Some Other Me

Housework is so boring it makes me wonder whether there is another me doing something much more exciting like bungee jumping, climbing a mountain or committing a master crime at the same time that I’m washing up.

Kind me sympathises when my brother runs around waiting on his wife, “Its nice that Jimmy can help because Jan’s been a bit down….’ at the same time that nasty me is muttering ‘Lazy cow!’

Arguments I have in my head are so much more satisfying than real ones because the other me boings into my own head and says much better cleverer wittier things than I did earlier when arguing with my sister. But when I next meet her I know from her smirk that we were both in her head and she won the argument.

When somebody I really don’t like fancies me I worry about what’s happening to the me inside his head. I mean there is nothing I can do about anything anyone does or says to the me of their imagining and that is worrying. If I had my way I’d be able to head hop to someone better if I was having a crappy time.

On the other hand If it is somebody gorgeous, I wish I knew what was happening, so the me in the kitchen could feel some of the pleasure the me in his head is (hopefully) experiencing.

‘Morning ladies, “Geoff, the manager of the sports centre says as he passes me, my friend Ellie and Chloe on our way out of the changing rooms.

‘Patronizing twerp,’ I mutter.

‘Mum! He was only being polite.’ Chloe remonstrates while Ellie flicks me a conspiratorial look of agreement over the top of her head.

When a man says ‘Ladies’ he may fondly imagine he is being polite but the very word inserts us into (mostly male) thought bubbles with needlework, hot dinners, fluffy kittens and pink things.

‘What’s wrong with it? Toilets always say Ladies, or Gentleman,’ Chloe says.

‘Well firstly I don’t like being called something on a public convenience door and secondly I don’t pass men and say ‘morning gentlemen.’ If I did you’d know I was being sarky or patronizing, ’ I explain. I can see she hasn’t thought of it this way round.

‘Well you could say morning men…no that would sound like you were an army captain’ Chloe giggles.

‘Morning chaps?’ Ellie tries.

‘Morning boys. Morning lads. Morning males.’ We explode with laughter at that one before deciding ‘morning guys’ is probably the best, though still quite cheesy.

We agree that men who say hello to ‘girls’ or ‘lassies’ are equally cheesy especially when they refer to middle aged or elderly women as girls in the belief it flatters them. But ‘hello females’, or ‘hello women?’ No!

We decide that ‘Lady’ doesn’t apply to anyone with a face like a bulldog, anyone wearing tattoos or lip studs, or anyone with a handbag that could knock someone senseless. A lady rides a horse, or a bicycle with a large basket through a pretty village. WI women are usually ladies, with or without their clothes.

‘Gentlemen’ are men over sixty who doff their hats and open doors. Unfortunately they do have a habit of greeting groups of women by saying ‘morning/afternoon/evening ladies!’

I have become someone who sorts and pairs socks. Usually it’s the kids’ socks as I’m not too fussed where my own are concerned. I’ll wear odd socks, holey socks, the kids cast off socks – well Ben’s and Chloe’s, Timmy’s at a stretch – literally.

All unwanted socks are shoved my way so I have a drawerful of Mickey Mouse, Simpsons, glittery pink, stripey football, and fluorescent, which I wear randomly, getting caught out with the very worst combination when I want to make the best impression. At the school open evening Mr Harper’s eyes desperately try to stay focussed on my face, while sliding to my ankles and I suddenly realise that the smart black trousers that I pulled out of the wardrobe archive are slightly too short and I have ‘Boys are Smelly’ in silver on a pink background, on one ankle and luminous green with red skeletons on the other.

When Chloe notices where his eyes keep drifting and why, Mr Harper is the least of my worries, especially as her school progress is brilliant, so the role reversal is complete
“I have never been soooooo embarrassed in all my life. What will he think? You completely let the side down….” I humbly listen to her tirade and mutter that I didn’t mean it and I’ll make more effort next time.

So now I’m trying to find matching pairs amidst all the odd discarded socks in my drawer, while I wonder who determined that socks had to be a matching pair and why we don’t have a pair of bras and a jean or knicker. Also, why nobody ever told me that life could amount to sorting socks and thinking such crap.

‘Get her outta here’ I shout to Timmy who runs into the kitchen. On seeing the huge hole in the shepherd’s pie I had put out to defrost, and the satisfied slurping noises Fubby is still making, he ushers her out of my way.

If it is not the children driving me mad, it’s Fubby. Apart from the usual doggy pong she leaves wafting around the house like a rancid ghost, she is NEVER satisfied. Despite being very well fed, she begs snacks all day long from us, and any visitors we have, even those who patently disapprove of begging dogs. In fact I think she is deliberately worse with them.

Apart from this, chewing up my favourite books or items of clothing, or shoes – while they are on my feet, and sleeping, she does nothing apart from following me around so I see her looking mournful in every room I enter. So even when I do finally relax, part of me is wondering if she is okay and if not, what it is she wants – a walk, food, water, a game, de-fleaing, stroking, brushing…, clever old Fubby.

Then it’s the mess. Her hair is worse than dust. How does it get onto the top of wardrobes, in between the pages of books or even in the cutlery drawer? She buries bones in the settee and gets all her toys out of her basket at once. Yet can she do a bit of ironing or make me a cuppa in the morning?

While we eat lunch (sausages,) I wonder whether it would be better to feed Fubby the rest of the shepherd’s pie she ruined, for her dinner tomorrow rather than wasting it. As I’m pondering I jump as a wet nose briefly touches my hand and then my last sausage disappears under the table.

“Get her outta here!”

A boss was wondering why one of his best employees had not phoned in sick one day. Having an urgent query he phoned the employee at home and was greeted with a child’s whisper. ” Hello ? “

“Is your daddy home?” he asked. ” Yes ,” whispered the small voice.

May I talk with him?”” No ‘ the child whispered

Surprised, the boss asked, “Is your Mummy there?”

” Yes , ” the child replied.

“May I talk with her?” ” No , “ the small voice whispered,

Hoping there was somebody with whom he could leave a message, the boss asked, “Is anybody else there?” ” Yes ,” whispered the child, ” a policeman “.

Wondering what the police were doing at his employee’s home, the boss said, “Let me speak to the policeman.”

” No, he’s busy “, whispered the child.

“Busy doing what?”

” Talking to Daddy and Mummy and the Fireman ,” came the whispered answer.

Growing more worried as he heard a loud noise in the background, the boss asked, “What is that noise?”

” A helicopter “ answered the whispering voice.

“What is going on there?” demanded the boss, now really concerned.

Again, whispering, the child answered, ” The police have just landed a helicopter .”

Alarmed, concerned and frustrated the boss asked, “What are they searching for?”

Still whispering, the young voice replied with a muffled giggle… “

ME .” !!!

I too have had the joy of discovering unexpected surprises on moving home. Such as a loft full of broken furniture and bits of smelly carpet..so kind of people to think we may want to burn it all if we get cold, or use the carpetting to supress the trillions of man sized weeds in the garden. The sudden dearth of electricity as we turn a light switch to realise that the shades and bulbs were taken…by cutting them off at the wire. The ghost of an old lady wandering through the garden…only it turned out she was the back to back neighbour who had used it as her own personal right of way since the year dot and had even put a little back gate in so she could use the short cut to the lane with her preferred bus route. Stopping this poor elderly lady would alienate the entire neighbourhood so we bore it until we discovered her boyfriends used that route to visit her at night!