There’s Always One!

What is in a ‘Snowball’?

A story based on Bridesmaids & Weddings

-        It is not as dull as it sounds! -

Chapter 2…

There is always one!

I have been an actual bridesmaid five times in my life as well as playing many other ‘bit parts’ along the way! There was always a wedding going on when I was younger, huge great events with all the pomp and ceremony thrown in! My mother is the eldest and only girl of six children and my father - Trevor is one of seven his place in his brood was number four. So there was always the possibility of a wedding amongst the family and failing that, you could always rely on the extended family friends to supply the nuptials! We were never short of a wedding to attend!

Weddings are weird events if you think about it, all rational thinking goes out the window. Sometimes, quite often really, you find yourself at a wedding, that really is not a good fit in terms that you have attended the wedding because of a family connection even though you have no real ‘connection’ with the people that are getting married, or because of past connections with a person and a past life that has since faded, but you still feel that you should go to the wedding for old time sake.

I am always surprised by the way people dress at these occasions, don’t get me wrong – You will be hard pushed to find someone that loves an outfit, as much as I do, I totally have a connection with my mother there, it is in my DNA! – At a wedding you see all sorts of outfits, worn by the key players that on most occasions they would not be seen dead in and the style is mostly based on another period in history. Some of the wedding dresses are criminal hideous, not only in their excessive cost but in their ludicrous designs. At one wedding I attended the bride was told by her super religious mother that she could not wear white as she had been living with her husband to be, it was in the late 1980’s! So the down trodden bride walked down the aisle in a blancmange style purple silk dress with ‘off-white’ trims more sepia if I am honest. When we got to the reception afterward, her husband was clearly so amused and or bemused by her ‘look’, which had been made worse by the uncharacteristic makeup style that was caked on her slim face; he changed his speech and devoted it to his new wife’s, ‘new look’ – he brutally mocked her outfit and her ‘polyfilla’ face, commenting that if he had not heard her voice he would not have a clue who he had just married – as she more resembled Co-Co the clown! This horrendously ‘naff’ commentary brought on huge laughter from his mates and stony glances from most of the women present, including myself. The laughter only encouraged ‘Turbo Pete’ the groom, who had been for the last 3 hours staggering around Bray, Berkshire with his entourage of mates consuming vast amounts of alcohol, in fact we had seen him in The Crown about 40 minutes before he was due to get married – I was quite impressed that he even made it down the aisle at all! Unfortunately the sniggering and laughter from his mates only spurred Turbo Pete on, embarrassing his new wife further, he made the most unwise comment, particularly considering the occasion, telling us he didn’t care about what the bride looked like it was not her face he was interested in! Except his words were not as delicately chosen!  - The bride burst into tears, obviously not seeing the funny side – as there wasn’t one. And her mother stood up and gave a fulsome list of all the husbands’ downfalls and failings and why he wasn’t good enough for her daughter anyway! Not the best of starts and all of this gave the reception a bit of a downer – as you might imagine!

In the mid 1990’s my boyfriend, my parents and I were all invited as a guests to the wedding of the sister of a childhood school friend of mine. So there was a sort of connection there. A super slick, super posh and super stylish event in a small ‘midsummer murder’ style village in the heart land of Oxfordshire, this wedding in effect was a re-run, of my childhood friend’s wedding which had taken place a few years earlier. The mother of the bride was the doyenne of the local social society, her husband was in the film industry and therefore there was a few ‘bob’ sloshing around to pay for this tasteful wedding feast.

My parents were invited to this wedding because they got to know this family because of me. They have the unique irritating habit of almost always adopting my friends or networking with my boyfriends or my friend’s parents. I introduce friends to my mother and father and before I know it I return home to find my friend/boyfriend and/or their parents happily ensconced in my family house usually carrying out a job for my father Trevor at the family home Dutch Gardens or Trevor would employ them in his business, they just adopted my friendship group one way or another. I would find a boyfriend then in the case of my mother, they would be found hanging on her every word whilst in the kitchen sipping wine with her! I found it extremely irritating! When I had a boyfriend that was a twin. Within weeks of my new relationship with this young man I found his twin brother Mark working at Dutch Gardens as one of the permanent gardeners? This was intensely annoying as Mark used his job at the house to spy on me so he could tell his brother what I was doing at any time of the day, which caused no end of arguments between his brother and I. On another occasion Trevor was delighted to find out that I had a new boyfriend who was studding to be a gas heating technician. At the time Trevor had an interest in the large gas fire installed at the local Holiday Inn, near Heathrow and had decided to install one at Dutch Gardens. A fire was purchased all it needed now was a gas technician to install it. And by chance I was going out with one! My boyfriend was still very much in the early stages of his studies, this was not a problem for Trevor, my boyfriend install this huge fire into the fireplace in our lounge. The lounge area had three different sets of doors going off into other rooms in the house and had what my parents called a minstrels gallery high up in the roof space which lead off to my parent’s room. So it was thankfully a very well ventilated room. 

Said boyfriend installed the fire under Trevor’s instructions, as ever Trevor changed the configuration of how the fire was supposed to work, moving the fire closer to the front of the fireplace, which was not recommended and changing the start the ignition button which was put at the back of the fire, it was supposed to be at the front for easy and safe ignition. This meant that when you lit the fire, you had to keep you finger on the button for a set amount of time for the fire to ignite, you had to make sure you were not wearing any clothes in case they caught fire as your arm was dangling over the flames, I have no hair on my arms but it used to ignite my brothers hair if he did not pull his hand away quick enough! Nothing was ever simple at Dutch Gardens! After the fire was fitted, for the next few years, my friends and I, my parents and their friends all developed dreadful headaches and nausea whenever the fire was on –  Obviously we all blamed the fire - but Trevor would not have any of it. Needless to say the installation had not been checked by a qualified gas installer which meant the draw on the fire was not sufficient to pull all the toxic fumes up the chimney and we were all suffering from carbon monoxide poisoning. It is a wonder that we all survived for so long – Just another day at Dutch Gardens!

Going back to the wedding, my mother, particularly had made friends with the wife of this family and over the years as we children grew up, we had been on holiday with them as a family and they shared many events with us. My mother adored everything her friend did, she was a great entertainer and had a good sense of interior style which appealed to my mother. I never quite fitted in, but as happens when you are young, I was billeted off for stay overs and other events at this house, but as adults my friend and I had mostly gone our separate ways but retained a very convivial long distance friendship. I was now viewed by her mother the mother of the bride at this wedding as more than a little wayward! To be fair I did have my moments and I was a little wild! Strangely enough they always thought they were a little cut above the Wynne-Jones, my family, particularly my father, the mother loved to give me her opinions about my family and they were really quite bitchy at times, some of her observations were possible quite true, but it is never easy as a child listening to someone criticizing your parents.  Trevor, was an extremely successful self-made man, yes a total eccentric, a maverick with a utterly ruthless megalomaniac edge with very few scruples unless it fitted the demographic of how he was going to make his next million. Apart from that he was obviously just a normal man – not! Trevor did whatever he liked in life with little regard to anyone else and spent his money lavishly on his lifestyle, most particularly his property – Dutch Gardens, which he has spent a lifetime building and designing then re-building and designing spending vast fortunes, he was ably supported by my mother who was a willingly participant on spending on all things lifestyle particularly clothes. They were the new bourgeoisie. This meant that they were good gossip value! As it happened the mother of the bride husband had made all his initial money from directing porn films. Once when I was staying at the house, there were a bunch of grown-up’s sitting at the breakfast bar one the evening drinking and laughing. We were playing and we ran through the room on our way to another room, we were stopped and introduced to the various guests, one of them was Linda Lovelace star of a film called Deep Throat, I said hello and we continued on our way through the room. It was then that my friend told me that Lovelace was an actress who appeared in sexy films. This made a huge impression on me, not because she was in sexy films, I could not have given a damn about that, but she was an actress everything that I wanted to be! Little did I know at the time! 

Despite my very complex relationship with Trevor, I have to admit I did admire on occasions his straightforward attitude toward this family, he could see that the mother of the bride had social pretentions as they found him socially inferior. Trevor would bait her from time to time. To my great amusement when I was about twelve years old and we were at one of their gatherings, my friend’s mother was holding court, as usual shouting at the top of her voice to the minions who were listening; “If I were Princess Anne… I would be a real … Bitch.”  There was general amusement and agreement around the room and much nodding at one another. Then came Trevor’s voice from the back of the room, “You don’t need to be Princess Anne to be that!” My mother was mortified … I was rather impressed….   

The Wedding ceremony that we had attended was to take place in a beautiful small church on the green on a beautiful sunny day, my boyfriend and I were standing on the lawn outside the church, waiting for the wedding to get underway, just watching all the guests laughing and chatting, pretty young people who had attended the right universities, knew each other since childhood and wore the right clothes for this type of wedding, all super at ease with this type of event – think … Hugh Grant and ‘Four Weddings’. In some ways it dawned on me how far I was away from this crowd and how I had only been associated with it by a happy accident of a childhood friendship.

Standing there like a couple of lemons, me nodding at the one or two people that I recognised, whilst my boyfriend remained in the main politely hostile to the occasion on all fronts. Then out of the corner of my eye I saw Trevor marching towards us, flustered as ever, this was never a great sign, but on the other hand quite a reassuring normal one. Looking beyond Trevor there was my mother picking her way carefully on her high heels across the uneven thick grassland, curiously they had arrived together, they had in fact separated some years earlier, but to my ever increasing annoyance they could never seem to leave each other alone when it came to social occasions or any occasions really – which usually meant a scene of some description or other mostly in spectacular style – I don’t like being with them together – it’s a dangerous place to be. Trevor caught up with us,  I turned my attention back to the wedding crowd I could see that we were now all beginning lined up into a que ready to enter the quaint little church to take our seats before the wedding started.

“Your mother has been doing the tour of everyone, Natalie, in the car park, she thinks she’s the bloody bride’s mother!” We glanced around in my mother’s direction and true enough she had arrived in the main throng of some guests and was working the crowd like a ‘pro’, air-kissing and shaking people’s hands and making topical conversation. There is no one that can dress for the part like my mother – no one. Today an amazing off-white streamlined tailored outfit, with small shoulder pads than usual, my mother loves a shoulder pad. Her beautiful figure showing off the couture costume to its best effect with buttons down the front, nipped in at her small waist by a matching belt, the hem being thigh length with a lace decoration around the edge, finished off with fingerless lace gloves, and despite the heat she had tights on. Well actually, they are more lightly to be stockings and suspenders, she was going through another phase of being ultra-sexy, particularly in the wake of her separation with Trevor. This obviously would wind Trevor up, as she would behave like a terrible flirt in front of him which could send him off the deep end in certain situations. I know how it pans out at these type of events. He will have collected her from her home and as she got into his car the hem of her skirt would ‘accidentally’ rise up a little too high reviling the top of a stocking and her naked thigh. I never really got the sex thing with my mother, she was like her mother to some extent ‘sex’ did not exist and nothing rude or overt on the matter could be said around her – yet put my mother in a social scene with men there, of any age really, 8 to 80, it did not really matter and then she turned into a vixen. She knew that she was the attraction in the room and that all eyes would be on her.

I once asked her after hearing a great deal of conversation at school about sex, how it happened? It was quite an innocent question as I was only about ten at the time. We were in my parents’ bedroom, upstairs. She had her back to me when I asked her and I knew that I had asked a difficult question because her shoulders stiffened and she stopped for a second what she was doing. There was no sitting down with me and telling me some ‘birds and bee’s’ story, she continued from her bedroom into her dressing room, so she was just out of sight but I could still clearly hear her. ‘It is when a man put’s his willy up a ladies bottom.’ I was utterly disgusted, no ….. Mortified and repulsed. She offered me no further explanation, she continued doing whatever it was that she was doing in her dressing room and I left her bedroom to retreat back into my own bedroom in utter revulsion – it was most probably the most repulsive thing that I had ever heard or could possibly imagine, I certainly looked at my father and my uncles that had children in a very different light after discovering this piece of information, I could only believe that there was indeed something very wrong with them indeed! Clearly all perverts! My mother never offered any other information on the subject of sex to me, the conversation, such as it was, was never mentioned again. So I then had to glean any further information on the subject from spotty teenage girls in my class at school like Debbie Cook who seemed to know a great deal on the subject and was only too happy to impart it, though her explanations on the subject were somewhat less grotesque, they involved a lot of mouth to mouth resuscitation according to her called ‘French Kissing’, the very idea of doing this with any boys I knew I found equally repulsive -  I vowed from a very young age that no matter what – sex was not something I was going to indulge in!    

Trevor joined us in the que to get into the church. My mother was still spinning on her nude sling back shoes in her social conversations with various guests. Occasionally she touched the rim of her statement two tone straw hat with an off white brim the crown being in a dark caramel colour which was draped with a scarf to look like a veil. You could not miss her she looked stunning! Imagine Crystal Carrington from the 1980’s Dynasty TV program;  in reality, it could actually be one of Crystal Carrington’s outfits, my mother had been at the auction of the clothes and had purchased a number of items warn by both the leading ladies, Crystal and the iconic Joan Collins.  

Getting closer to doorway of the church Trevor beckoned to my mother to come and join us in the que, she totally saw us, but ignored us and continued with her mother of the bride duties! So we entered the church leaving her outside in the sun and in her element, Trevor was gritting his teeth and muttering about her behaviour. We squeezed through the door and shuffled into the small churches pews allocated to us, people were chatting and waving at each other, some people acknowledging Trevor with thumbs up and mouthing ‘you okay?’ We all shunted down the pew to give the guests more room at the other end, Trevor trying to hold a bit of space for my mother to sit on once she arrived. The ushers charged about trying to organise everyone, a women at the front of the church by the font started singing a very jolly song, and the general hub-bub started to quieten and people now started to turn their attention to the order of the service.

“For Christ sake, what is she doing, where is your mother, Natalie?” Trevor hissed into my ear loudly. Looking around the bride’s family were now filing into the church, smiling and waving at the selected guests, followed in by the ‘actual’ mother of the bride, who looked lovely, but was acting less like the mother of the bride than my mother! The family took their seats three rows in front of us at the top of the church, as the mother of the bride sat down she turned around and ‘mouthed’ to Trevor – ‘where is Josephine?’ Trevor put his hands up to either side of his face and shrugged going red. The singing started in earnest and I turned to watch the back of the church toward the door. Finally, my mother was in sight, stopping at the door to talk to someone. Then she started her slow decent toward her seat, stopping at relevant intervals to wave and chat with people. I tuned to see the mother of the bride eyes following my mother as she posed her way toward us, she was not amused, but to be fair to her was resigned to my mother’s behaviour. My mother was going to make the most of her moment, she was in auditions for my wedding after all! When she had reached the end of our pew, the seated guests had to stand and shuffle back into the pew to make room for her to pass, at which point the ‘here comes the bride’ music began to play, the entire congregation turned back to look at the church door where the bride and her father had entered the building. Trevor was a mixture of embarrassment and rage!

After what was a very sweet wedding service we all made our way out of the church into the summer sunshine and walked in clutches of people away from the church and down the drive to their house, as the photographers, one taking pictures and one filming, both scurried amongst the crowd. – We approached  the rambling family house where the vast marquee was set up on the lawn for the wedding reception. The house screamed quintessential English country house with all the windows of the property looking out at the wedding, with fabulous sprawling roses and climbers picture framing each window. As the guests assembled at the back of the house, you could hear the gravel crunching under people’s shoes, which reminded me of my childhood running around barefoot at this charming old house and the pain of walking from the lawn to the house across the gravel chips. Echoes of my past, I never really fitted in here, but I have good memories. The family had since converted the garage extension into a ‘granny’ flat that was attached to the house, they now referred to as ‘The West Wing’! And it was in the West Wing that all the catering was taking place, this was all very ‘Four Weddings & a Funeral’ …  

Drinks were served as we milled about on the gravel terrace, loud guffawing came from certain clutches of people. Beautiful young woman ran from one set of people to another screeching and laughing holding onto their hats as they ran, bags and scarves were tossed aside, this was a place that these young people were comfortable and familiar with, it was a very British scene. It was a sea of pastel coloured haute couture ‘Sloane ranger’ outfits and crinkled linen designer suits intermixed with floral yummy mummies in their pretty printed dresses and soft silk sling back shoes. I have never been one to run with the crowd, it’s not that at one stage in my life that I haven’t wanted to – I had. But it just was not my style. But it would be fair to say that I certainly stood out in a crowd! Dressed in velvet black platform shoes from Liberties, the rest of my outfit was purchased from Roz at Mango in Windsor, the same shop that I was later to buy my wedding outfit from. Today I was in the iconic black Helen Storey ankle length ‘swirling crinkle’ skirt, that moved in rhythm with your body, paired with a figure hugging black turtle neck body with black net sleeves, this ensemble was held together with a Helen Storey fitted black and red silk blazer. My dark brown hair was cut in a sleek lopsided bob topped with a black leather beret, drop chain earrings styled with a red enamel stones. Put it this way, you could not miss me amongst this crowd!

Easels had been erected all around the marquee at various entrances which advertised the seating plan for the guests. My boyfriend and I were at the table of brother of the bride and his wife, whom I also knew well, I can’t help thinking that we were the booby prize and that they had only agreed to sit with us out of the goodness of their hearts. We were the oddballs at this event! The marquee was ‘spot on’ beautifully designed elegance without being too ‘ott’ and the table settings were magnificent, no expense had been spared, the catering staff busied themselves serving the wine and food which just kept coming from the West Wing. As the day wore on speeches were made and many happy tears were shed. As always with these occasions, tensions and emotions are high, my boyfriend hated everything about it and decided at the first opportune moment that it was time for him to leave, which left me nursing many glasses of wine, feeling sorry for myself, ‘you always get one don’t you!’ And it was me!

Glancing around at the large table at the top of the marque where my parents were sitting, I could tell even from a distance that there was friction and irritation between them, this type of situation was perfect storm for a spat between them. They never really worried if they had an audience, sometimes I wonder if they preferred it? It usually ended in tears, my mother’s! On occasions there can be broken china and furniture sometimes the odd neighbour can be involved. There scenes can take many forms … Once at Dutch Gardens, our home, we were all having a lovely evening, a new green barbeque had been bought and family friends had been invited to the first use of the green machine. Mostly the evening was going well, but the usual picking at each other had started to enter the evening. Trevor picking at my mother’s love of dressing up, he had taken to calling her dresses – frock’s, which irritated her enormously. The other couple were doing their best at trying to head off the bickering between them, without much success – once my parents were off and running that was usually it! Feeling incensed at the next insensitive comment Trevor had made to her, my mother got up from the table on the terrace and went back into the kitchen presumably to get some more drinks, she reappeared with the enormous Victorian jelly that I had made from a new jelly mould that my mother had bought. It was so large that it required many packets of jelly to fill it and as such was a multi-coloured ‘splendour’. I was very much looking forward to presenting it to the guests later in the evening, it was to be served with strawberries which were being marinated in Pimm’s and were sitting in the fridge. Purposefully my mother walked across the terrace toward Trevor, she was holding the jelly with one hand underneath, waiter style and balancing the wobbly item with her other hand on the side of the plate. We all watch with interest as she marched toward Trevor, then to use one of his phrases ‘the penny dropped’ – Trevor jumped up holding one hand out toward her in a defensive style – ‘No Joey, No … Come off it now !! … Joey..‘ Whereupon she charged at him. The guests looked on open mouthed unsure of what was about to happen, Trevor moved quickly knocking the chair over just as the jelly launched into the air. One thing you should know if you ever decide to become a professional jelly thrower – is that the weight of it when it is this huge size means that it does not fly through the air as you would expect, it sort of goes up in the air - forward a little and then drops out of the air directly downwards, hitting the edge of the table and splattering large shards of jelly across the table toward the guests who instinctively pulled back in their chairs as it splattered towards them, the other half of the jelly having been given a bit of propelled motion by hitting the table splattered towards Trevor, it hit the floor and splattered up his legs and all over his shoes. ‘Good God Joey!’ My friends and I who were down the steps on the next level watched the performance with open mouths – I was scowling, I was really fed up that my jelly had been treated like this and if my mother was going to use it as a weapon the very least she could have done is had made it hit the target! My mother turned on her heal having picked up the now broken melamine plate that the jelly was on, with it she scooped up some of the jelly on the floor and returned to the kitchen. Minutes later she returned with the cut glass bowl that housed the marinating strawberries and a jug of thick double cream put them on the table. Picked up great chunks of the jelly that were glistening on the table and slopped and blobbed them in the middle of the table like a sort of Jelly Mountain. Walked over to her ‘hostess trolley’, which was not switched on but being used to house various cutlery and crockery and napkins, cleaned her hands and brought dessert plates and napkins back to the table and offered strawberries and cream to the stunned guests. Who quite appropriately accepted! That was the thing about Trevor and Josephine and being at Dutch Gardens, their behaviour was all part of the show. And people just acted accordingly.

Sitting at the wedding table all by myself now staring down at my black platform shoes, in my addled mind I had decided that it would be a good idea to make my way up to my parents table and rescue any situation between my parents that might arise! I had after all become quite accustom to this! Picking my way through the dancing party on a slight incline as the flooring had been laid directly on the grass I was suddenly grabbed from behind by one member of the bridal party, a man of a certain age who had equally like me drunk too much! I jigged around on the spot to the music with him trying to keep a distance between his ever encroaching arms, then the record changed to a slow song. All guests around us assumed the clinch position, reluctantly I was forced to do the same with this gentleman. It is quite horrid when you don’t want to be this close to someone, but feel you should so as not to make a scene.  As the song droned on his hand which originally started in the small of my back, moved ever lower and more insistent as he tried forcefully to pull my bottom towards his still gyrating groin, purposely bumped his crutch into me; for the record his thrusting movement was not even in time with the music! What else do you do? I am young and I don’t want to be impolite! So I try to dance with my bottom sticking out to stop him making contact with me, this unfortunately only seemed to encouraged him to use both hands on my bottom, his fingers splayed and sticking into my flesh, he was now fighting to control my movements and forcing me towards his thrusting genitals, I do wonder what it is about this type of man, it is like the more you resist the more they enjoy themselves? On what planet does he think that I have any interest in him? Now I was fighting to get free, but trying not to make a show of what was going on … The ghastly record continued as his salivating mouth was making its way towards my face, turning my head as quickly as possible his sloppy lips collided with my ear, I was so revolted that my ‘gut’ reaction was to push him away, thankfully he released me and staggered backward into the dancing crowd, which caught him before he fell the revellers ‘yelling’ approval and he disappeared into the dancing guests.

Wiping my ear and face in utter revulsion then rubbing my wet hand down my crinkle skirt, I continued on my way through the guests to my parents table the wine was hitting me now. At the large table of guest where my parents were sitting. I was greeted with a smile from Trevor, who beckoned me to an empty seat next to him, I manoeuvred my way around the other guests holding on to the back of chairs, looking over at my mother who was at the other end of the table with a number people holding court happily, it would appear that all was well with my parents after all! Finally reaching the vacant chair, which Trevor pulled out so as to let me in to the space. I held onto the table and squared myself up steadying myself from the journey to their table; as I went to sit down, I just seemed to keep going. Unbeknownst to me Trevor had spied the previous owner of the seat coming off the dance floor and back toward the table, so as I went to sit down he moved the seat away from me and offered it back in the direction of the original owner. I just kept going, in my mind slowly it started to dawn on me that there was nothing there to stop me, then it all started to move in quick time – I speeded up, my natural reaction was to grab at the table in front of me, seizing the white table cloth in an iron like grip, it happened pretty quickly from there! As I crashed to the floor my grasp on the table cloth pulled over my head along came half the contents of the table - glasses, empty plates, knives and forks and the floral centre piece along with other detritus! The noise, even with the loud music playing was pretty spectacular. As the smashing stopped I heard an audible gasp. Momentarily I wanted to stay where I was. ‘Oh my God – is she alright? …  Get her out’..  Trevor and another man pulled me out by my arms and as quickly as I had gone down I was now being launched into the air at a spectacular speed. As my feet touched the floor and my eyes managed to re-focus, everyone in the close vicinity was staring at me. And as luck would have it the official wedding videographer was catching it all for prosperity! My mother was still sat at the table with her wine glass in hand. ‘Really Natalie!!? What are you thinking of – I will deal with this – Trevor take her home?’

Not needing to be asked twice Trevor grabbed my arm and we were at the nearest exit before I knew what was happening, he stopped to put his jacket on that he had grabbed from the back of his chair and we were off up the drive like rabbits being chased by a fox.

My mother stayed making, I assume profuse apologies for her daughter, enjoyed the aftermath of my performance. Not understanding how her daughter could make such a spectacle of herself! I wonder where I got that from?

The good news is the video of me still exists, sadly this marriage did not last long they divorced and she re-married someone else fairly shortly afterwards. My mother and Trevor were invited to the next wedding, I was not!

What can I tell you my mother loves a wedding!

The Wedding Outfit…

What is in a ‘Snowball’?

A story based on Bridesmaids & Weddings

-        It is not as dull as it sounds! -

Some passages contains language that some people might find offensive. This story is based on my life & these are the first draft chapters of a particular part of my life – But mostly it is about the peculiarities of growing up in my family … Don’t judge me until you have read it all!

The Wedding Outfit

Chapter 1

Circa – late 1990’s

Standing in front of the ‘thin’ mirror, in my favourite shop, Mango, St. Leonards Road, Windsor, looking back at the reflection of myself, I would like to say admiring myself, but that is not for me I struggle with how I look. But ‘I think’ this is an ‘OK’ look and it is what I want; a long black large sparkly jumper that fits over my now seven month bump.

I have been standing in front of this ‘thin’ mirror for just over thirteen years, or so, on and off, it is one of my favourite places to be, trying on bespoke clothes, in this little boutique, in the town I went to school in. The buzz has never abated and I hope it never will. Clothes are one of the very few things that I can honestly say that my mother and I have in common, otherwise we have very different opinions on most things, which makes our relationship complicated – to put it mildly!

I find that it is always important to give the outfit a second glance and some balance so I move across the floor to the ‘fat’ mirror, which I never liked standing in front of for precisely the reason the name suggests – it makes you look fatter than the thin mirror! But it is an important barometer. Before being pregnant, I would look at myself in the thin mirror first, then if I liked the look, which inevitably I did, I would move to the fat mirror, to check out how bad I would look in the outfit if I looked fatter. To most people this would not make any sense, but to me it makes perfect sense, I think it might just be a female thing? It is like the feeling you get when fitting into a new outfit that is one size smaller than the size you usually go for, it is a free positive!! Today it seems a bit mad standing in front of the fat mirror as I am heavily pregnant, so I am obviously going to look fat/pregnant in either mirror, but I have to do it, it is part of the process!

My mind wonders and I glance at the reflection behind me and I watch my mother rootling through the clothes on the display stands. I brought my mother with me on this occasion, we are not good shopping buddies, for many reasons which I will explain later or will become apparent as I tell you this story.

My mother is working the dress shop as she usually does with a sort of forensic mania that you only see in someone who has a compulsive obsession to find something first that no one else has seen, her eyes are flickering and scanning from one item to the next, rummaging at speed through the careful hung clothes; she reminds me of Guilty our cat when he has enthusiastically pounced on a mouse, he just throws his paws around in all directions, punching the ground trying to catch something that has already escaped. This is normal behaviour in a dress shop from my mother.

Earlier today, another customer who was in the shop had a lucky escape. The lady had come in to try on a very expensive thin blue leather coat that had been put by for her to try. This elegant young woman had excitedly and carefully put the coat on, rolling the soft leather sleeves up her arms, she then swayed in delight at her image from side to side in the fat mirror, she looked stunning. This was not lost on my mother, who had stopped searching for a minute and was observing with interest. This young woman, was clearly weighing up the cost of this expensive ticketed couture item, it was certainly an investment piece. She made the fatal mistake of taking it off and carefully tossing the coat on the chair in the boutique. Rookie mistake! My mother was across the room like a sprinter, snatched the coat up and was forcing it on over her arms onto her shoulders. My mother is a tall slender woman, the coat size was for a petite frame, but that did not stop my mother’s efforts in try it on. This poor young woman was shocked as she had not relinquished the coat, she was just simply enjoying the moment of toying with the idea of purchasing such an expensive item. It was an embarrassing moment, I was going to have to intervene.

Moving closer to my mother, with my back to the woman and the shop owner, I mouthed, I think more than clearly; “Take it OFF!” My mother looked at me, and did her usual thing, shrugged her shoulders in defiance, pulling the collar up around her neck, the thin leather straining… I am used to these episodes of resistance so I repeated, “Take it off,” she swung backward and forward, the powder blue pelts following her movements; “take it off – NOW!” I am pretty sure that the ‘NOW’ was audible to the two people standing behind me … Nope I could tell she was in ‘non-compliant mode’. This happens with my mother if she feels I am challenging her in any way, a small example of this is when my mother tells me that I will like something, for example a film; I will say that I have seen it and I did really like it. She will tell me that I did like it, I will say I didn’t and she will move onto the actor in it who she insists I like, I will say yes he/she is okay and my mother will say I knew you would like that film! There is no easy way out!

I move to ‘low tactics’! Turning to the young woman and the shop owner Roz, I say, “You haven’t finished with this coat, have you? You really must buy it, it looks amazing on you.” Turning to glance at my mother, half smile on my face; “Take it off – Mum, this lady is going to buy it!” I have embarrassed her now, this is not going to end well!

Throwing her head to one side smiling, she peals this beautiful coat off, leaving one arm inside out and tosses the relieved coat back on the chair from where she had stolen it… “So sorry, I didn’t realise you were still interested in it.” She did! Balance is restored albeit with a bit of an atmosphere left in the building, Roz picked up the coat, pulled the arm back through. The young woman, who had nearly been deprived of her coat decided immediately that she wanted to purchase it and the deal was done with Roz – I think my mother’s hijacking had most probably helped seal the sale!

In Mango, the clothes are always displayed beautifully with the hangers each placed exactly 2 inches apart, there is usually only one of each piece on the rail, the other sizes are kept upstairs out of sight for when they are needed. My Mum had now resumed her forensic investigations of the display, pulling each item of clothing from right to left, the hangers scraping against the rail above as she sorts through them at an alarming rate, having got to the end of the first rail of clothes they are all swaying hanging on the left side of the rail as if in a summer breeze all symmetry gone. My eyes moved across the white interior of the shop to the owner Roz, a petite lady with wonderful short spiky hair, she is beautifully dressed in one of her outfits that she has collected over the many years of owning the shop. She too is also watching my mother, with I think, relatively good humour considering her carefully laid out clothing display was being deconstructed in front of her, but I guess that is her job.

Reverting back to my reflection… I like this jumper and it is what I want for the occasion and it has stood up to the fat mirror test and just made me look pregnant which is what I am, after all! I think it will work well with my tight fitting maternity black skirt, with a slit up the side. I inwardly smirked, she will go mad when she realises that I am actually choosing my wedding outfit…. devilment takes over. “Mum, I think this jumper would be great for my wedding day outfit.” She stopped ferreting for a tiny moment, turned to look at me

“Don’t be so ridiculous Natalie, you are not wearing anything like that when you get married!” Roz glanced at me and pulled a face and shrugged her shoulders. I guess she was thinking the same as me, I am after all a fully grown adult, pregnant with my first child, not living with my mother but with the man I am about to marry!! – And I will damn well wear what I please. My mother, you see has obsessed over my wedding day for years, meticulously planning each detail, depending on what year we are living in and what are the current trends when it comes to Bridal wear. I have never been consulted!

I realise of course that I am going to have to tell her and Trevor, my father at some stage that I am getting married in just over a weeks’ time in a registry office. It is not going to go down well and it will come as an enormous shock to my mother particularly. Inwardly I shrug, I am not telling her today, I will wait a bit longer. I am buying this jumper as my wedding outfit. “I will have this Roz, thank you.” My mother continues to ‘frisk’ the clothing, she is not interested in the black jumper. She’s moved to the glass shelves where Roz displays all her accessories, Mum bends down to the floor under the shelves and picks up one of a pair of fantastic orange and pink shoes with a splayed out heel, flips them upside down to check out the size, mum has large feet a size 7-8, she kicks off one of her shoes, balancing on one leg and forces the too small shoe over her toes, then puts her foot on the ground with her ankle hanging over the back of the shoe, she bobs her head from one side to the other observing the ‘look’ and the shoed foot moves in tandem with her head from left to right. I look at her face and she pulls that all too familiar upside-down grimace. To the uninitiated, they could take this look as a confirmation that my mother does not particularly like this shoe, but I know better – she likes the shoe a lot, but is internally downloading if she will buy it and what is the best deal she will get if she does buy it and what will she wear it with. In the same moment she kicks the shoe off and it lands haphazardly back in the same spot where it was originally on display, but this time it is on its side, I wince, but Roz ever the professional, is over there in a shot carefully up righting the shoe and putting it back on display. Don’t get me wrong, it is not that my mother is intentionally being rude or disrespectful, it is just that she is in ‘feeding frenzy mode’, with the clothing, the pretty things on display in front of her, she is in the zone! And she has clearly spotted something else.

She has moved onto the third shelf up from the ground, this is where Roz keeps the belts and handbags, top shelf is usually reserved for smaller items like sunglasses, gloves and jewellery. Hawk like, Mum has seized and unravelled a dark brown thick suede belt, holding it to her waist, this type of accessory is a staple of Roz, my mother already has a number of these, but in different colours, she has even given me the colours of the ones she has bought and does not particularly like. This is something that amuses my soon to be husband. Mum will very kindly offer to give me some of her clothing, on occasions when she has had a clear out, I love this when it happens, lots of the items are not for me, Mum is tall I am short like Trevor. Trust me, there is no one that shops or has a wardrobe like my mother, it is like going to Selfridges, she has everything in every colour. So, occasionally, she gives me items of clothing and I adapt them to suit me. I will then wear the adapted item when I see her and she is always be a bit fed up that she gave them to me in the first place! And wants them back! It is normal!

I move over to the rail that has been disrupted by my mother, sliding the outfits back into, more or less the position close to where they were originally. Lingering on a couple of items that I lust after, however with my baby bump I have no chance of fitting into, I am at that stage in pregnancy where I want my shape back to where it once was.

Mum is standing at the thin mirror, and there is! The grimace face, she moves to the fat mirror to take a look at the belt against her, she crumples up her top over the belt, to give it ‘a look’ then pulls her top back down and goes for the ‘nipped in’ waist look. Yup!! I can tell she really likes this, she is twisting to the right and left admiring the look. The fat mirror does not matter to my mother, she has supreme belief in her looks, and she is and has always been thin and stunningly beautiful.  “What do you think Natalie?”

“Yes it is nice mum – but don’t you have lots like that?”

“No Natalie, not like this – not in this colour!” – Then it is out of her mouth I can’t stop it and I did not see it coming!!  She said it, loud, bold and clear – The *N* word. But in its full literation!!! And she continues; full throttle; “It is *N*-brown Natalie.” The women behind me that had entered the shop a short while earlier and who was up to this moment also moving the hangers from side to side, froze. Roz, usually the consummate professional, mouth has dropped open….. Oh God no…

“Oh my God, Mum you can’t say that!!!” On reflection I realise that this is a grave mistake! Saying can’t to my mother is never a good thing and we have only just got over the blue coat incident, I know she will argue the point to the death, no matter even if she knows she is wrong.. This is the most acutely alarming moment… 

“What do you mean Natalie – of course I can say it! This belt is *N* brown!” She waves the belt at me! “That is what it is called, Natalie, *N* brown, *N* brown!! That is the colour of it!”

“Oh My God!! Stop saying it – you can’t say that!”

“For Goodness sake, what do you think I am saying? That is the name of the colour, really Natalie!”; she shrugs her shoulders, at the nonsense I am making of it, - yes really! She continues to enlighten me; “I had pencils called *N*brown when I was a child! It is a very nice colour, don’t look at me like that – stop making a fuss!” There is a look on her face it is impossible for me to distinguish, if she has realised that she has made a colossal hideous mistake or if she really is that ignorant to what she has just said and keeps repeating? She continues, slightly flustered, but she is determined at all costs to fight her corner, “Natalie, everyone knows that is the name of a colour, it is quite normal! *N* brown!” Oh for Fuck sake STOP!! – I give her my hardest stare – I hope it looks like ‘Shut the fuck up mother’ sort of stare…. She opens her mouth …

“MUM – STOP SAYING IT!!! YOU CAN’T SAY THAT NOW IT IS NOT A COLOUR ANYMORE!!!” I charged her and try to wrestle the belt out of her hands, in the vain hope that this might just stop her from continuing, but she’s not having of it, she is holding firm as I yank one way and she yanks the other. She snaps the belt away from me and moves away.

“You think you know, everything Natalie, but you don’t, I can tell you that for years they have been calling it …. “ Oh my God – what the fuck, she is saying it again, what is the matter with her?

“STOP!!” STOP –“ And for real emphasis; “STOP IT - NOW!”

She responds calmly to me glancing toward Roz and the other stunned shopper, by way of an explanation. “Natalie, you are being silly! Everyone knows …..” And she repeats the word over and over again for clarity I presume? “This name is used all over the world”, Oh my God now she is going ‘global’! “On colour charts, paint cans, chocolate for example, haven’t you ever seen it on paint cans? It is used all over the world – as a colour, it is perfectly normal – everyone uses it!” This is one of my mother’s things, she is now trying to broaden the appeal! I am beginning to think that she has either lost her mind completely or has been in my brother’s bedroom one to many times smoking one of his funny smelling cigarettes… When she comes out of his room, happy and dancing, usually this prompts Trevor to ask me – why is your mother so happy? Which is to be fair a rare occurrence in their relationship!

As you can imagine I am acutely embarrassed… I just want to get out of the shop and shut her up! “Please stop Mum! And no you haven’t seen it anywhere recently, stop saying it!!” Her hands have gone to her hips and she is shrugging her shoulders. Again she starts rattling off various items and products that were dark brown, except she did not call them dark brown! It is excruciating. Now I am getting cross, I give her my best stare, you know the one that your parent gives you when you are young and it means be quite or else! It is not working she is adamant that she is right! Shouting now, “LOOK MUM!!! You can’t say it now, on any level! It is offensive, very, very offensive AND it is RACIST!! STOP!!”

This seemed to shake her from her endless listing, she looks shocked, finally!! “Racist – Natalie, what on earth do you mean, I can promise you it is a colour and there is nothing wrong with that? Me - a racist, don’t be so ridiculous, everyone knows I am not a racist!” To use Trevor’s phrase when he wants her to stop – ‘I think the penny had dropped!’

“You can’t say it Mum, it is racist and it is rude and it is unacceptable, we are going, now!” She stopped and stared for a moment, she looked generally a bit shaken. She turned to Roz, who had now moved over to her other customer and was trying to ignore the scene that was unfolding in her shop.

“For Goodness Sake Natalie, how could anyone think I am racist? I mean, I go on holiday to Barbados every year for nearly six months of the year!??” Yes you could not write it – except I am! Oh God this is not happening to me!

“You young people!” Now I knew that she wants a way out, my mother never calls anyone young, she is one of the young people, I don’t think that she has really ever seen herself over the age of about 30 – at a push! “You young people are always changing things, one never knows what is going on, all this new language, you are always changing meanings, making people look silly, I have no idea why you do it Natalie, it is very difficult for people!!” It has clearly escaped my mother that changing any meanings of any words is nothing to do with me – But somehow she skilfully makes it my fault!

And now for the curved ball! A complete change of direction!

“Roz did you know that Natalie won’t let anyone read her Vogue magazines?” To be fair this statement is absolutely correct, even if it had little to do with the belt’s colour. Roz and her customer just looked from me to my mother. “What person is so mean as to not let people read their magazines? Natalie won’t, she hides them out of the way.” I have no idea why I attempt to defend myself in these situations, but I always fall into the trap!

“I don’t hide my magazines!!”

“Yes you do Natalie! You always say that I can’t flick through your Vogue magazine, when I am at your house! Look Roz has some Vogue magazines there on the shelf,” my mother again turns to Roz; “Do you stop people from reading your magazines Roz? – I am sure you don’t?” Roz just looked bemused.

“Of course Roz let’s people read her magazines Mum, that is what they are there for! For God sake!”

“Oh that is kind Roz, Natalie can’t bear anyone to even touch her magazines, and she doesn’t share!”

For God sake – “I do!” This is classic ‘my mother’ – And what is worse is that I engage with it which makes me look like a 5 year old!

“You don’t, look what happened last week – You took the magazines out of the room!”

Just for the record I am not a – Magazine hider! – In the main!

“I DON’T HIDE THEM MUM! I JUST HIDE THEM FROM YOU!!” She winces for dramatic effect at my statement. I mean really, what sort of a daughter hides her Vogue magazines from her mother? I am a monster!

I try and calm my comments; “Look I don’t hide them from you, mum, I take them away from you because you lick your fingers when you turn the pages, which smudges the ink and you fold down the edges of ‘my’ magazine before I have even read them, you know I collect them!” Roz and her customer wince, now, looking slightly revolted. This honestly does not make my situation any better, I now look like I am making out my mother to be unsanitary – which she is not!

The outcome, after a few more harsh comments about my lack of magazine sharing and we are heading for the door!

If only I had had half a brain cell I would have just paid for my jumper and forcibly removed my mother from this poor woman’s shop after the first incident, about an hour and a half ago. My mother to Roz and her bemused customer is still listing all the other magazines that are not in my collection that I don’t let her read either! I can’t win!

I purchased the black jumper as my wedding outfit, I am going to tell her one day very soon that I am getting married, a week on Friday. Based on today, now is not the right time to approach it. My mother purchases a number of other items, not the belt and nothing further is said to me and I think that Roz was happy to get us out of her shop.

Never a dull moment!! …

Chapter 2 – Coming soon!

ELVIRA …

Elvira at her sister Dilys wedding some way back in the ‘70’s

It is always the same… White sticky address labels stuck at an angle on brown C5 size envelopes. The white address label typed in bold black, with my name & address, each line starting & finishing at different places. Then there is the tell tail sellotape, stuck firmly over the entire white address label, I presume this is because she does not trust the efficacy of the stickiness of the address labels.

I know who this letter is from, but I flip it over, just for good measure; another white label cut in half, stuck at an angle with her name & address in bold, & just in case, her email & land line number also very visible on the label, sellotaped to the opening flap of the envelope. If you didn’t know better you would assume that this envelope contains some really important documents. But I know different, this letter is from my aunt Elvira.

Elvira, the only constant elder member of my family that has been in my life, she is my father’s sister. I spent many happy summer holidays at her house. She is the archetypal British eccentric, from a long line of them.

Pronounced EL-VI-RA. My mother-in-law used to love telling me that we were not pronouncing it correctly, “It is Ell-veer-a, Natalie! That is how you pronounce it!” I didn’t take any notice, I assumed that my grandparents knew how they wanted her name pronounced… My mother-in-law Renée, was prone to giving her opinion on things; she delighted, usually after a few whiskies, which could be from any time after 10:30am, on telling me that my parents were ‘up-starts’ as my maiden name was hyphenated! Certainly my parents were part of the new bourgeoisie.. I went out of my way not to introduce my parents to Renée, despite living with my now husband for 11 years at the time, which irritated both my parents & my mother-in-law, which now I think about it was a bit of a result! However my parents being my parents, decided to boycott my requests, I mean really what business or point was there in them all meeting? My mother & Renée, would exchange Christmas cards, for what reason I have no idea? In these cards they both put their telephone numbers & thus a meeting was organised. My mother to Renée’s, home… I found out about this meeting, not from my mother as she likes secrets but from Renée, who after a few more whiskies announced that my mother “was a social butterfly”. I was therefore to take from this that she was not to Renée’s, tastes as she was a former teaching & an intellectual! Somehow Trevor, my father also arranged a secret meeting with Renée, this time at his house, a chauffeur was dispatched to pick Renée up & deliver her to Trevor’s house Dutch Gardens. The chauffeur was a good idea, because by lunchtime Renée would have had at least half a bottle of whisky whilst she read the morning papers & did the cross word; so not surprisingly by lunchtime her driving suffered under this influence! Renée once turned up at our house complaining that her car was making a dreadful noise, blaming her daughter’s boyfriend Eric for the offending noise as he had been doing some work on her car. I looked at the car & the metal trim was at right angles to the car & there were scratch marks all the way down the side of the car. “What have you done Renée?” She glanced at the damage, “Oh don’t worry about that - that is Eric’s bad handy work!” “Renée that is not Eric’s fault you have crashed into something & ripped off the trim.” “Yes!” She replied, “I had to avoid hitting the bus so I veered off the road into the hedge then went back on the road & hit a few bollards where the men are working on the road.” I looked under the car – there was the source of the loud scraping noise, a cone jammed under the car!” Never a dull moment…

She meet Trevor at Dutch Gardens, Renée turned up as she always did with a glass bottle of Coca-Cola filled with whisky, for some reason Renée thought that the disguise of a soft drink bottle would hide the fact, mostly from her daughter that she was drinking whisky, no-stop! Why I have no idea as we all knew that she drunk whisky! On this occasion she mixed the whisky with generous portions of Trevor’s wine, thus got more *pissed* than normal, spilled all her families secrets, which Trevor duly noted for his own possible use in the future…… When Renée told me she had met Trevor, she told me he was a dreadful Svengali [something I think that he would secretly like to be called], none of them ever met each other again! For the record, Renée liked to be controversial, on most topics, which at times made her extremely unkind but at other times a riot to be around! I digress!

Back to Elvira’s document. You can’t easily open her envelopes due to all the sellotape! Sitting down with my cup of tea & a knife I prize open my brown envelope which buckled under the strain of its confinements. Pulling out the content which was a bundle of selected magazine pages taken from The Sunday Telegraph paper, which is Elvira – ‘must-have’ newspaper, it is a religion to her, she collects them & bundles them together in piles all over her house, 1000’s of them & whatever is said in them is gospel, except she is not keen on the Sunday Telegraph magazine attachment, I think it would all be a bit too modern for her! Elvira, on regular occasions will find an article from one of these newspaper piles of something she thinks of interest or relevant & sends out the copy with added notes to the recipient, something that incenses her children! …. Today was my turn … The tatty tear sheet pages stapled together at the centre to act as Elvira’s own publication to me. On the first page attached at an angle is two yellow post-it notes, which states; “COVER – Special STel Mag usually aimed at people with funds.. Usually flipped thru & angrily dumped. However Interest for you – my specific discussion area  MORGANE PULANSKI Probably a future in films she is fresh ----- untainted by the past. Xx E Now Thursday 8/4/21’  It is not immediately comprehensible what she is trying to say or what I am supposed to be interested in, but then these missives from Elvira rarely are, I plough on!

“AMPLE BODIED ROUND MODEL”

Under the yellow post-it note inscription is a picture of a beautiful black model in a midnight blue low buttoned dress with a fine ample bosom on show. Next to her written on the magazine, upside down & at an angled in Elvira’s handwriting with an arrow pointing at the model in blue biro, “AMPLE BODIED ROUND MODEL” – There of course is no particular relevance to this comment, but it is clear that my beloved aunt thinks that I might not notice the picture & what she believes is the relevance, so it is necessary for her to scribble on the image for my clarification. Elvira is not up to speed with the general trend in magazines to use models of all types, to ‘level-up’ the fashion industries stereotypes. She clearly thinks that this is a revelation that I must immediately be informed of? Elvira always likes to think that she is ahead of the curve & the first to notice a trend! Once sitting in her kitchen, when I was young, she exclaimed that it was amazing that platform shoes were ‘on the way out’ – This was news to me as my mother was/is a fashionista of the class ‘A’ type. Platform shoes had in fact gone out of fashion at least two years earlier! On another occasion Elvira was trying to explain to the French au pair, how to body board, she jumped up from the table, announcing that, “you must make yourself into a complete ‘flotation’ – in order to balance!” & then, as she often did, went into the ‘arabesque’ ballet poise, which instantly irritated her children, who complaint that Elvira had never even been body boarding! Reality or truth of these things never really bother Elvira, any opportunity to announce to any person whatsoever that she was a dancer was always at the top of her list; you see according to Elvira if you are a dancer you can do anything, even of course if you have never, as in Elvira’s case! “If you are a dancer Natalie – You are a medical phenomenon! Doctors ask me to advise them”…. Once much to my cousin Sarah’s utter horror & embarrassment on school sports day… Elvira took to crawling on her hands & knees after her baby son who was also crawling down a nearby slope, wiggling her bottom in the air as she went, whilst wearing the shortest mini with blue frilly knickers which were on full display for fathers! I thought it funny, my cousin was mortified.. The difference here being I am not her daughter – I am her niece!   

“LAST LOOK - TOP OF THE WORLD…”

I opened up the stapled pamphlet to the next page, the title was, LAST LOOK, this article was about a 17 year old schoolgirl who won a beauty contest that changed her life. To be honest I am not really sure what the relevance of this page is as there were no scribbled instructions or post-it notes advising me? I flipped the page again; my heart sank! ‘SHOW BREAST IN … nipple enhancing ‘tweakments’ are on the up, reports Sarah Kennedy… Was the story line – ‘MAKING NIPPLES LOOK PERMANENTLY ERECT IS A REQUEST WE RECEIVE OFTEN’!! Next to this bold statement Elvira has written in red biro, obviously this is the key article! ‘Been there!’ E x I am totally unsure why my aunt felt the need to send me this article – or why she needed me to know that she needed pert nipples, all the time? She is after all 83 – But hey who am I to be ageist! I must tell you; it has never ever crossed my mind that it might be useful to have permanently erect nipples? If anything it sounds rather uncomfortable & more than a little unbecoming, particularly if you are doing the weekly supermarket shop. The article continues – ‘When it comes to shape & size, some clients have very specific requests’, below this quote are pictures of a ten pence coin, a strawberry & what looks like clay cooking beans… ‘Dear God!’ I have just had another glance at the pictures – Please tell me those are not hard boiled eggs? To be frank, I now feel a bit revolted at the thought of having cork stop nipples at all times! Why? I have, for a person of short stature a more than ample bosom that can enter the room before the rest of me, how terrifying would it be for the occupants of that room to have to suffer a ‘Carry On’ comedy pair of breasts entering the room, ‘avec – Oeuf’ or for that matter with nipples the shape & size of strawberry’s! Revolting!

“SHOW BREASTS! - IN!!!!”

I am now reminded of sitting watching the TV at Elvira’s house with my many cousins, Elvira had been out & had drunk some wine & Elvira does not drink. It was a light summer evening, with a torrential down pouring of rain. In a fit of pique – Elvira said to us all watching TV that if we gave her a £1 fee each then she would run down to the lake & back in the nude. To most children particularly these days I think this would have caused great alarm & embarrassment, if not a bit of terror, for an adult to be making such a strange offer, but we children just glanced up at her & then continued to watch the TV. Later that evening she had us all outside running in & out of the muddy puddles in the rain, which I can assure you was more entertaining to us than her previous offer & less expensive!   

WHAT CAN I SAY????

– But to Elvira, it is all about being sexy at all times, I think that working in the Film industry all those years means that she thinks that women have to look permanently ‘on heat’ – It is really important to her, I don’t know if it is a generational thing? As my mother once told me that she felt invisible now being older when she walked into a room of men & they don’t all look at her – Which I think is quite a sad statement in its self – That the only thing that is important to her is that all the men are looking at her? If not these days a bit creepy!

Flicking the switch on the kettle again – In slight trepidation, I flipped to the next page, the next 3 pages had been stapled back to front starting with the back page first – This article is about Roman Polanski’s actress daughter Morgane. Here Elvira for ease of my comprehension had slashed the article with red biro, quite randomly as none of the so called high-lighting actually hits the words she is trying to high-light; I glance through the article – it really is not my thing – But I show willing… I closed the pamphlet. On the back page is a further ‘nonsensical’ message this time like the front page in blue biro; “IGNORE ALL RED MARKS – TRYING TO FORCE ME TO CONCENTRATE - X E X”  I know that this is not true, Elvira has just decided that she has perhaps over-egged what she thinks should have been important to me… I stuff the content back in the ripped brown envelope…

I HOPE THEY ARE CLAY COOKING BEANS NOT EGGS!!

I received periodical a few weeks ago, I have not read any of the pages, to be honest they are not really my kind of thing – Not to mention that when it comes to reading matter - I have a daughter who’s favourite thing is books, which she brings to the house in their hundreds, each day she will turn up with some new books, like she has found a little lost puppy to play with …

RED HIGHLIGHTS - MORE IMPORTANT THAN BLUE!!

Today I have received another none-seneschal email from Elvira – with the note stating that when I call her – we simply must discuss the topics sent to me in her recent correspondence… My heart sinks a bit! I have already dodged that bullet once in a recent call. Elvira lives by herself in an enormous house that is falling into disrepair – But she refuses to leave despite many urgent requests from her son. I think we have all come to the conclusion that she is going to stay there to the bitter end. I have written this piece, which is just a snap shot of some of the things my aunt has done & it is written with much affection & love for my aunt, she has been very ill with ‘long covid’ for almost a year and she has been very difficult to help, she refuses medical help & thinks she knows best about everything – At times she has been very confused, which has been difficult to deal with, but when I received these magazine articles with the mad comments, I know that she is back to her old self, so although the content is quite bonkers it is just as it should be with her. She has been a thread through my life & she never turned her back on me. We are as opposite as could be in many ways. When I was little, she would laugh at the fact that I was the most like her in terms of colouring, light skin, mine for the record is almost porcelain & my hair was light brown at the time, Elvira is pale skinned & blond, where as her beautiful children were/are all darker skinned have beautiful brown eyes & hair, like their father. This made me, the little ugly duckling of all the family very pleased. When Elvira went to the Royal premiere of ‘Entertaining Mr Slone’ in April 1970 so beautiful was she that she knock Princess Margaret off the front of the Newspapers – This was quite some achievement!

WELL AT LEAST SHE IS ON THE MEND!

Some years later in the summer we were sitting outside at Elvira’s house with an unrealistically huge bowl of broccoli in front of us covered in butter, with the normal, what my mother calls ‘plastic bread’ & butter as an accompaniment - Elvira is not known for her cooking, the broccoli was also covered in angry wasps from the nearby wasps nest. Suddenly Elvira jumped up, picked up the enormous serving spoon & started to smash it down on the offending wasps smashing the overcooked broccoli to a congealed palp, scattering shards of grey-green broccoli everywhere, including splattering my cousin Sarah & I with the green mush. Once she had finished this outburst she sat down again & expected us to eat the remnants, of the mush now added to the dish were the dismembered bodies of wasps – I hated broccoli for years after that!   

Left to right, Trevor, Elvira, Taller boy Laurie, my brother, Tall lady with beads, my mother Josephine short fat bridesmaid with ringlets not looking at the camera pulling my bloomers up - Me! What was my aunt Dilys thinking of with those outfits?