My Celtic cross - the one that Dad sent for me; Dad's cross - is gone.
It broke from the chain, presumably, at some point during the morning.
As I have no idea where, or even when, this happened, the chances of finding it again are next to none.
I am in pieces.
That is all.
Alice x
UPDATE (day later):
It has been found! Somebody found it and handed it in and so when I asked - without much hope - at the desk just in case, it was there and I have it!
Oh, I am so happy.
I feel complete again...
Wednesday, 29 April 2015
Monday, 27 April 2015
I Was Going To Whine About My Day (Which Admittedly Was More 'Meh' Than 'Bad'), But Then I Came Across This -
- and frankly, I consider it far too funny not to share.
According to the dashboard thingy that I find myself on initially every time I log in to post my deep and ponderous yet wittily interesting musings (shut up), One Fat Girl & Her Thoughts has been viewed 3,700 times since first publication.
Investigating this before on a whim a while back, I was amused to note that a good proportion of my supposed viewing audience was based in not only America, which I expected - hi, Best Friend 2! =waves= - but in India, too, and also in Poland (but, I ask myself; is the trend in outsourcing so feared and vilified by the Daily Mail to blame?).
Investigating again on a whim today a little more thoroughly, I stumbled upon another set of statistics my Blog has apparently generated and laughed out loud.
Anyway, I have reproduced said statistics below.
Hopefully my faithful audience (of one) will find them as amusing and get as much of a kick out of them as I did.
So! Reader; enjoy.
Alice x
According to the dashboard thingy that I find myself on initially every time I log in to post my deep and ponderous yet wittily interesting musings (shut up), One Fat Girl & Her Thoughts has been viewed 3,700 times since first publication.
Investigating this before on a whim a while back, I was amused to note that a good proportion of my supposed viewing audience was based in not only America, which I expected - hi, Best Friend 2! =waves= - but in India, too, and also in Poland (but, I ask myself; is the trend in outsourcing so feared and vilified by the Daily Mail to blame?).
Investigating again on a whim today a little more thoroughly, I stumbled upon another set of statistics my Blog has apparently generated and laughed out loud.
Anyway, I have reproduced said statistics below.
Hopefully my faithful audience (of one) will find them as amusing and get as much of a kick out of them as I did.
So! Reader; enjoy.
Alice x
~~~
Search Keywords
| Entry | Pageviews | |||||||||
|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|
onefatgirlandherthoughts.blogspot.com
|
31
| |||||||||
fat woman waddle
|
2
| |||||||||
fatgaral.nad
|
1
| |||||||||
bullet size big fat girls school
|
1
| |||||||||
fat girl gut
|
1
| |||||||||
fat girl quickie
|
1
| |||||||||
fat girl sneezing
|
1
| |||||||||
fat girl waddle
|
1
| |||||||||
fat girls garge
|
1
| |||||||||
fat+girl+sneezing
|
1
~~~
|
Sunday, 26 April 2015
My (Affectionately Named) Diddy Purple Flippy Phone Has Died A Death.
=sad face=
Yesterday morning, t'was.
I turned on my phone upon waking up, as per the norm, and instead of turning white, then black again - with the snappy "welcome from T-mobile!!" greeting appearing in white3 font - before revealing the nifty red and blue spotty pattern I had decided I'd like to look at every time I flipped my Diddy Purple Flippy Phone open, the screen instead flashed white for the briefest of instants before turning a rather ugly dark-ish shade of mottled blue.
And that's how it stayed.
I tried everything I could think of, which admittedly wasn't all that much:
I turned it off and then on again.
I took out the battery and then put it back before turning it on again.
I took the battery out again and blew on it, then blew on the SIM card as well for good measure before putting them back and turning it on again.
I even used the tried and tested method of 'this doesn't work; give it a whack and see what happens'.
The end result of each attempt was the same:
No change.
Fearing the worst, I took it down to the -EE- shop in town (previously called the T-Mobile shop) and asked one of the nice sales assistants there if anything could be done.
After going through the motions that I had already tried, her prognosis was glum. There would be no reprieve. The SIM card was working, but the screen, and therefore the Diddy Purple Phone itself, was dead as a doornail.
.....Drat. Drat. Double drat.
A new phone was in order.
Naturally, being an adventurous sort of person, I wanted one precisely the same as the last one. It had, after all, lasted nearly three years of rough treatment in my well-meaning but immensely clumsy care, which in terms of modern technology (which is designed to last between 6-12 months at best) is immensely wonderful. And in any case, I liked it. It was Diddy. And Purple. And didn't access the Interweb or take pictures or video or anything like that (which I am aware is supposed to be the best thing since sliced bread or however it is phrased nowadays, but I definitely and unutterably DO NOT WANT).
The girl took me over to the phone stand.
The best they could offer me was an updated version of the Diddy Phone. It looked a little different, slightly longer and slimmer, freakishly shiny; but the basic functions were promised to be "reasonably" the same. It still can't access the Interweb or take pictures, anyway, which is the main thing (it can be used as a radio, apparently, but meh; we'll forgive it).
Only problem was; no longer was there a wide choice of colours. Due to a lack of demand, only two colour options remained. White, or black. That was it.
Boy, was I disappointed.
But I handled it maturely and took it in my stride (as you do); a brief pout and a "really? Just these? No purple?" and that was it.
I decided on black - no contest really. Nothing I own that starts its life as white stays that way for very long - and followed the perky sales assistant obediently to the counter to make my purchase.
£19.99, t'was, £10 of that being the obligatory Top Up Voucher/Card that comes with all Pay-As-You-Go mobile phones whether you want it or not.
As someone paying a monthly fee for a contract - and a very nice little contract it is too. Does all that I need it to; more in fact, and t'is a mere £6 per month. It was £8.49 originally, but went down once I had been subscribed (is that the word?) for 2 years without making any changes to it - of course, I fall into the latter category. But, eh; cest la vi. I am the one that has eschewed the idea of having an 'ordinary' phone in favour of a 'simple' one (or at least as 'simple' as you can get the damn things to be these days). Had I have wanted to, I could have accepted the phone that came free with the contract originally, rather than turning my nose up at it and paying £19.99 to purchase my Diddy Purple Flippy Phone, but I chose not to. I wanted the Diddy Purple Flippy Phone instead, so that was what I had (though at the time because the contract was just being established, the sales assistant kindly made use of a loophole she knew to exist within the system and the cost of the £10 top up was entered into the computer as "a credit payment of £10 to be used when payment is next due").
My mature and professional-esque manner dimmed somewhat when we reached the counter, however, and she began asking questions such as "what type of contract are you on, currently?" and "what type of SIM card are you using?"; both of which gained a half blank, half panicked stare - picture a deer in headlights - in response, followed by a barely coherent and annoyingly rambling description of how much the contract costs per month (and how much it cost to begin with) and what the SIM card looks like (which as it turns out, apparently, is what all of them look like).
To give the gallant young woman credit where credit is due; now faced with the fact that she was dealing with someone whose knowledge of technology is on a par with that of the more dimwitted of the goldfish family, her smile didn't slip and her friendly manner did not alter. Gentle probing and carefully worded questions on her part (eventually) produced the answers she needed, and we were able (at last) to proceeded with payment, which thankfully went off without a hitch.
That done, I was free to pop my old SIM card into my new phone and exit the store to go on my merry way and do whatever it was I had planned, and the sales assistant was free to go on her merry way and do whatever it was she had planed (in my case; go to work. In hers; probably excuse herself and take a quick break, praying that the next person she dealt with was not as much of an idiot as the last).
So! I have a new phone.
It is still a Flippy Phone.
It works in almost exactly the same way as my old one.
It is much the same size as my old one.
It costs exactly the same amount to run as my old one.
BUT; it is not Purple. Not even a little bit purple.
=SIGHS=
.....I am really not mature at all, am I.....?
Alice x
P.S: as an unhappy side note, it wasn't until much later that I realised that although all the names and telephone numbers ("contacts", the sales assistant said they were called) were there in my new Diddy Black Flippy Phone as promised and unchanged, the text messages I had carefully saved - including the 12 or so messages that I had sent to my Father to cheer him up while he was stuck in hospital in the days leading up to his untimely death - weren't.
They were gone. Forever.
That was around about when my 'oh-that-sucks-but-what-can-you-do' attitude evaporated and was replaced by acute hysteria.
.....But that is a post for another day.....
Yesterday morning, t'was.
I turned on my phone upon waking up, as per the norm, and instead of turning white, then black again - with the snappy "welcome from T-mobile!!" greeting appearing in white3 font - before revealing the nifty red and blue spotty pattern I had decided I'd like to look at every time I flipped my Diddy Purple Flippy Phone open, the screen instead flashed white for the briefest of instants before turning a rather ugly dark-ish shade of mottled blue.
And that's how it stayed.
I tried everything I could think of, which admittedly wasn't all that much:
I turned it off and then on again.
I took out the battery and then put it back before turning it on again.
I took the battery out again and blew on it, then blew on the SIM card as well for good measure before putting them back and turning it on again.
I even used the tried and tested method of 'this doesn't work; give it a whack and see what happens'.
The end result of each attempt was the same:
No change.
Fearing the worst, I took it down to the -EE- shop in town (previously called the T-Mobile shop) and asked one of the nice sales assistants there if anything could be done.
After going through the motions that I had already tried, her prognosis was glum. There would be no reprieve. The SIM card was working, but the screen, and therefore the Diddy Purple Phone itself, was dead as a doornail.
.....Drat. Drat. Double drat.
A new phone was in order.
Naturally, being an adventurous sort of person, I wanted one precisely the same as the last one. It had, after all, lasted nearly three years of rough treatment in my well-meaning but immensely clumsy care, which in terms of modern technology (which is designed to last between 6-12 months at best) is immensely wonderful. And in any case, I liked it. It was Diddy. And Purple. And didn't access the Interweb or take pictures or video or anything like that (which I am aware is supposed to be the best thing since sliced bread or however it is phrased nowadays, but I definitely and unutterably DO NOT WANT).
The girl took me over to the phone stand.
The best they could offer me was an updated version of the Diddy Phone. It looked a little different, slightly longer and slimmer, freakishly shiny; but the basic functions were promised to be "reasonably" the same. It still can't access the Interweb or take pictures, anyway, which is the main thing (it can be used as a radio, apparently, but meh; we'll forgive it).
Only problem was; no longer was there a wide choice of colours. Due to a lack of demand, only two colour options remained. White, or black. That was it.
Boy, was I disappointed.
But I handled it maturely and took it in my stride (as you do); a brief pout and a "really? Just these? No purple?" and that was it.
I decided on black - no contest really. Nothing I own that starts its life as white stays that way for very long - and followed the perky sales assistant obediently to the counter to make my purchase.
£19.99, t'was, £10 of that being the obligatory Top Up Voucher/Card that comes with all Pay-As-You-Go mobile phones whether you want it or not.
As someone paying a monthly fee for a contract - and a very nice little contract it is too. Does all that I need it to; more in fact, and t'is a mere £6 per month. It was £8.49 originally, but went down once I had been subscribed (is that the word?) for 2 years without making any changes to it - of course, I fall into the latter category. But, eh; cest la vi. I am the one that has eschewed the idea of having an 'ordinary' phone in favour of a 'simple' one (or at least as 'simple' as you can get the damn things to be these days). Had I have wanted to, I could have accepted the phone that came free with the contract originally, rather than turning my nose up at it and paying £19.99 to purchase my Diddy Purple Flippy Phone, but I chose not to. I wanted the Diddy Purple Flippy Phone instead, so that was what I had (though at the time because the contract was just being established, the sales assistant kindly made use of a loophole she knew to exist within the system and the cost of the £10 top up was entered into the computer as "a credit payment of £10 to be used when payment is next due").
My mature and professional-esque manner dimmed somewhat when we reached the counter, however, and she began asking questions such as "what type of contract are you on, currently?" and "what type of SIM card are you using?"; both of which gained a half blank, half panicked stare - picture a deer in headlights - in response, followed by a barely coherent and annoyingly rambling description of how much the contract costs per month (and how much it cost to begin with) and what the SIM card looks like (which as it turns out, apparently, is what all of them look like).
To give the gallant young woman credit where credit is due; now faced with the fact that she was dealing with someone whose knowledge of technology is on a par with that of the more dimwitted of the goldfish family, her smile didn't slip and her friendly manner did not alter. Gentle probing and carefully worded questions on her part (eventually) produced the answers she needed, and we were able (at last) to proceeded with payment, which thankfully went off without a hitch.
That done, I was free to pop my old SIM card into my new phone and exit the store to go on my merry way and do whatever it was I had planned, and the sales assistant was free to go on her merry way and do whatever it was she had planed (in my case; go to work. In hers; probably excuse herself and take a quick break, praying that the next person she dealt with was not as much of an idiot as the last).
So! I have a new phone.
It is still a Flippy Phone.
It works in almost exactly the same way as my old one.
It is much the same size as my old one.
It costs exactly the same amount to run as my old one.
BUT; it is not Purple. Not even a little bit purple.
=SIGHS=
.....I am really not mature at all, am I.....?
Alice x
P.S: as an unhappy side note, it wasn't until much later that I realised that although all the names and telephone numbers ("contacts", the sales assistant said they were called) were there in my new Diddy Black Flippy Phone as promised and unchanged, the text messages I had carefully saved - including the 12 or so messages that I had sent to my Father to cheer him up while he was stuck in hospital in the days leading up to his untimely death - weren't.
They were gone. Forever.
That was around about when my 'oh-that-sucks-but-what-can-you-do' attitude evaporated and was replaced by acute hysteria.
.....But that is a post for another day.....
Wednesday, 15 April 2015
Les.
That was his name, I found out some time after we met.
Les. Les Millichap. He had to spell it for me so the policeman on the other end of the phone could type it into his computer. He was 87 and had worked as a "gunner" after being posted in Germany during the war. He had a daughter (definitely; as it turned out) and a nephew (possibly; unconfirmed).
The reason he was in town changed with each passing minute, swapping between three or four examples. He had arranged to meet his daughter. He had arranged to meet his nephew. He had arranged to meet both of them, and his nephew had popped to the bank. He had arranged to meet no-one, but planned on visiting his nephew - who supposedly worked nearby. Where exactly was another varied answer that he swung back and forth between; as was indeed whether he had a nephew at all - to surprise him. He was due to have his hair cut and coloured at 9-AM that day and was waiting for the appointment time (it was at that point 12:30-PM and the building he supposed to belong to his barber was a tea-shop and had been for at least 10 years).
Which of these was true, if indeed any of them were, I suppose I shall never know.
Helplessly, I looked at him. His green-grey eyes gazed into mine with an air of trust that made me feel more helpless and discomforted than ever. He had stopped me as I was striding along not paying attention to much of anything. He was sat on one of the long metal benches outside what used to be part of Kidderminster's town hall but now has been turned into office buildings.
Handing me a piece of paper with a telephone number on it written in bold ink under the word "Denise", he had asked me to ring his daughter for him, as he couldn't understand what was taking her so long to arrive. I tried, but the phone rang and then cut through to an answering service. It was then that Les mentioned his nephew and his arrangement to meet him. Puzzled, I was about to speak when a lady sat nearby chimed in to tell me that he was "confused". He had been meandering around for some time before sitting down, and he had, she told me ruefully, given her at least ten explanations of his visit to the town centre in the past ten minutes; most of them contradictory of each other.
I stared at Les with a sinking feeling and he smiled back. The surprise visit to see his nephew at work came out, quickly smothered under the blanket of meeting his daughter again. Pressing for more details, the lady that had spoken to me tried to find out which building the nephew worked in, only to be told that he didn't have one. He had a daughter, he assured us; Denise. She would be along any minute now.
Had she told him that she was going to meet him there, the lady and I asked him. After repeating the question several times, loudly, into his mostly deaf ears, he finally got it and shook his head. Then nodded. Then shook his head again.
"I don't know," he confessed at last; "I get confused sometimes. I have dementia."
Right. The lady and I nodded, worriedly. Right...
Without much hope, we probed him for any information we could use. Address; no. Daughter's address; no. How he had come into town; taxi...or bus...or did he walk? He also swung crazily back and forth between admittance of his condition and denial of it.
The woman, having exhausted every possibility she could think of, said something along the lines of that it was a shame, but he must have come from somewhere and presumably eventually he would return there on his own; nothing more to be done by us. And with that, she left, leaving me staring after her aghast.
The man watched her go too, and assumed that I was going to go as well, for he shook my hand and thanked me for all of my help (none, thus far).
At a loss, I asked him to wait and headed into the council building. The idea in my mind was to gather advice - should I leave him to it? Should I leave a message on the answerphone of the number he gave me? What if it didn't belong to his daughter at all, and was a random number his confused mine had made up? - and a number, possibly, that could be rung to get help for him.
A few minutes later as I waited in the queue I saw him begin to walk slowly away and had to run out to get him. When pressed he cheerfully explained about the appointment with the barber at 9-AM that day. When I showed him my watch he looked at his own and agreed that it was 12:30-PM, but couldn't quite connect the two times together in his mind. As far as he was concerned; it was 12:30-PM indeed, but it was also time for him to go to get his hair cut - heading for a building I knew to be a tea-shop - because his appointment was at 9-AM.
With some effort, I managed to pursade him to return to the bench and sit down. I explained where I was going and why, told him firmly to stay put and - hoping very much that he would - went. The queue was still immense, but I happened to see someone vaguely official looking trying to replace a poster in one of the stands just outside, so I collared her.
My problem explained, her advice was to ring the non-emergency police helpline and report the situation to them. She gave me the number and told me to press the number the automated system gave for "vulnerable person". As I dailed the number, I thanked her profussely.
Les was still there, I could see him from where I was stood, sat where I had left him; calm and content and enjoying the sunshine. The automated system had two options: press hash to be transferred to 999 or wait for an operator. I waited, and after explaining the problem to three different - thankfully kind and polite - people I was transferred to an equally kind and polite policeman.
He took down various details, including the man's name, which I finally managed to get through to him that I needed, and the policeman told me that if they didn't manage to contact the daughter, a police officer would be sent to collect him to make sure he remained safe. He asked if I would stay with him in the meantime, and I said I would.
I explained to Les what was happening. He was pleased. He liked the police. A long rambling story followed regarding the prompt actions of the afore mentioned to make the errant young men that lived the house next to his stop playing loud music late into the night. That was when it transpired why he had reached out to me, out of everybody else passing by. He thought I was a policewoman. Considering my dark polo-shirt and high visibility jacket, I could understand why. After a few futile attempts to explain the reality behind my role, I gave up and agreed with him that policework was "interesting"; which, I'm sure it is at least some of the time.
A short time later, the nice policeman rang back and confirmed that the daughter had been reached - that really had been her number. And she really was called 'Denise'. The policeman agreed that my concerns had been valid, however - and was on her way; could I wait with him still?
I said that I would.
So there we were; me and Les, waiting for Denise.
We didn't speak much. There was little point, as every word had to be shouted into his ear several times before it managed to wriggle through and reach his brain. So apart from the conversation about my being a policewoman and him accepting a sip of coca-cola from the bottle in my bag, we sat in companiable silence.
Fifteen minutes later, Denise arrived; hot and exhausted and wearily irritated. She wasn't upset with me, or even with him, really. Just at the end of her tether. She was a woman that had Had Enough.
When she told him that the police had called to tell her that he was "confused" - which was what I had told him - Les became slightly agitated. He claimed that "all six of them had ignored him" earlier that day; just "sat there in that bloody front room and pretended he was dead". Denise turned and told me matter of factly that there was only the three of them; her, her husband and her daughter. And no front room.
I told her that I understood, and that I was very sorry.
She sighed. It was "very hard" she said.
A moment later, we went our separate ways. After his initial hostility, Les was happy to be taken home. Shaking my hand, he thanked me warmly. Denise thanked me as well.
Not knowing what else to do and powerless to help, I smiled at her and squeezed her arm.
She nodded.
I nodded back.
And then I left.
And that was that.
That poor man.
And that poor poor woman...
Alice x
Les. Les Millichap. He had to spell it for me so the policeman on the other end of the phone could type it into his computer. He was 87 and had worked as a "gunner" after being posted in Germany during the war. He had a daughter (definitely; as it turned out) and a nephew (possibly; unconfirmed).
The reason he was in town changed with each passing minute, swapping between three or four examples. He had arranged to meet his daughter. He had arranged to meet his nephew. He had arranged to meet both of them, and his nephew had popped to the bank. He had arranged to meet no-one, but planned on visiting his nephew - who supposedly worked nearby. Where exactly was another varied answer that he swung back and forth between; as was indeed whether he had a nephew at all - to surprise him. He was due to have his hair cut and coloured at 9-AM that day and was waiting for the appointment time (it was at that point 12:30-PM and the building he supposed to belong to his barber was a tea-shop and had been for at least 10 years).
Which of these was true, if indeed any of them were, I suppose I shall never know.
Helplessly, I looked at him. His green-grey eyes gazed into mine with an air of trust that made me feel more helpless and discomforted than ever. He had stopped me as I was striding along not paying attention to much of anything. He was sat on one of the long metal benches outside what used to be part of Kidderminster's town hall but now has been turned into office buildings.
Handing me a piece of paper with a telephone number on it written in bold ink under the word "Denise", he had asked me to ring his daughter for him, as he couldn't understand what was taking her so long to arrive. I tried, but the phone rang and then cut through to an answering service. It was then that Les mentioned his nephew and his arrangement to meet him. Puzzled, I was about to speak when a lady sat nearby chimed in to tell me that he was "confused". He had been meandering around for some time before sitting down, and he had, she told me ruefully, given her at least ten explanations of his visit to the town centre in the past ten minutes; most of them contradictory of each other.
I stared at Les with a sinking feeling and he smiled back. The surprise visit to see his nephew at work came out, quickly smothered under the blanket of meeting his daughter again. Pressing for more details, the lady that had spoken to me tried to find out which building the nephew worked in, only to be told that he didn't have one. He had a daughter, he assured us; Denise. She would be along any minute now.
Had she told him that she was going to meet him there, the lady and I asked him. After repeating the question several times, loudly, into his mostly deaf ears, he finally got it and shook his head. Then nodded. Then shook his head again.
"I don't know," he confessed at last; "I get confused sometimes. I have dementia."
Right. The lady and I nodded, worriedly. Right...
Without much hope, we probed him for any information we could use. Address; no. Daughter's address; no. How he had come into town; taxi...or bus...or did he walk? He also swung crazily back and forth between admittance of his condition and denial of it.
The woman, having exhausted every possibility she could think of, said something along the lines of that it was a shame, but he must have come from somewhere and presumably eventually he would return there on his own; nothing more to be done by us. And with that, she left, leaving me staring after her aghast.
The man watched her go too, and assumed that I was going to go as well, for he shook my hand and thanked me for all of my help (none, thus far).
At a loss, I asked him to wait and headed into the council building. The idea in my mind was to gather advice - should I leave him to it? Should I leave a message on the answerphone of the number he gave me? What if it didn't belong to his daughter at all, and was a random number his confused mine had made up? - and a number, possibly, that could be rung to get help for him.
A few minutes later as I waited in the queue I saw him begin to walk slowly away and had to run out to get him. When pressed he cheerfully explained about the appointment with the barber at 9-AM that day. When I showed him my watch he looked at his own and agreed that it was 12:30-PM, but couldn't quite connect the two times together in his mind. As far as he was concerned; it was 12:30-PM indeed, but it was also time for him to go to get his hair cut - heading for a building I knew to be a tea-shop - because his appointment was at 9-AM.
With some effort, I managed to pursade him to return to the bench and sit down. I explained where I was going and why, told him firmly to stay put and - hoping very much that he would - went. The queue was still immense, but I happened to see someone vaguely official looking trying to replace a poster in one of the stands just outside, so I collared her.
My problem explained, her advice was to ring the non-emergency police helpline and report the situation to them. She gave me the number and told me to press the number the automated system gave for "vulnerable person". As I dailed the number, I thanked her profussely.
Les was still there, I could see him from where I was stood, sat where I had left him; calm and content and enjoying the sunshine. The automated system had two options: press hash to be transferred to 999 or wait for an operator. I waited, and after explaining the problem to three different - thankfully kind and polite - people I was transferred to an equally kind and polite policeman.
He took down various details, including the man's name, which I finally managed to get through to him that I needed, and the policeman told me that if they didn't manage to contact the daughter, a police officer would be sent to collect him to make sure he remained safe. He asked if I would stay with him in the meantime, and I said I would.
I explained to Les what was happening. He was pleased. He liked the police. A long rambling story followed regarding the prompt actions of the afore mentioned to make the errant young men that lived the house next to his stop playing loud music late into the night. That was when it transpired why he had reached out to me, out of everybody else passing by. He thought I was a policewoman. Considering my dark polo-shirt and high visibility jacket, I could understand why. After a few futile attempts to explain the reality behind my role, I gave up and agreed with him that policework was "interesting"; which, I'm sure it is at least some of the time.
A short time later, the nice policeman rang back and confirmed that the daughter had been reached - that really had been her number. And she really was called 'Denise'. The policeman agreed that my concerns had been valid, however - and was on her way; could I wait with him still?
I said that I would.
So there we were; me and Les, waiting for Denise.
We didn't speak much. There was little point, as every word had to be shouted into his ear several times before it managed to wriggle through and reach his brain. So apart from the conversation about my being a policewoman and him accepting a sip of coca-cola from the bottle in my bag, we sat in companiable silence.
Fifteen minutes later, Denise arrived; hot and exhausted and wearily irritated. She wasn't upset with me, or even with him, really. Just at the end of her tether. She was a woman that had Had Enough.
When she told him that the police had called to tell her that he was "confused" - which was what I had told him - Les became slightly agitated. He claimed that "all six of them had ignored him" earlier that day; just "sat there in that bloody front room and pretended he was dead". Denise turned and told me matter of factly that there was only the three of them; her, her husband and her daughter. And no front room.
I told her that I understood, and that I was very sorry.
She sighed. It was "very hard" she said.
A moment later, we went our separate ways. After his initial hostility, Les was happy to be taken home. Shaking my hand, he thanked me warmly. Denise thanked me as well.
Not knowing what else to do and powerless to help, I smiled at her and squeezed her arm.
She nodded.
I nodded back.
And then I left.
And that was that.
That poor man.
And that poor poor woman...
Alice x
Thursday, 9 April 2015
Ah, Bless.
.START.
(Scene is set; a conversation is taking place between a small boy - who had just completed an enthusiastically proud walk along a wall ledge - and the woman walking beside him, presumably his mother...)
SMALL BOY: (thrilled) did you see? Did you see? Wasn't it great? I walked all the way along, just like this (cue him miming the action)! Wasn't that great?
MOTHER: (rueful) yes, I saw. It was very good. I am always worried you are going to fall off, though.
SMALL BOY: (indulgently condescending) oh, come now, when you walk spread your arms out like this (cue him stretching his arms out in the manner of a tight-rope walker) you can't fall off; it's impossible! So you don't need to worry about me. It's quite all right.
MOTHER: (nods sagely) I see. Well, that's good to know.
(Scene ends; with mother and son turning into a nearby shop. The mother rumples her young son's hair affectionately and smiles down at him as they pass out of sight.)
.END.
.....Ah.
Out of the mouths of babes.....
Alice x
(Scene is set; a conversation is taking place between a small boy - who had just completed an enthusiastically proud walk along a wall ledge - and the woman walking beside him, presumably his mother...)
SMALL BOY: (thrilled) did you see? Did you see? Wasn't it great? I walked all the way along, just like this (cue him miming the action)! Wasn't that great?
MOTHER: (rueful) yes, I saw. It was very good. I am always worried you are going to fall off, though.
SMALL BOY: (indulgently condescending) oh, come now, when you walk spread your arms out like this (cue him stretching his arms out in the manner of a tight-rope walker) you can't fall off; it's impossible! So you don't need to worry about me. It's quite all right.
MOTHER: (nods sagely) I see. Well, that's good to know.
(Scene ends; with mother and son turning into a nearby shop. The mother rumples her young son's hair affectionately and smiles down at him as they pass out of sight.)
.END.
.....Ah.
Out of the mouths of babes.....
Alice x
Sunday, 5 April 2015
Happy Easter To All -
- and to all a goodnight!
.....er, or something like that at least; near enough, anyway.
Seasonal Greetings.
Alice x
P.S. I quite like that, actually. I think I'll send it as my Easter text message.
I'm sure my family (all God-knows-how-many of them) and friends (all three of them) will just love it.
.....Yep.
=nods=
.....They won't think it weird or unfunny at all.
.....Nope.
=shakes head=
.....er, or something like that at least; near enough, anyway.
Seasonal Greetings.
Alice x
P.S. I quite like that, actually. I think I'll send it as my Easter text message.
I'm sure my family (all God-knows-how-many of them) and friends (all three of them) will just love it.
.....Yep.
=nods=
.....They won't think it weird or unfunny at all.
.....Nope.
=shakes head=
Friday, 3 April 2015
Overheard As I Passed A Group of Fresh Faced Youths:
BOY, APPARENTLY 10 OR SO YEARS OLD: (proudly) I did that one, look, right there!
.....He was pointing at a mass of unintelligible graffiti sprawled on a nearby wall.
=SIGHS=
Alice x
.....He was pointing at a mass of unintelligible graffiti sprawled on a nearby wall.
=SIGHS=
Alice x
Thursday, 2 April 2015
Note To Self:
While watching television, saying "ooh look, there's a rabbit!" is liable to cause the dog lying nearby to jolt out of his (apparently light) slumber and twist himself wildly into an insane looking position trying to find it.
Said dog will then be quite disappointed.
That is all.
Alice x
Said dog will then be quite disappointed.
That is all.
Alice x
Wednesday, 1 April 2015
Two Conversations.
Conversation 1.
.START.
(Scene is set; Kidderminster Choral Society are gathering for their final pre-concert rehearsal. Sat at the very back on the uppermost row are a few of the second sopranos, among them are Alice and Jane. Jane is married to man name Kes, and has been describing in a low voice the difficulty she has been having with him and his teeth...)
JANE: (whispering despairingly) ...and that was that. He's dead against it now. Stupid man. He's in pain, one of his last real teeth is half fallen out and he won't go to a dentist. I mean, how ridiculous. Whatever shall I do with him? I can't stomach many more evening meals of bland soup because he won't eat anything else.
ALICE: (thoughtfully) it's a poser.
JANE: (hopefully) any ideas?
ALICE: (mischievously) we-ell, this is a bit naughty but if, as they saying goes, there are two ways to a man's stomach - the first being through his stomach and the second being something one doesn't discuss in polite company (cue slight giggles from both) - then the only thing that I can suggest is to withold both of them until he submits and goes to the dentist out of sheer desperation.
JANE: (resolute) absolutely not. I would go utterly insane if deprived of one of those for longer than a day.
ALICE: (grinning) to save you embarrassment, I shan't ask you to elaborate on which one.
(Scene ends; with both Alice and Jane trying to stifle laughter as the conductor bids the choir to rise.)
.END.
Conversation 2.
.START.
(Scene is set; Alice turns on her computer and finds to her surprise that it was already on, merely locked. Looking up as Mother enters, the following conversation ensues...)
ALICE: (curious but non-combative) mum, have you been using my comput...?
MOTHER: (interrupting in a loud and aggressive manner) no! I haven't touched it! I haven't even looked at it! I haven't touched it, I haven't!
ALICE: (bemused) ...OK, I was just wondering, that's all.
MOTHER: ...right... (dropping down into the chair in a flustered huff after a long pause) ...well I haven't. Not a bit.
ALICE: (slightly amused) feeling a little defensive, are we?
MOTHER: (sheepish) ...just a little, perhaps...
(Scene ends; with the two women smilingly ruefully at one another as they dwell on the exact reasoning behind Mother being wary of touching the computer without supervision in the first place.)
.END.
Alice x
.START.
(Scene is set; Kidderminster Choral Society are gathering for their final pre-concert rehearsal. Sat at the very back on the uppermost row are a few of the second sopranos, among them are Alice and Jane. Jane is married to man name Kes, and has been describing in a low voice the difficulty she has been having with him and his teeth...)
JANE: (whispering despairingly) ...and that was that. He's dead against it now. Stupid man. He's in pain, one of his last real teeth is half fallen out and he won't go to a dentist. I mean, how ridiculous. Whatever shall I do with him? I can't stomach many more evening meals of bland soup because he won't eat anything else.
ALICE: (thoughtfully) it's a poser.
JANE: (hopefully) any ideas?
ALICE: (mischievously) we-ell, this is a bit naughty but if, as they saying goes, there are two ways to a man's stomach - the first being through his stomach and the second being something one doesn't discuss in polite company (cue slight giggles from both) - then the only thing that I can suggest is to withold both of them until he submits and goes to the dentist out of sheer desperation.
JANE: (resolute) absolutely not. I would go utterly insane if deprived of one of those for longer than a day.
ALICE: (grinning) to save you embarrassment, I shan't ask you to elaborate on which one.
(Scene ends; with both Alice and Jane trying to stifle laughter as the conductor bids the choir to rise.)
.END.
Conversation 2.
.START.
(Scene is set; Alice turns on her computer and finds to her surprise that it was already on, merely locked. Looking up as Mother enters, the following conversation ensues...)
ALICE: (curious but non-combative) mum, have you been using my comput...?
MOTHER: (interrupting in a loud and aggressive manner) no! I haven't touched it! I haven't even looked at it! I haven't touched it, I haven't!
ALICE: (bemused) ...OK, I was just wondering, that's all.
MOTHER: ...right... (dropping down into the chair in a flustered huff after a long pause) ...well I haven't. Not a bit.
ALICE: (slightly amused) feeling a little defensive, are we?
MOTHER: (sheepish) ...just a little, perhaps...
(Scene ends; with the two women smilingly ruefully at one another as they dwell on the exact reasoning behind Mother being wary of touching the computer without supervision in the first place.)
.END.
Alice x
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