Day 178: I Show A Pathologist Around England

Heavens to Murgatroyd! My favourite self-haircutting Canadian pathologist arrives in the England and suddenly it turns into a theme park!

I have seen things in the last five days in Real Life that hitherto only existed in the Films and in free aeroplane magazines written by Austrians.

Policemen with Pointy Hats On

What is this? Policemen wear flat caps or body armour, not pointy hats! But we have seen three policemen wearing Ye Olde England Pointy Hats in the last week. (One of them I think was twirling a truncheon, but I cannot be sure.)


The Queen

I only think of the Queen in the context of the phrase beginning "come the revolution". However, this week she has been on the television and radio almost non-stop, as well as being on all the newspapers endlessly and without cease. (She has also been on our currency, but that was to be expected.) I am frankly surprised we didn't bump into her over the weekend.

Jam

I have six jars of jam. Two of them are marmalade; one of them is French; the other three are Tiptree. This is not normal.

Tea

"It's complete nonsense, this thing about the English and tea", I say, looking in my kitchen cupboard. "It's a myth, this apparent obsession of ours." Before me I see:

PG Tips
Twinings English Breakfast
Twinings Lapsang Suchong
Sainsburys Decaf Earl Grey
Twinings Organic Peppermint
Sainsburys Jasmine Green Tea
Birt&Tang Ginger Tea.

No, we never drink tea. Ever.

A Wedding

Despite the wedding of my best friend being in Shoreditch and quite 'fashionable', my Colonial friend was able to enjoy:

- the best man making jokes about the groom being gay
- poo jokes
- sausage and mash in a box
- fish and chips in a box
- ladies in hats and Other Headware (e.g., feathers)
- drunkenness
- dancing to E.L.O.
- reference to what the groom did in the dormitory at school.

CAMRA Pamphlet

Much as I admire the work of CAMRA in keeping facial hair and Hush Puppies at the heart of British culture, it is not normal to go into a pub and find a CAMRA leaflet on the table. It is also not normal to open the leaflet at the following paragraph:

"I met Caroline and Alan at Cheltenham Royal Well bus station and caught the 10.30 Castleways 606 service to Winchcombe. The bus stops conveniently right outside the Corner Cupboard Inn. The first pint of the day was one of my favourites, Stanney Bitter. On leaving we walked down Harveys Lane to the footpath leading to Langley Hill, stopping at the top to take in the splendid views on this warm sunny late summer day ... After we finished our drinks... it was another pleasant work to Beckford Church to rendezvous with the 15.19 Midland Red service to Tewkesbury."

Country Folk

Obviously every time you drive along a lane in the English countryside you see a man wearing breeches, leaning on a shooting stick and wearing a tweed cap and waistcoat. Of course you do. Every time.

A hunt

In much the same way, every time you drive along a road in the English countryside you are nearly mown down by a woman in a top hat, a man wearing a pink coat and a child in a hacking jacket, astride enormous horses (and a pony). Then you look to the left and see many horses and riders dotted about the place, suggesting that a fox has been Found in a Copse. Then some people gallop off, and some muddy Range Rovers follow them.

A Cottage

I had chosen a Tiny Cottage in the Cotwolds for New Year claiming, as I did, that the Cotswolds would be good "because they are what foreigners think England is like". Little did I know that it would be extravagantly and cinematically English! Freezing floors, no hot water, not enough logs and ducks in a pond at the end of a garden. And an extremely comfortable bed, which is apparently a Feature of English Beds, but not one that I was aware of!

Tea at 4

One of my oldest friends happens to live in an eighteenth century converted stable across the courtyard from a sixteenth century manor house. He also happened to have, when we arrived, teacakes and scones. Which we ate for tea. With a cup of tea. Which of course the English never drink. And nor is tea a "meal" we ever have.

A black cab

We take a cab. The driver is friendly and Chatty! He chirrups in a friendly manner at the delicious Pathologist in a cock-er-nee stylee. The Pathologist understands not one word, apart from (perhaps) "guv".

A curry

It is in Tooting and Fucking Brilliant. In this, it is unlike most other curries in the England.

A Pub Lunch

On the menu are fish and chips and steak and kidney pie.

Natural History Museum(s)

The Natural History Museums of both Oxford and London contained exhibits that were older than Canada itself, including a squirrel that died 219 years ago and a stuffed badger.

In the Natural History Museum in London they had cream tea. We sat underneath William Morris tiles and I tried to explain where Cornwall and Devon were, how they argue about who invented scones with cream and jam on, and how one county says you put the jam on first and the other says you put the cream on first. Then we saw a wooden tiger attacking a man, and some lights that went up and down and made noises in a Victorian courtyard.


Now the Pathologist is gone, and England has lost its lustre. As an inevitable consequence, I am wearing my brushed cotton pyjamas, drinking dry sherry and thinking of going to bed with C S Lewis and a cup of warm milk. But first I must watch EastEnders, put my milk bottles out on the doorstep and turn off Radio 4.

Day 173: I Barely Have A Spot Anymore

The days have passed and things have happened since the spot came. It was a spot I did not want, for this weekend I need to look pretty and like a lady, and not spotty and like an idiot. And joy! For this morning - the morning of the most special of days, the marriage of my best friend - the spot has diminished to a simple pink bump, easily camouflaged with the help of the Great Cosmetic Houses of Europe (and America).

I rather think things are looking up. The most special of all the visitors arrived from the Canada on Friday with few mishaps, despite it taking two hours to get through customs (detained because of his suspiciously American hair, exotically-stamped passport and mobile animal pathology kit), and brought with him gifts of such loveliness (including twelve Moist Towelettes from St Hubert, the epicentre of Culinary Excellence), that I was quite speechless. The dress I am to wear was delivered by a dear friend and it is really quite good; London is bearable as not full of thrusting idiots; the speech I am to make is virtually written, despite the appalling advice of a book called "How To Write A Wedding Speech", which suggests the following as an opening line:

"Did anyone see that polar bear walk by just now? No? Shame, because they're such terrific ice-breakers".

Happily, if making the speech is terrifying and I sweat in my frock, I have the towelettes of St Hubert (patron saint of precision instrument makers, mad dogs, smelters and roast chicken) to keep me cool, and the alternative opening line of:

"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your kind applause. Not for the first time today do I rise from a warm seat with a piece of paper in my hand...".

This is not funny, in any way! Even if delivered with irony! I suspect they may "raise a smile" in the outskirts of Slough, but otherwise I am puzzled and note with interest that the book does not give the author's name. I cannot think why this would be.

Now I am off to brush my dress down and finish the speech. And then I will pray to St Hubert and hope that he keeps mad dogs away from me, at least until tomorrow morning.

Day 170: I Have A Spot

This morning I ran wailing into my parents' bedroom. I am 37! Why am I doing this at my age, wearing red brushed cotton pyjamas with my hair standing on end, trailing a teddy bear*?

I know Christmas was on Monday and that there are no more stockings and yet I am shouting FUCK! and Virtually Weeping and my mother is cuddling me and the dogs are jumping up and down like they are on springs, licking my hands and making dog noises, and my father is saying WHAT DO YOU MEAN? I CANNOT SEE WHAT YOU MEAN! WHERE? WHERE?

"Monkeymother! Why is there the Isle of Man on my head?"

God Knows I have had to put up with Ghastly and Untimely Issues during my growing up, e.g. being 5ft 8 when everyone else was 4ft 8, or looking 25 when I was 15, or my hair virtually falling out or getting REALLY FAT REALLY SUDDENLY, but I have NEVER had spots! Ever! Even now I have few lines and clear skin! I can stand my face being looked at in really, really strong light without wincing (which is not bad for 37, even if the rest of me is probably best kept in semi-darkness).

But this weekend I need to look pretty. Not 'would like to' look pretty; NEED to look pretty. And I have a spot! If I am right, it is the bi-annual Spot that pops up somewhere, anywhere, unexpectedly. Nothing happens for ages and then a throbbing lump appears. People mutter about Boils. I say There Will Be No Pus!, and there never is. It hurts, and then it goes as mysteriously as it came. And I have it today, right in the middle of my forehead. I think it winked at me earlier.

I am taking those fuckers at Giant Toblerone to court, and when I have finished with them I will be suing Lindt Chocolate Father Christmas. Then I will be seeking compensation from All The Cheese In The World.

In the meantime, I am not touching it, applying Origins' Spot Remover every hour and trying on Enormous Hats. Any ideas gratefully received, bearing in mind a) there will be no pus; b) it is on my forehead; c) it needs to be gone by 4pm on Saturday at the very latest; d) I have sensitive skin; e) it is very fucking big and f) people are talking to it, and not me.


* I made up the teddy bear, but was trying to sound Pitiful.

Day 170: I Believe In Father Christmas

Bit of a shortarse, rides a bicycle and puts the presents in a trailer. Otherwise, exactly as I imagined him.

Day 169: I Admire My New Slippers

Look at these! They are my new slippers. They are red, as you can see, and made of suede that is lined with sheepskin! Good, aren't they?



These slippers are virtually my favourite present. I am not sure whether this is pathetic or not; I am 37 and a lady which means I am, in theory, still in the market for small (or large, and possibly diamond-studded) trinkets and flagons of scent; pink and black boxes containing saucy pants* and extraordinary corsetry**; fur coats and holidays in hot places; hardback novels and collections of poetry.

Instead, I am very happy in my brushed cotton red pyjamas, reading Winter Holiday by Arthur Ransome and eating Christmas cake (low on the weird green stuff and cheap red cherries; high on booze and nuts) in front of the fire, twiddling my feet in their new slippers and pulling faces at the dogs.

I am also considering joining the Arthur Ransome Society, if only because one of their main aims is to "encourage children and others to engage, with due regard to safety, in adventurous pursuits". I approve of that sort of thing. When I was little, children in books rowed across lakes, went camping, hid in caves, rustled ponies, dived off cliffs, ate porridge for breakfast, wore woolly hats and mittens in the winter and shorts and Aertex shirts in the summer and went out ALL DAY, only coming home for lunch, tea and supper if someone hadn't wrapped it up for them already in greaseproof paper. Nowadays children in books are either on national entertainment programmes tapdancing, or dressing up as Daniel Radcliffe.

Children in the olden-days books would have been happy with a pair of red suede slippers for Christmas, unlike nowadays children. As far as I can see, every child over the age of three got a new mobile phone and 80GB iPod for Christmas this year. But this is not very adventurous! I shall put on my slippers and, wearing them, embark on an entire range of Adventuous Pursuits, pausing only to wrap a ham sandwich and a hard-boiled egg up in greaseproof paper and thread my mittens through the arms of my coat.


* For readers from the Americas: "pants" in my land are "underwear" or "knickers'. I am not fond of the word "panties", which conjures up the words "middle aged", "cheap porn", "nylon" and "gusset". (My mother has just suggested "knicky-knocky-noos", which I had forgotten about, probably with very good reason.)

** So saying, if anyone ever wanted to get me a proper, custom-made, boned corset from Rigby and Peller I'd be bang up for it.