Granny Nails

“And on today’s episode of “You’ve Been Kwartenged“, we have one lucky contestant …. Mr H! Come on down!”

”Wait! What? But …”

”Come on down for a chance to double the cost of your mortgage!”

”Hold on, so what do I get if I lose?”

”Don’t worry Mr H, everyone gets a prize on “You’ve Been Kwartenged”. Lose you say? We’ll double the cost of your mortgage anyway! Come on down!”

Let me tell you that it’s no fun being an unwilling contestant on a game show that you didn’t know existed, compered by a Host whose grasp on reality is further removed than Putin’s. Along with many millions of others, I won the first prize without entering the competition, and it set in motion a chain of events that are said to have been predicted only by Nostrodamus in one of his more obscure quatrains.

The Big Change took hold one Saturday evening when Gin (so called as it‘s the only way to get through these troubled times), declared that she would like to spend her “recent promotion pay rise on getting a decent cleaner”. Good news! Gin has been promoted to Deputy Numbers Expert and is now responsible for other Numbers Experts at her school. Bad news! The cleaning statement might have slightly upset the incumbent (and lets face it, pretty crap) cleaner (me) who copped the red-wine-fuelled hump. Words were exchanged, some of them quite loud and aimed at the Back of Gin‘s head, as she departed the room.

At this point dear reader, I would like to be able to tell you that everything was made right by some drunken, angry sex. But alas, Gin slammed her bedroom door and I, after some ranting and shouting at the vertical planks of wood, took to Electronic Communication. Unwittingly, Gin had crystallised months of my worrying about money (put across in a sophisticated “how the f$@k do you think we can afford a cleaner?”) and I decided, on the spot, that earning more was the only solution.

Now, I don’t know what you know about supermarket delivery drivers, other than sometimes they are late and sometimes they can string a sentence together, but what you might be able to guess is they aren‘t paid a great deal. Which is not helpful when your outgoings are a Great Deal. I already knew that a full-time Sainserbo‘s driving contract would leave us several hundred pounds a month short of just the mortgage, so that wasn‘t an option. Which is why I reached for WhatsApp and started to message old work chums and colleagues to ask them if they knew of any vacancies for an old, and somewhat rusty, Risk Management fella.

I thought the search would take months. I thought I would get cold feet and decide that somehow we would muddle through with me cleaning badly and delivering groceries 3 days a week. I thought that there would be lots of time. I was wrong. Four weeks. That was how long it took to land a new, full-time job back in the old world. Crikey. Talk about bringing a 3 year chapter to a very rapid close, but closed it is and onwards we go, albeit in a very unexpected direction.

And it‘s not without some irony that to allow both Gin and I to work full-time, we’ve had to secure the services of a cleaner, who started this week. Took her two hours just to do the bathroom. Apparently there was dust and dirt everywhere. Uhuh.

And it also means that Milo (the clinically insane Spaniel) will be off to doggy day-care. Can‘t say I will miss the hours of walking through rain and ground conditions that a Private from World War 1 would recognise, but I will miss those bright, crisp/warm/balmy (pick your season) walks with my little canine buddy.

I’ll also miss the odd moment from delivering in the Orange Van. No longer will I be able to play “Guess the substitution” from items in the crate. No more “But I ordered a birthday card, so why have I been sent a telephone?” (true story), or “I wanted printer paper, not 20 black biros”. And no more bizarre moments, such as that on my last delivery to Central Croydon (or as we call it, The Cronx). I’d parked the van down a dead-end side-street, swearing about ”town planners that allow the whole centre to be converted to high-rise flats, but not allowing anywhere for delivery vehicles to be parked”. Having barrowed my crates off to a distant customer, as I returned to the van I could see a couple of people standing in the road, apparently eyeing it up. Wouldn’t be the first attempt at a break-in. I rattled my barrow to let them know I was near, and they retreated to the opposite pavement. As I rounded the van to climb into the cab, I was more than surprised to find the man back in the road. I sensed trouble.

”Excuse me”, he said.

”Yes?”, I replied, backing towards the van’s door.

”Can I make an odd request?”

”Err, yes you can” (so long as I can jump in the van and bugger off before any Naughty Business happens).

”This girl here“, he said pointing, “thinks she is is a faster runner than me. Would you mind counting us down so we can settle it?”

”What? You want me to do a 3-2-1, Go! thing?”

”Please”

Which is how I came to be standing in a small, windy road, in the dark, between two tower-blocks, watching the rapidly retreating backs of two people sprinting away from me, looking for all the world as though they had held-up the van and nicked its supply of cigs. The bloke was winning as I leapt into the driver’s seat and sped off.

It’s been quite the time for other members of the extended Mr & Mrs H clan. Let’s start with Granny. Granny has been living with hip joints that decided that they wanted to try being square. It transpires that square hip joints function about as well as a Chancellor with no understanding of the economy, resulting in a great deal of pain and difficulty (for Granny and the economy); a State of Affairs that could not be allowed to persist. Granny decided that the hips, much like the Chancellor, must be removed and replaced by ones that would function as expected. And so an operation was booked in. Granny also decided that she wanted to be back on her feet as soon as the operation was done, and asked to have it performed under local anaesthetic. As you do. Well no, as most of us don‘t. Her wish was granted, and hip number one was replaced whilst she lay there, fully conscious, directing the surgeon and his saws to get the job done. The woman is NAILS I tell you. Makes me feel faint thinking about the spinal block, let alone the rest of it. Amazing!

Also a mention must go to Nana and Pops who celebrated 60 years of marriage in September. A marriage based on love, humour and sherry. Christmas was a good example; Nana invited us (and the dog, which was a risky step in its own right) over for dinner, plus an overnight stay. We sat down to eat, with Nana telling us that she'd done "blinis, smoked salmon and caviar". Very nice. She went on to tell us that she thought that was "a bit meagre", and in so saying, promptly whacked a bottle of vodka on the table on the table, along with shot glasses. "That's better", she said. 4 shots later, everything really was better. Pops, being the naughty fella that he is, then decided that he and GT should finish the remains of the bottle, downing another two shots each. I'm not saying GT was tiddly, but she kept missing her dinner plate. Ah happy days. If you are going to grow old, grow old disgracefully (or at least, a bit cheekily).

As for GT, she's settled into Uni well, is working her socks off, appears to be fighting various suiters off with a large walking stick (walking stick because of her dodgy knee; locally she is known as "Grandma") and is settling into a semi-nomadic life between her home with us and her digs in Cambridge. She also loves her subject; honestly in futureI can see her being a TV historian type (stage name Dr Mary Hinge).

I couldn't finish my last blog as "house husband and carer" without a nod to the amazing progress that BT has made. 3 years ago we couldn't have dreamt that we would be awaiting news of his possible Apprenticeship in the City. It has been inching closer as various hurdles are cleared by his potential employer, the latest being a recruitment freeze. Fingers crossed that it happens soon as the work environment really suits him.

And with that, it only remains for me to thank you for reading my nonsense and sticking with us as we've trundled along an un-trodden path. It's been quite the journey, hasn't it?

Love and elbow-grease

Mr H

x

PS I may well keep the blog alive and post once in a while when there is something to say, not least of all with news of BT's apprenticeship. Obvs will need to change its description, but can't help but think that "Mr H, the musings of a Commuter and Risk Manager" might not be the thing.

PPS And a mention to Big Baz whose lovely Dad passed away a few weeks back. He was a top fella.