Proof of Maturity

Despite feeling a bit ropey, I went to a combined Anniversary/Birthday party on Saturday night. Our hosts are lovely; both know how to keep a house clean, all the more difficult when the house is chocka with ornaments, books and general stuff: green men, dragons, buddhas...not only are they all there, they're all speckless. Dust motes would feel very lonely in this place where even the cleaning products are lined up neatly in that cupboard under the sink, spot-free and sparkling.

This love of dusting and cleaning is mainly the gent of the family's concern. Our hostess will make things right and proper, but he takes a real delight in all details being just so. The party reflected this, with the chimenea lit and the garden lights all pretty, and everything very sweet, conversation and wine flowing freely. Then came the time for sleep, and my hosts put me in a lovely room that they are preparing for a new lodger arriving on Monday. Over the plain pine desk someone had swathed a delicate silk throw, not huge but pretty. and I slept, until I started coughing and couldn't stop. And couldn't stop. And really couldn't stop, the coughs repeating in that mechanical jerking way they once did for whooping cough, I cough-cough-cough-cough-sat up in bed-cough-cough-cough-projectile vomited right across the room.

The good news was that most of it landed on my pile of clothes. The bad news was that there were two distinct splatters on the pristine beige carpet.

I leapt out of bed in terror to survey the mess. I had to do something straight away. To the bathroom, Batwoman! But how? My clothes could not be worn. But there was the beautiful throw. I wrapped it around myself; it barely hid me unmentionables, but better than nothing, so I made my way to the bathroom to look for sponges. On leaving the room, I bumped into my host, surprised to see me clad in soft furnishings. Noticing his puzzled gaze alight on the silk throw, I wanted to blurt 'Don't worry - I haven't wiped my bottom with it or anything...' I don't think I actually said that, but can't quite remember. I explained as fast as I could, and he brought me a tee shirt and his old festival pants, plus bowl and cleaning equipment, and I set to scrubbing away.

How then, you may ask, is this proof of maturity? I'll tell you. Once upon a time, he would have opened the bedroom door to find me naked on my knees frantically scrubbing the carpet with the nearest toilet tissue, and accidentally scattering vomit to the four corners of the room. Now I have evolved to finding clothes and cleaning fluids before I start.

Don't say I never learn.

But I still had to wear the festival pants all the way home.

Mothers Day on the Buses

I was sitting on a bus, to the tune of a child screaming its head off. It was doing that thing where they make a loud but low level WaaAaaaAaawaa grizzle, and then suddenly insert a jolting scream, peaking like an electric shock at the point where your head feels like it's going to explode. The first time it did this, I nearly jumped out of my seat. This did not go unnoticed by the lady sitting next to me, who slid me a sidelong gaze, and mumured out of the corner of her mouth:

'That child has been crying for the last 20 minutes.'

I hadn't been on the bus that long, and was considering getting off to avoid the noise. Still, she clearly required an answer so I said. "20 minutes - really?'
'20 minutes. Since the bus stop outside Woolwich.'
'God.'

We were silent a while. Then she started talking again. Due to the travel carnage around London Bridge, she was running late for a BBQ being put together by her sons for Mother's Day. While she appreciated the thought, she confessed that a nice film on the telly accompanied by a G+T would have suited her better. The screamer put in a particularly high voltage roar that would make nails down a blackboard sound like a soothing lullaby.

'Two G+T's,' She amended.

We talked for a while, until I noticed that the yelling had stopped. We cautiously looked around. There was no child left on the bus.

'They must have got off at Nightingale Grove,' I observed.

'I just assumed she had killed it,' was her rejoinder. Her stop was next, and as she got up I wished her a happy Mother's Day. When she wished me the same, I explained my lack of children. 'Well done.' she said with a grim smile, and stepped down off the bus. I watched her wander away towards gin in the sunset and the BBQ she didn't want. And for a moment, just a fleeting second, considered what she might prefer under the grill.