Kate McClelland
Sunday 20 November 2016
The Pond Monster
I was very. very clumsy as a child. Mum used to say I would fall over a match stick in the middle of the road. If there was a stick to fall over, a lamp post to walk into, a deep puddle to sink into – I was there.
In the summers all the children in our road used to go together up to the ‘big’ park to get out from under ours Mums’ feet. The council used to put on local bands and other entertainment for the kids. Mainly to keep the kids away from the ponds as most of us had no adult supervision.
We used to take a pack of jam butties and a couple of bottles of water or if we were lucky, lemonade and enough money for an ice-lolly or ice-pop.
This one day we were walking around the park, the weather was absolutely boiling hot, but luckily there was plenty of shade from all the trees.
There were quite a few of us kids on this day, probably about twelve of us all told. Some siblings, some friends aged from about 6 years old to about 14 years old (I was about 11 years old).
We were just walking around a bend, when some wild-haired guy jumped out the bushes and flashed at us!
He didn’t get the response he was expecting - we roared laughing, pointing at him and shouting ‘No wonder you can’t get a girlfriend!!’ I think we weren’t scared because there were so many of us.
He got really mad and started shouting things at us and made an attempt to run after us, but as his trousers had fallen around his ankles, he didn’t get very far!
We all ‘legged it’ to the open area where lots of grownups were – just in case. It’s odd thinking back, because we never even thought of reporting it to anyone, we just assumed he was ‘not well’ and as none of us were hurt, left it at that.
We had been at the park all day and we were all hot and tired. We had seen a band playing rock music, looked in on the bird aviary (which was mainly canaries) and had watched people play tennis. As it was getting late and the younger ones were getting a bit tetchy, a group decision was made to all go home. We had to decide to all go home at the same time to ensure no-one got left behind or lost – particularly the littler ones.
We all walked back through the park to make our way out. We got to where the model boating lake was (well - it was more of a big pond than a lake, but that’s what it was called) There were no model boats on the water as the craze had died down a bit.
So it was a bit neglected and the water was filthy with algae growing on the top. An older girl who was with us said to me ‘I bet you could do with a cool down Ginger’ and she shoved me towards the water. I think she thought I would be able to save myself from falling in, but with the momentum of the push and my clumsiness, I couldn’t stop myself from falling forward, head first into the murky water.
I hit the bottom of the pond, which luckily was only about three feet deep. My head narrowly missing a broken bottle as I felt my hands and feet sink into the slimy sludge at the bottom of the pond. Luckily, I had the wherewithal not to gasp while submerged and breathe the gunk into my lungs, but pushed myself up back out of the water.
I emerged from the water gasping for breath covered in slime from head to foot. As I waded to the edge of the pond, I could hear everyone laughing hysterically. It took me a good few tries to get out as no-one wanted to get wet helping me get out (not one adult came and helped by the way – just thought I’d mention that).
The girl who had pushed me realised she was going to be in trouble when we got home and started shouting that she was sorry whilst trying to suppress her laughing. I eventually climbed out of the pond.
Everyone stood back so as not to get splashed by the slime. I didn’t know what to do as it was a long walk home and I had no bus fare. So the children lead me to the Watchman’s hut and we knocked on the door.
‘What dya want?’ said the watchman eating an egg sandwich. I looked at him and thought what does he mean ‘What dya want’? – isn’t it a bit obvious? But no, deep breath. I said ‘I’ve fallen in the pond and I can’t walk home like this’. He just shrugged his shoulders and said ‘What dya want me to do about it?’ ‘I don’t know’ I said, ‘Do you have a towel I could borrow or could you lend me the bus fare to get home please?’
He signed very heavily saying ‘I’m not supposed to do this!’ stuck is hands in his pocket and shoved some coins in my hand, ‘Now clear off the lottaya!’ he said and then slammed the door in my face.
We all walked through the park to the bus stop. Well, when I say ‘we’ I mean I walked ahead and the others stayed at a distance from me to avoid the slime and the smell and hoping people didn’t think they were ‘with’ me. Everyone who passed stared as the ‘Creature from the Black Lagoon’ covered in algae, walked on surrounded by giggling children.
We stood at the bus stop. I was starting to feel cold now as I was soaked to the skin, but no-one would lend me their coat because of the slime, so I was shivering.
Eventually, the bus arrived. The doors opened and I went to get on the bus. The Driver shouted ‘Stop!’ ‘What?’ I said. ‘You’re not getting on this bus in that state. People have got to sit on them seats after you.’
Can’t I just stand by the door?’ I said. ‘No, you’ll drip all over the bus!’ and with that, he shut the doors and drove off.
Most of the other kids had already walked on (as they had guessed what the driver was going to do) and were a fair way off. So there was me, covered in algae and soaked through slowly trudging my way home. People passed me, avoiding eye contact.
The girl who had shoved me in thought it would be a good idea to buy peppermints so she ran to the little paper shop and bought three packets of Polo's. She shoved a handful of them in my mouth saying 'These will warm you up' , nearly choking me. I am standing there coughing up Polo mints and pond snot thinking to myself that this girl was definitely not my friend and was not the full shilling.
When I got to home, my Mum, who had been pre-warned of my condition by one of the kids who had gotten back first, opened the door before I had even knocked and said ‘Don’t you dare come in here covered in slime! Go round the back into the garden!’
So I sighed heavily and trudged my way through the entry, around to the back of the house where my Mum was standing with Marigold gloves on, holding the garden hose in her hand. ‘Strip all of that off’ she ordered pointing at my clothes with the hose ‘and put them in this bin bag’ she says, passing me a black bin bag.
‘But Mum!’ I pleaded ‘I’m in the garden – people will see me!’
‘You are not getting into the house covered in THAT’ she shouted waggling the hose in my direction. I knew there was no point arguing as Mum had her ‘don’t argue with me’ face on.
I was glad I was covered in gunk as no-one could see the embarrassment on my face as I stripped off in the garden and my Mum hosed me down with the garden hose.
The water was freezing and my teeth were chattering passed themselves. Any minute now and I’m going to get frost bite or hyperthermia! I thought (yes I knew what hyperthermia was when I was eleven, I probably would have taken a while to spell it, but I knew what it meant).
She then threw an old bed sheet around me and made me walk on newspapers through the house and up the stairs to the bathroom.
‘Get in there and don’t come out until it’s all washed off. And wash the bath down after you’ She shouted through the door. I could hear her scrunching up the newspapers as she walked down the stairs.
I ran a bath and scrubbed and scrubbed with a nail brush until my skin was sore and washed my hair again and again until I thought my hair was going to fall out and my scalp was sore. I finally dried myself off and threw a bath towel around my hair, pulled on some pyjamas.
I made my way downstairs, tired to the bone, to find a big bowl of hot tomato soup, which was my favourite and a big thick cheese sandwich next to it.
We all had a good laugh afterwards about the pond and I was known as the ‘Pond Monster’ or the ‘Creature from the Black Lagoon’ for a few weeks after that.
I was always wary of the girl who pushed me in after that and never went near the boating lake again.
© Kate McClelland 2016
Sunday 18 September 2016
Dolores the Drag Queen
Dolores the Drag Queen
On stage until two
She deals cleverly with
hecklers
And the unruly few
With a few gags or a
put-down
Or a withering look
She hands over
aggressive ones
To bouncers Paddy &
Chuck
Next day it’s the club office
til four
Then stops for a break
And what Dolores adores
Is a brew and a cream
cake
‘Earl Grey’ she says
grandly
As she pulls up a chair
In the local patisserie
In which she has a half
share
Off come the
sling-backs
And she wriggles her
toes
‘Ooh that feels so good’
‘It’s great to be home’
Eating her cake
daintily
With a knife and a fork
She sips on her Earl
Grey
And watches it all
Pass by the window
Of the little quaint
café
Where she can wear what
she likes
And have a good laugh
With the café regulars
Sharing makeover tips
And talk about life
In between sips
At the end of the day
Dolores transforms
She’s back out on the
stage
As it’s here she
performs
Dolores the Drag Queen
Her audience she rules
A star among mortals
In high heels and false
boobs
© Kate McClelland 2015
Cartoon of RuPaul by Jeremy
Friday 9 September 2016
Depression
Depression
I am so tense the back
of my neck aches
Sinew twisting &
turning
Tightening like a fast
creeping ivy
Strangling its host
tree
Crushing it slowly in
its vice-like grip
I feel two enormous
hands surrounding my skull
Squeezing & pushing
down my head into my shoulders
Pressing their clawed
thumbs into my forehead
As its bony fingers shove
themselves roughly
Into the nape of my
neck
Heavy weights hang off
my shoulders
Pulling me downwards
I can barely lift my
head
I have aged 40 years in
an hour
My eyelids try to force
themselves closed
They don’t want to see
the damage
Scared to see the look
of fear
& terrible bone-weariness
of their owner in a reflection
Depression smacks me in
the brain
I drag my gravity bound
body to my bed
I don’t even take my
shoes off
I insinuate my aching
bulk under the covers
Pulling them over my
head drowning out the terrible light
There I lie foetal
& damaged I am lost in the blackness
That gnaws at my soul &
spits out my gristle
My bed – a safe place for
oblivious & dark thoughts
Until the tension
starts to ease
I see in my mind’s eye
- a slight chink of sky blue
I become less afraid of
the light
The ‘hands’ pull away &
the ivy rots back
The shoulder weights
drop off & I can think again
Think of the things of
the light
Bright things, a walk
outside, a new book
The smell of fresh,
scented flowers comes back to me again
This time I just lost a
day
I am frightened for the
next time
That this happens &
it may not lift
To be permanently in a
state
Of dread & fear
& hopelessness simply cannot be borne
But this time I put the
kettle on open a window - and breathe
Tuesday 23 August 2016
Christmas Wrapping Paper in August????
Hello All
Walking through the shops yesterday, I spied on the back wall of Debenhams a stack of Christmas paper and Christmas cards.
IT'S STILL AUGUST FFS!!
Easter eggs out the day after the January Sales, Halloween stuff out same time as Summer clothes, Christmas stuff out during the Summer Sales.
There are no seasons anymore. .
Just 'conveyor belt consumerism'.
We don't even have 'seasonal' vegetables anymore as they are force grown around the world and shipped to us at our convenience
Churning out 'When they're gone, they're gone' or 'Only three left' sales shpiel. I saw a sale once, ran for months and months claiming 'Only 9 left, when they're gone, they're gone' slogan - still selling them now!.
We know this is a lie, because if they keep selling, they will keep making them.
The 'toy every kid wants' drives parents into a shopping and stressed out frenzy at Christmas. Fighting over the 'last few' cybernetic kill 'em all games or 'Taylor Swift' doll that has fourteen phrases, three of which sell other Taylor Swift products*
You notice that they never make enough of the 'most wanted' toy for the Christmas stock, but bet your house on it that they'll be more than enough available once Christmas is over and disappointed kids and their parents will then spend additional money buying them in the January sales.
The consumer machine makes us want things, makes us believe our lives will be the better for having this or that product. A product is now a status symbol and you're a loser if you don't have it. You're not allowed to just not want it or not need it or not be able to afford it. Feeding their coffers and draining ours is the game.
Why do we allow them to do it?
'Keeping up with the Neighbours' died out years ago. Now we want to keep up with the Kardashians and their ilk, which is an impossible goal for 99% of the population.
It's a 'look what you can have even if you have no recognisable talent, but just by becoming a reality star' mentality. A young girl told a mum I know that she didn't need to pass her qualifications as she was going to be a reality TV star and marry someone rich.
We should stop and think - what do we actually need? As the Rolling Stones once sang 'You can't always get what you want, but you can get what you need.' (I would add 'usually')
May be if we could make ourselves happy with what we need and any extras are a bonus, we might actually be happier, probably healthier, definitely wiser and in not as much debt.
For debt makes a prisoner of all of us.
And on that note, my soap box is firmly tucked away for another year.
(* as far as I am aware there is no such doll, it's a made up one - I just picked one of the most popular young idols to make a point, sorry Taylor)
HappyWinter/Easter/StPatricksDay/Spring/Summer/Halloween/Autumn/Christmas/NewYear to you!!
Kate :0)
Walking through the shops yesterday, I spied on the back wall of Debenhams a stack of Christmas paper and Christmas cards.
IT'S STILL AUGUST FFS!!
Easter eggs out the day after the January Sales, Halloween stuff out same time as Summer clothes, Christmas stuff out during the Summer Sales.
There are no seasons anymore. .
Just 'conveyor belt consumerism'.
We don't even have 'seasonal' vegetables anymore as they are force grown around the world and shipped to us at our convenience
Churning out 'When they're gone, they're gone' or 'Only three left' sales shpiel. I saw a sale once, ran for months and months claiming 'Only 9 left, when they're gone, they're gone' slogan - still selling them now!.
We know this is a lie, because if they keep selling, they will keep making them.
The 'toy every kid wants' drives parents into a shopping and stressed out frenzy at Christmas. Fighting over the 'last few' cybernetic kill 'em all games or 'Taylor Swift' doll that has fourteen phrases, three of which sell other Taylor Swift products*
You notice that they never make enough of the 'most wanted' toy for the Christmas stock, but bet your house on it that they'll be more than enough available once Christmas is over and disappointed kids and their parents will then spend additional money buying them in the January sales.
The consumer machine makes us want things, makes us believe our lives will be the better for having this or that product. A product is now a status symbol and you're a loser if you don't have it. You're not allowed to just not want it or not need it or not be able to afford it. Feeding their coffers and draining ours is the game.
Why do we allow them to do it?
'Keeping up with the Neighbours' died out years ago. Now we want to keep up with the Kardashians and their ilk, which is an impossible goal for 99% of the population.
It's a 'look what you can have even if you have no recognisable talent, but just by becoming a reality star' mentality. A young girl told a mum I know that she didn't need to pass her qualifications as she was going to be a reality TV star and marry someone rich.
We should stop and think - what do we actually need? As the Rolling Stones once sang 'You can't always get what you want, but you can get what you need.' (I would add 'usually')
May be if we could make ourselves happy with what we need and any extras are a bonus, we might actually be happier, probably healthier, definitely wiser and in not as much debt.
For debt makes a prisoner of all of us.
And on that note, my soap box is firmly tucked away for another year.
(* as far as I am aware there is no such doll, it's a made up one - I just picked one of the most popular young idols to make a point, sorry Taylor)
HappyWinter/Easter/StPatricksDay/Spring/Summer/Halloween/Autumn/Christmas/NewYear to you!!
Kate :0)
Monday 15 August 2016
Now I Know What the 'Phone Number' Meant
Now I Know What the ‘Phone Number’ Meant
I was a precocious child. Always asking questions, not
giving up until I had, what I deemed to be, a satisfactory answer, or a clip
round the ear for being a pain.
I had taught myself to read from around the age of three or
four years old by reading the local newspaper (we didn’t have books) and
pestering any adult in the vicinity to explain words I couldn’t make out or
didn’t know the meanings of.
I soon realised that questions like ‘What does m-u-r-d-e-r-
mean? What is a-d-u-l-t-e-r-y?‘ Would be brushed off with harrumphs and ‘Ask
your Mam’ or ‘Will you stop asking me questions yer little witch’ – or the
inevitable smack round the head.
I started reading second-hand comics for boys (I hated girl’s
comics) which showed people still fighting ‘The War’ and killing Germans or
spies or showing Native Americans and Africans as stupid and lazy and anyone
‘foreign’ as an enemy.
When I got the chance to watch TV, I saw Sherlock Holmes ‘fighting
the Nazi’s’ in black & white and war films every Sunday.
Somewhere in my child’s brain I thought we were still at
war.
I wasn’t old enough for school yet, but I had been chosen by
default (the only niece old enough) to be a bridesmaid for my auntie’s hastily
arranged wedding. She told me it was because I was her favourite redhead. To
which I replied ‘but I’m the ONLY redhead!’
It was 1966. She had managed to get a date and time for her
wedding that didn’t clash with any World Cup games - but also, not too near the
pending birth date (hence the ‘haste’). She was only seventeen herself, but to
me she was all grown up and glamourous and ‘hip’.
I had been dragged along to boutiques, hairdressers (from
where I obtained my lifelong dislike of hairdressing salons – a burnt scalp will
do that to you!). We went to the office where my auntie worked as a comptometer
operator. It had a blackboard like school on one wall and smelled of chalk,
pots of tea and disappointment. The office girls were nice enough ‘Don’t she
look like Shirley Temple?’ they simpered as I was spun around on an office
chair.
My auntie then took me to what I vaguely remember as being
someone’s parlour room for something called ‘a fitting’. I didn’t know where we
were, or what a ‘fitting’ was, but the house was large and had indoor plumbing
so I thought they must have been rich.
The room was darkly decorated with ‘serene’ green walls (I
can’t remember whether it was wallpaper or just painted – on reflection, it
might have been wallpapered as I remember it not ‘echoing’ much when people
spoke) and treacle brown painted doors and skirting boards. The swinging
sixties hadn’t reached this house as yet.
The parlour had been turned into a sewing room. Lots of
rolls of fabric and boxes of buttons and sequins and layers of lace were stacked
along the walls of the room on the left.
A huge shiny sewing machine, the colour of a London Hackney
cab, stood to attention in one corner and a measuring and cutting table in the middle
of the room, which took up most of the floor space. A big heavy lampshade hung
from the middle of the room.
There were a couple of stools around a little platform
clients stood on whilst being pinned into the seamstress’ creations.
You could tell a lot of needlecraft went on in that space as
the air was full of tiny specks of fabric dust which caught the light. The room
smelled of mothballs and clean linen, but with a tiny whiff of sweat, late
nights and backache.
The room was very cool and I remember goose-bumps coming up
on my arms even before I was indignantly disrobed down to my under things to be
measured for the bridesmaid dress.
My auntie babbled away nervously to the lady who nodded
along as she took the measurements. She was a plump lady with steel grey hair
folded into a neat coiffeur on the top of her head. She wore a navy blue coverall
over her clothes and very sensible shoes.
I can’t remember what colour her eyes were but I remember they
saw right through you and took your measure as well as your dress size in an
instant.
My auntie was explaining to this very polite seamstress lady
what she wanted and the lady explained very politely back that what she wanted
was not within my auntie’s budget – ‘Perhaps madam would care to look over the
Crimplene fabrics?’
As I listened to them talk, I came to the realisation that
this lady was speaking with a German accent.
I was shocked! Shocked that my auntie had brought me to this
obvious den of spies and murderers who wanted to take over our country and
enslave us all. My child’s brain whirled. How could she do this? Grandad had fought
the Germans! My Dad would go spare when he found out!’
I scowled ever deeper as the conversation went on. Trying to
get auntie’s attention without alerting ‘you know who’.
Finally after sulking for what seemed like hours, my auntie
got me dressed and was very cross with me.
‘What is the matter with you today?’ and to the lady ‘She
really isn’t normally like this, she’s a real sweetie’.
To which I scowled even deeper and muttered to my aunt in that
quietly loud way kids whisper
‘That lady’s German - Why are we in a German person’s house?
Does my dad know you’ve brought me here?’
The room suddenly went from cool to Arctic. My auntie went
an unflattering shade of puce and started profusely apologising as I threw
horrible looks at this innocent woman in some pathetic show of defiance.
The lady met my eyes and said softly ‘Such hatred on such a
pretty little face’ she shook her head and said to my auntie ‘Don’t worry
yourself, she doesn’t understand, she is only a child don’t be too hard on
her’.
The lady smiled at me and I begrudgingly flicked a smile
back.
As she helped auntie with her coat (who by this time was
flapping around like a demented swan trying to get her arm into it), I noticed
that the lady’s sleeve of her overall had rolled up and I could see she had what
looked like numbers written on her forearm.
I thought to myself, ‘I get told off for writing on myself,
but this grown lady has written someone’s phone number on hers? Why?’
My auntie was probably dying of embarrassment by this stage.
If she didn’t have problems with her blood pressure before that day, she would
now. She grabbed the rest of her stuff and bundled me quickly out of the house.
As we left in a trail of yet more apologies (which I was
still at a loss at) the lady stroked my hair and said ‘Please think nothing
more of it, I’ll book you in for your next fitting, see you soon, take care
little one.’
The door was shut and I was unceremoniously dragged down the
street by my auntie with an earful of expletives and threats of bodily violence
if I did ‘that’ again. She threw me through a taxi door and sat there next to
me totally distraught.
I was really confused and upset. I didn’t know what I had
done wrong.
‘What have I done?’ I asked.
‘You were really cheeky and rude to that nice lady. I can’t
believe you said she was German!’ She replied
‘But she is!’ I replied.
‘I Know’ shouted my auntie,’ but you don’t go around
shouting it at people!’
‘I didn’t shout’ I said ‘I tried to whisper to you but you
weren’t listening!’
‘Shut up! I’ve never been so embarrassed, I don’t know if I
can go back there’. Obviously thinking her wedding plans were in ruins.
‘Why did the lady have a phone number on her arm?’ I said
‘Oh my God! She said putting her hands over her face ‘You wouldn’t
understand if I told you’
‘Yes I would’
‘No you won’t!’
‘Tell me and if I don’t understand, explain it to me’
‘Shut Up! Shut up! I don’t want you to talk anymore!’ she
said glancing in the taxi driver’s direction hoping he hadn’t understood the conversation.
I hated it when adults wouldn’t explain things to me, it was
the reading all over again.
I was dumped unceremoniously at home and my auntie told my
parents what had happened.
My Dad thought it was hilarious, but then he would.
However, when my auntie explained about the ‘phone number’
he didn’t find it funny anymore. He explained to me that we weren’t still at
war and told me off for being rude. So now I was even more confused.
Needless to say we did go back. The lady was very nice even
though everyone felt awkward (I still didn’t know why). The dresses were
beautiful. I looked like a sixties princess
I had forgotten all about it until a few years ago when my
sister was reminiscing and reminded me of the time I had been a bridesmaid.
After a few minutes, I remembered this poor lady who had suffered my tiny wrath
all those years ago.
Then I remembered the ‘phone number’.
That’s when I felt sick.
That’s when I felt wretched.
I realised that the ‘phone number’ had been her prison camp
identification tattoo.
She had been held in a camp during the war, come to Britain
to start a new life and a new business and had been snarled at by a speck of a
kid.
I could have clawed my own heart out.
If I could have gone to see her and apologised I would have.
But she was long gone.
I know I was a child and she didn’t hold it against me as
she said so at the time, but it must have upset her at some level and I will
never lose the feeling of guilt for that.
(c) Kate McClelland
Picture by Pixabay
(c) Kate McClelland
Picture by Pixabay
Saturday 23 July 2016
Bluddicat
Bluddicat
This is
how my mind wanders sometimes when it sets off on a 'word chain' 'rain, duck,
cat, take away' (thinking about dinner)
There
was once a small Persian cat who worked in a take away shop, ingeniously called
‘The Take Away’.
His name
was 'Bluddicat'.
Well he
thought this was his name because every time he got under his owner's feet, the
man would shout 'Bluddicat, get out of here!'
His job
was to keep down the vermin. The owner wasn't too nice to him and only gave him
scraps of meat to eat so that Bluddicat wouldn't lose his 'edge' when hunting
vermin as that was what he mostly lived on.
His
favourite 'meat scrap' was duck meat. It was so delicious and full of flavour
Bluddicat relished every morsel he could get his paws on.
One day
the Take Away was so busy, meat cleavers where flying across the chopping
boards and the kitchen was clouded in steam from all the boiling delicacies
being served up to customers at the front of the shop.
The meat
preparer, Dave, was cutting up a couple of duck carcasses when the soup chef,
Russell, slipped on a discarded piece of Bok Choy on the floor.
(‘Russell’ wasn’t his real name.
He was nicknamed Russell because he never shared the sweets he kept in a paper bag
in his pocket. Every time they heard the paper bag ‘rustle’ as he took a sweet
for himself, everyone in the kitchen would say ‘what’ve you got there Russell?’)
Russell
threw his arms out to save himself, dropping the pan of soup he was holding on
to the floor and careered into Dave.
Dave
dropped his meat cleaver, narrowly avoiding cutting his toes off and was flung
unceremoniously across the chopping table. His arms splayed out to save
himself, but in doing so, knocked the two duck carcasses to the floor and they
rolled under the chopping table.
Dave and
Russell fell together to the floor in a tangle of arms, legs and aprons. Their
hats where catapulted into the air and landed on the still alight hob.
As Dave
and Russell scrambled to their feet and rushed to put out the now oven
engulfing fire, our hero Bluddicat raced between the scuttling legs, ignoring
the frantic shouts and chaos and over to where the two duck carcasses lay under
the table. He had a moment of gluttonous thoughts where he tried to work out
whether he could carry both ducks, but realised he wouldn’t be able to carry both and he may
not get the chance to come back for the other duck. This was his only chance to
grab a full duck for himself.
He
grabbed a leg of one of the ducks and then dragging it alongside him, he ran
off out the back of the shop to the alleyway where there was an outbuilding
which doubled as a storage unit and his bedroom.
He
sneaked into a corner behind a couple of sacks of potatoes (I didn't say it was
hygienic!) to enjoy his swiped feast.
After
gorging himself on the illicit duck plundering’s, Bluddicat settled down for
good wash and a well-earned nap.
He
grinned to himself, as only cats can do and thought:
'I am indeed, the most Duck-filled fattened
Puss!'
And with
a contented purr, he went to sleep.
Tuesday 19 July 2016
Take The Gloves Off!
It was the hottest day of the year today in Blighty. 31 degrees Celsius. Doesn't sound that hot you think, but here - that's newsworthy!!
You'd have thought the Thames was about to disappear in a puff of steam.
The homeward bus had it's heaters on - (For all that is goodness in the world why??) which turned the bus into a portable sauna/poaching tin.
I was leaking water from every pore of my body. (people who believe the old adage 'Horses sweat, men perspire and women 'faint' have obviously never had to spend 45 minutes opposite a sweaty armpit whilst standing on a crowded bus mid-summer! - And why add the horse??)
Opposite me was an older gentleman who had seemingly wiled away the afternoon in a local tavern nursing a few Brown Ales and was now making his way home to either an empty house, (sad) or a very cross missus (also sad, but of his own making).
Bearing in mind it was this side of hell's gate in our crowded little piece of perspiration alley, he was dressed as if for a wintery day.
He wore a wool flat cap, pulled right down as far as it could go, an overcoat and very thick woollen gloves. They were the type of gloves you could play snowball fights in and still have fingers left after ten solid minutes of shivery fun - that thick!
He was damp with sweat to the point that under his cap, his forehead had developed a small waterfall, which he kept wiping with the back of alternate gloves.
The gloves (now visibly damp with the repeated swipes to his brow and the moisture from his hands) kept sliding off slightly , but he doggedly pushing his gloves back on again and again as they tried unsuccessfully to escape to drier climes.
As I continued to watch the saga of the slippery gloves, All I kept thinking was 'At least take the gloves off!!' But he would not be parted from them.
I wondered at him not keeling over from heatstroke as he meandered his way down the bus to alight at his stop.
He shuffles off the bus - and promptly takes off his hat and gloves and unbuttons his coat.
Some people are just odd.
Kate McClelland
You'd have thought the Thames was about to disappear in a puff of steam.
The homeward bus had it's heaters on - (For all that is goodness in the world why??) which turned the bus into a portable sauna/poaching tin.
I was leaking water from every pore of my body. (people who believe the old adage 'Horses sweat, men perspire and women 'faint' have obviously never had to spend 45 minutes opposite a sweaty armpit whilst standing on a crowded bus mid-summer! - And why add the horse??)
Opposite me was an older gentleman who had seemingly wiled away the afternoon in a local tavern nursing a few Brown Ales and was now making his way home to either an empty house, (sad) or a very cross missus (also sad, but of his own making).
Bearing in mind it was this side of hell's gate in our crowded little piece of perspiration alley, he was dressed as if for a wintery day.
He wore a wool flat cap, pulled right down as far as it could go, an overcoat and very thick woollen gloves. They were the type of gloves you could play snowball fights in and still have fingers left after ten solid minutes of shivery fun - that thick!
He was damp with sweat to the point that under his cap, his forehead had developed a small waterfall, which he kept wiping with the back of alternate gloves.
The gloves (now visibly damp with the repeated swipes to his brow and the moisture from his hands) kept sliding off slightly , but he doggedly pushing his gloves back on again and again as they tried unsuccessfully to escape to drier climes.
As I continued to watch the saga of the slippery gloves, All I kept thinking was 'At least take the gloves off!!' But he would not be parted from them.
I wondered at him not keeling over from heatstroke as he meandered his way down the bus to alight at his stop.
He shuffles off the bus - and promptly takes off his hat and gloves and unbuttons his coat.
Some people are just odd.
Kate McClelland
Photo from Pixabay
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