Where have all the humans gone?

This is the kind of morning I've had....

To place an order, please press one,
To track one,  please press two.
This phone call may be monitored,
(We've got our eye on you).

Press three for other queries
(You may have to wait for days), we
Will play some music while you wait
Designed to drive you crazy.

You're ringing off? Oh dear. We'll be
Quite sad to see you go, but
Since twenty-twelve, this firm has been
Entirely run by robots.

Grrrrrrr.

Granny's sewing box

I also have this. Also an antique. And no. I don't sew. The nearest I come to that kind of thing is using iron-on hem-mending stuff to ...well....  mend hems. It's also good for fixing trouser pockets. John's trouser pockets regularly wear out, and he ends up with his socks full of lose change. So, I just stick the broken ends of the pocket together, and voila! The only problem with this is that over time, the pockets get shorter and shorter. Then it's time for new trousers.

I do occasionally sew on buttons.

I think that may be Granny's old pin cushion the right, but I can't be sure. I also have ber thimble, and I used to have lots of the fawn thread she used for mending her stockings. Not sure what happened to that.

(I've just spoken to my daughter about the bath mat mentioned in my last post. "What, that manky old thing?" she cried. She says that when I die, she will throw it in the bin. But I told her I was leaving it to B. That's her told. Ha.)

Granny's bath mat

This is my granny's bath mat. I've been using it ever since she died, back in 1972. I ought to get rid of it (it's not quite as horrible as it looks), but it must be over 100 years old, and there's still plenty of life (?) in it. She married in 1911, and it may have been part of her trousseau (do bath mats feature in trousseaux?). Anyway, I'm fond of it. I like to think of Granny's little wet feet helping to make all those holes. It's a kind of heirloom.

Ah, me. In those days,  things were made to last....

(B - if you're reading this - shall I leave it to you, as your special heirloom?)

The best policy...

...is said to be honesty, isn't it. But of course there are occasions when lies are necessary (I don't think there's such a thing as a "white lie". We say we are telling a white lie in order to get ourselves off some moral hook). Thus, it's okay for me to say "I love purple, and a purple hat is just the ticket!" when I hate purple and never wear hats, but someone has gone to the trouble and expense of buying me one.

This week, however, I came across a refreshing piece of honesty, which made me laugh and admire in equal measure.

Picture the scene. Six friends, sitting round chatting. Anna says she has a favour to ask.

"Yes?" We are all willing to do favours, because we are nice people and she is a friend.

She explains that she is a handbell ringer, but one of their number is ill, so they'll be one short for their practice tomorrow. Can anyone fill in? My views on handbell ringing are...well, never mind (but - commercial  break - they can be found in Chapter 12 of my novel Dead Ernest). One after the other, we give our excuses/ reasons (I had a hospital appointment) for not going. Until we come to Jenny.

Jenny smiles and says that unfortunately she won't be able to come, because she doesn't want to. It's polite, succinct, not open to any kind of misinterpretation, and no offence is meant or taken.

Simple.

Things you learn from grandchildren

I've had two young grandsons staying for a couple of days, and as usual, we've all learnt a few things. They now know the expression "instant gratification" (as in, it's much better to have your bath before we all sit and eat popcorn in front of a DVD,  rather than leave it until later). They also learnt the NATO alphabet (we are fans of this as it helps with spelling things out over the phone). Little boys love that kind of thing.

I learnt that it is much more absorbing wondering how a chicken would get on in space rather than putting on your shoes to go out. I was also informed that in every hundred grams of American peanut butter, there are on average thirty insect parts. Also, that if anyone pees in a swimming pool in the US, it turns the water dark blue. "Embarrassing if you did it, but a useful warning  if it was someone else" said my grandson helpfully. Well you can't argue with that. Oh, and talking of peeing in swimming pools (which we were) I also learned that  one in five adults admit to doing it. I thought you might like to know that. The choice is now up to you (I'm ok. I hate swimming pools).

Group learning: qu is an acceptable Scrabble word (useful) and countless esoteric-sounding made-up words are not (warning to anyone thinking of buying a Scrabble dictionary: don't. It takes up far too much time).

Funeral (2)

"She's  lying upstairs, God rest her soul," whispers the woman at the door. "Please do go up."

On by one, they file up the narrow staircase, enter the shabby bedroom, where the picture of the Blessed Virgin takes pride of place above the bed. The faded curtains are drawn (of course), and the room is lit by a single candle, whose light flickers pale shadows on the walls.

"Ah! Doesn't she look beautiful?" they murmur, as they stand by the open coffin. And certainly she looks very peaceful, lying there in her white gown, a rosary loosely threaded through her fingers. A woman stifles a sob; another stoops to kiss the pale forehead; someone  places a single pink rosebud on the still bosom.

"Cut!" says the director. "Coffee break!"

The corpse sits up in her coffin. "Mine's white," she says.  "Two sugars."



(An antidote to my last.)

Flash fiction

FUNERAL

"I am the Resurrection and the Life".  Heads turn as the coffin enters the church, which is bright with daffodils ("they were her favourites"). The organ plays something quiet and respectful. People murmur safe little cliches; "a good innings"; "merciful release".  After all, ninety-five is a good age.

The service gets under way. A son reads a lesson; a friend give a eulogy; a small great-grandson plays a tune  on a recorder. And all the while, the grey heads turn, giving each other covert looks, and the unspoken question hangs in the air. Who will be  next? Will it be me? You? The brave cousin with her cancer?

Two weeks later, some of the same people gather for another funeral. There is weeping; more whipers: "hit and run";  "the driver never stopped"; "an only child, too".

The small white coffin is carried down the aisle. The little boy has his recorder beside him; he never went anywhere without it.

No-one wonders who will be next.


(I honestly don't know what got into me. It's my birthday, too!)