Stripes for men.

Yesterday the sun was shining, and as it hadn’t rained for a few days I couldn’t put off mowing the lawn any longer. I call it lawn but its little more than a vast expanse of Australian bush land around sixty foot long and thirty wide and that’s just to the right of the path. On the other side in front of where I park my car is a strip fifteen foot wide and thirty-foot long. So unless I keep on top of it (And I don’t) making it tidy is a daunting task.

I have to have a run at these things so coffee was the order of the day followed by toast and then more coffee. I placed my safety chair near the front door, in case I needed to sit down, I have a great wheeze, if I am forced to exert myself in pointless exercise like cutting grass, then the safety chair is a must. It works like this; several of my son’s friends pass my humble pile on the way to the pub for the Sunday afternoon piss up. If I see one coming, I stagger around hand on brow as though about to collapse with a suitably pained expression on my face, and more often than not they will suggest I sit down and rest. They then unselfishly grab the mower and fire up and down the garden, grass flying everywhere until its done.

I use the old “You’re a good boy, how’s your Mum” ploy and get them to put the mower away for me. Fair is fair though I take the chair in myself, I do need to get some exercise, then I plonk myself in the back garden with the radio and a book and enjoy a lazy day. Perhaps later I have a drink as the old yellow ball nears its zenith and watch my ornate sundial rust away for lack of a lick of paint. (I don’t like painting either).

Quick story: When I first bought the sundial my youngest son and vivacious Katie picked it up from the garden centre for me. As I was placing it in the centre of the back garden and adjusting it to the sun, Katie asked me how it worked. “Its digital” I said “Works of solar power” She looked at me a little cagily (She has been caught out before by my nonsense) “What you mean the sun charges it up sort of thing?” I grabbed the opportunity “Yes the sun charges it up during the day, and that way it works at night too”. Her eyes narrowed, she sensed I was taking the piss, “Ok then if its that good how come it was so cheap” I had her “It was knock down price because the alarm doesn’t work on it”. This seamed reasonable to her, so smiling and saying “Oh right got ya” she went inside to make a cup of tea. Later she told her Mum and some of her friends about the digital sundial and one or two asked if there were any left at the store.

I had everything ready, mower, safety chair; cup of coffee, all I needed to do was mow. As I mentally psyched myself up for this monumental task, Keith from next door but one sauntered over wearing his I’ve just got back from Spain look, slight tan, loud shirt, shorts and sandals. Keith is a nice bloke but a master of the obvious, “Your cutting the grass then” I nodded “Did mine yesterday, one or two sprigs have sprung up though, might have to go over it with the scissors”. Keith is a perfectionist when it comes to his garden, he has a place for everything and you can be sure everything is in its place. Plants are co-ordinated by season and colour and where ever you look in his mini Q gardens there is a theme. Me! I can’t be arsed, everything is where it’s always been and it can bleeding stay there.

He made himself comfortable on the gate and settled down to watch a cack handed amateur make a balls up of a simple task like cutting the grass, I wasn’t about to disappoint him. I fired the beast up and began the long walk down to the front of my house where I would turn around one hundred and eighty degrees and walk all the way back, only to do the same add infinitum. On my second trip back up the garden I paused near the gate. Keith pointed to my efforts and said, “Your not doing stripes then? You should do stripes, I did stripes on mine, stripes look better, more professional stripes are”.

I was about to suggest he shove his stripes up his arse when the do-it-yourselfer with the Tefal head from across the road joined us, “Your cutting the grass then” he said leaning on the gate next to Keith, “He isn’t doing stripes though” volunteered Keith. Tefal man looked shocked “Not doing stripes, what’s the point of doing it at all if your not doing stripes, everyone does stripes round here”. I was tempted to remind him he had only been round here five minutes so how would he know who did and didn’t do bloody stripes, but I bit my lip. I looked at them both leaning on my gate complaining about the way I was cutting my grass, when a piece of advice my Father gave me many years ago popped into my head.
“”Flatter the vanity of men and watch them Move Mountains to validate your claims.”” (He was always coming out with gems like that)

I adorned a forlorn expression and wistfully informed them that “I’m nowhere near as good a gardener as you two lads are. You know what you’re doing; well you only have to look at your gardens to see that. I couldn’t do stripes to save my life, I wish I could, perhaps next time your doing stripes Keith I will come over and watch how you do it.”

Keith and Tefal head sprung into action, “Theirs no time like the present, watch and learn chummy, watch and learn”. So watch I did from the comfort of my chair as Keith lovingly squared up my earlier attempt and whizzed up and down my lawn alternately cutting low and high, whilst Tefal head bagged the cut grass and explained that the secret was “Not to mow over old grass”.

When they had finished I made a point of admiring my stripy new lawn, thanked them for the gardening lesson and offered them a drink. “Thanks but no thanks” said Keith “Have to pick the grandkids up soon, so I’m off to get ready” he disappeared leaving me with Tefal head who accepted my offer. As he drank my coffee he cast a do-it-yourselfers eye over my place and pointed out one or two things that needed doing. I agreed with him but admitted that I wasn’t very good at home improvements and wondered at how some guys could turn their hand to anything.

He puffed his chest out proudly and said “Well I’ve always been a dab hand at DIY, if you ever need any advice, I’m the man to ask”. I escorted him through to the back garden to have a quick look at my rusting sundial, “What kind of paint would I use on this sundial I asked innocently” He put his glasses on his enormous head and began to inspect the dial. “Hmmm it depends on whether its cast iron or cast steel, you cant just slop any old paint on metal you know, it’s a science”. Inspection finished he announced that Hammeright paint (Whatever that is) was the right paint for the job. It just so happened that he had some and that if I wanted he would drag the sundial over to his place and do a proper job of it in his shed out of the sun and the dust.

I thanked him once again for being all knowledgeable and helpful as he struggled with the heavy sundial over the road to his shed. “Ill bring it back tomorrow,” he said as he closed his shed door. “No rush” I said “No rush”.

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Snake woman.

Snake woman or Barbara was one of those bohemian types who suddenly appear in your life and behave as though they have always been there. These people always seem to know you by first name despite the fact that you might never have met them before. I remember the day she first entered my shop (Visual Electronics), it was early morning, I had been to party the night before and was feeling a little delicate, which was why I was leaning on the counter and looking at my shoes for inspiration.

She opened the door with a flourish, stepped into the shop and stood there like a sulking film starlet. She had raven black hair that framed a pale face and her eyes were hidden by huge sunglasses, which she slowly removed. She shook her head like a girl in a shampoo advert to allow her hair to fall into its natural style, then placed one arm of her sunglasses into her mouth and narrowed her eyes, one of which was false.

She was wearing tight black pants that left little to the imagination, and a leopard skin patterned top. She advance toward the counter wobbling slightly on high heels, “You must be David” she spoke with a pseudo Russian accent peppered with broad Yorkshire that confused me for a while. After I came to know her the Russian drifted into the Yorkshire more often and eventually disappeared. She presented herself as though she had nobility behind her, when in reality all she had behind her was a long career as an exotic dancer in some of the seedier clubs of the Costa’s in Spain.

Her glamorous but slightly tatty clothes were remnants from a more glorious time in her life, a time when she would thrill crowds, and command men with her erotic gyrations on stages lit by purple and red spotlights, accompanied by frantic drums beating to Eastern music. A time when she was known as “Dalores" the snake woman. You could tell that she had once been a babe, but the years of late nights in smoke filled clubs had taken its toll. Where once she had been a ten, time and the hazards of life had demoted her to an attractive seven and a half.

From about fifteen feet away she could still pass for thirty odd, but the nearer she got, the older she looked. This of course wasn’t good for her act, she became less popular and the bookings became fewer, until one night on stage her partner (Tommy the snake) put paid to her act altogether by taking out her left eye with his tail.

Her return to a dull, grey England after year’s abroad in the sun was a culture shock for this lovely lady. And the indifferent treatment she received from the social security after being the centre of attention for so many dribbling male tourists was a depressing reminder that her life of glamour was over. She still kept a regal bearing though, and it added to her charm.

She requested that I visit her home to repair her television. I told her I would call after the shop closed because I was on my own that day and couldn’t leave until then. When I arrived she opened the door to me dressed in what can only be described as a gypsy outfit, complete with bandanna topped with a chain of coins. She skipped on bare feet into the living room and pointed dramatically to the errant TV in the corner, saying “There it is, do make it work David, shall you have tea or coffee”. I heard myself saying “I shall have coffee, two sugars” and for the first time in a long time I went red with embarrassment. “I shall have coffee”; it sounded like the goof people make when they put H, s where they don’t belong.

I set about the TV and quickly discovered that the plug fuse had given up the ghost, it was replaced and before she came back with my coffee the strains of the intro music to Coronation Street was filling the room. “You marvellous, marvellous man” she beamed “How much will that be” I explained that I couldn’t really charge her for a five pence fuse, but the coffee would be payment enough. She made me sit next to her on the couch to drink my coffee and we chatted away as though we were old friends.

She told me about her act and the life she had led as a dancer, first in the chorus line for some quite famous companies then as an exotic dancer in London before flying to Spain for a season of work that stretched to twenty five years. We chatted for over an hour and before I left she promised to pop in to the shop to say hello. She popped several times a week and we became good friends. On one visit she invited me round for a drink and a chat, this she said was a chance to show me some of her wardrobe and props from the act that had only just arrived in England.

I arrived to find the table prepared with food and a selection of drinks, the sofa had been pushed against the wall, and the lights were low. I had a sneaky suspicion that amore was the point of the evening and lets face it I’m a man of the world, I was ready for this and whilst she was no longer a young girl she was still attractive. What I wasn’t prepared for was what came half way through the evening. She had been showing me her things, photographs, knick-knacks, props she used in her act. Then she disappeared upstairs for a few minutes and when she came down she was dressed in a white Egyptian outfit, decked out in red and gold with a splendid gold head-dress.

She flicked a switch on the hi-fi and the room was filled with music. She began dancing right there in the middle of the room, and I watched open-mouthed as she gyrated and ground her hips to “Midnight at the oasis” by Maria Muldaur. Despite what I said before about her no longer being a young girl, she had a superb body and under the dim lights she looked every bit as delicious as Santanico Pandemonium in “Dawn till dusk ”. It was an exhilarating night and I even learned a few dance steps. We had a great friendship that lasted until she decided to go back to Spain and live with a French piano-playing friend of hers.

England was a great disappointment to her and I could see she was unhappy. I drove her to the airport and we had a last drink and meal in departures before I waved goodbye to her as she wobbled on her high heels back to the sun.

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