CYNDI LAUPER LIVES

Last night I went to an 80s night.

I was surprised at how easy it was to find the costume from my own wardrobe.

Now either fashions haven’t moved on…or I am living in a fashion time warp.

I suspect the latter.

When my mother worked in an office in the 70s there was a woman working there called Dot. (which is a great name in itself)

As young person, Dot was a mysterious and interesting woman. She had her hair in a roll and wore very red lipstick that stuck to cups. She smoked and wore a lot of jewellery. Always very glamorous with tight blouses and pencil skirts. She looked as if she had stepped out of the 1940s. I am guessing she was probably in her fifties, as I am now, and that she was stuck in the time from when she discovered her identity as a 20 something.

So this week I may take a closer look at my wardrobe and question my penchant for large hoopy earings , and a that general Cyndi Lauper look, in case any teenagers are out there feeling sorry for me.

Morons rule our planet

How very depressing sitting in the kebab shop tonight.
The only thing to look at whilst waiting was a plain woman, made to look not plain, on the TV music channel.
She was bumping and grinding in a selection of small clothes and she had false hair, false nails,false tits, false voice.
She was probably black but it was hard to tell.
Male dancers scantily clad and oily, gyrating all around her to attract the pink pound as well. Its all about the money.
There was no talent emanating from these people.
There may have been at one time, when as children they sang in their living rooms, into their bedroom mirrors, took their tap lessons week after week
It had all been forced through money making sausage machine now, to come out as dull pulp.

Tired of her, I looked around for something to read. but only thing was ‘The Sun’.
The headline was so stupid I cant even remember it, and it was probably a lie anyway so cant be bothered, but it seemed to involve some hapless woman and a baby and 25p.

Inside was greater detail re baby and woman and the 25p, and explicit sexual details of the so called ‘celebrity’ sex abuse cases.
Articles that read from a 1970s soft porn story printed in the name of moral outrage.

Another woman came on the TV.
She was white but was doing the same as the other woman.
It was supposed to be different but it wasn’t.
All these images are so common now that I have no doubt some of you think this rant is pointless and quaint, and wander why I’m making such a fuss.

A little girl came into the kebab shop with her dad. She was about seven. She was full of hope and potential and life, unlike the vacuous robotic sexualised images flickering in front of her very real face.
I felt sad that we expect so little of our children, and of men, and women.
And we let morons rule the planet, and fuck us up so they can become rich and we all become poorer.

HEALTH AND STUPIDITY

The Health and Safety man came today.

He had a tablet thing that he was very pleased with.

He walked around taking photos of boxes.

He walked past me as I was splashing caustic soda around, and he took a photo of a bottles.

Then without any warning
he suddenly rounded on the innocent bubble wrap machine, whose only job is to quietly puff air into little plastic pillows.
It has never attacked anyone, unlike the printer,
and it only has 1 button, which is an asset in a machine. and it always works.

It was unfair and unjust.

He wasn’t as friendly as the other health and Safety man, who had one leg
because he got run over.
If you asked him, he would spin his false leg around.
And he didn’t have a tablet.

Where is Switzerland?

Natasha in the office, (or Tash as she prefers to be called, which makes her sound a little more hersuit that she is),came into the warehouse.

‘Where is Switzerland?’ she asked

A puzzled silence fell as we wondered whether she wanted travelling directions, or just for someone to pinpoint it out on a map for her, or whether she was bringing up more of an existentialist question.

Is it in Europe? she went on.

There was silent group tutt,. as we all judged the modern education system as a failure.

I need to send a parcel, is it in Europe?

Ahhhhh! Collective sigh of understanding.
Education system off the hook for the moment.

Mutterings of the ‘EEC’ (the older ones),the ‘EU’ (the younger ones).
Well it is in Europe we agreed…..but……collective shuffle and mumblings….
look at the chart on the wall in the office someone suggested….no one could be sure.
Tash went off to check the chart that hung in the wall in her office and we all went back to work just as unclear about the position of Switzerland in the European Community as we were before.

DARTS, BENCHES AND IMPENDING INJURY

Tonight I went for my regular Friday drink.

Someone had moved the PUB around.

Vernon hadn’t realised until a DART went whizzing through his hair.

We realised then that the DARTS BOARD had been moved. I checked where it had been, but it hadn’t been moved at all.  One had been added.

We were sat in a 2 dart board pub.

We mulled it over for a while, as we drank,in silence.  Were the world championship darts coming to our little town? Perhaps one board was for men and one for women someone suggested.
We mulled that over for a while as well
I wondered whether we were going in for gender segregation for religious reasons,but we decided not.
But we did all agree that there were a lot of Darts teams in the area.

We sat in silence for a bit

No one knew..

The benches had been rearranged as well.   It took a while for everyone to settle down.  Change is difficult sometimes.

This pub doesn’t make it easy by providing comfy chairs for its customers.  It has hard benches that can sit 2 people but whoever you share with has to inform you they are getting up now or you will fall on the floor in a see saw fashion. Its like a middle management team building exercise. Tonight I shared a bench with Teresas friend Clive. I have not been formally introduced but we bonded as we took it in turns to get up and warn each other of impending injury.

Janet arrived with her carrier bag. She always has a carrier bag. No one knows what is in it. She has a drink and leaves.

 

 

Piercing and Sainsburys

Tonight my youngest daughter Lettice came home from town, stood in the doorway, pushed back her hair and went
‘Da dah!’
‘What?’
I said
‘Da dah!’
I didn’t have my glasses on
‘Da dah!’
‘What?’
All I could see was an ear
‘Look!’ she insisted
‘What?;
‘I’ve got a piercing’
‘Oh yes, so you have’ I could see a tiny glimmer of a stone in the top of her ear.
She lost her last piercing in Sainsburys. It dropped out of her bottom lip and tinkled across the floor in the washing powder isle.
An old man stopped when he saw her on the floor peering under the shelves, looked concerned, and asked if she had lost something. She told him she had lost her lip bar had he looked confused, but sympathetic and attempted to look for it.
‘Oh well’ he tutted, after a while, as he sidled away from washing powder to into cat foods, back to a life he understood.
They never found it so the hole grew over, and so her face became whole again, so to speak.

‘I’m getting a neck tattoo, on my secret head’, she said
I didn’t know she had a secret head
‘When I put my hair up people will see it and when its down they wont’
‘Lovely’ I said ‘What about when you are very old and sit on the bus and have fluffy white hair in a few decades time, people will see it then?’ I said.
‘Oh I hadn’t thought of that’, she said
‘but it will look cool.’
Possibly, but all the old people on the bus will be tattooed and pierced then so it will be nothing in 50 years time.

Lettice skipped downstairs last week, and said
‘Shall I give people my eyes do you think?’
‘Do it’ I advised.
‘I’m not sure’ she said ‘it would be weird’
Give everything’ I advised
‘what does it matter you won’t need it.’
‘Mmmmm’ she considered it.
‘I’ve given all my other bits. I’m not sure’
then she skipped back upstairs.
A letter came today from the organ donor place.
I wonder if her eyes are going after all.

I do enjoy these little chats with Lettice.

Smoking at Tescos

I dropped my daughter off at the cash point at Tescos on Saturday. (I seem to spend my days cruising supermarkets. I had no idea until I started a blog).

There was a group of 14-15 year old youths wearing the obligatory hooded tops, annoying people and trying to fight passing shoppers, who were all seemed too preoccupied with the post Christmas food confusion lurking back in their fridges to fight back..

As I watched them jostling and swearing, it seemed that one of them was smoking a pipe.

How quaint I thought. Pipe smoking is making a comeback and it will be the 1930’s again and young people will call you Mrs whatever there will be sardine sandwiches and lashings of ginger beer for tea and everything will be right with the world, until the war.

I looked again.

 It wasn’t a pipe or a cigarette, it was too long, but there was smoke.

Then I realised it was a 14 year old boy puffing away on an electric cigarette.

I was confused.

Did he get it for Christmas?

Is that a good thing?

Why has a 14 year old got an electric cigarette?

Is he trying to cut down, or is he on the tobacco nursery slopes, getting a run up to the real thing?

Is an electric cigarette better than a pipe?

Was that a bald patch at the back of his head, it was very see through?

Was it hood damage that had stopped his hair growing/stunted its growth?

Was he a middle aged man who had slipped into the gang unnoticed? 

I asked my daughter, when she got back in the car. She was the nearest thing to a youth I had to hand. Was pipe smoking a fashion I asked? She said she had no idea, it could be, she was out of touch with youth at 21.

This has opened more questions than it has answered.

massage at Asda

‘I’m getting a massage from a man in Buckland Brewer’
said the lady on the checkout at Asda
as she beeped my beans.
I wasn’t sure how many other customers had been party to this information.
I looked at my shopping as it moved along and there was nothing there which could have triggered it…no spa related products or even toothpaste.
‘My friends husband has bought her a pampering day’
she continued
‘but she’s nine months pregnant so she can’t lie down’
empathic nod from me as I packed my bags
beep
‘and he’s only bought one voucher so she has to go on her own’
she continued
Clearly unimpressed with her friends husbands efforts
beep
‘cor!’ I said
‘ men!’, I said. ‘what are they like eh?’
And left knowing a tiny little bit about the woman on the checkout at Asda

Fighting penguins

I walked to work; as I don’t seem to have been off my arse for 6 days, and swore to myself that I wouldn’t bring my weight gain up as a topic of conversation. .

As soon as I got through the door I blurted it out to anyone and everyone.

I wish I could be mysterious.

Barbara Windsor (ex Eastenders, and Carry on with a Cockney), once said you must never point out any of your bad points, but ever since I read this I’ve been doing the opposite.

 I’ve got confession tourettes.

 

 

‘We went out at New year’,

said my friend, Sarah,

 ‘dressed as penguins,

…………..but my husband started to get lary after a few drinks, mouthing off,and  picking arguments with people in the pub…….he always gets like this’

she explained

‘.but I took him home when he tried to pick a fight with another penguin’.

Procastination In the Twighlight zone with Phil and Kirsty

Back to work, for a tad above the minimum wage, today after the festive season.
I hate Mondays, only its Thursday. Christmas messes with your mind.

Got up weighed self, still same as last night, even with slippers off.
Decided to make New Year ‘to do’ list, as many things running round my head lying in bed.
Haven’t seen 7am for a while now.
Its dark.
Fed cats, put kettle on. Looked around. My kitchen is hovering uncomfortably between a fat Christmas and a bony anonymous Monday in January (Thursday whatever). Nuts, untouched stale cheese straws, biscuits bought for the wadges of cheese in the fridge. Pickles still sitting prim on Dresser, with little cloth hats on, not tricking people into believing I had made them myself in a country kitchen, the sort that only people moving here from London could afford. (Phil and Kirsty helping them to choose because they have been looking for 7 years and ‘nothing has ticked all their boxes’, and they are on a limited £500,000 budget. I feel their pain.) Yet I digress……
Start to throw out Christmas. Crossants, stale bread, cards on the dresser into a recyling pile. Leave fairy lights up. My husbands Catholic upbringing twinges at my conscience. Apparently not allowed to take decs down ’til three wise men turn up at the weekend. so live in a non denominational twilight zone every year waiting for them. Hoping that God will still be good to me if only half the decorations are back in the box. Maybe they won’t notice. They never come anyway but keeps him happy.
Decide to take shortbread to work, (get them fat make me look better),choose to put white bread in toaster, no low fat marg, oh well have to pile on real butter. Realise not good start.
No list made. Got to go to work.
Procrastination is a terrible thing.