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A car journey to remember

Now this madness has been developed in my aunt, a woman of minimal breasts and a monumental love of exercise.

A clean freak, a tad neurotic, always screaming, typically middle class: ‘Not Fairy Liquid, we must use ECO’.

This madness is best encompassed into the she has relationship with her children:

I went to Henley- on-Thames, (‘never forget the ‘On –Thames’) We had decided to take the children to Tesco, Waitrose must have been closed, (as she says ’it’s good for the children to mix with all members of the community.’)

Harry is sitting quietly in the back of the car, when he proceeds to tell his mother, in a worried tone, that he is thirsty and has drunk some blue liquid in the back of the car.My aunt asks  what the fluid is, Harry says ‘windscreen cleaner.’

Now I am oblivious to the impact this statement will have, so when my aunt does an emergency stop and fly’s the car to the side of the road, I am more than shocked. She then starts screaming ‘How much did you have?’  (She takes after my mother, only dogs could hear this high pitched shriek without wincing.)
From the Supernanny I've watched, this type of behaviour from parents is frowned upon, but understandable. Now Harry explains to us that he put a little bit in his hand and licked it. I am content that everything will be fine. So I reassure Sophia ‘don’t worry, Harry is fine.’ Sophia seeks comfort in her mother and is rewarded with ‘Well I don’t know Sophia, Harry could DIE.’ I am leaving out the expletives because there were too many to be written down. 

The episode of adult lunacy was ended when we reached Tesco, it was clear Harry hadn’t drunk much at all. In Tesco my little cousin states ‘Oh mum, my legs hurt’ to which my aunt replies, ‘Are they numb Harry, can you feel them? Oh God!’ Harry walks off to the sweet isle completely oblivious of the effect he has had on the three women staring after him. One shaking with anger, one crying with fear of her little brother’s iminent death and the third has lost the capability to hear.

Modern Day Grandma

Now in this blog I feel like I have unfairly (a matter of opinion I am sure) flogged my mother. So I have decided to bring in the woman who made the subject of my recent blogs possible, my grandmother! And aunts beware, you are most definitely next.

My Grandmother is far from the tubby 80 year old, cake baking, lovable Grandma many of my friends claim they have. She never has been, and I highly doubt she ever will be. In fact last weekend I arrived in Margate to find she has dyed her hair, the soft colour of honey? Nope, pink highlights amongst the purple mop of hair. Very in, and makes me feel like the tubby 80 year old. Her eccentricities continue with the Hippy clothing and lifestyle. She is the kind of woman who to save time will put her clothes on over her pyjamas, the closest bush is always considered a bathroom, and any stray dog (both animal and man) is always welcome in her home.

However, amongst the youthful looks and free lifestyle is a madness that could have only developed with age. My Grandma has a passion for rocks, all rocks, any rock. In fact if I smashed up a brick, leaving the mess on the side of the road, within about ten minutes my grandma’s sixth sense would have kicked in, and she would be witnessed placing the shards delicately into her handbag. The next day I would arrive to find that smashed up brick artfully decorating a wall or mantelpiece.

You may also see my Grandmother searching through rubbish tips or stealing the furniture people leave outside their houses. All in the name of recycling!

'Excuse Me'

Daily trip into town, sun shining, slight breeze; by all counts a beautiful day.

Until, I enter Tesco.

I’m walking around the isles, checking out the best deals on Cheddar cheese (I only like Mild, so that can limit my choice) when I hear a male voice speak the three words no self-respecting 22 year old female ever wants to hear …. ‘Excuse me SIR.’

Now I would have understood this slight misunderstanding, if 1) I had short hair 2) I had a beard or 3) I hadn't been wearing a skirt. But no, I was in a skirt, legs bare (and not hairy, I had shaved!) hair down; long and curly, with some make up. This is where my embarrassment hit levels I still hadn't fully experienced in adult life. For a second time the Tesco employee proceeds to look me square in the eye, and he says ‘Excuse me sir.’ I look around, completely forgetting the Cheddar Cheese, hoping to spy a gentleman in the vicinity. No such luck! Had I forgotten to bleach my tash? No I did it about a week ago. Legs?  They were hairless. Hair chopped off during the night? Nope it was still present. Gruff voice? I don’t remember speaking! Of course this is when I started to wonder; how can I make myself look any more feminine? I've pondered over this question with friends, and they have all agreed that a boob job is the only thing to be done. I happen to like my below average sized breasts, I can run and they don’t move. One of the many perks of having grapes for breasts.

All in all this experience taught me one thing. If someone says ‘Excuse me sir’, and you’re a female, just assume that they aren't talking to you, and if they continue this persistence in questioning your gender then telling them to fuck off, may not help the situation, but it made me feel better. 

All in a name

Emmaline Emerald Bentley and Fenella Rosemary Bentley. We sound like we’re about to be coronated or that we are the horse riding porn stars of Sluts find their Suitors.

When asked why my mother decided to crown us with these marvelously middle class (reaching above themselves) names, she said ‘Well, darling, I want you to be remembered.’ Now let’s stop right there. This little gem of motherly affection has definitely confirmed my remembrance, but NOT, for the name Fenella, no, no, no. Vanilla and Fanny are the two that people really enjoy shouting down corridors … at work. Who knew humour could be so juvenile?

My sister Emmaline on the other hand, that’s not caused as many problems, but maybe that’s because ‘Emmaline’ is not my sisters real name, her name is in fact just Emma. But my beloved mother, after our peer in- peer out father had done his last bout of peering, decided to rename Emma, Emmaline. In fact it took one of my sister’s boyfriends six months before he realised that Emmaline Bentley was not his girlfriend’s name at all!

All living under pseudonyms for no reason whatsoever, the madness which is my family, has now been passed on to the next generation, it really is an endless cycle.

Then again dear readers, my luck isn't so bad, I have a friend named Richard Seamen, a careers adviser called Bruce Woodcock, and a professor crowned Gavin Mountjoy ….

The joy a name can bring. 

The Airport

Airports, I spend a lot of my time in them, wandering round and round every now and then getting the urge to jump on to the baggage carousel. Let’s face it we've all wanted to.  But from your first holiday you are warned that this seemingly fun piece of machinery is actually a death trap. Parents like to ruin everyone’s fun! I remember telling my mother that I thought it looked like a moving cat walk, she replied’ Oh darling that’s exactly why I don’t let you on there. No point inspiring false hope.’

Now it has been a while since I've been on a plane with my family, I try to not to enter into small, 20 thousand feet off the ground spaces with them. I feel panicked for some reason. So anyway, my step dad ‘kindly’ takes us all on holiday to Turkey. We arrive at the airport, mum’s arm has magically started to ache, she suffers from tennis elbow, ironically the only thing she can do with her arm, ‘suffering from tennis elbow’,  is play tennis. No cleaning, hoovering? ‘God no’ Ironing? May I dare say it ’Oh terrible for my arm’, carrying her suitcase the five meters from the parked car to inside the airport? ‘Darlings, darlings, it’s my elbow again, it really does crop up at the most convenient times. Tennis elbow is such an affliction’ I take that as a mistake, but knowing my mother as well as I do…   So I pick up her bag and we all go into the airport.

We line up at the check- in, my mother is beginning to turn that ashen grey colour after twenty minutes without a cigarette. Then the moaning begins and we are in the realm of the five stages of nicotine withdrawal

1: Denial: ‘I don’t really even like smoking, I only do it socially’

2: Anger:  ‘It’s ridiculous. This is a violation of our human rights! If I want a bloody cigarette, I’ll bloody well have one!

3: Bargaining: ‘Now look, Darling no one’s around, just us, my family don’t mind. I’ll even give you one? No one needs to know’ (My mother is flirting with the female check-in assistant, smouldering eyes, that begin twitch every now and then, hair that's slowly beginning to frizz.)

4: Depression: I just feel so, so, so … (she starts to tear up, my step dad is oblivious, I’m going bald and my sister is ready to bite my mum’s arm off)

5: Acceptance: ‘Oh Karen gave me an electronic cigarette I’ll just have to use that for now’

This is before we are out of the queue for the check-in and these stages are repeated on an hourly cycle.

Now my mother begins to recover, we are placing, or should I say Jem, Emma and I are placing the bags onto the belt when the check- in assistant begins to go through her safety questions. Now most people say 

‘No, we haven’t got any of those things in our bags.’ As we all know my mother is not ‘most people.’ She replies ‘Well, of course I haven’t got a gun, or drugs, or any kind of illegal implement in my bag. But I cannot answer that question on the behalf of my family. Fenella? Do you have any of these items in your bag hmmmm?’ Her face is waiting for an answer, whilst inferring that I have indeed got some form of illegal substance in my luggage. I say 'no, nothing like that in my bag at all' and laugh in what I perceived to be nonchalant and sophisticated manner. 

 However, there and then my bag is searched. The last time we went on holiday my mother took 3oz weights in her hand luggage, so she could ‘do arm exercises on the plane’ and was most upset when security removed these from her. Of course, now it’s me being searched my mother states ‘Well darling, sometimes these things happen. I mean some may say it’s a breach of human rights, but I really don’t believe in all that rubbish.’

Another fun filled family holiday off to the best of starts! 

Driving Lessons

Red, Yellow, Green.

‘Okay so take your foot lightly off of the break, whilst keeping your other foot on the clutch, press on the acceleration and move from neutral into first gear.’

Well isn't that wonderful; about five words of that sentence I don’t understand. I am learning to drive, and like we all know, the more you practice  the better you will get. I just have to stop texting my driving instructor telling her ‘I’m ill, my granddad’s gone into hospital, it’s snowing outside. I’m pretty sure she knew the last one was a lie, as she lives about 15 minutes up the road.

I decide to ask my mother for some wise words of encouragement and she tells me that driving is like ‘no not riding a bike, but like having sex.’ Yes this is the analogy she chose to use. ‘Darling, just like with a man, you have to know when to accelerate and when to break, too early and you miss the end of the road and too late you stall.’ Again the sex - car analogy makes no sense to me whatsoever, but she continues…  ‘Imagine you are coming to the end, you have made your signal, checked the mirrors so you know what’s coming up behind you’ Dear God! I am in severe physical pain,’ you move down from third gear, to second, then into a nice steady, but powerful nonetheless first’ My mother at this point winks, not to me, but to my step dad, the pain is becoming more excruciating, ‘and you press your foot lightly on to the break, whilst simultaneously adding pressure to the clutch. If you do everything with plenty of time and in the right order, then, well you know!’

I am momentarily stunned into silence by the power of this mental image. Even laser surgery won't be able to remove this moment from the inner layers of my mind. I now wonder whether I need more practice with sex or driving. I’m pretty rusty at both; the only difference is for £40 I get to drive a car for 2 hours, and If I’m not feeling it I can use the excuse ‘I have a headache’ and not feel guilty.

For those of you learning to drive good luck and I hope my mother’s knowledgeable words will stay with you forever… as they have done me.