... a bathtub!

            Knock and the door shall open – seek and you shall find.  Ask through a blog and it will be given you.  I cannot believe it, by little blog was read by so many people and all sorts of creative ideas came spurting forth.

            However, like all good competitions, (not that this was an official competition), I have narrowed down the entries (very difficult I must say) and we have a winner!

            Thank you to my friend Lynnie in Bucks for this bathtub!  Right up my alley and perfectly within my budget.  Thanks to a precision pair of scale Vernier Calipers (in inches) I was able to ascertain that the bathtub was indeed the perfect size and most importantly: DEPTH!

            That's when the penny dropped.  I couldn’t have that bathtub. No how.  No way.  It was in therapy …

            Thoughtful as I am, I quickly changed my sights and I do have my eye on this one – I think I’ll put in an offer tomorrow after I find those scale Vernier Calipers … now where did I put them?

All I want is ...

The problem begins with the fact that I have English genes, albeit bastardized genes these days, but at their root they're English, so I like to soak.  In a deep hot bath, that is.

The bastardized part comes from living my life in Uruguay and the US, where showers are king.  I like having showers, don’t get me wrong.  Showers in the morning, showers at noon, or before supper after a hard day’s work – yes, those showers are great.  But after supper?  No.  Now way.  Showers don’t cut it.

After supper it’s lights-out-candles-on and time for slipping into a piping hot pool of peace.  Alone.  Winding down to steam off the day’s layers of whatever.  Peace, perfect peace.

So, since we’re fixing up the little house we've just bought, I’ve been commissioned to find a tub for myself.  Simple. Home D should do the trick.  Ya think?

NOT HAPPENING!

They have ankle warmers, kiddies’ paddle baths and their deepest “soaker” wouldn't even reach my bum.  OK, OK, I know I have a very large bum these days, I’m conscious of the problem there, but it wouldn’t cover your bum either!  Unless you were under ten.

So it’s off to the dreaded Lowes (or Low S as Carlos calls it).  Unhelpful as always, they direct me to a large counter where a 3-foot-long horizontal-pole-bound collection of wretched catalogues awaits me.   But after a while I find what I’m looking for!  Hooray!  Claw foot, 60 inches by 30 inches by (bliss) 22 inches depth.  I’m so thrilled I even forget my Low S grudge. 

Grinning from ear to ear I approach the salesman again, who’s still (s)talking to the saleswoman about their weekends.  I have to wait until they reach a point where I can politely interrupt. 

“The price is in the back of the catalogue,” he points to the place I’ve just come from.  They resume their conversation and I’m banished to the Low S library again.

Who cares?  I can do it without them; I enjoy self-checkout lines and self-serve gas pumps.  I get to the page and suddenly every ounce of Low S hatred returns.  It costs almost as much as my car! 

Stubborn though, I plow through three more tomes.  It’s impossible; they’re all just as useless as the Home D tubs.  Every page I flip tells a similar story and I get more and more frustrated.  Can’t one of them help me?

I turn to look at them, sniggering and chatting together, no, they're too busy, so I stalk off towards the exit.  Yeah I have a big bum, yeah I came in dressed in my shorts and flip flops, but I came in on a mission.  I came to spend money.  Obviously I wasn't the type of customer who'd be in a position to spend that kind of money (oh Richard Gere where are you?)  and they sussed me out.  They were right.

So I’m hunting online now.  Carlos is hunting online as well.  In fact, because he gets up earlier than I do, he’s probably hunted more that I have.  But there isn’t a single soaker, in my price range, to be found.  

Maybe I’ll get a kiddies’ blow up pool and put that in the bathroom instead.  I’ve been known to do silly things like that.

Goat on float

Goat on float

A boat!

A boat!

That day

On the Moat

From

His window

Boy spied

A little red boat

The boat

Was afloat

On the Moat

Near O’Groat

And a man

Came out

And got into

That boat.

Then a

Second man

Dressed in

A float,

Walked out

And came

Down the

Path to that boat.

The man

With a float

Had a cake

And a goat.

A goat with

A bell and

They got into

The boat

“Wait!”

Mouthed the man

As he raised

A hand.

Out! Out

Boy ran

To listen

To their plan.

“Wait,” said

The man

“Have you brought

My float?

Have you brought

My float

Which I left

In my tote?”

“I forgot!”

Said the man

And he slapped

His head.

“Hang onto

My goat

I’ll go back for

Your float”

The man

With a float

Got off the boat

As his friend

Held the collar

Round

The throat

Of the goat.

Soon the man

With the float

Came back

To the boat

He came out

To the boat

With a note

And a tote

“Not the tote”

Said the friend

Still holding

The goat

“Just the float

That’s inside

That silly

Blue tote”

“That’s the thing”

Said the man,

The man

In the float,

“That’s why

I came back

With this note

From your

Tote.”

“A note

From my tote?”

He said holding

The goat.

“Yes one

I’d earlier

Pulled from the mouth

Of my goat”

“And what says

The note

That you found

By my tote?

What says

That note

Almost eaten

By your goat?”

“Dear Joe,”

Says the note,

Read the friend

In the float

“Dear Joe,”

Says Peyote

Your old friend

In Remote.

“I’m borrowing

Your float

From your tote

At Remote,

Your float

With the sleeves

That looks

Like a coat.

It’s cold

Here tonight

In Remote,”

He wrote,

“I was cold

So I took

Your float

From the tote.”

“Well, well,”

Muttered Joe,

“Well, well,

What to do?

Seems I’m

Stuck now

With note

And no float

For my boat."

"What now?”

Said the friend

To the friend,

“What to do?

Now I’m here

On my boat

And it’s there

In Remote?”

He let go

Of the goat

And groaned

As he wrote

With a finger

In the air

MY FLOAT’S

IN REMOTE!!!

“We can’t

Go for a ride

Not even

A float”

And as he spoke

The goat

Jumped right off

The boat!

“Oh no!”

Yelled the friend

In the float

“I can’t swim!

My goat!

It can’t swim!

It will sink

In the Moat!”

“Help! Help!”

Yelled the men

As they looked

For the goat.

“Help! Help!”

They called out

Not seeing

The goat.

Boy ran

For his float

Then ran out

Like a shot

And hurled

The

Donut float

Attached to a rope.

He knew

By rote

How to save

In the Moat

So he called

To the goat

“Hey, Billy!

Grab that float!”

In a mountain

Of foam

Billy Goat

The water broke

Reached the float

Which

Was tied a

Rope.

“Pull! Pull!”

Cried the men

From the

Bow of the boat

“Save the goat!

Save the goat!

Someone help!

We can't swim!”

“Good boy

Billy Goat!”

Boy called as

Goat’s teeth

Sank deep

As it grabbed

One side of

The float.

“That’s it

Billy Goat!

Bite tight

Don’t let go!”

“Pull! Pull!”

Cried the men

Getting off

Their red boat.

“Swim! Swim!”

Boy yelled

As the goat fought

The Moat.

“I’m pulling!”

Boy yelled to

The men

From the boat.

But the goat

Was big

And the boy

Was small

And the men,

Who were foolish,

Feared crossing

The Moat.

Downriver was

A bridge, our

Folklore told,

‘Neath which lived

Dote troll

Who ate things

From

The Moat

Dote spied them

And caught them,

His dinner

To make;

From the bridge

Or the water,

His prey he

Would take!

The men

Were afraid,

So they called

And they yelled.

But boy’s hands

Slipped and bled

On the rope

To the goat.

One last tug

Might have had him,

But on handovers

Slipped!

So the current took

The goat

On the donut

Float.

“Oh no!”

Cried the men

As they watched

Boy fall.

“Oh no!”

Boy yelled as he

Tumbled off

The wall.

With a splash

Boy was in

Right after

The goat.

Then the current

Sucked him down,

To’ard the

Bridge of

Dote.

The bell

Of the goat

Did clang as

He fought

And the float

Kept him up

As he howled

From his throat.

“To the bridge!”

Boy called,

Now desperate for

Some help,

As he swam for

The goat

And his life

To’ard the float.

“The cake! 

The cake!

Take the cake

To the troll!”

He spluttered

As he swam

Best he could

In the Moat.

The troll popped out

As the bell

He heard,

Stamped his feet

Rubbed his hoofs

And with

A grin

He did gloat.

Boy swam,

Boy fought

Till he reached

The rope.

Then the goat

With a shriek

Bit onto

Boy’s coat.

But the Moat

Pulled the boy

And the goat

Way on down,

As the men

Now emboldened

Carried cake

To the troll.

Old Dote

Got his net

And yelled

“By Bloat!

What a meal

I shall have,

From above

And below!”

That’s when Joe

From the boat,

The one in the float,

With the cake

Reached the

Bridge and

Yelled out

To the troll:

“Hey troll!

Lookie here

Come ‘n see

What we’ve got!”

And together stormed

The bridge

Just as Dote

Cast his net.

Boy screamed,

Men stomped

And the goat

On the float

Bleated loud

As the troll

Confused

Did emote:

“Get the goat

On the float?

Or the boy in

The coat?

Or the cake?

Or those

Dummies

On my bridge?”

If you

Were a troll,

By the name

Of Dote,

Would you eat

For dinner:

Boy, float,

Cake,

Or goat?

Folklore

Does say,

(Tho' not confirmed,

No way!)

That the troll

Called his

Friends and

The lot

They ate.

The Oncologist

            She sat on the other side of the doctor’s desk, hands clasped in her lap, palms damp with nerves. 

Unlike regular doctors’ offices, where everything was the same sterile white, including sinks and cupboards, Dr. Johnson’s office was warm, his desk filled with pictures of family and cluttered with books, papers and a few toddlers’ drawings.  It was tastefully furnished in deep cherry and plush carpets.  The chair she was seated in, like its partner, was comfortable and deep.  She knew this office by heart, she could draw it in her sleep but today it was veiled in a grey mist.  Even the enormous painting of the endless path into the woods was out of focus.

How naive she had been when she brought first her aunt then her mother here.  She would point out the décor, the brightness, the photos.  She would ignore their mechanical “Mmm” responses.  Chattering on she would do anything to attempt to distract them from their awful plight. 

Now she was in the hot seat nothing else mattered.  If something had changed Sophie didn’t notice nor did she care.

He was due to walk in any moment, but the anguish was just too great.  She was sure it was cancer.  After all, so many members of her family had had it before her, she’d seen the signs, she knew the signs and she’d nursed her own mother right to the end.  She swallowed deep, the knot tightening her throat.

It had all started with a simple infection.  Not quite the way it had happened with her mother, but everything she’d read on the Internet, told her the symptoms were the same.  Ticked all the boxes.

The door opened announcing the doctor’s arrival.  She looked up at him, bracing herself for what she knew was coming.

“Hello, Sophie,” he said walking towards her with a small smile.

“Hello, Dr. Johnson,” she greeted her mother’s oncologist.  Her oncologist now.

“It’s so wonderful to see you after all this time, how have you been?” he said letting his 6 foot 5 frame sink into the chair.  Not his great grey chair behind the desk, but in the seat beside Sophie.  Only one reason why he would do that.

“It’s good to see you too, although I’d rather not be here,” she squeezed her eyes shut with her thumb and forefinger, “if you know what I mean.”

“I know – I’m not a very popular person.” He said with a hangdog expression.

“Oh, I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Sophie touched his forearm, “it’s just that … well, it’s tough coming back here.”

“I know, Sophie.  Everyone who walks into this room is afraid.  I can smell it, feel it. Do you know I have to take special classes and counseling on how to talk to people?  Every year I attend different sessions just to make sure I’m staying sensitive – because my news is almost always pretty awful.”

“I didn’t know that, no.  I never thought of it that way.   It must be really hard for you.”

“Hmmm, it is, yes.  But I live in hope that one day, one day, Sophie, we’re going to crack this one and find a cure.  That always makes me think positive.  I just wish we could have found it already.  So many wonderful people, your Mom, your aunt Lucy … Lucy ...” he sighed.

Sophie’s throat tightened again, “…and now me …”

“And you … and you?” he looked up, the glazed expression cleared as he focused on Sophie  “No! Not you.” He said, clasping both her hands in his.  “Not you, Sophie! You’re fine.  You have nothing wrong except a little stubborn fungal infection which you can get rid of with this,” he said pulling a packet from the pocket of his white lab coat.

“Not? I’m not … I’m OK?” said Sophie blinking back the tears,  “are you telling me it’s not ca …”

“It’s NOT cancer,” smiled Dr. Johnson, “You’re absolutely fine.”

“Oh my God, I can’t believe it.  Thank you!” she said hugging him so spontaneously that her thumb knocked his glasses off, “Ooops, I’m so sorry,” she said bending over to pick them up and in the effort, she knocked over a picture. “Thank you!  Oh dear ", sorry again!” she said she teared up with joy.

“Who’s this?” she asked noticing the picture of a new baby in the photo she'd returned to his desk.

“My granddaughter, Lucy.”

“She’s gorgeous, Dr., Johnson, how old is she?”

“Lucy … she was five months in that picture.  Named after your aunt Lucy.  She died three weeks ago.  Brain cancer,” he whispered, turning away towards the never ending path in the painting as he often did.

“Oh.  Oh, no.” Sophie watched this gentle giant slump as his shoulders shook in silent sobs.  Again she touched his arm.

“One day,” he said, lost somewhere in the woods, “One day...”

More about Baby Cancer

End of childhood (2)

Feminism.  This play is still running riot in my head and I thought it would be enough to just spit up what I did a week ago.  But it’s not!  Now that I took the cork off, the rest is just tripping over itself to come out. 

Feminism, I spent my childhood watching old traditions slam into new behaviors.  Listening to adults talking about the young generation of women and their attitudes.  I was born in 1960, so there was plenty of fodder all around.

But it didn't fit me.  If it had wheels I wanted to ride it; if it had branches I wanted to climb it; if it involved hand-eye coordination I wanted to play it.  Anything you can do I can do better …

If it involved skirts, fashion, and dolls I wasn’t interested.  Yet this boy somehow had stolen my little girl heart in the summer of 1973 and proceeded to smash it after the sun had set on the end of a magical season.

By the time we got back to the Clubhouse, my mother was in the parking lot, waiting for us.  Broken and disgraced, I rode in the back of the car after the party, while he sat in front.  I said nothing.   She spoke to him, sweet and gushing as always.  After all, he’d been in “Arsenic and Old Lace” with her the year before - all grown-ups and him.  He carried on an adult conversation with my mother as if nothing had happened between him and me in the dark damp shadow of the juniper trees.  I said nothing and then he was gone.  He didn’t even say goodnight to me.

I knew everything was my fault; he'd told me I was “such a baby” and then he'd said nobody would be interested in me ever again.  At 14 believed him and I watched as the rest of my life disappeared into a nothingness. 

It was hard enough at home, being the second of four.  A wonderful family and I love them dearly, but I spent so much of my time feeling like a flyover zone, like a banana skin.  The First was always the Best.  The Boy was the Only Boy.  The Last was the Apple of everyone’s eye.  And then there was me.  A failed number one because I came second.  A girl, when they’d spent nine months expecting a boy.  Trouble.  I spent my first week in this world with no name, because my parents hadn’t planned for a girl.  Everything was blue, the names were for boys and the champagne went back in the fridge. 

To top it off, I spent the next six months of my life screaming, starving and battling for my life with a strange digestive disorder.  Trouble.  I can’t think anyone wanted me much then either.  My older sister used to bang her head against the wall in despair at my screaming.  My father would holler and punch holes in walls.  My mother never confessed how it affected her … so I knew it was bad.

I crawled into bed that night and cried myself to sleep.

It was the very next day I made the pivotal poor choice.  I didn’t plan it, it just sort of happened at the last training session of the summer.  I found a moment and walked towards him.  Anything you can do, I can do better …

“About last night …” I whispered, looking at my long second toe.

“Oh, puh-leeze,” he said, dismissing me with a wave of his hand, turning towards the other guys.

I touched his arm, “about last night … I …” my second toe seemed even longer.

“Listen, just leave me the hell alone.  OK?” he hissed, then added, “baby.”

That was no term of endearment.

Anything you can do I can do better.  I can do anything better than you.  No, you can’t. “Please … whatever that was last night …” I swallowed hard, my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth, “whatever it was … I .. can we try … a – a – again?” the last words rushed out of my mouth before I even realized.  I had no idea what was happening.

“Really?  Well … look who’s growing up in a hurry,” he said, carelessly tossing the words over his shoulder.  “Well, we’ll see what happens later.”

I should have realized from the searing pain in the pit of my stomach that this was a very, very bad idea.  A very poor choice.  But I had no idea what was going to happen.
A tomboy can do anything boys do, right?  That’s how I felt.  Like George (Georgina) in Enid Blyton’s Famous Five Series, I always felt I was more of a boy than a girl – so whatever it was he was planning, I was going to have to grow up quick and learn.

Anything you can do I can do better.  I can do anything better than you.  No, you can’t. Yes, I can.  No, you can’t.  Yes, I can.  Yes, I can.

Living with Alzheimer's - part III

“I don’t have a daughter in America,” says Mum and with a click the international connection is broken.

Holding my cell phone to my ear, I stand, transfixed for a heartbeat and then I howl.

I’ve lost my mother.

 **

She came into the room where I was tucked into bed, waiting.  It looked as if she were floating on a magic carpet, her silky blue sparkly dress swishing along the floor as she moved towards me.  I’d begged her to come for a good night kiss before leaving for the ball and she did.  She always did.

I sighed with pleasure, because even though she’s always beautiful, she looked like a fairy princess tonight, her hair piled high up on her head, pearls around her neck, and the dress like glittering water all the way down from her shoulders to the floor.  It twinkled as she moved and when she sat on the edge of my bed, I saw she’d painted her eyes, her lips and her nails.

“Goodnight, Noony darling,” she whispered in my ear, “sleep tight,” she kisseed me on the right cheek leaving behind that never-to-be-forgotten imprint of Madame Rocha’s perfume.

“Night, night, Mummy.  You look beautiful,” I whispered back, somewhat timid because tomboys weren't supposed to notice nice clothes and things, “You look like a fairy,” I said touching the dress then the sparkling bracelet on her wrist.

She smiled, but before she could reply, Daddy walked in, her knight in shining armor, magnificent in a tuxedo with a blue bowtie.

“Are we ready, darling?  It’s getting late.”

He held out his hand to her, her dashing blue-eyed knight, blew me a kiss and in a swirl of silk and perfume, they were gone.

 **

I wipe my tears and blow my nose.  I know it’s too early to be crying like this.  After all, it’s 2008 and Mum’s only just been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s a year ago.  I call back and Dad picks up.

“Wazzup, Noony?” he teases.

“Hi, Dad.  I called five minutes ago and Mum didn’t recognize me,” I say to the knight in shining armor, perhaps using that little girl voice again.

“Oh, was that you?  She didn’t have Fred in, so she couldn’t hear.”

Relief washes over me like a warm blanket.  Fred, her hearing aid, was to blame for the misunderstanding and all was right with the world again. 

Because, forty years on, she may not be wearing the twinkling blue dress anymore, but she’s still my Mummy and I’m not ready to miss her yet.

Like a fairy princess ...