A Local Shop For Local People

Yesterday the sun shone.  And I had to go to the supermarket.  I had to go to the supermarket rather than the Local Shop, because we had no lavatory paper, due to the DC being at home for a few days, and no gin, due to a visit from the Farmers. 

Although the Local Shop sells both these items, due to the idiosyncrasies of their 'colourful' staff, I cannot purchase either of these things in there.

I can't buy loo roll, because the assistant known as Mad Ann became convinced many years ago that I am someone called Alice, who has terrible problems with my 'waterworks' as she calls them.  So every time I enter the shop when Ann is there I am greeted loudly as 'Alice' before being quizzed at length as to the state of my waterworks today.  Any attempts to deny that I have a problem 'down there' (her other discreet euphemism, to be bellowed at the top of her voice, and accompanied by a knowing nod towards the afflicted area), are met with a sigh of "You're so brave, Alice dear." 

To buy bog roll from Ann would be to endure an even more detailed barrage of questions about the waterworks.  I can, however, buy gin from Ann, who hands it over with a sympathetic pat of the hand, clearly believing it is medicinal. 

Somewhere out there, is a woman called Alice with troublesome waterworks who is probably quite relieved now just to be known as Cassandra the borderline alcoholic. 

So if Ann is on, I can buy gin but not lavatory paper.  If however, it is another assistant, the one we call Giant Boy, I can buy loo roll unremarked, but any attempt to purchase alcohol is met with a salacious wink and a lascivious remark of "Looks like you're planning a good night, what time shall I pop round eh?" 

Knowing he says this to every female customer who crosses his path, in no way make this less creepy, or makes me less inclined to shout "NEVER NEVER NEVER NEVER NEVER!!!!"  and go home and scrub myself with Dettol.

I can buy nothing from the third assistant, the unimaginatively named 'Tiny Boy' as he seems to have had an traumatic experience with every item in the shop, which he will insist on recounting to you.  Even buying a tin of Green Giant sweetcorn from him almost reduced him to tears, as he informed me "My mum said if I ate that, I'd grow up big and strong.  I didn't" 
I can't even begin to imagine what tales he could tell about gin and bog roll. 

So rather than planning multiple visits at various times of day to complete my purchases unremarked, I trundled my 4x4 supermarket-wards.  As I mentioned the sun was shining, and I had forgotten that Town people react to this differently to Country people, even those only affecting to be Country. 

In the Country, we swathe ourselves year round in many layers of tweed.  Our boots are plentiful and not cast aside lightly.  Perhaps after a week or two of a heat wave, we may remove the outer layers of tweed, and possibly tentatively swap the knee boots for an ankle boot.  If we feel very daring, we may eventually go bootless altogether and brave an adorable ballet pump.  Finally, we may strip off as far as our shirtsleeves.  But no more.  More than that would be madness.  Madness.

In the towns though, they have no such decorum.  At the first hint of sunshine, it appears everyone must strip down to their knickers, regardless of their girth, and parade around shamelessly.   Acres upon acres of wobbling flesh were flopping around the aisles of Tesco in varying alarming hues, from an icy blue white that would better suit a cadaver, through various shades of Oompa Loompa orange, and somehow, given the sun had only been out for around 45 minutes, that glorious lobster red glow, better known as 'The Briton Abroad'. 

When you factored in the array of really bad tattoos; the strange notion some people have that the sun coming out means they can fit into clothes three sizes smaller than normal, and some ladies' habit of casting aside their sturdy undergarments and going au naturel, 'White Dee' style and it was too much to bear. 

I abandoned the trolley, and fled to Majestic Wine, where there is a nice boy who knows my name is Cassandra, has never asked me personal questions about my lavatory habits or made inappropriate advances (I wouldn't mind actually) AND he carries my booze to the car for me.

I came home with  two bottles of gin, a litre of Pimms and a case of wine, but no loo paper.  They will just have to shit in the woods or something. 

Cassandra and The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day (with apologies to Judith Viorst for shamelessly nicking the best title of anything ever)

 

I woke up at 3 am on Tuesday morning, with a throat that felt like I had swallowed razor wire.  I realised immediately that I should have recognised the warning signs that I was sickening for something, because I made myself a jug of Pimms on Monday evening and then thought "I don't really want that."  I always want Pimms.

I took some of the emergency hangover Nurofen from my bedside table, kicked the Terror until he shifted across the bed enough that I could semi stretch out and whimpered pathetically to myself as I went back to sleep.  When I woke up again at stupid o'clock first school run time, I longed desperately to roll over and sleep some more, before waking up to find a cool hand soothing my fevered brow and a cup of beef tea being proffered (I'm not sure what beef tea is, something disgusting and Bovrilish I suspect, but it is always given to invalids in the Victorian children's novels from which my entire medical knowledge is gleaned).  Perhaps Cousin Helen would appear to offer wise words on how to be a proper invalid. 

Alas, it was not to be, I had to drag myself from my pit and feed and transport many hulking beasts around the place.  My feeble coughing and croaking went resolutely unnoticed, except by the Terror, who sensing my pain, instead of bouncing out of bed and tearing round the garden, decided to loll decadently in the warm and cosy bed I had been forced to vacate, to really rub salt in the wound.

All vile hell fiends finally dispatched to various schools, with various complaints and whinings along the way (including demands as to whether it was 'the right sort of ham' in the packed lunch sandwiches- WTF is 'the right sort of ham', it's fucking ham, it used to be Peppa Pig and now it's been brutally slaughtered and processed and shoved between two slices of plastic white bread because that's all my darling children will eat, regardless of the judging from the school.  At least its not fucking Nutella.  Apparently if any parents even PAUSE in the Nutella aisle in the supermarket, whole swathes of the school will immediately fall down dead, thus Nutella is deemed more of a threat to the school than crack cocaine and it is Not Allowed.  We receive several hysterical communications a year reminding us to be ever vigilant against the creeping menace of that evil chocolatey hazelnut gloop, which frankly just make me want to give them a big fat Nutella sandwich and say "get a grip".  Smug Blonde Mummy still has not lived down the shame of giving her child a snack bag of dried fruit and nuts after school, while they were still in the playground, which meant she had Brought Nuts Onto School Premises.  She was immediately put in the stocks and had organic carrots sticks and humous thrown at her till she mended her evil nutty ways.  I digress) I attempted to crawl back to bed.  However, the Terror, having enjoyed a delicious long lie, snuggled in my fucking goose down duvet, on my fucking Egyptian cotton sheets, was feeling refreshed and revived and in need of fresh air. 

Thus, since when the Terror decides he wants a walk, he does not take no for an answer, I tottered from my sick bed, and shuffled forth.  Now, we are either very lucky or very unlucky to have a section of some sort of path called the West Highland Way running close to the house.  Apparently it is very long.  It is lucky in the sense that our section (as I like to think of it) is fenced off from all the fields, and thus there is no livestock for the Terror to attack.  It is unlucky because it is frequented by large flocks of Germans in lurid  Goretex and sensible shoes, and the Terror doesn't like Germans.  OK, he doesn't like anyone who gets in his way, but its mainly Germans who do this. 

As I was unable to face wrestling with his bloody minded fangs in the woods or on the hill, I trudged along the WHW instead.  Within five minutes we came upon the first pair of sturdy Germans.  There was, as always, more man made fibres than should be allowed, and the shoes were of epic stoutness.  They were also walking jolly slowly, two abreast on a narrow path, and they were not narrow of girth, thus I could not pass. 

The Terror has a morbid fear of being trapped behind other people, or dogs, I think it offends his belief that he is the Alpha Dog of the Known Universe; thus I politely said "Excuse me".  They ignored me.  I loudly said "Excuse me."  They ignored me.  I rudely shouted "Can you get out of my way please".  Still they plodded along, as if I was not there.  Finally I gave up my attempts to contain the Terror, and allowed him to snap at their hulking heels.  They turned around and glared, but STILL wouldn't get out of the way. 

Eventually, I had to employ my solitary phrase of German.  It is an excellent and useful phrase and I have never ever encountered a situation where it has not worked.  From path blocking walkers, to the irate German lady in Madeira who mistook me for a member of the hotel staff and kept shouting something at me, it has always had the desired effect.  Thus I bellowed "Ich aber durchfall!"* and they stopped and looked around in horror before hastily ushering me past.  Result!  Who needs to learn a whole language when one useful phrase covers all eventualities?

Once home, I shut the Terror in the house and went off to meet another mother about Saff's joint birthday party.  We attempted to formulate a plan where we could stop them all (except sensible Saff) getting trollied.  We concluded we probably couldn't, but we did wonder if we could keep Charlotte Baxter's Pimms if we confiscated it. 

Returning, planning an epic afternoon of self pity and woe, and Lemsip, as Cousin Helen and her beef tea had failed to materialise to offer me insights on how to be a lovable invalid, instead I found the Terror had decided to empty the bin and shred the contents.  Bastarding bastarding bastarding dog. 

By the time I cleared that up, it was time to collect the Beast from school, so off I shuffled yet again, only to find that the fucking dog had removed the new bin bag and shredded it too.  I thought dark thoughts about fur lined mittens, as I glared at him hard.

That night, I had to take Saff to the orthodontist.  The orthodontist is also a mixed blessing, as Saff's Bugs Bunny teeth mean the NHS is fixing them, so I get to feel quite smug about the many many many thousands of pounds we are saving.  On the other hand, as the NHS is fixing them, I have to drive her many many  many miles, through bleak Soviet style post industrial wastelands to the NHS hospital to have her braces tweaked. 

I cope with this by locking the doors, and shuddering a lot and singing RA-RA-RASPUTIN loudly to ward off the horror (I don't know why Rasputin, it just seemed to sum up the Sovietness of it all; also it is the only vaguely Russian song I know). 

As I feared what fresh hell the Terror would unleash in my absence, I loaded him into the car along with the Beast and Saff, and we made our long trek across the Urals to the hospital.  Once there, I realised that actually I couldn't take him in, and I was afraid to leave him in the car in case a) he ate it or b) he was stolen by one of the gangs of marauding gypsy peasants I am convinced roam everywhere outside my nice middle class faux country enclave.  Thus I sent Saff in alone, hoping she would not be sold into white slavery in the process, and stayed in the car with the Beast and the dog. 

This proved to be a poor decision, as the Terror's bin raking had led to him consuming something that had turned his arse septic, and the subsequent wind was unspeakable.  The Beast always has unspeakable wind anyway, and was put out by the challenge from the dog, leading to such pleasant remarks as "Can you tell that was one of mine?  Mine are more cabbagey, his are more meaty".  I couldn't even put the windows down because of the likelihood of gypsy peasant hordes! 

When we finally returned home, wine seemed to be the only answer.  I crawled feebly to the wine rack only to find there were no screw cap bottles.  To wield a cork screw was beyond my strength by now.  I collapsed in despair on the floor in front of the wine rack, so near, yet so far. 

Saff found me there, sobbing weakly and conceded to open a bottle for me, as I was ill.  I think she was slightly less sympathetic when it turned out I still had the strength to croak "Not that nasty one the neighbours gave us darling, open Mummy some nice Rioja."

*"I have diarrhoea."

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Lost Weekend- part one

Friday got off to a bad start.  That Fucking Dog, as the Terror is also known, managed to escape from the garden when I let him out for his morning crap.  His absence was discovered approximately 30 seconds before I had to leave to take a car load of children to the school bus.  I hurtled up there at breakneck speed and turfed them out, before haring home, pausing only to screech to a halt at the bus stop to tearfully demand if the waiting passengers had seen a little dog,

 "Just a very little dog, he has run awaaaaaaaaay, waaaaah."

I burst into the house on my return, shouting

"There is no milk, I couldn't go to the shop, my dog is MISSING."

And then had a total breakdown in the kitchen before the DC rather brusquely suggested I'd be better going out to look for That Fucking Dog, instead of standing in the kitchen, crying hysterically. 

I dashed back into the road, loudly whistling and shouting for the Terror, which must've gone down a storm with the neighbours, as it was still only 7.30am.  Under the guise of searching for him, I also had a good nosy round several of their gardens and realised that even when distraught, I can still judge through my tears. 

Eventually, the Terror was located, frolicking gaily around the rolling lawns of T' Big 'Ouse, at the top of the road.  I grabbed him and we fled, before his trespass was discovered, they have several cats and he seemed overly pleased with himself.

Friday night, I was due to go to Maddy's for much booze and hilarity.  On the way, I had to pick up someone's else's child from tennis and deliver him home.  As I was leaving, I got a text from Maddy:

"DISASTER!  HAVE PIMMS, NO MINT!  BRING MUCH MINT, MUCH PIMMS!!!!!!"

I was wearing most impractical shoes, so I tottered to the back door and pathetically implored the DC to pick me much mint, which he helpfully placed in a nice little clear ziplock bag that I tossed on the passenger seat. 

As I screeched up to the tennis courts, somewhat late due to my mint detour, I happened to look down at the mint, and realised that frankly it looked rather like something a bit illegal.  It was too late, the child had got in the car and was looking at it, with raised eyebrows, being of a sufficient age to be taught that 'Drugs are baaaaaaaaaad, n'k?  Don't do drugs.'  I babbled hopelessly of "Mint!  Mint for our Pimms, such fun." but I think he was sceptical and went home to tell everyone his mum's friend is a drug dealer. 

I staggered, in the Shoes of Doom, into Maddy's and was rewarded with a giant turbo charged Pimms, from her new Pimms dispenser, of which I am most envious.  As Maddy had decided it was far too much fag to go back and forth to the kitchen fetching drinks all night, she also pressed a large glass of wine on everyone, to tide them over, and cut down on her hostessing, leaving her free to get pissed.

All was joy, until Pseudo Lefty Mum arrived.  We all know a Pseudo Lefty Mum or Dad, I'm sure.  They are the sort of people who very ostentatiously read the Guardian and make sure we all know they read the Guardian by posting endless Guardian parenting articles on Facebook.  When a cause or petition has been around long enough for them to decide it is cool, they will also post lots of links to it from suitably cool leftish sources.  They will be very vocal about the fact that they would never dream of voting anything but Labour, and probably are vegetarians, and insist on mentioning this in every second sentence  ("Oh gosh no, I can't have houmous, I'm vegetarian of course.  Except I do eat chicken and fish, but do you know, I've been totally veggie for 10 years now."). 

The only problem with all this great worthiness, is that actually, after talking to them for approximiately  23 seconds, it becomes glaring apparent that a) they are pretentious twats, and b) they are actually so fucking right wing that they make Paul Dacre appear liberal and pleasant.  They despise and loath pretty much anyone and anything that isn't exactly the same as them, and think that poor people would feel so much better if they just switched to organic produce. 

So, Pseudo Lefty Mum swanned in and plumped herself down on the floor next to me (cooler to sit on the floor, more down with the kids.  I couldn't have sat on the floor even if I'd wanted to, due to the stupid shoes).  She lost no time and launched straight in.

"Cassandra, I'm glad you're here, I wanted to talk to you about porn."  (I choked on my Pimms)  "Have you watched 'Tyger Does Porn'?  Well, you must, you must watch it with Saffy and then you must have a good chat about it, it's very important!  Why?  Well, she needs to know about these things.  I don't think she does know about it Cassandra, I don't care what you've read on her phone when she's in the bath, it's absolutely vital you watch this together and then discuss it, I insist!  Imogen and I had the most super chat about it, and she's absolutely promised she won't have a Brazilian or try anal unless she really wants to do it.  I feel so much better about things now.  Yes I know Imogen's only 9, but there's no point in being embarrassed about these things.  No, I can't possibly have any guacamole, have you forgotten I'm vegetarian?  Except for chicken and fish of course.  Anyway, so glad we've had this chat, do you know, there was some sort of Eastern European chap selling the Big Issue outside Waitrose yesterday, it really shouldn't be allowed."

Faced with Pseudo Lefty Mum for the night, the only answer seemed to be to get Pimmsed to the max, and I set about this challenge with gusto.  Unfortunately the realisation I had reached the max came too late, when some time later when I grabbed PLM's glass off her and set off in search of the Dispenser of Love.  PLM was still sprawled on the floor and alas the Pimms and the Shoes of Doom conspired together to cause me to trip over PLM and land flat on my back, spraining my ankle in the process.

Maddy, like a true, caring best friend, shoved a bag of ice at me and added an extra shot of gin to my Pimms.  Shortly after that, Crazyeyes, our friendly local taxi driver arrived to ferry me home.  We'll gloss over the bollocks I babbled at Crazyeyes, mainly because I can't entirely remember, and I fell in the door about ten minutes before Saffy, who'd been at a party with the posh school people.

She came home in a state of high indignation, declaring she had been looking after pissed people all night, as some of the boys thought it would be a good idea to bring copious quantities of cheap booze to the party.  Eventually, she noticed I was squinting at her somewhat owlishly and paused in her tirade, so I seized my chance

"Darling, do you wanna watcha programme with Mummy, with that boy off Outnumbered, about porn and then talk aboudit with Mummy, schweetie?  Yesh?  Darling schweetie, schweetie darling?  Hic."

"Oh for fucks sake, you're pissed too, aren't you?"

"Only a ver little bit."

"Well I'm going to bed, and I'm taking the dog with me, don't argue Mother."

A grand day out?

Oh dear.  Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.  A sunny day beckoned and I rather lost my head.  Farmer Boy was visiting and deranged by sunshine, I decided we would visit a local 'Country Park' complete with the Terror.

I had not been to this park in twenty years; when we were at school Maddy and I used to get the train out with our dogs and spend the afternoon.  Unfortunately we generally spent the afternoon hunting futilely for our poor West End dogs who would inevitably become giddy with the country air and run off.  Twenty years ago, it was the remnants of an old estate; woods, fields, lakes, moors, bogs and a smattering of ruined castles abounded.  There was the odd track to follow, but mostly one simply roamed at will.

These days it has been given an utterly unspeakable makeover.  There are cafes and restaurants, a garden centre, a children's park, and a visitor centre.  It's vile.  Ugly paths have been built to shepherd you round to their master plan , like a giant outdoor Ikea.  And the Great Unwashed have discovered it.

Thus as we bounded out the car, we were met by a sea of straining animal print lycra and unfortunate dye jobs.  The birdsong was drowned out by the sound of snotty wails and screams of "Chantal!!!  Dinnae dae that, or I'll batter ye!"  We attempted to make the best of it, and set off to explore lakes and castles undaunted, hoping the Great Unwashed would be too afraid of being more than 50 feet from a Lard Emporium to venture far from the café. 

We were mostly correct, although away from the café we found the woods thronged with surburban spaniel walkers, all called Jasper (dogs and owners), all merrily bounding along with sticks in their mouths, walking to heel and coming when called  (again, dogs and owners), while their Boden clad cherubs asked boring questions about trees.

We received the usual looks of disgust from the clean and tidy parents and children and dogs, as the Terror had just eaten a baby rabbit and still had bits of fur stuck to his mouth, and the boys had rolled in mud again before we set off.  Add to this that their nature lesson consisted of Farmer Boy giving a loud and detailed description of artificial insemination to the Beast, and I concur the Jaspers possible had a point. 

Slightly daunted by now, not least by the Terror's new trick he has worked out, where he winds his lead around another dog's legs, hobbling it effectively, so he can attack it, we ploughed on.  We reached the lake, where we discovered a stray gathering of Great Unwashed, roaming uncertainly along the shore, searching in vain for a KFC. 

Having done my parental duty by shouting "Don't fall in the lake, you will get wet" at the boys, I proceeded to ignore them as they promptly fell in the lake.  This was too much for the Great Unwashed, who clearly felt I needed to be warned of the dangers of the countryside, in the following exchange.

"Hoi! Us that yer weans?"*
"Yeeees."
"Thur in the watter."
"I know."
"But thur al' wet!"
"Yes.  Yes, they are"
"But it's no' safe."
"They can swim."
"Aye, but there's ducks an' that.  It's no' safe, they could ATTACK."
"I don't think they'll attack a duck?"
"NAAAAWWW, the ducks'll peck them an' that.  Could huv thur eyes oot."

At this point I noticed the Terror had lifted his leg on her leopard print nylon pantaloons, and I beat a hasty retreat, leaving the boys to their fate with the killer ducks. 

Having fished the boys from the lake further along the shore and agreed that yes, they were fucking wet, really, what did they expect, we proceeded to the ruined castle.  Here we found another pocket of Unwashed, possibly drawn to the man made structure in the hope of Pot Noodles. 

The boys poked disconsolately at the ruins; I have forced them to frolic on many ruins lately and their frolicking enthusiasm was waning.  Luckily the Terror cheered them with some impromptu cabaret when a very fat and very stupid King Charles spaniel waddled over to try and be friends.  Outraged by its presumption, the Terror dispensed with all normal dog fighting niceties and stood on his hind legs and hit the spaniel very hard on the nose.  Clearly stunned and surprised, both by the attack and the nature of it, the spaniel stood there whimpering, so the Terror hit him again.  And again.  And again.  Oh how we laughed!  Till we saw the large and angry owner bearing down on us, and once again, we ran away (we seem to spend a lot of time running away).

*"I say!  Are those your darling moppets there perchance"
"Yeeees"
"They do appear to be frolicking somewhat in the lake"
"I know."
"I expect they may be a trifle dampish?"
"Yes.  Yes, they are"
"Have you no concerns for their safety and well being?"
"They can swim."
"Jolly good, but I say, what if there's a duck attack?"
"I don't think they'll attack a duck?"
"Oh gosh no, a duck might maraud, could have their eyes out."

My Soviet Life

The fucking piece of shit boiler packed up once again. It was all too too Soviet for words.  I had to lug buckets of coal and we had to wash in the sink with flannels and kettlefuls of hot water (well, the children did, I drove to the very expensive gym I pay a fortune not to go to every month, which made me feel virtuous and healthy, even though I'd only had a shower).

I had to ring for a Little Man to fix it, because I am afraid of the boiler and fear tampering with it will cause it to explode and leave a smoking crater where my house used to be, which would be a dreadful waste of all my adorable Laura Ashley cushions.  The DC is also afraid of the boiler, I can tell, because as soon as it breaks down he sanctions calling in a Little Man, instead of insisting on trying to fix it himself first, and only giving in and calling the Little Man when he has broken it good and proper, before running away and hiding and leaving me to lie to the Little Man that it was like that when I found it, and I don't know what happened to it, which is what usually happens when things break.

So I rang the call centre and did the usual dance of being left on hold for three hours while a woman with a voice that was clearly supposed to be calming, but instead made me want to punch her repeatedly in the face, assured me how important my call was to them, before the fucktard on the other end insisted that there was absolutely no way he could give me any sort of idea when the engineer might arrive, other than 'before 5.30'. 

Now I try to be nice to people in call centres, I really really do, I realise that sitting in a soulless beige box wearing a nasty plastic headset, having your soul slowly crushed to death while angry middleclass women shriek "We put a fucking man on the moon, HOW can you not give me any idea whether the Little Man will be here in the morning or afternoon, WHAT AM I GOING TO DO ABOUT THE SCHOOL RUN???????" at you, probably isn't anyone's dream job.

Despite my best efforts to remember the soul crushing and the germ infested head sets and be pleasant and courteous, occasionally I am faced with a total dickhead whose only power over anyone is not telling me when the fucking engineer is going to arrive and my God the little bastard is going to milk every ounce of enjoyment from it that he can.  So, having pleaded, begged, sobbed and threatened, I gave in and accepted that the engineer would be here at some time before 5.30pm.  And thus the Terror and I sat down to wait.  Well, I sat down. 

The Terror insisted on doing a credible impression of The Wall of Death around the sitting room before I tired of his antics and kicked him outside, where he searched in vain for something to tear limb from limb.  Alas, his scorched earth policy with regard to the local wildlife has rather back fired, news of his murderous ways have spread and not a cat nor a rabbit nor a pheasant dares venture into the garden anymore.  Even the starlings have departed for safer shores.

Finding nothing to kill, he came in to demand walkies to fresh pastures where there are new things to kill, but I was still sitting slumped in my chilly Soviet despair, unable to leave the house, yet gripped by a strong desire to don an unflattering headscarf and trudge somewhere to queue for bread and beetroot, and search for black market vodka.  I expected Dr Zhivago to burst in at any moment and berate me for letting the fire go out, and then I would weep there was no coal and he would run off with a blonde binty and leave me in the snow, all alone, all alone, poor me, with only my beetroots and vodka to comfort me. 

I was so deep in my world of Soviet gloom, that I toyed with opening the emergency Smirnoff to add some authenticity, but luckily I remembered in time what had happened when Maddy accidently got plastered whilst waiting for an engineer to come and fix something (she had only meant to have a little drinky to cheer herself up about the water pouring through her sitting room ceiling, but it was so nice she had another.  And another.  Then flung open the door filled with extravagant bonhomie, shouted "Hurrah, fix my house my good man" then had a total breakdown when he told her he would have to come back tomorrow with 'parts' to complete the fixings.  Her husband arrived home to find Maddy sobbing uncontrollably at the kitchen table while the utterly terrified engineer mumbled 'there there' and Damien and Angelica dismantled the television to 'see if he could fix THAT').

Instead of opening the vodka, I Sovieted the Terror, adorning him with a suitable headscarf, which he tore off and ate, which seemed to cheer him up.  And so we continued to wait.