fire hazard. It’s on the cards (what cards?) that either the table top will ignite or Martin’s trousers will.
Deirdre told me that Martin was ‘incandescent’. He’d penned a letter to the Listening Ear , copies to a government health minister whose name has gone completely out of her head. Talks of taking this issue to the highest court in the land.
Expect fuss to die down shortly but then see Martin’s polemic in the newspaper, headline: Small town - small minds, and outlined in red to denote fury of writer. Realise Deirdre’s Martin is Martin J. Storm of the ladies’ toilets correspondence. This inspires me to post off an immediate response, my headline, Victory for Planet Clean Air! As always sign myself A. Oakley but on a whim add Fire and Pollution Prevention Officer.
In meantime spot Martin standing in seedy outside niche between Smiths and the Corner Coffee Shop, puffing his cigarette and looking bitter.
April 24th
The Bittlesea Bay Cafe is packed with tourists all bearing bulging rucksacks. Deirdre wants them banned. (The rucksacks not the tourists, although she’s not too keen on them either). She says individual rucksacks take up as much space as a child or a small adult. Do not point out that Deirdre with her flowing scarves, various draperies, handbag, key purse and huge sheaf of hair takes up as much space as three medium sized adults. NB. Do not spend all my life shuttling between cafés although on re-reading previous entries it seems I do.
‘He’s coping...I think,’ she says, responding to my inquiry about Martin’s smoking ban. ‘However more to the point I’m worried about Lord Dudley.’ She looks worriedly towards the sea.
‘Why?’
‘I think he’s got ear mites.’
‘Not a big problem - better take him to the vet.’
‘Yes, but say I take him to the vet and the vet finds cancer or diabetes - I’m in to the tune of minimum, three hundred pounds and a lot of heartache - then at the end of all that Lord Dudley still dies.’ Her pink lipsticked lower lip trembles, blue eyes fill with tears.
‘We’re only talking ear mites Deirdre.’
‘Could be cancer of the ear.’
‘Is he off his food?’
‘No way.’
‘Has he stopped sitting in his box lid?’
She smiles maternally, ‘Bless him, he loves that box lid.’
‘Then if it’s anything, it’s ear mites.’
‘He’s had such a hard life, poor lamb.’
‘Rubbish,’ I say brusquely. Lord Dudley is nothing like a lamb. He’s a spoilt fluffy cat with one or two winning ways, including using Martin and Deirdre’s white leather sofas as scratching posts. Deirdre has taped sheets of cardboard around the corners of each sofa so that now they look as if they’re still in the process of being unpacked.
‘You’ve changed,’ she says reproachfully. ‘Once upon a time you’d have been as worried as I am about Lord Dudley.’
‘Deirdre, how would you be feeling if Martin left you for two months?’
‘Relieved. No really, I’d make the most of my time alone. Put a positive slant on the situation. Tell myself, ‘hey dude, time waits for no man’. Woman in your case. Tell me,’ she hunches forward across the table and lowers her voice. ‘Why don’t your lot take more care of themselves? I’m talking cosmetically here. I’ve read about ‘lipstick lesbians’ but I never see any.’
‘You probably do see them but they look just, well almost the same as you.’
Deirdre sits back in her chair, appalled. ‘I hope not. No offence but I wouldn’t want to be mistaken for a lipstick lezzer. You know, certain things go with that territory and I’m not in the market for suck it and see.’
She waves her hands as if drying nail polish. As always find it difficult to be offended by Deirdre being offensive. An almost biblical phrase pops into my head; she knows not what she says .
‘Can we leave this discussion for another time, Deirdre?’
‘Whatever. Only throwing ideas up in the air,
Deirdre told me that Martin was ‘incandescent’. He’d penned a letter to the Listening Ear , copies to a government health minister whose name has gone completely out of her head. Talks of taking this issue to the highest court in the land.
Expect fuss to die down shortly but then see Martin’s polemic in the newspaper, headline: Small town - small minds, and outlined in red to denote fury of writer. Realise Deirdre’s Martin is Martin J. Storm of the ladies’ toilets correspondence. This inspires me to post off an immediate response, my headline, Victory for Planet Clean Air! As always sign myself A. Oakley but on a whim add Fire and Pollution Prevention Officer.
In meantime spot Martin standing in seedy outside niche between Smiths and the Corner Coffee Shop, puffing his cigarette and looking bitter.
April 24th
The Bittlesea Bay Cafe is packed with tourists all bearing bulging rucksacks. Deirdre wants them banned. (The rucksacks not the tourists, although she’s not too keen on them either). She says individual rucksacks take up as much space as a child or a small adult. Do not point out that Deirdre with her flowing scarves, various draperies, handbag, key purse and huge sheaf of hair takes up as much space as three medium sized adults. NB. Do not spend all my life shuttling between cafés although on re-reading previous entries it seems I do.
‘He’s coping...I think,’ she says, responding to my inquiry about Martin’s smoking ban. ‘However more to the point I’m worried about Lord Dudley.’ She looks worriedly towards the sea.
‘Why?’
‘I think he’s got ear mites.’
‘Not a big problem - better take him to the vet.’
‘Yes, but say I take him to the vet and the vet finds cancer or diabetes - I’m in to the tune of minimum, three hundred pounds and a lot of heartache - then at the end of all that Lord Dudley still dies.’ Her pink lipsticked lower lip trembles, blue eyes fill with tears.
‘We’re only talking ear mites Deirdre.’
‘Could be cancer of the ear.’
‘Is he off his food?’
‘No way.’
‘Has he stopped sitting in his box lid?’
She smiles maternally, ‘Bless him, he loves that box lid.’
‘Then if it’s anything, it’s ear mites.’
‘He’s had such a hard life, poor lamb.’
‘Rubbish,’ I say brusquely. Lord Dudley is nothing like a lamb. He’s a spoilt fluffy cat with one or two winning ways, including using Martin and Deirdre’s white leather sofas as scratching posts. Deirdre has taped sheets of cardboard around the corners of each sofa so that now they look as if they’re still in the process of being unpacked.
‘You’ve changed,’ she says reproachfully. ‘Once upon a time you’d have been as worried as I am about Lord Dudley.’
‘Deirdre, how would you be feeling if Martin left you for two months?’
‘Relieved. No really, I’d make the most of my time alone. Put a positive slant on the situation. Tell myself, ‘hey dude, time waits for no man’. Woman in your case. Tell me,’ she hunches forward across the table and lowers her voice. ‘Why don’t your lot take more care of themselves? I’m talking cosmetically here. I’ve read about ‘lipstick lesbians’ but I never see any.’
‘You probably do see them but they look just, well almost the same as you.’
Deirdre sits back in her chair, appalled. ‘I hope not. No offence but I wouldn’t want to be mistaken for a lipstick lezzer. You know, certain things go with that territory and I’m not in the market for suck it and see.’
She waves her hands as if drying nail polish. As always find it difficult to be offended by Deirdre being offensive. An almost biblical phrase pops into my head; she knows not what she says .
‘Can we leave this discussion for another time, Deirdre?’
‘Whatever. Only throwing ideas up in the air,
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