wendy house

After each conversational turn he leant forward and touched my knee. I tried not to flinch at this intrusive, well-meant gesture. My coat still buttoned, legs and arms crossed against the cold of the unheated large Victorian parlour. Words like ‘hysterectomy’ conjur up strong images of knives and blood. To say that I flinched at the word would be an understatement. I fired the phrase NO INVASIVE SURGERY. My words ricochet around the uncarpetted consultation room. Not that the doctor was suggesting a hysterectomy, no,no, no, just raising my awareness of possibilities… …decisions come after a more thorough diagnosis. Diagnosis based on scans and tests conducted with grandly named ugly equipment referred to by, hopefully, obscure acronyms

My overreaction noted, he adjusted his conversational tone to include flattering my ego and being concerned. A good strategy for dealing with me

..there has to be a reason why and intelligent, mature woman like you….

He cited the evidence of my non-conformity to NHS quota filling activities. I felt like a school child being told-off for not having done their homework. It’s not a feeling I’m used to, I’m normally very keen to get my homwork done on time and to a a high standard. The last time I’d talked about this was 7 years ago, to my brother. His immediate reaction had been ‘cut it out!’. I was stunned at his eagreness to have me chopped-up when there wasn’t a convincing need for it. Surgery was just one option. I made a mental note – never delegate decisions about my health to my brother. Seven years ago, the USA health insurance paid-for doctor agreed the best way forward was my preferred choice of “lets wait and see“. Procrastination doesn’t come easily to me… except in this case… ….another new experience…

Now we’re having the “see” part, after 7 years of the “wait” part. I suspect the original doctor wouldn’t approve of a 7 year wait. But in all fairness to me, we hadn’t specified a time frame. I’m hoping the outcome will not be surgery and trying desperately not to overreact

Generally I’m failing

Talking Heads sang Electric Guitar

Come and look at my garage,  look at my workbench and tools

My brother proudly shows me his work bench, chisel sets and other thoughtfully organised tools.  He’s recently cleared a space in the garage so he can make things. He’s always liked making things.  This hobby was temporarily interrupted by having a job selling electronic stuff in Asian countries to make big money.  Now he’s changed jobs, downgraded his income in favour of having time to do stuff he loves. On a budget.

This is my first guitar, it’s English Oak, its not common to use Oak to make Guitars, it is a bit heavy

I’m now in full audience mode. Something my father and brother have taught me to do well.  I’m mainly here to make appreciative noises and ask questions that help them tell their stories. I like the role, its fun to watch people talk about the things they love, dad and his Pylons, Bros and his making things.

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This is the first Guitar he’s made from scratch.  He looked less happy when he realised he wouldn’t be able to make a living by making guitars because it was so time consuming. I remember the first (Bass) guitar he renovated in his teens and sold for a profit over the purchase price and materials. Not profit on the labour.

His home has always been full of guitars he’s bought, renovated or upgraded.  His garden shed is a production studio for local bands, often full of people playing his instruments. 

The environmental health are investigating him,

the shed,  

for noise pollution….  …my Brother may get an ASBO….

Bros:   he was alright except for the lists

Wendy:   the lists?

Bros:   Yes,    the lists,   you remember how he would make lists all the time for even trivial things?

Wendy:   errr,   yes,   of course,   the lists

It appears that my brother has not yet noticed my pocket-size book of lists that has travelled all over the world (and Reading) with me.  Nor has he recognised the intrinsic Wendy-appeal of someone that blazenly employs lists in public.

climbs trees with a nylon sleeping bag for a sleep-out party with his friend

puts his bum against the open window of the car so that his silent but deadly fart doesn’t disturb the other car occupants then giggles incessantly for 20 miles

chops off his fingertip with an axe then runs around shaking his hand to increase the polkadot patterning on mums walls

makes a multi-level gerbil cage out of an old sideboard

sings into a microphone strapped to a standard lamp,   without removing the lampshade

writes the name of the girl that he loves on the inside flap of his school canvas haversack in different pens,   fonts and colours

ramps up the volume on the house stereo and arranges an echo, closes the window blinds,   peeks through  then whispers in high volume ‘this is the voice of god’ when he sees a schoolchild in uniform walking by outside

earnestly says ‘you’ve failed?   how did that happen,   you’re the clever one’

Takes me into a record shop and says,   you can have any record you want,   its on me.   I pick the first Album he ever bought ‘Ride a White Swan’ by T.Rex

Persuades a friend to drive him to the warehouse 2hrs away where I’m holding my 21st birthday shindig,   Gives me 6 marbles and waits for me to be disappointed,   then gives me  a hipflask full of Napoleon Brandy saying ‘I was going to have it engraved with to my wonderful sister,   but I didn’t’,   stays at the warehouse when his friend decides to drive back before midnight

Says of his visits to me at university  ‘I wish my time at University had been as good as this’

Calls his first cat ‘f*ck-off’ because the cat followed him back from a superstore and he didn’t want it to,   then takes the cat everywhere in his Trenchcoat pocket and renames her Hoagie after Hoagie Carmichael

Drives a soft-top MG Midget despite his head creating a big upward dent in the roof because he’s 6ft4

 corrects my pronunciation

During a conversation about films  that are substantially at variance with the books that provided their original  title and approximate plot and characters:  

Wendy:   W’thering Heights

Bros:   WUH,   Wuh-thering Heights

Wendy: yes,   that’s what I said W’thering Heights

Bros:   Wendy,   Wuh-thering has a U in it

niece & her friend: (snigger,   sniggger,   snigger,   hiding mouths behind hands and flashing smiles at each other and checking to see if we ‘adults’ notice)

Bros:   (shakes his head and tuts)

 Wendy:   (decides not to mention that Bros appears to  have  failed to count the double-u)

Wendy:   I accidentally pulled the bathroom light fitting on the ceiling,     today I picked up a newer sealed light fitting.

Dad:   Do you want me to bring me tools?

Wendy:   Not really,   [brothers' name]‘s  coming round with his tools,  advice,   and innovative home-improvement books on Wednesday.   I’d rather he climbed the ladder than you or I.

Dad: Yes, I do get a bit dizzy when my feet leave the ground.

Mumsie packed older brother (9yrs) and I  (5yrs) on a public bus for a 40min bus ride to the Marlborough St. City centre bus terminal.  

Exciting.   Adventure.   Upstairs on a double-decker bus without any adults.   Going to the big city.   Bother held my hand as we left the bus.   We walked up the hill towards the   Bristol Royal Infirmary.  I knew the way because I came on the Bus with Mumsie every Thursday when she came to the city to shop.  

Crossing the road,   very scary.   Mumzie always held my hand,  checked for traffic.   I didn’t know how to cross the road.   I still find it particularly tricky.   I held my brothers hand tightly, walked fast and close to him as we crossed the road.   Once in the hospital I had no idea where to go.    My brother read the signs and found my other brother (6yrs) in the childrens ward,    who promptly started crying.  

What a wuss.   Here in this interesting big hospital with lots of fabulous toys and other children to play with and all he does is sit in bed  crying!   I wandered off to play with the other children and big toys.     One of the children  was bald.    Some wacky children in here.   Then dad turned up and we left crying brother in the hospital,   crying even more now.   We rode  home in Dads pale blue Ford Corsair car.    I was allowed to  sit in the front seat because Mumzie wasn’t  there.  

All in all   a fabulous adventure.

Niece (teenage):   “I HATE YOU”

Bros: “do you know how to say that in French?”

Niece: “Je tu deteste”

Bros: “shouldn’t that be Je  vous deteste?”

Neice: “NO, you are tu and I hate you”

By this stage I’ve fallen off my chair giggling and started dribbling tea on my woolly jumper (It was cold in England).   During my 4 day stay I managed to avoid my niece’s wrath without ducking or walking into any nearby walls.

three leftys on the lawn, sinister!

• Hear no evil. Partially obscure vision for good measure

• Speak no evil. Put a thumb in it

• Let me at it.   No frill-laden panties will stop me  enjoying Halloween,   I can still crawl…

Poem inspired by  Halloween,   or Harlow-in as the US locals say,  and an old family photograph,   can you spot the wendy?

A poetry book, like a dictionary, is a book I never finish reading.   Unlike dictionaries I will voraciously read all the words in a poetry book  cover-to-cover upon first discovering them.   Obviously this is after having removed my stickly little digits from the tea mug.    Both are reference books,   pulled from the shelf again and again.  

The dictionary gets pulled when I’m unsure of a word’s meaning,   range of meanings,   origins,   relationship to other words.    Assured of  discovery, my question promptly answered.  Inevitably a rewarding experience,   how can anyone fail to fall in love with dictionaries?   I’m very loyal to my one paper dictionary, it cannot be replaced.    The  Collin’s Concise (1983) was  a present from an elder brother.   When I look at its faded binding  I see my 21 year old brother standing  at the top of Park Street outside Georges with a white plastic bag in his hand held out towards me saying

“you’re leaving home?   You’ll need your own dictionary“.  

A very different experience from pulling one of the several poetry books from the shelf, floor, table, chair, cooker, mantle, washing-machine.    The favoured  books are scattered around the Wendy House where they afford the opportunity of unpremeditated rediscovery in a moment of undirected reading.   Picking up a book,   flicking through the pages to a title that catches some thought  and reading that poem.     One book purchased in a tizzy in 1989 insists on falling open to specific pages,   poems I found powerful in the early 1990s.  I have to fight against its insistence on taking me to specific emotional places.  

Poetry book use  is  not all so sporadic.  There are specific places I’ll go  when I’m happy,   because I’m sad,   or I want to find the words that describe what it is that I’m feeling because I just don’t know.   They are often there,   wrapped in the ambiguities and soothing rythms, but one can never be sure of Dictionary-like success.  

With that thought I’ll return to the vacuuming