Royal Wedding

 

Paper Jam

 

Our friend was coming to lunch, she was also going to sign The Teenager’s passport form. The one he still hadn’t filled in.

We also didn’t have the photos ready having discovered that the photo booth in the nearby supermarket was not in working order.

The previous day  at home I’d taken photos, and all that remained for to do was to choose one and print it out.

With minutes before the arrival of my friend The Teenager was sitting by the printer. He had been using photoshop. He had chosen one of the earlier photos I’d first taken as being the best. The earlier photos had been taken in ‘landscape’ form until I had turned the camera so that they would be in  ‘portrait’. Consequently, because of this he’d had to use photoshop to add more of the white background.

There is an unwritten law in the universe that whenever you need something in a hurry a printer you intend to use at that time plays up. Our trusty printer was no exception.

“Paper jam!” The Teenager exclaimed.

He fiddles with it. You can sense  annoyance rising in the room like an oncoming tide.

“I’ve cleared the paper jam, but  the computer still says it’s jammed!”

Time is ticking away.

“I’ve uninstalled and reinstalled the printer and it still says it’s jammed!”

“Switch off the computer, then turn it on again and it will print,” I say.

I know that this works from long practice. The Teenager switches off the computer and goes off with Zen like calmness for a bath.

After I’ve finished getting things ready for lunch, I think to help speed things up by switching the computer back on.

As it reboots, I listen for the printer expecting it to whirr into action.

Nothing.

It’s switched off.

I switch it on.

The lights don’t come on. I check the plugs. The plugs are all in. I try the buttons again.

Nothing.

It’s broken.

The Teenager is still in the bathroom. I decide to ask.

“I pulled the plug out,” he explains, “like you told me to do.”

“No, I didn’t.” I reply, “I said switch off the computer.”

I go back downstairs to check the plugs for a second time. My friend will be arriving soon and here I am trying to make sense of a spaghetti arrangement of wires.

All the plugs appear to be in the right sockets.

I go back upstairs and call through the bathroom door a second time, “All the plugs are there.”

“No!” exclaims The Teenager. “I took out the cable at the back of the printer.”

“Why?”

“You told me to.”

I don’t argue.

I go back to the printer and eventually find at the back of the desk a grey wire which I then manage to reattach it to the printer.

The lights come on, but nothing happens.

I find his picture on the computer. I ready the shiny photo paper and press print.

The machine whirrs and clicks into life.

Paper jam.

I drag out the paper.

The Teenager has just come downstairs and he’s watching as I battle with it, “It’s like a reverse birth,” he comments as I tinker with the printer’s innards.

A car pulls up outside.

“She’s here.”

“Perhaps it needed more paper underneath to lift it up. We could try a practice run.”

“It still says paper jam.”

“Switch the computer off and then back on and it will print,” I say, as I go to welcome my friend.

We try to look calm but she can what is going on from the array of forms and papers on the desk. We explain it all as the computer tinkles its windows theme song.

Then the printer, loaded with ordinary paper, begins to print.

We watch hopefully. Images are appearing.

We look.

“You can’t use this,” I say.

“Why not?” The Teenager asks.

“Because your face is out of proportion.”

The landscape photo image has been stretched, and the distance from his chin to his nose has been elongated in a caricature of the face that is now looking at me.

After much debate, it is agreed that we will all go back to the photo booth at the local supermarket in the hope that it will now have been fixed.

I search the house for £5 in coins and then we set off.

As we walk towards the booth, I run through all the things he has to get right, “Don’t smile, get the seat in the right position, make sure there’s no hair in your eyes,” I say without nagging, trying to make it sound fun.

The machine is working. The Teenager goes in and closes the curtain.

And my friend and I giggle outside like kids as we listen to the machine’s voice.

“Three, two, one.”

Then we wait.

It prints.

We look.

There is hair over his eyes.

I want to scream.

“It’s all right,” The Teenager says.

“They won’t accept it,” I say.

My friend agrees.

Confronted with two against one the Teenager reluctantly agrees.

I have no more coins. I  go back to the car. I find a five pound note.

“You’ll have to get change,” I say.

He goes off and returns with the coins.

“No hair in front of your face,” I nag, as he readies himself once again.

“Three, two, one.”

Then we wait for the photo he has chosen.

It prints.

We look.

It’s okay!

We go home for lunch, my friend fills in the form and leaves. We then fill in the rest. We check and double check the instructions. We add this, and recheck that until we are certain we have everything just right.

Then we post it.

And then, and only then,  do we walk back home on air!

Three Year Old Legs

 

One of my earliest memories is of running towards a group of lads gathered neared my boxed up toys at the lower end of a concreted yard and thinking that I would chase them away while we waited for the removal van.

I was three.

I still haven’t learnt from that experience. I still do it. I still try to chase away groups of gathered lads.

It happened only yesterday.

For some reason, perhaps a gravitational anomaly, or a rare juxtaposition of stars, or the beating of a butterfly wing in Outer Mongolia, a group of lads who’d been walking up the road suddenly stopped outside my house.

Hidden safe from view behind the net curtain, I spied on them from my settee, . When they didn’t move on I then felt the same protective urge rising in me that I’d once felt long ago when I was only three. This must have been the same impulse that caused people long ago to build their hill forts and fortifications: an urge to defend. Perhaps this was why dogs were tamed to bark at aimless lads from other tribes that loitered close.

One lad was picking at the mortar between the bricks of my house as he listened to his mates. I couldn’t hear what they were saying. There were two who were talking and the rest were simply stuffed shirts listening with  gaping mouths. Then the sound quality of these voices changed. Whoever held their awe and attention had shifted his position. This ringleader had stepped onto my step just under the porch using it as a podium as he addressed the others; and  I instantly felt it was time to run at them pell mell, like I had when I was three. Running as if to scatter them like sheep, running to send them fleeing, running to protect my own. Determined to chase them away, I got my keys and walked to the door.

The door suddenly opening surprised them. The lad on the porch step-stepped away. I’d then expected them all to move on, but they didn’t. Instead they formed a half-circle with me in its centre; though they had all taken a couple of steps back. I’d expected them to shift and drift like freed wood further down along the bank of terraced houses, but they didn’t, they held their ground fascinated by this new diversion and then closed in.

I stepped through them to my car which for once was parked just outside my house. I was trying to look purposeful, as if I was on some sort of mission. They probably thought I was going to drive off somewhere, but of course I had no desire to go anywhere; and instead I pretended that there was something I needed  from the boot. I opened it. Of course there was almost nothing much in the boot, except for an empty plastic bag and the bicycle rack that I had left stored there.

“What’s that!” one of the lads exclaimed to one of his mates.

I must confess it did look like some form of medieval torture equipment with its black metal and black straps; and perhaps it did have its antecedents in the rack, the thumb screw and manacles that had once furnished the wettest dungeon.

They were all pressing closer to see this and anything else that I may have left  hidden in the boot. I realised then that any chance of scattering these lads was not going to work; and I sensed rapacious hands reaching out as if for a teddy bear in an opened box.

Then one of them kicked his football hard against the side of my house.

Thud, thud thud.

“Don’t do that,” I said.

He’d been on the periphery of the group, one of the gaping-mouthed ones. In a raiding party against a stronghold he’d have been the one to watch. The one who was the most dangerous and unpredictable. The one who’d never say much but should he be the one to capture you would sling you into the ditch without your life.

Behind us one of the others began a sport’s commentary, “Oh, she doesn’t like that!”

“Why not?” the football lad asked with slack jawed insolence.

I’m surprised that he can speak.

“Because it’s my house.”

“I didn’t realise that kicking a ball against bricks causes any damage.”

There was probably a golden age when whenever anyone was asked not to do something by a person older than themselves bedecked with grey hair (and I do have a few strands, well more than a few to be honest) then they would have quickly said, ‘Sorry,’ and then that would have been an end to it. They would have moved on slightly embarrassed and ashamed; but no, that doesn’t happen anymore here in deepest darkest England.

“You can’t kick the ball Jake it’s her house, ” the commentator gleefully comments. His tone revealing his bias towards his mate.

“I didn’t realise  kicking a ball against bricks would cause any damage.” Jake say again, repeating his words in a mumbled drone, as if my request is preposterous.

“It’s not that,” I say.

I’m wanting to outwit him. I want to say something that will sort him out for all time, something brilliant that will re-establish world order, and set everything right in the land, but I’ve never in all my life been able to think of the right thing to say. My words always sheer off target like a misaimed snowball, and slide impotently down a windscreen before melting  away into nothingness. I await  inspiration, but all that comes is, “because someone inside is asleep.”

He blinks at this, but it is meaningless to him. It  makes no sense to him at all; and I’m now angry and cross with myself, for this is an empty lie. There is nobody inside the house fast asleep, and I hate myself for this falsehood.

I grab the plastic bag from the boot, and slam it shut. Anybody once asleep in the house would now be fully wide awake.

As I return to the house, the lad with the ball bounces it loudly on the pavement as close to me as he dares. He looks at me waiting for my reaction

I glare at him.

He stares back, and bounces the ball hard yet again, making a sound like a fist pounding against a shield.

A battle cry goes up.

“Ohm, she’s looking at you, Jake,” says the commentator, as if we are about to circle and swing our maces at one another.

“Yeah, she fancies you Jake,” another sneers.

They all laugh.

I wheel away. I go inside. I close the drawbridge and shuttle down the portcullis. I’m trembling. I look down at my weapon. I’m holding a plastic bag. My heart is racing. I am mad. And I’m so, so cross with myself for the lie I told, for I hate lies. And I’m cross that my simple presence, which I’d wanted to be silent was not enough to shift this gang from this spot and get them moving further along. And I’m mad because now I’ve brought the worse out of them, and I’m besieged.

My heart is pounding, and within it I can feel the pounding of a three year old heart.

I feel such a fool.

Eventually however, the lads outside do drift away.

But now I’m afraid. I’m afraid they’ll come back. That I’ve become a target. That my house and car will be marked in some way. So that they will return with grappling hooks and cannon.

I do see them later. They are walking down the middle of the road, a straggling group no longer held together with any cohesion. Perhaps  broken apart by calls or text from mothers asking them to come home for their tea.

Then two younger lads pass by my car from another direction. I know them. They are neighbours. They live three doors up from me. As they pass my car they hit the wing mirror hard. It springs back into place, and they look back at it in surprise. My wing mirror has often been bent the wrong way as if it has met some hard collision, and now I know the culprits.

I look at the car. It has scratches through the paintwork which have been there now for some time. Someone’s key was held along the bright red paint and dragged. I look at the hubcaps wondering how long they will remain there, they have been stolen twice. However, the car is old now, and I have long learned not to care too much about such damage.

I don’t like the way I’m feeling. The adrenaline is still rushing through me. I try to counsel myself. Next time I’ll ignore them. Next time I’ll go into another room. Don’t run towards trouble with three year old legs, I tell myself, just let them drift away.

I fear I have set myself up as a potential crone for future torments and teasing merriment.

And then I remember that when I ran that time long ago, when I was only three, across the hard backyard where the lads had gathered that they too had stood their ground and laughed.

Next time… I’ll walk away I say…but I know that a primitive part of me still wants to protect my castle and fight for the safety of its toys.

Katerine Howard’s Last Dance

 

Eyes Rounder than Black Moons.

 

We were sitting side by side on the settee when there was a sudden pounding noise.

We listened trying to work out exactly where the noise was coming from.

It was from next door.

The pounding became heavier, louder, angrier.

It was a woman and there was no doubt about it, she was furious.

I wondered if perhaps she’d tried to find a passport form or a passport photo or perhaps she was going through some last final stage of an itchy rash caused by an allergic reaction to a spider bite; but no it was none of these.

This woman was incandescent. So angry was she that nearly every other word she yelled began with an F.

“I ----- want my ------ son back. You ------ sent me a ------- text saying that I was an -------- bad mother so I -------- want my son back. I ----- want my ------ son back. You ------ wrote all that on --------- my ---------Facebook page saying that I was an -------- bad mother and I -------- want my son back.

There was then some sort of scuffle on the doorstep after the door was opened and my neighbours joined in the argument with their side of the story. Then the door was slammed shut.

The angry woman then seemed to know all the people my next door neighbour had been rather too intimate with, and began to list them:

“ A ------- lap dancer. A ------ nineteen year old. Her ------- mother and her -----best friend. I ----- want my ------ son back. You ------ sent me a ------- text saying that I was an -------- bad mother and I -------- want my son back. He can’t -------- stay here.”

In all this I learnt for the first time my neighbour’s name first, last and an assortment of middle names. “Rhys you ------- Bastard,” she yelled. “I’m calling the police.”

She pounded on the door, and kept it up even though we could hear her son inside pleading with her to go away. She kept up the banging until flashing blue lights announced the arrival of the police.

It was amazing how quickly they turned up. We heard a policeman go inside while a policewoman remained outside to speak to the angry woman.

The police woman was impressive, though with their arrival the angry woman had instantly changed her demeanour. She laughed a little. The police woman seemed to have an instant grasp of the situation and calmed her down as she took her details and checked on the informal custody arrangement which apparently had previously been working quite well.

The aggressive woman had now dropped her rather glorious overuse of the ‘F’ word as an adjective and was speaking calmly.

“They said because he hadn’t had any dinner that I was a bad mother,” she explained. “His girlfriend sent me a text.”

The police woman listened, but managed to get more of her own sensible words and suggestions into the conversation. Then her colleague emerged from the house and said that the arrangement should stand as it was the father’s turn to have custody and that the thirteen year old boy also wanted to stay there. He then allowed the boy to speak to his mother briefly before it all resolved when he added:

“And your ex husband says he won’t press charges for the scratches on his face.”

At this the angry woman laughed a little nervously, she became even quieter, and then she left.

The door next door was closed, and the flashing blue lights also eventually went away.

And we, The Teenager and I, were left in our hallway, sat upon the floor where we’d been listening with eyes rounder than black moons.

Stepping Daintily

 

The alarming rash has at last gone.

Each goose bump for just over a week was red, inflamed and itchy.

It had to have been an allergic reaction to something outside in the garden, and I had felt something in my hair just before the redness appeared.

I think it might have been a spider.

A spider that bit.

There are black spiders that guard the stone edges of the pond. They move with an unnerving quick action. I’m guessing it was one of those, so now I’m wary of them as I peer into the pond to watch the tadpoles.

When one spider approached too close yesterday I blew it away. It landed on the top of the pond water and yet still stepped off this surface as daintily and effortlessly as if it was on dry land.

I’m pretty sure it was a spider. A spider that got lost in my hair and then when I tried to oust it retaliated by biting.

It is so nice to have my smooth skin once more.

I didn’t treat the rash with any doctor’s prescription or anti-histamines, having faith that given time the body can heal itself .

And this it has proved able to do.

A friend gave me a mug the other night, which when I drank from it revealed a spider just beneath the rim. It was just a picture, but I did begin to itch.

“Don’t you like spiders?” she asked.

“No,” I  answered.

Why there is a Cucumber in the Kitchen

 

The Teenager needs a passport photograph.

One where you are looking straight into the camera with an unsmiling face. One where there is no hair obscuring your eyes. One where there are no other people just out of shot.

Last time I took the passport photograph it was a nightmare. It was hard trying to get the proportions right, and then coaxing the printer into printing it onto the glossy paper; glossy paper that was in limited supply and had a right and a wrong side.

I decided that even though the photo booth charges five pounds that it would be worth it going there to get it done. It would save so much angst and time.

So we went to Morrisons.

Of course I only had notes so we needed change.

And everyone knows that the best way to get change is to buy a cucumber.

So we bought a cucumber.

Then we went to the self service check out machines.

Such machines as soon as they realise a teenager is in the vicinity instantly behave themselves. This one was no exception. It opened up its screens before him without any hesitation, and then fawned before him. It allowed him to select fresh produce and didn’t even dream of not showing him the cucumber section. After a few dabs at the screen and the cucumber was ours…well almost.

I didn’t know where to put the note.

In Morrisons the feed for notes is down somewhere down at knee level, out of sight. It takes some finding.

Then the machine chugged out the change but surprised me by not rattling coins into a tray but by issuing a £5 note. So we still didn’t have enough coins for the photo booth.

So we go along to customer services and explain what we are trying to do. She exchanges the five pound note for coins very quickly but can not give me more than four one pound coins as she is running low on change.

However, after I team these coins up with one from the car we are ready.

The Teenager takes his place.

A woman’s voice talks. He is told to raise his chair, to check where his eyes are, to ensure that the outer curtain is shut.

It begins.

He feeds in the coins and waits.

There is a flash.

He giggles.

There is a second flash.

“It’s not working,” The Teenager says.

There’s another flash.

“It’s just repeating the first picture.”

There’s another flash.

“Choose your best picture,” orders the photo booth’s robotic voice.

“It hasn’t worked. Look,” says The Teenager.

I pull back the grey curtain and look.

His first photo has been duplicated four times. This wouldn’t have been a problem, but in it he is looking down, hair is over his eyes and he has a broad toothy smile.

I go back to Customer Services and someone comes out to have a look.

I try to explain what happened, but it all sounds like gobbledegook.

“It took the first photo and then duplicated it, and did not take any further ones although it did flash.”

It sounds like nonsense. The assistant without saying a word obviously thinks that The Teenager must have pressed the wrong button, that we have made a mistake or that we are larking around.

“Don’t press anything,” she says, and she goes away.

“Choose your photo,” the mechanical voice of the machine urges.

We ignore it and wait.

“Choose your photo,” the mechanical voice of the machine insists again.

We ignore it and don’t touch anything.

But the machine impatiently whirrs into action and prints out four identical useless photographs.

The woman comes back. You can have a refund she says and takes us back to the lady behind the desk in customer services.

There is a form to fill in and sign. It takes an age.

She gives me back a five pound note.

I look at it.

“But we need coins,” I say. I’m all ready prepared to do battle with the photo booth once again.

“Oh no,” she says. “You’re not allowed to use it. Others have reported the same problem today. I’m going to have to put an ‘Out of Order’ sign.”

I’m bewildered and inwardly annoyed as I take the five pound note. I’m left wondering why she didn’t warn us about the problem. I’m puzzled why she didn’t say make your first photo your best one. I’m fed up that so many people had to go through all that before she was at last prepared to put up a sign?

I ask if I can keep the useless photos. They are sweet and I like them.

“No,” she says. She snatches them away, and I’m sad to think of them ending up in a bin somewhere.

So we leave.

But we did return home with a cucumber!