Able Mable and Anthony Dick

He knew all of her and she wanted to know and not just remember all of him, as she traced the falling crumbs down his bronzed and toned chest - right the way to his belt buckle and the promise beneath it. She noticed in the folds of his crouch that a little of the sandwich she had made had come to rest, sending her body into a downward spiral of pure desire and lust.

‘Mable’ came her grannies voice from the kitchen, ‘You remember Anthony Dick, don’t you; he was in your year I think.’

Mable put the Mills and Boon book down on her Grannies reading table.

            ‘Another Dick? Ye, sure. The only kid with a name worse than mine. Wow she thought. That was a name from the past. The memories came flooding back. ‘Gran you really ought to get out more’. She looked up from the book and was horrified.

            ‘Hi Able Mable’ Anthony Dick chuckled ‘good to see ya again. He came across the living room and shook her hand. Gone was the spotty teenager that she remembered and there stood a truly ‘fit’ (in every sense of the word) man.

She blinked hard a couple of times. The twinkle in her Gran’s eyes sparkled in the way that normally Mable would have smiled at but at this moment in time it only made her embarrassed and irritated.

            ‘I asked him round to give me a quote for a new house’ the amusement in her voice made Mable throw her a ‘now behave Gran’ sort of expression. She caught the delighted glee in Anthony’s face. He had always had a sense of fun.

            ‘What new house?’

            ‘On the land by the village pond’

Anthony filled her in ‘the one we used to hide in when we were kids being chased by Jimmy’

            Out of her memory banks lurked a picture. ‘The one with the beautiful barn?’ Gran nodded

            ‘Didn’t know you owned that Gran’ Mable still looked at Anthony transfixed by the transformation he had gone through. His gaze was as fixed and steady on her.        ‘Been waiting for the right time and person, to make the best of it; location and barn being what they are. Now you have had a couple of years to get to grips with architecture and Antony has had his own building business for eight years or so and knows what he’s doing. Well I thought, you would both do a good job together.’

            Mable was taken a back, she never realised her Gran had such big plans, though she had constantly encouraged her to become an architect, just like her Granddad had been. Now it seems, she was going to make full use of what she had nurtured.

            ‘Does mum know about this?’ She asked her Gran.

            ‘Not on your Nelly, she would have spent the money and put me in a home. So you have to keep it hush hush and no telling ya dad either, he wouldn’t keep his mouth shut.

            Here’s a sketch of how me and ya Granddad envisaged it. Anthony knows the land and the housing market around here. I wanted to be your first client that you have.’

            ‘You certainly will be; haven’t even moved into the office yet!’ Mable loved her Gran she was everything she wanted to be. Sharp, witty and kind but didn’t suffer fools or overbearing and spiteful pompous prigs (which is what she called her mother). A no nonsense woman that loved life and the people around her with one exception, Mable’s mum.

            Mable was given the ugliest name by her mother because she was the ugliest baby, she had been told. There was no denying she was the scrawniest, thick black haired baby with piecing ugly blue eyes you could ever imagine. But in spite of her mothers best efforts she turned into a good looking girl; a little late perhaps but as Gran had told her some of the best things in life are worth waiting for. Now in her twenties about to embark on her thirties she was elegantly tall and womanly, with a joyful disposition which was a miracle her Gran would say.

            ‘Well off you go then, have fun. Don’t forget these and take good care of her Tony my boy, she drinks heavily when she’s thinking’.

            ‘Gran’ Mable protested. But Gran pushed the young ones out of the house with genial contentment and they took their leave.

            Mable could see her Gran peaking at them through the curtains and turned and stuck out her tongue and smiled, as she always had done. It was good to be back in the village, now she could see her more often. She breathed deeply the crisp spring air and the new grass and buds. She turned to Anthony and asked

            ‘Do you prefer to be called Tony or Anthony?

            ‘He shrugged which ever you’re comfortable with. What about you, you happy with Mable?’

            ‘I go as May at work and to my friends’

            ‘So May it is. I’ll take you in my truck. Save you drinking and driving’

            ‘Why? Where we going?’

            ‘Your Gran gave me orders to take you out, wine and dine you, while I talk you through her plans.’

            ‘No need, we could go back to my office.’

            ‘Trying to get me killed? Or just wanting her to have my guts for garters?’

            ‘You know her that well? Lord we had better do as we’re told. Wouldn’t want a death by Gran; after you managed to escape from Jimmy’s efforts to kill you. Talking of the devil what does he do now?’

            ‘He works for me.’

            ‘You’re kidding me.’

            As they got in his impressive truck with his logo on the side, May tried to get her head around what she had just been told. Jimmy was the village bully that had relentlessly hounded Mable and Anthony. Some how, she would have to meet Jimmy again just to see how the dynamics of these two had turned out. She will have to grill Tony and get the lowdown.

            ‘So which pub are we off to?’

            ‘Your Gran booked it up. Never been there before, ‘Cat ‘n’ Mouse’ I think she said it was.’

            ‘Oh!’

            ‘Is it that bad?’

            ‘Oh you’ll have a good time. The food is great and the surroundings (not that you will notice) are beautifully understated and the atmosphere relaxed and warm.’

            ‘So why the “Oh”?’

            ‘Gran, I think is trying to write a ‘Mills and Boon’ romantic noval with us as the main characters’.

Tony looked across at May. Confused, he took in her words again by repeating them to himself. He mulled them over and then the meaning hit him. His smile was board while his eyes glistened like they always did when they were young.

            ‘I love your Gran’

May rolled her eyes and giggled. ‘As I remember it Tony, writing was not your strong point and romance was a definite no, no.’

            ‘Oh but I’ve grown up since then, I still can’t write but I can do romantic’

            ‘What ‘Mills and Boon’ romantic?’

            ‘You want ‘Mills and Boon’ I will give ya ‘Mills and Boon.’

            ‘From what I just read, could we just go with romantic?’ His laugh had not changed, it filled her with a fun bubble that had kept her sane through all the ugly years and still had the same effect. Yep! She thought, it was great to be back where she belonged.

             

Patience they say is a virtue?

After a couple of weeks of little frustrations, such as washing machine, tumble dryer and dishwasher deciding they had had enough and quit working (I couldn’t blame them). I replaced them only to find the replacements had issues going on and we had to wait for their replacements. Then the car decided to have moments likened to a toddler having a tantrum, deciding it was going no further at the most inconvenient time! I know no time is convenient but when I had three places to be at the same time, making the calls while a line of traffic built up, with a tractor driver offering to push the car to one side for me while the children where shouting questions of importance, can make you a little overwrought and jaded around the edges. They just needed to give me time but they all seemed unwilling. Finally the car calmed down and started and the tight country lane was in full flow again.

Imagine then, how happy I was on that Friday evening to finally open a bottle of wine, escape upstairs and enter my in-a-sanctum of my beautiful new en-suit. Scented candles gave a pleasant and relaxing ambiance of a tropical beach. So realistic was the mood that I was sure even before switching on the shower that I could feel the water lapping at my toes. Alas it was not my imagination, there really was water lapping at my toes. My in-a-sanctum is no more. Life can be full of events that test your patience to the limit!

In the two years since this happened despite many men coming to look and scratch their chins and two new doors replacing the old Leakey one. I still have no flooring down, due to the leak that still persists through the seam in the door. I had said right from the start that I thought it was a design fault. Three men looked around at me, the shower man; the plumber and my poor husband, they indulged my theory only two years later did they believe it!

Patience they say is a virtue that will be rewarded, what I would like to know is when!

Tink an up-date.

I’m no expert and I don’t want to go rummaging around to find out but if being off her food, not wanting to walk too far and her pacing me to the sofa at every given opportunity so that she can get herself comfortable on me is anything to go by, then yes, I think she is in pup!!

When I make a coffee at lunch time she wines at the living room door and when I open it so that she can go in, she stands at the door and looks deep within me and waits for me to understand. She considers it my duty to come and spend some time with her; after all it’s my fault she is in this predicament! I feel this vibe very strongly! Not normally stopping for lunch, it took me a couple of days to get the message but with her perseverance I have gained the enlightenment and I must say it has been a wonderful and therapeutic time for me.

I knew it was my duty to make sure that I have good homes for the pups, that I take every precaution to breed a healthy brood and I have. Meticulously going through every piece of advice ensuring that I understand it and when I’m given conflicting advice that I, think it through and do the best I can. What I had not anticipated was this strong feeling of empathy.

I hated being pregnant, it neither felt natural or comfortable and the sickness was not just in the mornings but 24/7. Tink is not just off her food but not eating at all!!!! I understand her reluctance to eat, I remember it well. I had this desperate craving for chocolate mouse, knowing it was going to resurface was none to pleasant either but the need to eat them was so strong I could not deny it. A few moments of pleasure for an hour or two of hell never seemed worth it but there, such is life. I have found a few ingenious ways to get her to eat a little and am hoping that soon her need to feed her growing pups, will take over and that her sickness will soon subside.

Then there is her effort to get up and bearing in mind the pups aren’t even showing yet and things are going to get worse is playing on my mind. I remember feeling my body had been taking over by an alien when I was first pregnant and the looks she gives me with those deep toffee eyes, I can see she feels the same, though much stronger as she has five/six little aliens growing inside her.

Taking time out of my day to fulfil her needs, looking at her changing ways and body, does give me a sense of wonder. Just by eye contact, looking at her demeanour, feeling the energy that pass between us and observing, it is surprising how much you can understand and communicate without words. This for me is the reason I love dogs so much, not the unconditional love they can give me but the way they make me look at life.

I feel this understanding would work with teenagers and toddlers alike. If we stopped looking at them as pre-programmable adults and just took time to breath deeply, observe and feel the energy that passes through us and them, perhaps our communication skills would be greatly improved along with our lives. It’s just a pity it doesn’t work with husbands, I have tried. Oh I can understand him and his needs but there is only one look he understands/takes notice of . I only have two types of energy apparently; angry or happy and nothing in-between gets noticed. Our communication is fine he would say, I understand him, what more do I want?

Someone to visit me in my goldfish bowl for a change?

The Battle of the Coat Hangers and Odd Socks

The fight between Clothes Hangers and Odd Socks Broke out this Morning

Yet Another Flight of Fancy

 by Tilly Moments for you to smile at J

The battle of the coat hangers, still persist in our house. I have come up with several cunning plans to draw up a cease-fire but the children, clothes hangers and odd socks always carry on the assault. Angus has now taken his big brothers habit of shoving socks down, behind and sometimes into cushions, behind chairs and in DVD cases…. mine is not to reason why, just do or die trying to pair up socks.

            For anyone who lives with more than one person in their house this is a constant battle – odd socks and coat hangers. In the time in which it takes me to wash, dry and sometimes iron the clothes I have to put the empty clothes hangers somewhere! But no matter how organised I try to be or which place I put them in, they escape or are released.

            Angus plays with them and they can become anything from Captain Hooks hook to a big bazooka that gives him full control over all he surveys, apart from me much to his bitter disappointment. He can be very inventive – after watching “Spy Kids” he set a trap for his sister. I fell over it in spectacular fashion that he would’ve been very proud of, but he was at school at the time. Health and safety in the home would say I should have a serious talk with him, but it was so inventive and impressive I hate to quash his talent. At least I found the missing cotton I got out to do a running mend, now the cotton reel is empty!

            The older ones create a pile in different places, which changes day to day hence the disarray. I try to gather them up the best I can, near the ironing board and laundry basket preferably, and often find an odd sock or two hanging desperately to the hook.

            Ella with her ordered thinking decided we had too many clothes hangers and odd socks so she started to throwing them out. When I pointed out that was due to the pile of washing (which nearly reaches the ceiling) not being beaten into submission yet, so were eventually going to need the hangers and the odd socks will eventually meet their partners! She was free to sort the pile out, then there would be no clothes hangers to annoy her. With this she turned on her disgruntled heal and stormed off. I stared after her, as most of the clothes were hers!

            Going on strike or working to rule is hard work! But short of constantly shouting and being in an agitated state to get my family helping with the daily chores, I find I have no option. My theory is – that the more you do the less they appreciate what it takes and think less of you too. I’m working to rule with some things and on strike with other motherly duties, which doesn’t bode well for the washing pile.

            When they needed their sports kit or their favourite thing to wear, they attack the pile with the ferocity of a mole, and wear it crumpled “see look it’s fine, what is all the fuss about” bemused I look on and do you know I’m really not sure why it does matter. Somehow it’s the way I show my love, care and an outward respect of self. Nothing smells more homely than the smell of freshly ironed washing and nothing looks more cared for than crease free clothes, giving a confidence to the wearer.

            As I set the ironing board up, I ponder on what must happen when I turn my back. I know I left a nice neat pile of hangers there, and the odd socks all place together waiting patiently for their partners to find them. However when I came back  the odd socks and the coat hangers are intermingled as though a full-blown battle had ensued and the debris a strewn all over my bedroom, maybe a fairy battle? Now that would be grand. I smile to myself, perhaps there is a story there, and start to write in my head as I iron.

            The children think fairies do the washing anyhow, after all no human in their right mind puts any effort into such a mundane silliness as ironing clothes, and pairing socks? You open a draw and there are the clothes all ready for you – right? Well children and men think this. Lets face it women have to oversee the chores because men are just incapable and certainly not made for the job of nurturing or teaching, a luxury of not shouting to get things done is all theirs.

            A loud booming voice broke off my sexist thoughts and made me jump, as I didn’t recognise it. There it went again; it came from a fluffy chin that had the hint of manhood about it. As I marvelled at this sprouting wishful beard, that had so many differing colour in it that deep call came again. Low and behold it was connected to that colourful chin. I realised it was my son’s chin and his voice. How did that happen? That ever-deepening boom had replaced the teenage trill of yesterday, and I marvelled at nature. Apparently he was looking for his favourite socks but any pair would do he said. ‘I’m on strike, I’m not doing demand service today’ I reminded him, still transfixed by the multi coloured beginnings of a goatee. He, disgruntled turned on his heal and left leaving the battlefield for me.

            When I get back from taking the children to school, I put in the second load of washing for the day, pick up the scattered hangers and unruly odd socks and being to think of my flight of fancy and her idea of writing. In-between loading, unloading folding sorting the washing I write my four novels, blog and short stories. I finish just in time to prepare the evening meal, and ready to pick up the children who will come home famished and needing to be fed. I stand there taking a breather and wonder why I never get anything finished.

            We all clamber out of the car and then the race is on, can I cook the meal before they empty the contents of the cupboards? To stave of the assault of carefully planed fare I had lined up for the week, I ask them all to go and get the washing in. Irritated teenagers followed by a buoyant and mischievous seven year old, I sigh at the struggle. All sorts of hollers and yells come from the garden, which I close my eyes and ears to, though I do notice my youngest son’s foot flying in the air around my whirly gig washing line. I try not to focus on how they are folding the washing and how many extra creases have been put into the clothes, which will take me twice as long to iron.

            My daughter comes in and disappears, I sigh, but soon she reappears and helps me in the kitchen. My little one gets the drinks and by the time the meal is on the plates, my husband is home and putting the them on the table. It’s like the Walton’s on the old TV show, happy, helpful and very respectful and I’m truly humbled and take it all in, case it never happens again.

            As I run the youngest bath, I try to put the clothes away and iron them while he plays contented, and this evening I brace myself for the fight. There on my bed are neat piles of carefully folded clothes that need very little ironing and inwardly I bloom. Axl at least has appreciated the struggle to have an ordered home. The clothes hangers neatly placed in their specially designed box and paired socks all in a neat row – my daughters ordered mind has wrestled them into submission. I feel valued and appreciation spring to my eyes in water droplets of joy. I know the same struggle will continue tomorrow children, clothes hangers and socks being what they are. Perhaps they are just tiny steps in my shoes but at least they took some time to walk with me in them.

A clothes hook was patented in 1869 by O.A. North of New Britain, Connecticut but it was Albert J Parkhouse in 1903, after co workers complained of not having enough coat hooks who bent a piece of wire into the shape we recognise today. This is the fact that I find so amusing though, he worked for Timberlake wire and Novelty Company, does this mean the humble clothes hanger is a novelty?

            Ever since the struggle with this particular not so novel novelty, has and forever will rage and enrage. In conclusion then, men’s inventions may solve a problem but inevitably create a different difficulty – mostly it has to be said for women.