Embarrassing bodies

I'm having a problem with something,and it is, why would people put themselves on a programme called 'Embarrassing Bodies'. I'm not saying the people who go on this aren't brave, and they are undoubtedly desperate, but what I want to know is, what are they desperate for? Is it for their two minutes on the telly? Or is it because of the problems they have? Because if it's the latter, surely it's less humiliating to go to their own doctor and get it dealt with confidentially?

I suppose the third consideration is that they're doing this for purely altruistic reasons, to liberate those with a similar problem and let them know they are not alone. And if this is the case, I can only applaud them.

I suspect it's a combination of the above, but if it were me, I would absolutely not want the entire nation to see me and all my bits. And I would not want to be permanently labelled 'Disappearing vagina lady', or 'Drooping face man'.

And you could be justified in asking why I watch it if I feel like this? I could blame it on my daughter, who finds it riveting, but in truth, I guess I'm as voyeuristic as everyone else who does.

Three drunken men

Friday night at the pub.

I didn't finish till 11.45pm as at end of shift, had to find space in the freezer for a barrel load of the hugest oysters I've ever seen, they were, quite literally the size of a large man's hand. These were part of an order for a private party - a shellfish fest. FOr a famous playwright whose play has just won many awards. So I didn't begrudge it.

Meanwhile, chaos was ensuing around me. Jason was banging on the piano, joined by Rob brushing his drums (remarkably well, considering his condition). Jane swayed and managed to stay upright, Fiona put on her busty washboard and with a rolling pin and a large metal spoon, pumped out some vaguely rythmical sounds. Stewart had previously been wearing it and managed to dislodge one of the bell nipples from a boob. If Johny and Els had been there, the kitchen would have been denuded of several tupperware dishes of baking beans and coriander seeds, plus cheese grater and wooden spoons. Instruments used on a regular basis.

I was, quite possibly, the only one who was stone cold sober; listening to Richard practicing a passage from the COrinthians which he's reading at his mother's funeral. Meanwhile, right in front of me, three large men were wrestling. Inevitably, one fell over, just missing crushing me to death.

A typical night really.

Keeping up appearances

A friend at work, Barbara, remarked yesterday that 'these things always seem to happen to you'. I'm not sure if that's true, but Saturday night, one of 'these things' certainly happened.

We had invited six people to dinner. Six people who hadn't previously been round to our house. For some reason I wanted to give the impression (to people who probably already know) that we are not slobs. No way! We live in military order, everything in its proper place, the carpets aren't encrusted in dog and cat hairs, there are not colonies of spiders inhabiting every room, I clean my windows on a regular basis, my fridge doesn't have unidentifiable objects moulding quietly in tupperware pots. So, what I can only describe as a frenzied cleaning session went on for days beforehand.

The first three duly arrived (five minutes previously we'd suddenly looked at the cooker and started brillo padding large wodges of grease off the sides)and we greeted them warmly. There inevitably followed the slightly awkward pauses, in between remarks about the weather, as we shuffled round, doing our hostessy things. Once drinks were poured, (and in my case, gulped down) we started to relax.

Then, into the room wobbles Flake, our fourteen year old cross collie dog. Flake is a darling, but she has some problems. She's deaf, dementia ridden, smells like a cess-pit and eats shit on a regular basis.

Dave was the first to notice. 'Oh look, she's got a piece of loo roll attached to her foot'. I went over and lifted the paw, and it suddenly dawned on me what it was. With the greatest subtlety, I pulled it off, but that tell-tale ripping sound echoed round the room.

Dave started to laugh. 'That's not loo roll. What's she doing with a sanitary pad on her foot?'

'Oh,' I said hesitantly, 'she gets them out the bin and chews them.'

Something which we take for granted as happening on a regular basis suddenly didn't sound very normal. And it was at this point I realised that the remainder, such as there was, would be on the doormat, in full view of the last couple, who hadn't arrived yet.

'Urghh, that's disgusting.'

What could I say? For us, it was a fact of life.

By then we were all rolling around laughing and Flake was looking embarrassed, but not sure why she should be.

'Thank God Colin and Barry weren't here to see it,' I shrieked, still curled up in hysteria. Dave pointed out they probably wouldn't have known what it was, but they were the ones I most wanted to impress and I would have been devastated.

By 2am I didn't care whether they thought we were slobs or not. My meal had been a success, though my mother-in-laws trusty 'shrimp mould' hadn't slipped out of the tin quite as beautifully as it should have done and resembled something akin to pink cat sick.

But still, everyone ate it heartily. And the 'incident' has been the source of huge amusement the length and breadth of the village.

April 30

Today I was waitressing. My heart sank. On a nice day, the waitress is required to ferry food up and down a slope, which is akin to walking a marathon (carrying heavy plates and often making 3-4 trips to fetch things like mayonnaise).

A couple of rather enchanting elderly ladies came into the bar to order drinks. One of them wore a turban, which both dated and 'classed' her (if one can use that word). I'm not talking about Muslim headgear, I'm talking about those hat/scarf things which remind me of my grandmother's bathing cap, resplendant with a bouquet of flowers. They quickly established they wished to sit outside, as they had their dogs with them (a meaty looking bulldog creature and a small terrier). The landlord, of course, perked up at this news, enquiring with genuine interst about their dogs, and inviting them to be brought inside to mix with the menagerie who actually live in the pub. However, they insisted on an outside table, and settled themselves on the bank, their dogs leads fastened under their chairs.

They were admiring a rather beautiful horse (I hate horses, but even I could see it as beautiful) which the landlord was leading around the car park in a horse whisperish way.

"Is that man the owner?" the terrier lady enquired, pointing not at Richard, but at another man who had led the horse into the carpark.
"Only, I heard him say 'we only got it today', and if he was, he would have said 'I only got it today'."

I admired her deduction skills and also her ability to eavesdrop - a skill I have honed over the years. Working in a pub is a useful place if one is interested in other people's conversations. I promised her I'd find out, and reported back on my next trip (delivering bread and olives and two mussels - this took me three goes).

I left them to it, keeping an eye on them from the kitchen door. It's easy to forget about people who are eating on the bank, although, as it happens, they were the only ones.

On my next trip up, I noticed them both looking down at something with rather agitated mannerisms. There is a steep drop down to the river on the other side of the bank, where a lady had recently fallen (I don't think she noticed much) and had to be rescued in an SAS style affair. As I got closer, it became obvious something was wrong. A dog was barking frantically and it turned out the little terrier had escaped from his lead and run down the slope, and was unable to get back up, because a 'shelf' of sheer earth which led to a slightly less steep path, was too high for him. I was wearing my trusty 'fit flops', which, whilst adding height and improving posture, are remarkably slippery, and my attempts to go down the slope far enough to reach the wretched creature had to be aborted because I was sliding down in an out of control manner.

'He's got a bad heart, and I'm terribly afraid he'll get too distressed.'
I worried it might be her about to have a heart attack.

'Hang on,' I said, 'I'll fetch Dave. He'll be able to help.'

Dave had been peeling potatoes all morning and was quite pleased to leave his post, followed by Mel, who wanted to see what all the fuss was about. We ran up and I removed my shoes. Dave held my hand, Mel held his belt, and I got far enough down the slope to grab the dogs collar and hoik him up, rather unceremoniously.

He seemed none the worse for his adventure, and the turban lady was so grateful I felt a brief flutter of heroism wafting over me. It made up for the fact my leg had been stung by vicious stinging nettles, which seem to be strongest at the start of their season.

Still, it earned us a decent tip and her eternal gratitude.

I can now add 'dog rescuing' to my long list of unofficial job descriptions, which include: taxi driving, counselling, babysitting, dogsitting, clearing up sick and dog shit... you get the idea.

Still, it's good to help and the warm feeling didn't leave me for the rest of my shift.

The pub - 28 April 2011

For the three years I've been working in the pub, everyone has tried to get me to write about the day to day shenanigans that go on there. So far, I have resisted, not wishing to upset anyone in the village where I live, knowing that anyone who reads this and also goes to the pub, will recognise themselves or others. But today I decided to change my mind and risk the ire of some locals. The place is often funnily farcical, being run by a landlord who is beyond eccentric! Often, we, the workforce, put up with the most ridiculous working conditions because of our loyalty to him, and to the reputation of the pub itself.

Today, we had a visit from the man who was going to sort out the dishwashers. Both of them (glass one in bar, and dishwasher in kitchen) have been in need of attention for some considerable time. The bar one had actively died on our most busy weekend (Easter bank holiday), and the one in the kitchen was making alarming noises, or at least, not making the noises it should be making, but pleading for help in a pathetic manner. As well as the breakdown of various 'mod' cons, we also ran out of oil. This means we have to rummage in the 'dog shed' (barn) for the WW2 Burka massive kettle thing, boil water, and wash up (very slowly)filling up bucket after bucket with the trickle that the burka plug allows out.

There was much intaking of breath as the kitchen dishwasher was examined. Some pink 'bacteria' at the top was pointed out, the stuff that drips on our heads when we have to clean right up inside it! I almost felt sorry for it, especially when the dishwasher doctor said, 'With proper care, this one should last forever, poor little thing', with a touching tenderness for an inanimate object (also just slightly alarming). He asked when we'd last had it serviced. Silly question. He recommended an annual check up. Yeah right. Richard hovered behind, making sarcastic comments, clearly worried about the expense which would almost certainly be incurred to fix the various broken and dying pieces of equipment. Not only the two dishwashers, but the oven, which had exploded into various people's faces ('I lost my eyebrows on it the other day,' Richard remarked, almost proudly, as if this was some sort of ancient badge of honour) when trying to light it first thing in the morning.

'Where are your vents?' The enthusiastic doctor man enquired, looking around.

'Uhhh, we don't have any, we've got that,' pointing to the extractor fan which we're not allowed to turn on all winter because it causes the fires in the pub to smoke. The dining area is often so hazy one can't see the other side. But it's lovely and warm.

Dr Dish was clearly unimpressed, and started quoting all sorts of health and safety information about why vents were necessary. Richard clearly didn't want to hear. I wouldnt' have been surprised had he covered his ears like a recalcitrant child in attempts to block out the awful truth. For a start, it is actually illegal not to have a vent (this delighted Richard, who loves nothing more than breaking the law whenever possible).
'Well, I've had them for nine years, and no one has said anything before.'
The man pointed to some black patches on the ceiling above the rebellious cooker. 'See those, carbon monoxide smoke stains.'

My ears pricked up at this. All pub employees seem to have 'shit for brains', as Dani so eloquently puts it, and spend hours wandering vacantly from place to place, unable to remember what we are about to do or fetch. We're like a load of zombies. In my case, too much alcohol could be blamed, but surely Henry, who's only seventeen, can't use that as a reason. It's worrying. Now, all of a sudden, we had a reason. We're all being slowly poisoned, our brain cells being picked off one by one.

Even Richard appeared alarmed, though he hid it well behind various jokes and bravado. Later, when the man had left and he complained that hearing a load of bullocks old health and safety statements repeated parrot fashion to him had cost him some £160 (jus think how many bets you could place with that!) he started telling us that he was considering putting a vent in one of the windows.

Hallelujah!

Loud motorbikes

I watched a young boy on a beautiful sunny day, when the birds should have been cheeping and life should have been full of joy, bombing around a field on his motorbike (I'm afraid I'm not enough of an officianado on bikes to identify it). Clearly, he was having the time of his life. He did the same circuit, over and over and over, which involved revving up the hill at top speed, thundering down it, hitting a jump, turning a sharp corner, and starting all over again. I wondered if a hamster going round its wheel gets the same pleasure.

The only problem with this scenario was the noise produced by said bike. It sounded like the largest swarm of bees, with their volume turned to top speed and then further - a real 'scratch your fingernails down the board' sound, that gets into your gut and wrenches it. So, such placid activities as a spot of gardening, a pleasant Pimms on the lawn or a group get together round the barbie, become impossible, all for this one lad's gratification.

Without wishing to sound like a foul middle aged kill joy, it does seem unfair that one person's pleasure can destroy the pleasure of everyone else living in the village!

The solution? I dont know really, we could moan to him, or wear ear plugs, or suggest he go to the local motocross field, which is isolated from humanity, or saboutage his bike. I've considered all of the above. Or, even worse, snitch on him to the local council, citing 'noise pollution' or some such other health and safety issue. But I hate people that do that!

There's always a positive to every negative. It has given me fuel for my moaning, which has gone a bit quiet of late.

Jeremy Vine

The other day on the JEremy Vine show (Radio 2) there was a scintillating debate about quicksand. A question similar to this: 'Why should one be scared of quicksand?' was asked and people encouraged to phone up with their stories.

It seems pretty obvious to me. Because it sucks you under the ground and you die???

The question should be 'Why SHOULDN'T one be scared of quicksand?'

Sometimes I just don't get it.