Poor Chris, he can’t stick me when I have “the com”. Poor me, I can’t stick watching certain television programmes (recorded, by necessity) unless I have “the com”. And if you’re not one hundred percent sure what “the com” is, well, neither am I but they used the expression quite a lot in Crimson Tide, the 1995 film (starring Denzel Washington and Gene Hackman) about a mutiny on an American nuclear submarine, during which “the com” was frequently passed (or taken by force). Speaking of which, we nearly had a mutiny in our lounge room last night. I’ll let you guess what programme we were watching… and no, don’t jump the gun (or nuclear missile), it wasn’t Crimson Tide.

I have the com. Fast forward (at top speed) five minutes of glitzy razzle-dazzle cavorting; slow down fast forward a tad in order to see in a brunette wearing black (the viewing public objects to her wearing any other colour) and a blonde in a white evening dress – they are being escorted down the steps on either side of the stage; slow down to normal speed to watch the blonde simper into the camera and the brunette crack a pre-prepared joke; fast forward (top speed), ah, wrong button – missed a whole chapter – good, the contestants have made their entrances. On normal speed, three men and a woman appear – they are twirling, extending, hip-wiggling and preening their way to the judges station.

“Oh no!” I exclaim, “Why do the judges have to do that?” (They used not to.)

Fast forward rapido for one minute, miss the first bit and go back, ah – the golden ball! The celebrity rapper doing ballroom (or is he a DJ?). Remarkable performance, so remarkable that the entire audience is on its feet.

“Look at them all on their feet,” remarks the blonde, waving her hand…

Fast forward to judges remarks:

“Marvellous”, “Marvellous”, “Try holding your little finger up a bit..”

“Boo, boo, boo,” the audience booms.

Fast forward to the scores – a seven (dagger looks from another of the judges and boos from the audience), an eight from daggers, and so on… Thank goodness I have the com. Fast forward to the Cha Cha Cha (or is it the Samba?).

“Just look at the audience on their feet for you,” commiserates the blonde, putting her arm around the morning television presenter.

“How ridiculous, she’s going to cry again!” I can’t hold back, even though I know Chris hates my commentary.

I can sense Chris wincing.

“You were fantastic, but there wasn’t an awful lot of Cha Cha Cha,” says one of the judges.

“Yes you were fantastic,” gushes the blonde, practically hugging the morning television presenter, “aah, are you crying?”

“There you are. She is crying!” I turn to Chris.

He says nothing.

Need I add more? They swanned and they gushed, and that was just the judges; the celebrity contestants were talented, wonderful and perfectly precious. I imagine you get the picture, which is more than poor Chris does when I have the com. I was fast forwarding through the fourth lots of tears (from one of the male contestants on this occasion) after twenty-thousand standing ovations and fifty thousand fulsome compliments, and, admittedly, I may have cursed or sneered for the umpteenth time, when Chris grabbed the com from out of my hands.

“Why do you bother to watch it at all if you hate it so much?” Chris asked in a raised voice and added, “I’ll switch it off!”

“I can’t help it if I’m more discerning than you,” I grabbed back the com.

I fast forwarded, rather adeptly, I might add, until the end of the final dance, when I willingly relinquished the com and asked Chris to turn off the recording (I don’t know how to turn off our modern television). The control room had been a rather frosty place after the attempted mutiny but with the cheesy grin show over, and the com on the coffee table, there was nothing more to be miffed about. Luckily neither of us went ballistic.

“I don’t suppose you’d like to play a few games of Backgammon before going to bed?” Chris inquired by way of an olive branch.

The cold war was definitely over.

And incidentally, I still want to watch the final next week, but you know – I must have the com.

Carlos’ ice-cream van is parked at the side of a road. Lights are flashing, music is playing and a big queue of excited kids stretches down the street. But there is no sign of Carlos. An astute policeman (they do exist), who is walking down the road, wonders if something is amiss. Where is Carlos? Why is he not serving the children with ice-creams?

He goes over to the van and peers over the high counter. He spots Carlos on the floor. Lying extremely still, Carlos is covered from head to toe in chocolate sauce, strawberry sauce, nuts, coconut, hundreds and thousands, a chocolate Flake and little jelly bits.

“Get back kids,” the policeman directs the children away from the scene.

He steadies himself with a hand on the counter and he takes out his mobile phone.

“S…S…Sarge, g…, get, someone down here quick,” he stutters. “I’m afraid it’s Carlos, the ice-cream man… He’s topped himself!”

Below are some photographs from Carlos’ family album.

Where is Superwoman when you need her? But perhaps it would have been too much to ask, after all, it was nearly midnight and I was on my way to bed when it happened. You see I had already turned the lights out when I went back to the kitchen to turn off the central heating, and I hadn’t turned on the stair lights because the men in orange were working on the sea wall and might have been distracted by seeing me in my convict-style stripey onesie through our glass front door. Ah, if only I hadn’t been such a prude; if only I hadn’t bothered to switch off the heating (which was about to turn itself off anyway), or my hands hadn’t been full; if only I hadn’t been wearing socks on the carpet, or I hadn’t been in such a hurry.

Luckily (if you can call it luck), take-off occurred from the top of two stairs leading from the kitchen to the hallway… I went flying, head first, through the air like a long-jumper, still holding a glass of water and the newspaper; the water flew out but the cherished glass (one of a set of four – £2.99 at Trago Mills) remained in my hand until landing. It wasn’t the most elegant of landings (not that anyone could see): left knee first (number one brake), then right big toe (silly little brake) and right knee (auxiliary brake) before coming to a stop, accompanied by a thunderous thud and a scream, half-way down the passage.

As quick as a flash, Gordon (Chris) was beside me assessing the damage and administering paracetamols – the same beloved glass I had been so eager to protect from damage proved quite handy as he filled it quickly with fresh water. Despite wearing an all-encompassing onesie, the left brake pad had worn down to almost nothing, but it needed no immediate repairs; the little brake, initially thought to have been broken, might yet prove to be just be a clout on the nail; the auxiliary brake, which saw the least damage, will not be having a knees-up for a few days. Likewise, the gym and walks in the cold will go on hold.

So am I putting my feet up? Not exactly. I was trying to knuckle down to my work when Superwoman called and asked:

“Are my Christmas cards ready yet?”

I had forgotten. Now I could have asked her if she thought I was Superwoman, but I didn’t; I spent all afternoon making super Christmas cards.

Many thanks to Diana, one of my fellow bookworms, for lending me her joke book during our monthly book club meeting held this afternoon. But I’m not going to discuss Khaled Hosseini’s The Kite-Runner with you as I’ve I have already moved on to the joke book (much more humourous!). This one tickled my fancy…

Cutting the Ice

A drunk decides to go ice fishing, so he gathers his gear and goes walking around until he finds a nice big patch of ice. He heads into the centre of the ice and begins to saw a hole.

All of a sudden, a booming voice comes out of the sky.

“You will find no fish under that ice.”

The drunk looks around but sees no one. He starts sawing again. Once more, the voice speaks:

“As I said before, there are no fish under the ice.”

The drunk looks all around, high and low, but can’t see a single soul. He picks up the saw again and tries one more time to finish. Before he can even start cutting, the loud voice calls out again:

“I have warned you three times now. There are NO fish!”

The drunk is now flustered and somewhat scared, so he looks upwards and asks the voice:

“How do you know there are no fish? Are you God trying to warn me?”

“No,” the voice replies.

“Who are you then?” asks the drunkard, now really scared.

“I am the Manager of this ice rink.”

Superwoman, better known as Betty from Dawlish, had a rather exciting ride on the bus this morning. The sun was shining and she had the feeling she should be out in it (albeit on a bus for some of the time); and what finer place is there to visit than Newton Abbot on market day?

“May I sit next to you?” asked a tall gentleman with a cultured South African accent.

Now Superwoman was quite enjoying the comfort of occupying a whole seat (meant for two thin people) all to herself and yet, part of her pleasure in taking the bus, apart from taking a well-deserved rest from flying, is meeting new and interesting people.

“Certainly!” she answered, sitting up to attention. (“This could be interesting,” she thought to herself.)

“And I don’t suppose you’d let me hold your hand if I asked you?” the suave fellow suggested.

“I don’t mind if you do,” Superwoman was vastly amused, especially considering that she was in her Betty persona at the time.

The South African removed a glove and held her hand.

“My dear, your hand is warm,” he said admiringly.

“And yours is cold!” Betty laughed, careful not to break his fingers as she warmed his hand in her own.

“I hope we’ll meet again one day,” the charming chap shook Betty’s hand as he stood to get off at Teignmouth.

And on the phone later on….

“How old was he?” I asked.

“Oh, I don’t know – about eighty, or in his eighties, I suppose,” Mum replied, still laughing. “We didn’t discuss ages.”

“Ah, a toyboy! And did you arrange to meet again?”

“No, but… he knows I like to take the bus to Newton on a Wednesday…”

I hate wearing clothes, especially winter clothes – don’t you? Not that I’m by any means an exhibitionist; I simply hate the feeling of being cluttered up with big warm clothes (or, even worse, tight warm clothes). I’m happiest in a pair of shorts, skimpy sun-top and a nice tan – preferably, in the sunshine. The trouble is that I’m in England in the autumn.

At around twelve-thirty this afternoon I went into my bedroom in order to find an outfit to wear for a family gathering – a birthday party for my cousin, John, and his girlfriend, Annette (we are all the same age, but, sorry, we’re keeping tight-lipped about the exact figure). Talking about figures, one really does want to make a reasonable impression even though they are only family; you don’t wish to appear to have gone downhill too much in the months since you last saw your cousins, even if you have (it’s so hard to keep up the rigorous exercise in the colder weather!). In my mind’s eye I fancied I might wear slimming black trousers, a red top and a new cardigan in cream with black spots – that would go with my new red dufflecoat; it’s funny how awful it looked when I tried it on (not the coat – I didn’t get that far). Moments later I surveyed my reflection in the mirror: my white stretchy jeans looked plain odd somehow, though they were a hit last time I wore them. My favourite harem trousers were impossible – you can’t wear trainers or black ankle boots with harem trousers, or with cut-off jumpsuits…

By five past one, half the contents of my wardrobe were piled high on the bed. Chris called down from upstairs:

“Ten minutes and we must be off, Darling!”

“Okay!” I called back, which was quite optimistic because, at the time, I was stood only in my bra and pants.

In desperation, I tried to remember any combination that I used to look good in, and which still fitted. It seemed that I was in pink mode after all (how silly of me to have mistakenly thought it was red) and I settled for a pale pink Australian top, matching pink puff-sleeved cardigan and a pink jacket; on the bottom I wore black jeans and black boots, which reminds me… as if I need to be reminded…

Yesterday morning was yet another difficult time for me in the matter of what to wear. Luckily, or so I thought, I had found an old pair of black hipster jeans at the back of the bottom drawer; they were nice boot-leg jeans (rather than skinny “drainpipes”, which look good only on skinny drainpipes) and I reckoned they would go well with my red coat. I tried on the hipsters and found that they were a tad tight at the top and a bit of fat poked over the band – like a muffin top! I took them off and observed the dart at the back. In a jiffy I had them back on, minus the dart, and with three extra inches there was no sign of any muffin spilling over the top. I yanked them up as high as they would go, put on my coat and ran out to the car where Chris had been waiting.

It’s a good job I wore that dufflecoat. I found I could easily slip my hand inside every few seconds to pull up my trousers, which, indeed, I had to do every few seconds, but only whilst I was standing or walking (which is mostly what you have to do when you go shopping). I rather wished that my new coat was not such a bright colour; it’s hard to yank and pull inconspicuously at one’s trousers when one is wearing a red coat (or orange, if you share the same opinion as Chris).

I was going through some items in a sale rack at Tesco’s when it happened first; with my mind and hands fully occupied looking for bargains, I momentarily forgot there was a need to tug every three seconds, and before I knew it my hipsters had fallen off my hips and were half-way down my thighs. Fortunately, my dufflecoat is knee-length, and if anyone had noticed anything strange about my troosers, it would have been simply that they were rather more concertinaed than is usual for boot-legs. As inconspicuously as possible (wearing a bright red dufflecoat) I sidled over to a more secluded area, by the changing rooms door, and gave a deft yank using both hands.

The next time my troosers came down was when we brought all the shopping in from the car – two minutes with both hands full – but on that occasion I let them fall, concertina-style, all the way to the floor. I stepped out of them, leaving them like a relic from body-snatching aliens.

“That’s a good idea,” Chris said, “I think I’ll get changed into something more comfortable too!”

Chris, too, hates clothes.

And here are the lyrics to the Andy Stewart song from the early sixties…