Tuesday 14 February 2012

In Which Modesty is Desperately Chaste

Once upon a time there lived a young girl who, in order to protect her privacy, we shall henceforth refer to as Netsirk, which is her real name spelled backwards. Before she got a real job in Notgnillew she worked on an orchard with her mother, also known as Mum, and I shall also spell that backwards to protect that fine woman's reputation.

The following story did not unfold at the mother's current workplace and unless my memory serves me incorrectly, the address was strictly highpathetical.

Anyway, this once-upon-a-day turned out real hot and Netsirk was sweltering in thick grey trackpants. Eventually she could stand it no longer and was about to faint under the vines.
"Why didn't I wear shorts?", groaned the daughter for the nineteenth time.
"Look Netsie", her mother said in total exasperation, "There is noone around for miles except you and me so just work in your undies, for goodness sake".

"Shall I?", Netsie asked hesitantly but then came to her senses and, before you could say 'Derierre', had pulled off those horrible thick grey trackpants. All of a sudden she was flitting from vine to vine like a chirpy fantail, her secateurs flying through those kiwifruit tangles as if caught up in a tornado.

The liberated lass did take the precaution of draping her horrible thick grey trackpants over a nearby wire in case someone, like a certain Slovakian tractor-driver, should chance along. It was very important to her that, in but a flash of flesh, she could reclaim her modesty.

"Mum", the daughter said happily, " It is such a wonderful and free feeling wearing just undies out here in the glorious outdoors!".
"Oh, that's very nice indeed", replied the mother, "But you call them undies? Looks like a sling-shot to me".

At 2.55pm Mum suggested they start heading back to the Smoko-Room and that is when dear little Netsirk lost a garment and her mind at precisely the same time. Frantically she searched the overhead-wires for those ugly grey trackpants but how futile the effort for they were gone! Completely gone. In fact, they were as gone as Micheal Jackson and in circumstances equally mysterious.

How poor little Netsie ranted and raved, hollered and panicked! Oh, how desperately she longed to go to Smoko and get a nice cold refreshing drink with her mother but of course her buttocks couldn't turn up in only a sling-shot. The rest of her was decent enough but totally embarrassed buttocks cannot be left behind, if you will pardon the pun.

So, crazed with excessive emotion, Netsie got on the quad-bike and tore round and round the entire orchard block calling out for her track-pants as if they had ears maybe. Her mother kept right on working as there was no point both of them getting hysterical.

It was 3.07 pm now and Netsie screeched to a halt in front of her mother.
"Momsie! Please help me find my pants!", she begged desperately.
So Momsie took off her leather pouch, pulled her teeshirt away from her waist and surprise, surprise, Momsie gave painless birth from her navel to her daughter's ugly grey trackpants.

Yes, that twisted woman had hidden them up her tee-shirt and secured their invisiblity by squashing them flat against her stomach with her waist-pouch.

Netsie stared in disbelief at her ugly grey trackpants and didn't know whether to laugh or sob so she wrestled her mother to the ground.

"Where is da Crazy-Lady?, asked a certain Slovakian tractor driver when Netsirk finally ran into the Smoko-Room just as the others were leaving.

"Oh, she's a bit tied up", explained Netsirk and gulped down a Coke.

And apparently Momsie was.

Saturday 4 February 2012

"Goodnaht Coss-Boy"

When Cossack just wants to blob after a hard day's work he is a bit undiscriminating when it comes to what he blobs in front of. Basically, he will watch any old crap on TV and I get bombarded with shoot 'em ups and car-chases and sirens while trying to pour my entire heart, soul and guts into a blog here in the office. I tell you, it contaminates my train of thought something dreadful.

Now, so as not to be unfair to Coss, let me make it quite clear that, unlike some social deviants, he can differentiate between TV and real life. He is not a serial killer or weirdo but I truly believe he would intervene if I were being attacked. He would leap on my assailant after only about two minutes hesitation and chop his head off with a shiny sabre, thereby making him a monogamous killer only. That is not nearly as bad as a serial one.

However my spouse can be ungrateful as well as heroic. Take this morning for instance when he searched forever for his vitamins before finally accosting moi as to their whereabouts.
"Oh, your vitamins. Coss, I've simplified things in the medicine cabinet by putting everything in alphabetical order. So your vitamins will be near the back behind the Ural effervescent sachets and Vermox worm tablets but in front of the Zovirax tube. I reckon I'd make someone an incredible P.A with my organisational skills"

"Yeah, you may as well get paid for what you are good at", Cossack muttered and then made a joke that he laughed at all by himself about me being an expert 'Pain in the Ass".

That's when I grabbed him by the ear and escorted him to the sofa.
"When couples have been married as long as us, Coss, they need to bond more so sit down."

His eyes lit up with anticipation of who-knows-what until I snuggle-buggled up to him and started up the first of a whole series of  'The Waltons' I had hired from the library. Believe it or not, Coss had never watched a single episode in his entire life.

No "Goodnaht John-Boy" and "Goodnaht Mary-Ellen"  featured in Cossack's childhood memory-bank. I knew there and then that this serious deprivation was responsible for his corrupted head and he needed urgent re-programming. The Waltons, that large and loving and poor but rich family who resided so blissfully beneath Walton Mountain were exactly what the doctor ordered.

Coss stared at the screen in disbelief at first when a raggedy bunch of kids in denim dungarees ran around the screen but he and I watched three episodes without interruption, I kid you not.

When Elizabeth's sick racoon died he wiped away a tear which I think was genuine or it may have been a result of me twisting his head so hard in order to eyeball him and check whether or not he deserved an 'Emotional Warrant Of Fitness'.

When Grandpa got merry on the Baldwin sisters' "Recipe", Coss laughed his head nearly right off and when Mary-Ellen ran away I noticed a little paternal concern contort his features just as if it were his own daughter chasing a sweet-singing minstrel into the sunset.

Honestly, all the appropriate emotions were forth-coming from my Coss so right now I am recording the miracle in this very Blog and thinking smugly how I personally had transformed him into a man who values all that is wholesome and beautiful..

"Good naht, Coss- Boy!", I called affectionately from around the office door to the sofa.
'Good naht, Bernadette", he replied affectionately from the sofa to the office.

But then I saw him grab the remote and pollute the precious moment with, "Well, raht now I maht just watch me a bit of good ol' violence".

And the living-room was assaulted with a blood-curdling scream with enough decibels to raise the corpse of Grandpa Walton.