When my kids were still quite young, probably around kindergarten
age, I got tickets to see Brian Ferry. The concert was in the grounds of
Petworth House, a 17th-century country house described as “A stately
mansion nestled in the South Downs housing the finest art collection in
the care of the National Trust.” The beautiful landscaped grounds were
designed in the 18th century by one of England’s most famous gardeners,
Capability Brown.
It really is a fabulous location for a concert. Everyone takes
elaborate picnics, setting up chairs and tables with tablecloths, proper
plates and cutlery, champagne glasses and ice buckets. I was given a ride by some friends and was crammed into their
child-friendly but completely uncool, 7-seater minibus. Our picnic
baskets overflowed with delicious food and ice buckets with champagne.
Everyone was in excellent spirits and even the appalling traffic didn’t
dampen our enthusiasm.
About 3 miles out of Petworth, the car almost
came to a complete stop as we inched along like a snail on valium. We
decided to start the party early by opening a bottle of bubbly – well,
it wasn’t often we got to let our hair down and forget about squabbling
children, wiping dirty bottoms or the overflowing laundry hamper of vomit-stained clothes. As the bubbles flowed, but the cars
didn’t, we opened a second bottle, along with the smoked salmon
appetisers. Our voices got louder and the jokes got ruder.
The conversation turned to another couple we knew who were from
extremely posh, well-to-do families. Someone mentioned that they were
surprised at this couple’s swearing and in particular how much the word
“fuck” was liberally sprinkled throughout their conversation, like
confetti at a funeral. Someone else admitted they privately called them
‘Lord and Lady Fuck’, prompting a rash of copycat behaviour.
“Would you mind awfully passing me the fucking smoked salmon?”
“Darling, please pour me another fucking glass of champagne.”
Another 30 minutes passed and still we crawled along, bumper to bumper. The swearing became a little less refined.
“Come on fuckwit, get a fucking move on, we don’t want to mish the fucking concthert.”
“The futhing parking will be full.”
Just then, as if manifested by the power of our cursing, who should
we see but Lord and Lady Fuck themselves, walking along carrying picnic
baskets with another couple I didn’t recognize. They lived a short
distance away in the middle of Petworth, in a beautiful house dating
back to the Doomsday era, and so had no need to sit in a stuffy, hot
snake of traffic, like some sort of toxic metal centipede.
I jumped up, spilling my glass of champagne that had been
precariously balanced in one of the 17 handy cup holders more suited to a
sippy cup than long-stemmed crystal.
“Oooh, maybe they would let uth park in their drive?” I slurred, stumbling over to the other side of the car.
“Oh, thuper fucking idea,” someone agreed.
“HowdoIopenthewindow?” I shook the latch, not able to make head nor tail of how it worked.
The person next to me picked up a cushion and whacked it against the
window, hitting the lock more by luck than judgement. With a whoosh it
slid open. Startled, I nearly fell out.
“Helllooooo,” I called, hanging perilously too far outside. “Are you going to the conthert?”
“Oh, hello Claire,” Lord Fuck replied, when he realized who the crazy person was screeching at him. “Yes, we are.”
Enunciating carefully, trying not to slur, I asked: “Can. We. Park. In. Your. Drive?” I smiled winningly.
The four of them stopped walking and turned to me, their eyes wide
with shock, as if I had suddenly pointed a sawn-off shotgun at them.
At that point, the long line of cars started moving, as if someone
had unblocked a drain. We moved off, our car kangarooing violently so I
hit my head on the window frame.
Rubbing my head, I turned to face my friends and was greeted with utter silence and the same look of shocked surprise.
“Whath? Why are you looking at me like that?” I asked, puzzled by the response.
The silence was broken by loud, hysterical laughter, all of them
holding their sides as they cackled and howled with mirth, tears rolling
down their red faces.
“W-what’s the joke? What’s tho funny?” I said, completely flummoxed, but giggling along with them.
“Claire, do you know what you just said?” My friend finally gasped, when he could stop laughing for a moment to speak.
“Yeth, of courth. I asked if we could park on their drive.”
“No! You didn’t!” He paused and grinned, his eyes gleaming. “What you actually said was: Can we fuck in your drive?!”
Hands over my mouth, cheeks flaming, I looked out the rear window and
saw Lord and Lady Fuck standing where we had left them, staring at our
disappearing car like it was an alien spaceship.
Crazy California Claire
The random thoughts of a mad woman!
Wednesday, July 5, 2017
Monday, April 11, 2016
Driving Dick Dastardly
My dad and
his wife, Margaret, and her granddaughter, Lucy, came to San Francisco on
holiday recently. Margaret’s daughter, Jo, had started a few months’ work
placement in the East Bay so it was a happy coincidence that I happened to live
nearby and, not to take it personally or anything, was available for chauffeuring and sherping duties.
While Jo was,
unfortunately, having to work (damn these companies with their stupid rules!), I
rashly offered to take Dad, Margaret and Lucy sightseeing. The only slight drawback
was that I own a tiny convertible mini and my hubby has a 2 seater Mercedes, neither
of which could be considered ideal for driving 5 people around! Luckily, my
daughter owns a more sensible 5 seater, 4 door car and, with the organizational
and peace-keeping negotiations of a highly-skilled NATO ambassador, I was able
to persuade her to lend it to me. She struck a hard bargain though and I was down
a complete inside/out cleaning valet and a full tank of gas each time!
My 80-year-old
father has a very bad knee so I organized a mobile scooter for him
at the last minute which, although it did break down into four parts, needed
Iron Man to manhandle them up the 2 flights of stairs each night into his 2nd
floor Airbnb apartment! Every time we went out, we would have to heave them down
the stairs and into the boot (trunk) of the car and then reassemble the damn
thing wherever we went. It obviously helped if Dad remembered to bring the
sodding key though.
Like Dick Dastardly from Whacky Races, he careered around at top speed,
whizzing along like he needed to get everywhere yesterday and complaining
loudly at other people on the sidewalk (“Get out of the way, you blithering
idiot!”). One person he bumped into very kindly suggested, as the back of his
legs were being mown down, that it might be good if my father could remove his
finger from the accelerator lever! And if
it hadn’t been for Lucy risking life and limb throwing herself in front of him
and grabbing the brakes, he would have driven straight into one of the
ornamental ponds at the Japanese Tea Gardens.
Despite the devilish
scooter, we had a lot of very lovely days out, and I somehow managed to keep my
patience and sense of humour despite the many, many miles (note to self: check with google maps next time of the
exact distance of your planned scenic drive instead of simply guessing) of the
beautiful Californian coastline, majestic redwoods, rolling Marin hills and Dad
complaining about my driving and demanding to know what the population was of every bloody
town we passed through.
(As a side
note, I am not entirely sure how population figures are calculated, but Stinson
Beach, for example, apparently has a population of 356, according to the sign
we passed as we entered the tiny picturesque seaside town. What happens when
someone dies or a baby is born or a gaggle of students move in? Does the local
sign-maker have to rush along and modify the number? Does someone go around
knocking on doors to find out how many people live there? Perhaps someone just
makes it up, based on how many surfboards or dog turds they see around the town
on any given day?)
My kids were
also happy to see some family and we had a number of very enjoyable meals
together, something that we all miss now that we live so far away from our relatives
in the UK. I just wish my 19-year-old son could have chosen a different occasion
to show off his burgeoning love life, as he proudly displayed his first shocking
red love bite for all to see!
And I won’t
go into the Fawlty Towers’ farce of Dad’s Airbnb apartment (let by an
over-sharing, non-stop-talking madwoman with hoarding issues, who hadn’t
cleaned or tidied, went under a false name and kept popping back to pick up something
she’d forgotten, nearly causing my Dad to have an aneurysm) as we would be here
all day, but we all agreed it was, at least, in a fabulous setting in the
Marina district of San Francisco. And you know what they say … location,
location, location!
I absolutely
LOVED having this time with my dad as I hardly get to spend any time with him now
that I moved 5,000 miles from my homeland. I have some wonderful memories and
my fabulous and extremely patient hubby and I really enjoyed being able to
entertain family in our home, but I must admit to the teeniest, tiniest bit of
relief that I am not having to drive down to San Francisco every 5 minutes and
can claim back my Fridays for writing.
Monday, March 7, 2016
My Critique Partner – Calling a Spade a Spade
I recently acquired a
critique partner. Is that the right term: acquired? Sounds a bit like a highly
sought-after object, like “I recently acquired that gorgeous red Ferrari” or “I
recently acquired an excellent pair of flab-flattening big girl panties”.
The highly sought-after is right, but I think she might object to
the object.
It has been a revelation.
We started off our new relationship with us both stating that we had the skin
of a rhinoceros
and we wanted brutal, your-butt-looks-big-in-that, honesty. I perhaps should
have thought a little more before making such a grand, sweeping gesture. “I
really want to improve my writing” I said bravely. (Some might say, stupidly.)
“Just say it like it is, give me what you’ve got.”
Well, what I’ve got, is a
giant dose of the clichés. Apparently, I write in overused, hackneyed phrases. Not
just occasionally, but all the sodding time. I am the proverbial cliché-queen.
I had no idea. When I got back
the first chapter of my memoir, it was like being back at school in my
dreaded German class. Instead of red pen slashing my poorly written essay, now
there were little ‘Comment’ bubbles exploding on the page, blasting my sins. Same
with the second and third chapters. By the fourth, the penny had finally
dropped and I thought, there’s no time like the present, and even though you
can’t please everyone, I really wanted to please my new critique partner. It was time to
buckle down and get back to the drawing board. I had been barking up the wrong literary
tree thinking that a cliché would work when, as it was gently explained to me
and obvious now in hindsight, hyperbole is the answer.
A few chapters on and I
was at my wits end, pulling out my hair trying to think up new and funny ways
to say the same old thing. I was between a rock and a hard place, bending over
backwards not to beat a dead horse with an old chestnut. But it looked like the
cat had got my tongue as writer’s block set in.
It was clear as a bell to
me that I had opened a can of worms by asking for such a no-holds-barred
critique. Not to be one to lie down like a dead dog with word fatigue, I
decided it was time to get this dog and pony show on the road. I was being
shown that the devil was in the details and, even though each fresh Comment bubble
drove me up the wall, I finally took the bull by the horns and it was full
steam ahead.
And wouldn’t you know it,
my critique partner was right on the money. She had hit the nail firmly on my
stubborn head. I decided it was no use crying over spilled clichés, so I weeded
them out like the proverbial bird pecking that pesky worm.
When the going gets
tough, the tough get going, so they say, and now that I used some of the tricks
up my sleeve, I was like a force of nature. And, wonders will never cease, I
actually preferred not using all the clichés. I had just been lazy. So much
easier to use one tired old phrase than to think up something witty and original.
I am pleased as punch because,
not to be fishing for compliments or anything, I feel my
writing is so much better.
Now that we finally see eye
to eye, I would like to say that she is one in a million and has jump-started
my enthusiasm for finishing my book. Thanks Partner :)
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