On a cold rainy August UK day my high school friends and I warmed our hands on hot Mocha’s outdoors in convent garden under the shelter of a large unmbrella.
A real frothy treat.
During our trip to Cornwall Flat Eric made some west country friends, including Jamie Bear, who now sends Flat Eric post cards, care of the Wendy House. Jamie Bear prefers surfing to crosswurdz and indulges in creative spelling,
Hoorah!
Looks like curdles aw ’round
A Sunday afternoon in Helston.
Spotty dog and I had confused Helston and Helford. Thinking we were catching a bus to the seaside town of Helford we caught a bus to the inland town of Helston. As we wandered through Helston looking for the coast we stumbled upon the town park. A skateboard park with a coffee bar and dozens of fathers walking their children around the pond. A veritable single-father-fest, no-doubt influenced by the proximity of a substantial military base on the outskirts of town.
I managed to keep my eyes firmly on the duckies.
No dribbling.
In different Falmouth stores Spotty dog and I simultaneously whipped out our new-fangled plastic cards to pay for lovely pressies. Much to our suprise these words greeted us:
“we don’t take cards here, cash and cheques only’
Neither of us use cheque-books. We trundled off on a quest for cash-points, only to find that Brett couldn’t help us and we couldn’t have called him for help even if we had his number. Tricky.
On a Falmouth street an elderly gentleman caught me gazing into his front garden, admiring the plants.
He came out and apologised that his wife, who maintained the garden, wasn’t available to give me a tour of the tiny garden and name specific plants.
Spotty dog and I then accompanied him on his walk down a steep hill to the dentist. On the walk he told us how his house was once a Quaker school and brief histories of several other houses on the street.
Cornish folk are extremely personable.
The locals on Helston bowling green persistently tried to get Spotty dog and myself to join them because they needed what they called ‘young-blood’ especially that of ladies. Spotty dog and myself managed to escape with all our own blood before the games ended
A couple of friends are in the process of selling one and purchasing another gorgeous home in downtown Reading, near the Wendy House.
There’s one slight hitch in the plan
In 1998 the local council placed an access restriction on the to-be-purchased property. Pedestrians and vehicles cannot access the house from … …the public highway. There is no other obvious route to the house. The current resident ignores this restriction. How can my friends get from the roadway to the house without breaking the law? Without:
friend: that’s a pretty top
Wendy: it goes all the way down to my knees
friend: lets call it a dress
Wendy: yes, lets
Thanks to Mrs. Pouncer for pointing out this entertaining sign on the front door of a Reading nightclub targetting clientelle of a gay disposition who will benefit from some illustrated suggestions on courtship techniques.
HIF: Did you enjoy your holiday in Italy?
Wendy: yes
HIF: are you all fresco’d out?
Wendy: yes
The Piccolomini library in Siena was outstanding, fabulous books, floor tiles, wall frescos, ceiling frescos, quiet ambience, excellent lighting and virtually no other visitors.
On Friday in Joe Allen’s* Exeter St. restaurant Mrs. Pouncer partook of some Chardonnay, Scarlet Blue imbibed some Mules and I took a small Boddingtons or four.
I can unreservedly, with miss spellings and split infinitives, confirm that Mrs. Pouncer is in person everybit the stylish counsellor that her entertaining blog suggests. During our brief encounter I discovered the true extent of my lack of knowledge of advance eyewear handling techniques. Mrs. Pouncer arrived at Joe Allens equipped with both fabulous stories and the four sets of eyewear necessary to fulfill all advanced eyewear handling techniques. Needless to say I learned a thing or three.
I can also confirm that Ms Scarlet Blue’s hair was of a certain colour and that meeting her has brought new dimensions to my understanding of the word ‘cute’.
* no relation of Mrs. Pouncer’s acquaintance Keith Allen, father of Lily Allen.
Wendy House service will be temporarily sub-sub-standard while flagrant‘ Happy Birthday to us’* activities are conducted in Italy accompanied by this years soundtrack courtesy of Eyan …
* us = people I know (Eyan, Jenn, Angela, Dr. Phil, Prof. Dave) and pobably quite a few people that I don’t know…
What is the best 45th birthday present for a Wendy? A four day weekend in Siena with spottydog as
Excitedness levels have already reached amber. Spotty dog has cunningly avoided booking through the recently defunct XL, travelling at ridiculous hours of the day, waiting at transport interchanges for silly, silly, times and other such icky nonsense.
When spottydog visited the Wendy House I gave her a full 1 minute tour. The full 1 mintue tour is the executive version of the 30 second tour. It is akin to the 15 minute Hamlet only quicker and with less literary credibility. As audience, spottydog’s role was to provide her unique insight into potential lifestyle developments. Half way through the tour, near the end:
Wendy: this is my wardrobe (US = closet. A closet is a place where you keep skeletons, hence the title of this post)
Spottydog: that’s orderly
Wendy: its half empty
Spottydog: its organised by colour and size, even the shoes
Wendy: Errrrrmmmmmmm……. …is that bad?
Spottydog: its not scatty
Lifestyle development suggestions involved, ‘open the beers’ and ‘you need more plants’. Spottydog, spot-on again.
One of the larger (circa 1862) houses in my street hosted a street-garden party where I ate oodles of triffle and met dozens of neighbours who chose to buy homes there because of the:
Each of us introduced ourselves by name and house number, I became ‘Wendy at n(a)’. My introduction received one of two common reactions:
Uncommonly, the Wendy House doesn’t have a frontage on the Street. It is hidden behind n+1 with the pathway approach unintuitively placed between n+1 and n(b) rather than intuitively between n and n(b). I discovered that a prior resident of this Wendy House, Marion:
My plan to become the wierd lady with the hats was generally well recieved. One neighbour may give me an old set of oak gates from a local house currently stored in his stables which haven’t been converted into a residence for a working woman.
A Reading friend of London extraction recently took a vacation in the wild west of the English Riveria. She was pleased to discover that all modern conveniences are available in Paignton. No longer do people on the English Riviera have to share their teeth with ancesters, neighbours, or complete strangers.
No more waiting for a person to finnish using their teeth before you can enjoy a crunchy-nut peanut butter sandwich. You can hear my friends excitement:
New Dentures??!! - as oppose to??!! Used dentures, one careful lady owner??!! Priceless!
Schrockthehouse recently pointed out that there is a shop in Oxford dedicated to keeping me informed about the goings on in the world, called the Wendy news shop.
while visiting Seattle this April I met with many local friends, indulged in lots of purring, stroking, creaky-meowing, general faffing and furring-up-nosing. All in the best possible taste.
A spiritual sensitive spent the night in the Wendy House guest room. He picked-up on Wendy House memories.
The house remembers several of policemen looking at the bedroom wall over the kitchen. On several occasions since I’ve since seen flocks of policeman on bicycles swarming past, the Wendy House. He also saw a fellow on the landing darkly dressed, silent, wearing a bowler hat, watching the police people search, not ominous. I wonder what the house remembers?
I wonder how I can find out what the house remembers through more conventional means than dream observations, dreams have revealed nothing to me (yet)
My Geordie friend called IPS a second time to make sure they were fully appraised of quite how insulting it was to be deemed inelligible to verify my passport photo because she had opted to stay at home to bring up her young children. She spoke to a different person who told her she is eligible to sign my passport photograph.
Do you think they’ll replace my passport?… …its been gone for 2 weeks…. …will they send me a 1 year scatty person passport or the full 10 year reliable-person version?
A professional person that has known me for at least 2 years had to sign my passport photograph to verify it was a true likeness. A Geordie friend of 21yrs that I met at Loughborough University did the honours. She’s currently a full time mum. It didn’t occur to me, silly me, that full time mum’s don’t count as professionals worthy of verifying identity. Even if they have British passports, clean driving licences, no criminal records, like my friend. IPS rejected her. She’s mightily insulted, that’s insulted that takes about 90 mins to fully detail . I’ll have to track down a friend that’s currently employed, even retired professionals don’t count because obviously they get unreliable and dishonest once they retire….
I’m currently somewhere in Cambridgeshire dressed as a 1940′s French Cabaret artiste pretending to be at a dinner party in Casablanca while trying to work out which of the other guests, or me, murdered someone.
I’ll probably need some character witnesses so vouch for me, if you see me.
“I don’t know the way to wiggle”
this statement was made by a very vertically challenged young boy probably as short as 4yrs old. A person that short really should know the way to wiggle. I gave him a demonstration, he wasn’t amused.
“why have you got a handbag?”
Asked the father of above short person and friend since we were both 4 years short. He and said young wiggle-free-youngster failed to refrain from laughing when asking this question. I explained that I was in training to be a real woman and that this involved taking a handbag everywhere. I only managed 2 days in the England before I gave up on the handbag thing, too many short people surrupticiously giggling at me.
“you should be able to climb an E2 without any trouble based on your build and fitness”
I took another swig of wine and grunted. In the UK I only climbed to S (Severe). In the US on indoor walls at 5.8 (equivalent of UK VS, Very Severe). This climber was telling me the only obstacle to my climbing a higher grade was my attitude. Plausible.
“we recognised you from a distance despite the blue hat”
A friend that has known me since I was 5yrs short announced ebulantly. Despite the blue hat? I’d been labouring under the misaprehension that my hats were my most distinguishing feature. Apparantly it’s actually my skinny legs and deportment (wiggly walk). I’d already given up on the handbag thing by now.
“Please kill my fish”
short person while jumping up and down and wringing her hands together. The conversation quickly went down hill from here.
Has curry ever killed anyone?
This excellent question came from my niece and left me picturing people drowning in curry, curry pans falling on people’s heads, people exploding from eating too much curry etc
“I am tall, blonde and tanned”
Having not met or seen photographs of said fellow I was anticipating short and bald with the pants of Khaki Cargo. I made the most of this rare opportunity to feel short again.
“is wearing kharki cargo pants and dark blue t-shirts Microsofts uniform?”
asked by a person unaware of my blog who worked with Microsoft Reading. I replied that its not limited to Microsoft employees…. …I suspect it’s a viral disease… …like overuse of ellipses…
“would you like another cup of tea?… ………..silly question really.”
An old friend who had temporarily lost the plot then regained it after a liberal dose of ellipses.
Russian: V-eye durs yrrrrr tea shrut say zeeez?*
Wendy: guess
Russian: No. V-eye durrs eat say zeeeez?
Wendy: it’s my age and….
Russian: NO… …NO… …NO.. … NO !
shaking her head which flings her hair in a whirlwind effect. The ‘no’s sneak out as her faces passes mine during its wild swings
Wendy: yes-yes-YES and it’s THE answer to life the universe and EVERYTHING have you read……
giggles, nearly falls off chair in all the excitement and the rare opportunity of repeating the word ‘yes’ in quick succession as the Russian finishes my sentence by telling me what her guess was…
Russian: Durglurrrrrrrs arrrrderms, ysss, I sort dat frhurst.
Russian: NO
Wendy: YES. I’ve maintained my immaturity
I think I’ve blown my cover as a real professional adult type person. This Russian has excellent interrogation skills. Between the two of us I think we’ve cornered the local (within 100yards) charismatic foriegner quota.
* apologies for my atrocious Russian accent. Hers is, naturally, outstanding.
it’s firework’s night in the UK, 401 years since the gunpowder plot. Below is a rhyme topical to the time of the event. Most contemporary English people know the first verse and if you say the first line out loud will join in for the second line. According to Wikipedia the latter verses were gradually lost to shared memory due to lack of use through content offensive to catholics:
Remember, remember the fifth of November,
Gunpowder Treason and Plot,
I see no reason why gunpowder treason
should ever be forgot.Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes,’twas his intent
to blow up the King and the Parliament.
Three score barrels of powder below,
Poor old England to overthrow:
By God’s providence he was catch’d
With a dark lantern and burning match.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, make the bells ring.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King!
Hip hip hoorah!A penny loaf to feed the Pope.
A farthing o’ cheese to choke him.
A pint of beer to rinse it down.
A faggot of sticks to burn him.
Burn him in a tub of tar.
Burn him like a blazing star.
Burn his body from his head.
Then we’ll say ol’ Pope is dead.
Hip hip hoorah!
Hip hip hoorah!
Bonfire night is an annual English event that, for me in the US, is emotionally replaced by July 4th (fireworks celebration) and US elections on November 7th. Today’s bang! started on the November 4th at a friend’s birthday party.
Hoorah!
(imagine a couple of Hip swings for good measure)
Fun and beer all around, in mouths and beards. Memories of fireworks from July 4th in the US that make me feel closer to the November 5th celebrations in the UK:
Even better, a present (US = gift) turned up in my post (US = mail). It isn’t even my birthday. It is, however, close enough to call this a surprise Birthday present 
World traveller called to tell me the Truck has finally shuffled of this mortal coil. Let’s take 2 minutes silence to respect the daring do’s of the red truck:
You’re talking to yourself
a friendly wendyhome blog reader points out when passing me in the corridor at work. Lucky person may have picked up a gem of wisdom. Then he tactfully gave me a gem of wisdom, while slowly stepping backward. He gave me a potential reason for my being single. Wonderful! Don’t you just wish you’d been there too? Instead, you’ll have to wait until next Wednesday to find out….
House party! As we entered the house my friends seemed to melt into the colourful crowd of over-dressed and under-weared party-goers. This was the 80′s. The house awash with colour, exotic make-up and loud loud underwear. I made my way towards the kitchen in search of alcohol to mellow the noisey tones. A crowd had gathered around the doorway and against the kitchen counters. In a large arc with the fridge, and Burnel, at it’s apex.
Burnel, simultaneously beside, around, and on top of the fridge. Wearing his performance persona. At first I didn’t recognize him. The imaccualte make-up, tight fitting black leather trousers wrapping themselves around and over the fridge, the cape gently obeying the movements of his body. Girls giggled. Boys smirked. Gradually they lost interest and dispersed into the main rooms of the party.
I stood riveted to the scene. To me a fridge is cold, angular, almost definitively unsensuous. Yet here, with his own movements, Burnel managed to imbue the fridge with a delicate coquetishness. It was clearly desirable. He may have acknowledged my presence with a glance, I may have said ‘hello’. It’s unlikely. The fridge was undoubtedly recieving his undivided attention and I certainly didn’t want to break the unique experience he was building. I suspect I remained in the kitchen watching him for the duration of the performance. I certainly pondered on that philosophically fundamental question
‘what is it like to be a fridge?‘
Several months later on a nightclub dancefloor I found the answer. Burnel spontaneously mistook me for a fridge. My compressor promptly broke, resulting in giggle fits and an unceremonious dash to the shadows for emotional repairs.
How appropriate that a picture of Burnel now clings to my fridge.
I see their heads, a pair of pinballs bouncing in the distance, as they scan the hall between the taller, faster-moving, arrivals. Dad’s thick heavy straight hair has a glass-fibre-optic luminance that is easily held in view.
Heading towards them, restraining the impulse to run, my strides extend. I’m bound to fall over if I run amongst unsuspecting normal people. A quick glance around confirms that adults don’t run in arrivals lounges. I’m an adult now. I walk, like the other arrrivals around my parents, very very very fast.
After the 200yrd dash I manage to approach dad head-on and get both arms around his shoulders before he’d recognised me. His shoulders? I don’t remember ever having been able to reach his shoulders before now. He kisses my cheek in front of my ear. He can no longer reach my forehead. Standing upright with his familiar cheshire cattish grin while Mum joins the hug simultaneously giggling and chattering. They had, they explained, ‘seen’ me but not recognised me…..
I hug-herd them to the luggage reclaimation rack while mother spills the first few lines of this story, then that, then the other, and another. I barely have time to savour the images she draws before being pulled to the next story. Dad grins silently, keeping his sparkly dark blue eyes trained on the baggage go-round, going round. In this moment of our studying the baggage go round, unobserved chattering mother wanders off, disappearing into the crowd, giggling and chatting to herself as she goes.
Is this how toddlers’ parents feel when they realise they can no longer see or hear their their toddler?
I’ll never know.
pre-teenage Wendy to Mum and Dad:
not ANOTHER castle, please no. No more Castles. Look, Castles are made of stone, have dungeons and halls and lots of spiral staircases and are generally falling apart. Once you’ve seen one or two Castle’s you’ve pretty much got the Castle thing covered. Can we go to the beach instead? Please… please…. …or a tin mine?
After 6 years living inn the USA, during a visit to Mum and Dad’s home last year….
Let’s go on a day trip to a Castle or a Stately home, or somewhere maintained by British Heritage, please, anywhere on your list of old places to visit?
Mum and Dad arrive in Seattle tomorrow for a week long holiday. Holy Vacuum Cleaners! Parental cleanliness standards are beyond my comprehension. This means I’ll be spending Satruday blitzing the cat-fluff. There are no Castle’s nearby so I’m going to spring Teatro Zinzanni on them, wish me luck…
