Afternoon Delight

via Daily Prompt: Tea

Last week, my niece Amber celebrated her seventh birthday. She told her mum that, instead of a party, she would like to go for afternoon tea at an upmarket local hotel. It’s one of those places with a gym and a pool and Amber had seen the Afternoon Tea menu advertised one morning when her mother took her swimming. We all thought this request was out of character, as Amber is the archetypal tomboy. If she’s not playing football or being Spiderman, she’s climbing trees and having fun with her two dogs. But the menu choices seemed to have mesmerised her and her mind was firmly made up.
The whole family, well, the distaff side, turned out, dressed to kill and ready to hit the dining room. There was Amber, her 11-year-old cousin Cara, mum Maggie and me, Auntie Noreen, Granny Brigit and Great-Auntie Josie. Talk about competitive! The two seniors had donned wedding hats and brandished their handbags like weapons, and Amber even wore a dress – unknown!
In the dining room, we could almost inhale the gentility. Flowers were everywhere, dahlias and gladioli, in sparkling containers brimming with greenery. The table linen was as gleaming white as Granny Brigit’s new dentures. Our chairs were noiselessly adjusted by smart young waiters as we were seated, conversations hummed around us in muted tones, spoons really did tinkle against fine bone china. It all felt a bit like an Agatha Christie murder mystery was about to kick off, so much so that I found myself peering round to see if there was any sign of Jane Marple or the immaculately French Hercule Poirot. But no, there was only our excited little party and a dozen or so other ladies, taking tea at tiny tables, waited on by a contingent of attentive waiting staff.
Until. We had oohed! and ahhed! over the neat pyramids of wafer-thin sandwiches, the light crumbly scones with oodles of jam and cream, and were dreamily contemplating the heavily-laden cake stand – chocolate and cholesterol heaven – when HE arrived. Our daddy, Brigit’s ex, Willie.
Picture the scene. A mature – 85 next birthday – stocky chap, short in stature but making up for it in havoc potential, paused in the doorway. It was like an alien had entered the chintzy room and every female’s eyes swivelled to check him out. Willie wasn’t wearing his glasses – vanity being another of his main attributes – and seemed to be having some difficulty in focusing. Our entire table groaned, before turning to concentrate on the contents of the cake stand.
Except Amber. Reverting to her usual demeanour, she leapt to her feet and yelled, ‘Grandad! We’re here! Just look at the size of our bloody chocolate eclairs!’ The very room seemed to gasp. Grandad followed Amber’s call, weaving his way through the seated ladies, occasionally nodding and winking, coming close enough to hover over Cara, eyeing the unfamiliar bevy before him with something resembling incredulity.
‘Is it you, Brigit?’ he eventually blurted. ‘Is that you? What’s wrong with your face? You look like a tomato plant!’
As one, we turned to look at Granny Brigit. To say she’d turned scarlet would be an understatement. She swayed to her feet and removed her primrose hat, crumpling it against her green twinset in short fat ring-festooned fists. She’d gone from tomato plant to velociraptor in the space of five seconds. Fiery sparks shot from her eyes in Willie’s direction.
‘I invited you,’ she growled. ‘I distinctly remember asking you to come. But you said you’d a snooker match at the club. Too busy playing with your coloured balls to come to your grand-daughter’s party. And what in the name of God is that you’re wearing?’
She’d done it now. Everyone in the room stared at Willie’s turquoise silk jacket, peach chinos, yellow paisley cravat and engineer boots. The fact that he is only sixty inches tall and had his hair slicked back like John Travolta in Grease seemed to somehow complement his choice of outfit. ‘He looks like our old Andy Pandy with a quiff,’ I whispered to Maggie, who glared at me and tried not to giggle at the same time; no mean feat.
‘It’s not the party, Granny,’ Amber piped up. ‘The party’s tomorrow. Today is afternoon tea.’
‘Afternoon tea?’ Willie’s eyes widened to a zombie stare. He gripped the back of Cara’s chair, threatening to tip her out of it and onto the parquet flooring. ‘Don’t they serve any proper drink in this fancy shebeen? I’ve not got done up in my best gear for bloody afternoon tea!’
A rush of activity ensued and Willie was surrounded and rapidly seated by the smooth young waiters. As though by magic, a pint of Guinness appeared on the gleaming tablecloth beside the waiting chocolate fancies. Willie smiled and chucked Amber under the chin. ‘That’s more like it, you know what your old Grandad likes, darlin’, don’t you?’
Amber looked at him innocently and nodded. ‘Yes, Grandad, football and drinking and snooker and chips and golfing and…’
Cara dived in to change the mood. ‘Would you like a scone first, Grandad? Before your drink?’
Willie thought about this. He looked around the table, taking in the mixed expressions of the adults and the trusting young faces of the two girls. ‘Well, if there’s no chip butties on offer, I suppose I could risk a scone.’
Beside me, I felt Millie relax. Across the table, Brigit’s face still threatened war, but we knew that she wouldn’t spoil her granddaughter’s special day. The ladies at the other tables had lost interest, sensing that no fireworks were going to be set off, and returned to their muted gossiping.
Amber picked up a china plate and loaded it with a huge fruit scone, a pot of thick cream and a tiny jar of strawberry jam, before handing it to her Grandad. She waited while he prepared his feast and took a bite before turning to Maggie, her expression serious.
‘Next year, Mummy, if we come for afternoon tea, I think we should all wear fancy dress, like Granny and Grandad. I’ll be Spiderman.’

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Don’t Soil Your Frock, Doc!

SoilSo, the new Doctor is female, who’d have thought it? Come on, it’s only taken 50-odd years for the regeneration of the Timelord into the Timelady. Or is that me being sexist? And elitist? Honestly, you can’t open your mouth these days without giving offense.

Anyroad up, as they allegedly say in Yorkshire, what’s the difference? Gender roles in film and drama seem to be interchangeable these days. We have Superman and Wonderwoman, Spiderman and Lara Croft, Batman and Catwoman. But if you haven’t seen the difference, you’ve been asleep in front of the screen.

These thoughts led me to wondering about how the Doc, as an either/or, might have been conditioned as a child. For that we need to go back-a-ways, s/he has been around since the year – only Who knows? And also, the Doc, sorry to break it to you so crudely, is non-human. Yes, I know the character has been portrayed as a human, David Tennant, Tom Baker, William Hartnell et al portraying him over the years. But he’s never been human, he’s an alien, a fugitive from the planet Gallifrey, and he twoced the Tardis, when he fled from his fellow Timelords, way back in the day. All very normal, for an antihero. But the Doc is a hero, or at least he’s become one over the course of twelve series, with a correspondingly heroic fanbase. They love him. So how will they take to her, number 13?

Will the new incarnation be allowed to scruff out, like David Tennant, in a fleabitten pair of old tennis shoes, heavy stubble and an unflattering mac? Or act completely outre, as did Tom Baker, winding himself up in that striped scarf, mad as a box of frogs? Will she be permitted to show her genius, her vulnerability, her ego, her age, her complete range of attributes? I hope so. I don’t want to watch a fashionable, perfectly groomed, freshly manicured and eyebrow-threaded performance. Will we be able to forget that the Doctor is a female? We should. Will the production team bite the bullet and let the actor act? I hope so.

A lot of young girls are longing for this opportunity to breakaway from the tyranny of body-image, the banality of beauty-worship and the strait-jacket of sexuality. Will the 13th Doc be given the chance to do all that, in however-many episodes? Or will we be able to guess that the conditioning on Gallifrey was as limiting for females as it is here on the Blue Planet, and that she is constantly being reminded to ‘look good’ and not to get ‘dirty’?

Bad Month for Black Dog

“…a bad month for black dogs…”

The words echo along the deserted underground tunnel as I jump from the escalator to slink behind a pillar and wait for someone, anyone, to come. It’s true, although every month is a bad month for black dogs, January is worst. How did I come to choose the underground? Let me think, it was accidental the first time, two shouting boys chased me on the street, and I just ran into the first entrance I came to. After that it was easy, slipping down moving metal stairs, between the legs and feet of commuters, I managed to get a biscuit, a chunk of pizza, some prawn crackers and once even an ear-rub from a kind woman. But soon the feet would climb onto a train and leave me alone on the platform. Even the woman who’d whispered soft, sweet words as she rubbed my ears and throat left me. I should be used to it, I know, everyone leaves.

I spent my first weeks in a dark place with many others, young and raw, like me. My mother was there at first, I think I can remember climbing over others like me to get close to her, but I can’t be sure now. There was whimpering, yelping and it was cold, always so cold. I was taken from there in a bag and into a Christmas Day. That place was new and it was not cold, there was no mother, but a lot of sweet food. I vomited and shit everywhere and was put into another bag and left outside with Merry Christmas rubbish.

You don’t want to hear all the story, do you? It’s not a happy one, though there was one happy day, when I found a safe place next to a warm pipe in a cellar. There were others, many others, living there, small creatures with sharp teeth and long tails like worms. They ran about constantly, coming and going through holes between bricks, squeaking and blinking at me, stiff whiskers twitching. Sitting up on back legs and using front feet to hold onto food and other things, I didn’t know what. I had no food, but I ate some scraps that they left on the ground. More vomit and shit came, but before long my stomach got used to the food and I stayed by the warm pipe until my body and legs grew stronger. When the pipe became too hot, I had to find somewhere colder. That was the end of the happy time.

If someone asked me now, what would you like to happen? I would say I’d like to find my mother. I’m sure she was kind, she smelled like me and had ears and eyes like mine. If I couldn’t find her, then I’d like to find somewhere warm and safe to stay, some food that didn’t make me sick and maybe someone to rub my ears when I’m drifting off to sleep. There could be kind people every day in the underground, maybe the right one will find me soon, before January is over.

Long time, no dark wood…

No excuses, okay? Been busy. Making midyear resolutions, now, to kick ass – mine.

First, what I’ve done to date and, second, what I’ve read. So, let’s go-oo…

Written

  1. Coppers
  2. Silk Stockings
  3. Alpha Centauri
  4. Unrequited Love
  5. April is the cruellest month
  6. Ashley Madison
  7. Hamburg
  8. Godzilla & the Rats

Books

  1. We are all completely beside ourselves
  2. Fingersmith

Out in the Wood

Welcome to the Darkness, Friend. Here in the  Wood things are happening. Take today, for instance: first thing I notice, trees are moving. No, not swaying the way you’d expect trees to do, but doing a sort of frenzied foxtrot, know what I mean? Cool! Then the TV tells me to expect wind. I hate that. Who wants to hear that stuff? If I want to know I can expect wind, I’ll order some on the WoodWideWeb. You get me?

You guessed it; I prefer the unexpected, there’s too much same-old in the Wood these days. Shoots come up in Spring, leaves turn brown in the Fall, snow falls in Winter. That’s just so uncool. And now I’m going to be waiting for wind instead of doing something useful like clearing out my Toolshed. Not many Woodies even have a Toolshed. But I have. Mine has secret compartments; I’m not kidding. Last year I dug out the floor and installed them. Want to know what’s in there? Really? Well, I might tell you, but not right now – forgive me, but I hardly know you. I don’t even know your name; mine’s Hunter, didn’t I say? I’m still getting my Toolshed together, hidden compartments, secret stuff – everyone needs secret places, they’re just so cool. And I’m building… Hey! that was close, nearly let slip, didn’t I?

On my way today, I meet up with a couple of fellow Woodies. We stop and shake before passing on the latest news. Want to hear it? Okay, but keep it to yourself, right? There’s a rumour afoot that Weasels from the Long Hill are sneaking into the Dale. That will never work; the Dale belongs to the Rabbits, always has, always will. Weasels don’t always take notice of stuff like that, though. They’re kinda like a law onto themselves. Wouldn’t be surprised if they were to start with some of their sly Weasel tricks, trying to scare the Rabbits off from their burrows. Rabbits are okay, but they sure act dumb. They just hop and skip and dig holes and stuff their little rabbit mouths with green things, when they should be looking out for bad guys. Like Weasels, right? Trouble’s coming, that’s for sure. But I’ll be ready, when it comes. Time for me to go into my Toolshed and root out my Cover Cloak.

Well, I warned you all, that’s for sure, but did you listen? If there’s one thing I can do, it’s smell trouble. The Weasels have been up to no good and invaded the Dale. They snuck in two nights ago and blocked up the main entrances to the rabbit burrows: then, when all the dumb rabbits were panicking and running and jumping in all directions like excited grasshoppers, the Weasels just moved on in and took over their burrows. Now the dumb rabbits are too scared to go back to their homes. They’re just sitting there, out in the open, on the slopes of Long Hill, with their kittens squeaking and shivering around them. Don’t they know the foxes will be along soon? What’s to be done? I sure hate to see the little rabbit babies made homeless. For two cents, I might just go down there myself and send those Weasels packing, yessir, I just might do that.
To be continued…