, once to a bus conductress, and then to a contortionist who performed nightly in a Blackpool nightclub. He said that they were both beautiful girls who had looked after him right up to the time of his accident.
I hardly dared ask about the 'Accident', but one night when we had downed a bottle of Chateau Neuf Du Pape, he told me this amazing story:
I hope I do not cause offence to anyone reading this, but it is very relevant to my life history, so I will reveal all the sordid details now.
It seems that when George was seventy he started to experience 'marital troubles'... by this, he meant that he could no longer raise any excitement in the marital bed!! So, he made an appointment at the doctors and after he had explained his problem the doctor provided him with the answer to George’s difficulties.
This was in the shape of an electrical device, that, on the press of a button in his trouser pocket, would cause a surge of interest to strike his very being, thus creating harmony and satisfaction with his contortionist wife (the bus conductress was always working shifts, so it didn’t really affect her).... All went well for a while, until one horrific day, George found out that the man next door had installed a mechanical garage door, and every time his neighbour pressed his remote control to open the garage, George received a sharp signal in his trousers, which raised many questions requiring answers!!
Out of every bad thing comes something good, or so I have been told. The best thing that came out of my friendship with George is his Christmas day entertainment. This consisted of a demonstration to any of my female guests who were unaware of what exactly lies in store for them, and many are the shrieks of surprise heard across the mince pies.
I do not know how long George will remain on my list of valued friends, but I honestly believe he is pushing his luck, and that any relationship hopes he was holding are doomed to failure.
I cannot stand the uncertainty every time my elderly sister gets hold of our T.V. remote control, and I see George’s eyes light up... so much for the Christmas spirit!
But, if Christmas brings surprises, what about 'Birthdays'?
One thing everyone should take great care with is the choosing of birthday presents. Make very sure that the recipient will enjoy your offering, and not, as was the case with my last pressy from my son, John.... Discover a nightmare waiting to be unleashed.
The day began well enough with the ceremony of the opening of the cards, and, as this was a particularly 'special' birthday for me, the cards were many and varied, with lots of reference to my lack of sex life and my age, such is the humour of my family and friends. Amongst the cards were a couple of
adverts for zimmer frames and surgical appliances, which my sister, no doubt, got great joy from including in her patience strong, "What is a sister", card!
There was a pension book holder in bright green plastic from my best friend, complete with an application form for the local Bingo club, and finally, my son's card with a picture of a retirement home, and a voucher for a 'Weekend of Beauty' at the 'Rest-Haven Spa'.
My son looked expectantly at me as I read the itinerary for this, so I dutifully supplied the gasps of delight he expected as I read of all the treats.... Or should I say, 'Treatments'? He had paid for me, his devoted mum. But I gasped even louder when he told me that we were leaving for this place within the hour, and that his car was waiting outside, all ready to whisk me off to this haven of rest.... It took less than an hop, skip and jump before we pulled up outside this impressive old building, a gabled mansion with sweeping lawns leading off into the tree-lined distance. This place seemed like peace personified, only shattered by the occasional scream which seemed to come from a nearby annexe.
Birthday 2.
The porter was young, bronzed and muscular, and, judging by the sequinned leotard he was wearing, was definitely 'Gay' as he minced before me, looking disdainfully at my worn-out holdall and three 'Kwik-Save' carrier bags... I had left home so quickly that I hadn't time to pack my designer suitcase!!
The porter led me upstairs, then flung open the door to my room with a flourish... He bowed me forward into a floral boudoir so heavily perfumed with 'Ambre Pur' that my asthma kicked off in revenge, and I fell, wheezing violently, onto the Laura Ashley duvet.
The porter was obviously not trained in resuscitation, because after letting out a squeal of horror, he fled away, but at least he pointed out a tray, complete with kettle, instant coffee and saccharin tablets... not a bikky in sight!
A few moments later there was a knock on the door, followed by the entrance of a beautiful young girl who was carrying a glass of water which contained a slice of lemon... I sat up and accepted the drink, whilst she nodded approvingly at me... She spoke with a kind of patronising tone... "There now!" "Drink it all up - you can't have the enema until that's reached your kidneys"!
The very word, 'Enema' shot fear into my heart. ..there had not been any mention of that on 'Rest-Haven's' list of treatments. It was at this point that I heard a very masculine cough coming from the room attached to mine, followed by a choking noise and a male cry of.... "My God! I've swallowed the bloody lemon".
I stared incredulously at the girl.... "But that's a man's voice"! I gasped... "Why would a man be in there"? To which she replied "He’s coming for massage/manipulation and mud,... just like you"!
"But I thought this was an all-female place"! I trembled. She laughed pityingly... "Goodness me... no!! We already have seven gentlemen booked in, and two more still to arrive, just about the same number as you ladies... now,
be a good girl and get into your dressing gown, and come down to the gym in ten minutes... you're going to be assessed"!
She left me looking dazed and perplexed as I heard the poor man next door vainly thumping his own chest, coughing explosively like a machine gun.
Birthday 3.
Eventually I reached the door to the gym, and my worst fears were confirmed when I took note of the dozen wretched seekers of relaxation in there, who were going through three different kinds of torment. All of them were fighting to keep their dressing-gowns fastened as they tried to lift heavy weights, which resulted in private portions of their bodies shooting out provocatively from the towelling garment, whilst a perspiring mad man, standing on the stage, shouted words of encouragement at them... "Come on!! Come on.... Remember there's no gain without pain!! What is there not"??? Back came the gasping reply... "No gain without pain"... from a bloke as he fell backwards clutching a pair of dumbbells.
As yet there was no sign of anyone carrying an enema, but I watched apprehensively when another female member of staff approached me... This one looked as though she had come straight from a performance at 'Funny Girls'... with false eye lashes like a pantomime cow, and there was no disguising the outline of a pencil-thin moustache on her upper lip.
She beckoned me forward, and as if in a trance, I followed her into a small room at the back of the gym, where she thrust her hand into her pocket and pulled out a tape measure. I felt a slight sense of relief when she began to measure my bosom, waist and hips, but this disappeared when I saw her stare of disapproval as she read the results she was recording.
"Well, well, well.., we have lots of hard work ahead of us" she said, and she began ticking off the treatments I required to make me into an acceptable human being... She led me over to the scales, and I was weighed, and her cry of "My, my, my... Eleven stone"! Echoed all around the gym... talk about embarrassing.
It was at this point that over the tannoy came a voice announcing that lunch was ready, but I was stopped in mid-gallop by the restraining hand of this awful woman as she pointed me in the direction of the steam room... who cackled with delight as she pushed me through the door, where I entered a scene from hell.
Birthday 4.
It was so murky in there that I could only just make out some half-naked figures seated around a pile of hot, hissing stones, all of them sweating profusely. I suddenly felt a hand guiding me through the mist to a warm, damp wooden seat, and it was only when I heard the cough that I realised I was sitting next to the man who had swallowed the slice of lemon... I peered through the steam, and he peered back, which was difficult for him as he was still wearing his byfocals, but I noticed his cough was getting worse as we both got hotter and hotter.
"I can’t stand this anymore", I told him, and asked him to show me where the door was.
"No idea"! He said, "But I’ll press this emergency buzzer and see what happens".
What happened was the sudden emergence of the assistant with the false eye-lashes, who shouted through the fog, "Right!! Which of you pressed that buzzer"? The coughing man raised his hand, which was promptly grabbed, and he was yanked forward in a swirl of steam, towards the exit... I followed in his wake, with another six escapees rushing out behind me, all perspiring and panting.
What a pitiful sight we all looked as we were once again ushered forward towards another door marked, 'Mud Treatment Room', from behind which, came great plopping sounds from a sunken bath of hot, seething mud.
I was last in, because I had suddenly become aware that my Damart swimming costume with the built-in cups was sagging in all the wrong places. I stood hesitating for a moment, when what looked like a chocolate-coloured macaroon offered me a hand, and helped me down, where I sank between him, and a huge sumo wrestler.
Another lady opposite me in the bath suddenly decided to act all girlish, and she playfully chucked a handful of thick mud into the middle of our group. This hit an' Ann Widdicome lookalike in the eye, just as she had begun to wallow in the warm mud, and she rose like an avenging whale out of the depths, and, with a flap of her hand, sent a huge wave billowing towards us at great speed.
I tried to get out of it's way, but the full force of the thing hit me, and I sank, wrapped in the mud-covered arms of my courageous, coughing friend, as he tried to save me.
Birthday 5.
As we struggled to emerge from the mud I held on tight to my rescuer, and once we were back on an even keel I looked into his eyes and realised that here was a man I could truly admire... with a bit of luck I could cure him of any remaining stress, and his cough.
Enough to say that we left the Gym hand in hand, and headed towards thc dining room, where we had been informed our lunch was waiting, such as it was!! WE stared at the plates containing our meal... 6 walnuts, a triangle of cheese, a tomato and a lettuce leaf. To accompany this was a glass of water containing yet another slice of lemon!! My new gentleman friend shuddered when he saw this, and refused it politely.
Chewing our lettuce leaves we exchanged information of our personal lives.
He told me his name was 'Cyril' and he said he was 62... I knocked ten years off my life and told him I was 60. He said he was a retired mortician, which put me off him for a moment, but then he smiled his winning smile, and I realised I was his for evermore.
It was all of 2 o'clock when we both decided we had had enough of this 'Resthaven'... and we planned our escape!! He said he had a car outside and that the lake district was beckoning us, and he didn't have to ask me twice... I was in my anorak and strapped into his L registered LADA in a flash, with my carrier bags in the boot.
We stopped by lake Windermere where he removed the last trace of mud from my eyebrows, and half an hour after that we were in the dining room of a five star hotel, attacking a meal of gigantic proportions.... He raised his glass of red wine and lovingly wished me a Happy Birthday... "It will be.... Now... I assured him, as I invited him to come home with me for the rest of the weekend.
My son has never quite got over the shock of discovering, me back in Thornton, sitting on the knee of an elderly gent who was playfully kissing the back of my neck.... But Twill be forever grateful to my lad for giving me the most wonderful, exciting birthday celebration ever.
The Age of Discretion
One thing I have learned for sure... Love can be either a real let-down or a trip to paradise (depending on the beloved in question).
Whether the love of your life is a young Adonis, or a mature man who should know better than get involved with someone like me, it matters not when cupid's arrow strikes. And the more senior we are, the dafter we behave.
I have known grown women tear off their bra, frustrated beyond belief, and hurl it at the object of their desire when discovering that he would rather have a plate of his mother's hot-pot than go to bed with them on a winter's evening. This I know only too well!
But, once wounded, a woman will retaliate in any way that she can conjure up, and 'revenge' is a major source of satisfaction... So many different types of torture can be inflicted on the unwary male, and I can vouch for one or two of the more painful kind, having had my share of masculine infidelities. Take James Henry, for example, who was part of my life for all of a year before he became impotent due to stress. I didn't mind the impotence, but when he took to wearing my frocks I thought enough was enough.
Thus it was that I could have been discovered at 5.00am one morning creeping up to his car and letting down all the tyres on the vehicle before getting out my lipstick and smearing the words 'Pillock' on the windscreen....
I feel ashamed to think that I knew such a rude word, but sometimes, it helps to use an expretion never heard before coming from the lips of a pillar of the Methodist church. But then I must divulge the unfortunate story of Walter, who was with me for just twelve months, and on our first anniversary decided to treat me to a celebratory meal... not at the Hilton but in my own dinning room where he placed before me half a pound of tripe and a tomato!!! The look on his face told me that he thought he had found the key to my inner appetites, until the look on my face told him he was wrong... and so it was that our relationship foundered, and I went on to meet my next conquest.... Arthur!
Arthur was a gentle soul, who never quite got used to the idea that he was male... I should have known that any man who wears a thong in bed has got a feminine side which dominates his personality, plus the fact that he kept stealing my perfumed bath cubes and shaving his legs with my razor. I soon had enough of Arthur, and he and his underwear went out the door, never to return!
So it goes on, and I am coming to the opinion that I was destined to be forever single. A pity, because I am sure that I could have achieved greatness with the right partner. Now I am facing yet another big birthday on my own.... Well, not on my own exactly, because my son, and his family are joining me on a trip of a lifetime on the Orient Express, and I am going to keep an eye out for a smart looking gent to see me through the next decade. So with a final flourish I offer you my thoughts on reaching this milestone... Thank you for reading this confession of mine, and all I can hope for is that, somewhere in between the lines, you recognise yourself in similar situations, and you smiled.
Now I am 80, be happy for me - my pension’s gone up by 25p,
My blood-pressure’s racing,
I ache in each bone,
My knees need replacing,
My memory has flown,
But one thing is certain, I’ll never forget, the friends who laugh with me, who smile with me, yet,
So do not feel sad,.., why not give me a cheer? ‘Cos it won’t be so bad in my 81st year
Copyright © 2010, Dorothy M Rawnsley