The Oxcliffe Fox

05:03:00 o'clock BST

“Those dowdy haired society sinners who blather and bleat and bore,

Are made to hear sermons from mystical Germans who lecture from ten till four.”  (W.S. Gilbert)

 

MUCH AS I love our friends, I have to say not everyone can be my friend. Sometimes I meet people who just rub me up the wrong way.

 

For instance, I hate people, complete strangers, who come up to me and call me “pal”. “Have you got the time on you, pal?” Don’t know why, but it just feels like a verbal poke in the ribs.

 

Or those who come and start to ask me about my religion or my politics, especially when they imply that I must belong to this church or that persuasion. “You vote Conservative, don’t you?” or “You’re a Catholic, aren’t you?” What business is to a stranger how I vote, or where I worship?

 

Or there again, those who come and start to tell you all their life’s problems. “I’ve just been through a terrible divorce, you know!”

 

(All the examples above have actually happened to me!)

 

What gets to me is that I can be sitting on an empty bench, and these people sit down next to me and strike up a conversation in this way. I might be contentedly reading a paper, or enjoy my own company when I’m pounced upon in this way. Is it something about my face or my body language that sends a message to every bore in the world that I’m interested in their problems, or that I want to discuss my personal beliefs?

 

Of course, I have time for friends who have problems – but they are my friends, people whose company I genuinely value and enjoy. But sometimes I almost dread going out…

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04:08:46 o'clock BST

PEOPLE CAN sometimes really surprise me. Helen K, for example, the other day. A flash of lightning outside the Geriatrics’ Corner prompts me to quip: “Thunder and lightning, very, very frightening.” And Helen says, “Isn’t that something from Queen?” Now Helen is nobody’s idea of a head-banging rocker, so that she should recognise this line from Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody comes as a bit of a shock. Just goes to show, I suppose, no matter how much you think you know your friends, they can still astonish you.

 

That is on Friday. It’s a ropey weekend for both My Good Lady and for me. I’ve already spoken about MGL’s chesty cough, and it takes its toll on her as far as stamina is concerned. As for me, I’m sure I’m going down with a bad cold on Sunday. It seems to be a case of over-tiredness, though, for I’m feeling better now. I can’t bring myself to do much of the housework; I just shove the vacuum cleaner about in the hall and kitchen, and give the bathroom a quick wipe down. And that’s it. I do us a spicy spaghetti Bolognese – very simple and undemanding. After that it’s just a quiet evening in front of the goggle box watching – I can’t remember what.

 

Monday. MGL ventures out for the first time in nearly a week. She’s still spluttering a bit, but I think the change does her good. We have our usual fun with the Times2 crossword. It’s really quite amazing how educational the Pub can be!

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02:56:44 o'clock BST

THE NASTY, catarrh-like cough that My Good Lady is fighting all this week finally comes to a head. It means she isn’t up to playing out today, although she informs me I must go, if only to get some chicken for tonight’s dinner. PD has already been on the phone to ask for a lift up to the Geriatrics’ Corner. “You might as well go for an hour or so,” she splutters, “all I want to do this afternoon is to have a lie down.” So I get her settled in bed, then toddle off to buy a pair of chicken breasts for poaching tonight, before swinging round to collect PD for a quick pint at the Pub.

 

Earlier, we have a delivery from the Wine Club, and for once they get the order wrong. I ring them after dinner this evening to complain; they promise to collect the unwanted box and send the correct one ASAP. Meanwhile, it’s down to me to get dinner ready: I poach the chicken in an infusion of lemon, parsley and thyme. MGL has already made the pesto to go with it, I just sauté up the new potatoes and boil some runner beans to complete the recipe. The best I can say of this meal is that it’s okay, nothing more.

 

MGL seems a little brighter this evening. She manages to stay up to watch an episode of Numb3rs (ITV 3) with me without coughing too much. She watches the news, too, before calling it a night, and leaves me to sort out the evening chores. From time to time I listen at the bedroom door, but I can hear no coughs or splutters from within – hopefully she’s managed to get off all right.

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03:32:28 o'clock BST

NORM, THE plumber, and his mate appear just after lunch. The bedroom radiator has been leaking ever since the decorator insisted on removing it and papering behind it, even though I specifically asked him just to decorate around it. Our central heating system is rather old and cranky, and it does not like to be manhandled. After Norm takes the radiator down again, fits a new joint, remounts it, scares the air bubbles out the system, bleeds it and tests it, two hours have gone by. We have to ring PD to tell him we won’t be able to pick him up for the Pub. It’s done now, but it’ll take a couple of months for the whole system to settle down again.

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03:55:35 o'clock BST

THE WEATHER is really beginning to get on my nerves. Rain, rain and more rain. I honestly can’t remember a summer quite like this one. Our holiday isn’t until next October, and we’re starting to regret that we’ve left it so late. But then, at the time of booking, we assumed that we’d be enjoying pleasant English sunshine for at least some of the summer. I understand parts of the country have basked in some warmth – it seems it’s just this corner of ours that’s so soggy.

 

Rain or no, we have to get some supplies in. We go along to the supermarket only to find not a single parking slot available – the place is absolutely heaving with cars and out-of-school kids. (Why do parents think that supermarkets are a good playground for children?) Change of plan, then. We decide to go to the Pub for an hour. We give PD a ring and ask him if he needs a lift – which of course he does – and we pass an agreeable hour with the Times2 crossword. Returning to the supermarket nearer teatime we find it considerably emptied, and we get our big shop done in short order.

 

Dinner this evening is My Good Lady’s homemade minced beef pasties, to which I contribute some of my creamed mustard mash. Later we watch an episode of Star Trek: Voyager (Virgin 1) before MGL calls it a night.

 

And outside, it’s still raining!

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04:02:39 o'clock BST

MR P, the music teacher, is in a generous mood, buying birthday drinks for all the company in the Geriatrics’ Corner – a very rare happening indeed! He talks a bit about a production of The Magic Flute he’s just seen which he says is excellent. Unfortunately, my reaction is somewhat negative: “Four hours of Mozart?” I remark, shaking my head.

 

I’m now listening to Elaine Paige on Sunday (BBC Radio 2), and to her interview with the great producer Sir Cameron Mackintosh. And I’m suddenly made to think: what is it about music and musicals that really puts me off? After all, I’m quite fond of Mozart’s music, so what is it about The Magic Flute I don’t like? To be honest, it’s the same with all opera with me – it’s the potty plots. My concentration starts to wander after the first hour. I just find the stories so preposterous that I simply cannot suspend disbelief. And the same is true with the likes of Cole Porter, for example, whose songs I love but whose shows are nothing more than froth. I remember falling asleep to a television version of Kiss Me Kate one Christmas, some years ago – even though I’d been looking forward to it keenly.

 

If I was ever to go on Desert Island Discs I’m quite sure that two of my choices would doubtless be something by both Mozart and Porter. Just not the complete works!

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02:31:45 o'clock BST

A SINGULARLY disagreeable day. Weather-wise, it’s either heavily muggy or bucketing down with rain; when we’re not dodging showers we’re sweating copiously.

 

We have a dental appointment at lunchtime, and what should normally be a quick five minute drive takes closer to twenty minutes. The dratted workmen are digging up pretty well every road in the area and causing endless traffic chaos. We get jammed up in a detour along relatively minor road and are sitting in a queue nearly quarter of a mile long. By the time we get home again, after another epic journey, I’m feeling well and truly shattered.

 

After a quick bite of sardines on toast, I go for an afternoon zizz. The stomach gripe that I’ve had all day is getting worse as the day progresses. Ever since I had food poisoning a few years ago it’s rarely 100% settled. Today, it’s as if two giant snakes are slithering around one another in there and thrashing about wildly. I can’t sleep during my nap, but I get up feeling marginally better. But our planned trip into town is definitely off, and I can’t even face up to making the eight mile round trip to the Pub.

 

We do go out, though, we make the chemist’s run for a supply of medication. And yes, we do pop along to our local for a quick drink. After that, it’s home for dinner. I’m even feeling well enough to help My Good Lady with a tasty stir-fry.

 

This evening we curl up together on the sofa and watch an old episode of Poirot (ITV3) – a rather nondescript episode, to be honest, but at least we can mindlessly relax to it. It’s something to distract us from a disagreeable day.

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03:51:52 o'clock BST

MY SLIDE scanning now continues with our visit to Beamish Museum, County Durham. This place certainly brings back memories to both My Good Lady and me. If you’ve been to Beamish, you’ll know that it’s a museum of what life was like in the north of England from around the 1860s to about 1913. It’s a marvellous place because it takes the form of a series of living displays, with costumed guides to help interpret what you’re viewing. So you can ride on a steam train or a trolley bus, you can view how people lived in a mining community, with their back-to-back terraced houses,  or inspect a working farm; you can go and shop in the local Co-operative store and then visit a dentist’s surgery (a painful spectacle, this). A great day out, then, definitely recommended.

 

Why all this hits me so hard, though, is because I can remember much of it when I was just a nipper in small Lancashire town in the 1950s. We lived right opposite a trolley bus station, I recall watching the men change the direction of the trolley poles and connect them to the overhead wires. My father was a miner and we lived in a two up, two down terrace, just like the ones in Beamish. When we went to the grocers we had our bacon sliced to order, our butter was cut from a large block, patted into shape and wrapped in greaseproof paper. And if I was ever treated to sweets, they were served from glass jars and wrapped in sheets of brown paper curled into cones and held in place with a little twist at the bottom. It was certainly a different world back then. Would I go back if I could? Most certainly not! A visit to Beamish is as close to these“good old days” as I wish to get!

 

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03:15:03 o'clock BST

WE’RE DINING outside today, in the garden, for only the second time this summer. And this turns out to be a bit of a mistake because no sooner are we seated than the sun dips behind a heavy cloud and the temperature starts to fall. We’re eating a pasta dish made with My Good Lady’s homemade tagliatelle verde, which is very good while it’s piping hot, but which has a habit of going cold rather quickly and when it does, it becomes a bit slimy. So what starts off as an appetising dish of ribbon noodles with a rich tomato sauce and topped with creamy chicken rapidly turns into a plate of cold, joyless pasta that both I and MGL find virtually unpalatable. Shame really. I’m beginning to think I ought to put the garden furniture away for the winter – and it’s still only August!

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04:36:20 o'clock BST

IT’S A little after midnight. My Good Lady is safely tucked away in bed and I’ve just indulged in a bowl of cream of tomato soup. I put on the kettle for a cup of tea, and that’s when it happens – the kettle blows up with a bright blue flash! To say I’m taken aback is to put it mildly. I peer into the offending object and give it a shake; I hear something rattling in the base, some of inner gubbins has clearly blown off. And it becomes evident, even to me, that this kettle has boiled its last mugful of water. But what to do? It’s one o’clock in the morning and I’m kettleless, and I am definitely in need of a restorative cup of tea.  Have you noticed that when such things go wrong they always do so at the most awkward of moments? The idea fleetingly crosses my mind that I could boil up some water in a saucepan – Boy Scout fashion. But then I realise that when My Good Lady wakes, she will need a cuppa, too, and she’s certainly no Boy Scout! And then the idea comes to me: our local Asda superstore sells kettles, and it’s open all night. Excellent! I venture out into the rainy night, drive the two miles or so to the store, and twenty minutes later I return home clutching a bright, shiny new electric kettle. I fill it with water, plug it in, and – nothing! I look at in dismay. The telltale light which the box assures me should come on to indicate action remains unlit. Unbelievably, I’ve picked up the one duff kettle in the whole superstore! Muttering a sailor’s oaths under my breath, I repack my new purchase, put on my shoes and coat and again venture out into the now even wetter night. Oh, the superstore exchanges my unproductive article without comment, although the lady there does give me an odd look. Wet and fuming with ill-humour, I return home, fill the kettle, plug it in, and – nothing! Nothing! NOTHING!  I can’t believe it! I’m almost hopping up and down with frustrated fury! And then My Good Lady wanders into the kitchen in her nightie, her eyes filled with sleep, and she says: “Do you know the radio isn’t working?” And of course, the penny drops. The original blow-up must have taken out the fuse. I check the fuse box and sure enough one  of the switches is down. I reset it, and I’m finally gratified to see the kettle glowing and making some welcome noises. We then have to spend another fifteen minutes retuning the radio – but that’s another story. By now I’m in a rotten mood, it’s three in the morning, but at least I do have my cup of tea.

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