Tag Archives: families

Can you do me a favour?


It always makes me nervous when my younger  brother asks me if I can do him a favour. It usually never ends well for me, or for whoever else he asks. He has a way of delegating jobs he’d rather not do himself.

He gets away with murder because he’s a nice guy and a bit disarming. I’m generally immune to it since I’ve known him all his life but then I sigh, tell myself he’s my little bro and get drawn in to his bizarre plans, as I said, usually to my detriment.

 He  has bones that will break if you so much as give them a long, hard look.  He’s registered disabled now and and not very good on his legs. Getting from A to B generally involves cadging lifts, getting a taxi or using the local disability transport. He lives with a little dog called King who’s an eclectic mix of breeds, most likely a chihuahua and a King Charles spaniel. He’s totally blind and fair to say he’s knocking on a bit.  At the last reckoning he was about twelve years old, the dog I’m taking about now, not my brother.

Over Christmas my sister went to see him, my brother, not the dog, and he asked her for a favour – would  she cut his toenails?

 Ohhhhhh noooooo!!!!  Eeeeeeewwwww!!!!!!!!

She, and I, went queasy at the thought of it. If you’d seen his toenails you’d know what I mean.  Disgusting! Poor sis has been keeping out of his way ever since Christmas in case he asks her again. I did gently  suggest to him that there are chiropodists for that kind of thing but he wasn’t for taking me on at all. I don’t know if he’d had them done yet, I daren’t ask. He stopped short of asking me to do it though. I think the look  on my face gave him the answer before he’d even asked the question.

So, instead he requested  that I  cut his hair because he couldn’t get to     i.e. couldn’t be bothered going to  the barber’s. ” I don’t know how to cut hair” I wailed at him. “It’ll be right, just cut it straight across.”

Good Lord, he looked like Friar Tuck when I’d finished. A picture of sartorial elegance he is not. Did I mention I don’t do ‘hands on’ tasks? ( that sounds a bit rude. Move on along now, no happy endings here) I was shuddering for a week. Next time I’ll drag him out to the car and take him to the barber whether he likes it or not.

Last night he phoned me. Hhhmmmm, unusual. What’s he after?

Sure enough after a couple of minutes chit chat there it was;

“Ummmm, you couldn’t do me a massive favour could you.”

“I’ll try. Go on.”

“Well, King’s knocking on a bit now. He’s not going to last forever. Could you find me a bitch who’s a bit like him to mate him with? I’d like a pup from him.”

“WHAT? You want me to find someone who will be prepared to mate their prize pooch with your blind, geriatric, provenance unknown  dog to give them some bizarre new breed of dog that they’ll have a whole litter of? He’s not exactly a prime specimen of doghood, is he? Why don’t you just go to the rescue and get another dog from there? There are plenty looking for homes. “

Here it is folks, the bit that just draws you in:

“But I love him. I want a pup from him so when he dies I won’t feel like I’ve totally lost him. he’s special to me is King.”

Oh for Gawd’s sake! What am I going to do with him?  I’ll tell you what I won’t be doing though – walking up to the owners of dachshunds, spaniels, chihuahuas and the like and asking if they’d like a litter of pups from King, who I have to say I’m not even sure is up to the task.

This time, little brother, you’re on your own.

What would you do?

Advertisements

Leave it airt!


You may not know this but my Boofuls is a southerner, or as northern folks say, ‘poncey southerner’.  He hasn’t lived in the south for many years though and has largely lost his southern accent. The odd ‘northernism’started to creep in a long time ago, although he’d never admit it, Many’s the time I’ve caught him saying  things like: “I’m going for a bath.”  at which point I gleefully reply ” Bath”? Did you say just say bath?”

“No. No. I said barth.” he  always replies in his best received pronunciation. I half expect him to say ‘Ding Dong’ at the end of a sentence and give me a saucy wink while he twirls his handlebar moustache, he sounds so much like Terry Thomas. Thankfully he doesn’t look like him though.

Source: Internet
Source: Internet

Southern accents, to a born and bred northerner, are generally to be treated with suspicion, in fact anyone with a southern accent is considered to be one of four  things in the north:

1. Poncey

2. Posh

3. Cockney or if male, ‘a cockney bastard’

4. A villain or royalty, there are no levels in between

Boofuls isn’t any of those things, in fact he doesn’t even come from London never mind from within hearing distance of  Bow Bells.

Of  course for most folk ‘oop narth’ anywhere south of Birmingham is considered to be London and anyone from London is cockney.

Of course, Boofuls, as we’ve established doesn’t come from London at all, he comes from Buckinghamshire originally – which admittedly is a bit posh.

The only time Boofuls really slips back into his Buckinghamshire accent is when he’s actually in Buckingham or on the phone, which just makes Lashes and me laugh hysterically when he’s spouting such gems as, “Leave it airt.”  (Yes, well posh, that I can hear you saying). It’s a totally meaningless but overused phrase but I suppose no worse than the local teenagers’ favourite words which are ‘innit’ and ‘like’ both of which are used  be used in totally inappropriate contexts which would have had my old English teacher, Mr Hook, spinning like a top in his grave. I’m not sure I would even have dared to say ‘innit’ in his presence.  Come to think of it, I didn’t really ever dare say anything in his presence. I can only imagine his reaction if he’s heard the following  exchange between two young girls in a shop recently.

“I is totally pissed off  wiv me mum and dad, innit, like”

To be honest I wasn’t sure if I should have put a question mark at the end of that sentence because when I heard it there was an upward inflection at the end that implied she was asking a question. Poor confused girl.

My curiosity as to what her mum and dad had done to piss her  off so monumentally that she felt the need to broadcast it at full volume  to her friend in a town centre store rather took second place to my curiosity about how a young girl girl born and raised in Lancashire managed to pick up a New York gangsta rap accent. Innit.

But anyway, back to the plot:

Munki has realised that Grandad, or Gangand, as she likes to call him, doesn’t sound like the rest of us. It turns out that Munki is turning into quite the mimic. She’s got her mockney accept off to a tee. Here’s her impersonation of Boofuls.

Don’t worry, I’m well aware that other peoples’ kids aren’t the least bit interesting so it’s only eight seconds long.

Just in case you need a translation it’s “leave it airt, leave it airt. Come and ride the hel’er skel’er.”

It’s all in the genes


My daughter has been extremely fortunate in that her particular arrangement of genes from mine and her Dad’s collective gene pools seems to have worked out  marvellously well for her.

She has inherited her Dad’s height and metabolism. A fact that makes me want to pummel her  size 8 body into a pulp while she’s tucking into various calorie laden goodies and I munch away on yet another salad (without dressing). As for her legs, they just go on and on and end somewhere up round her armpits while mine only go as far as my knees, not so much legs as stumps.

She has her father’s logic. The pair of them are seriously good at logic problems. Logic? Not even on my radar, makes no sense to me, let’s just muddle through. I do wonder sometimes how I’ve got as far in life as I have with my ‘broad brush strokes’ approach.

She’s inherited my artistic streak, and mostly my personality, she is in fact a  Mini me (although by mini me I really mean, taller, slimmer me).  She’s intelligent, beautiful, quick witted (not that I’m biased in any way) and like many exceptionally bright people    (including her Dad)  occasionally  as thick as a brick!

” The kettle’s broken. I’m having to use a pan to boil the water.”

That was two weeks ago. No one questioned the fact that the kettle wasn’t working. Clearly no one bothered to move it until yesterday when Len noticed that the plug wasn’t properly in the socket. One quick shove later and surprise surprise, the kettle’s back to it’s former steamy self!

Oh, Lashes!!!