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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. 

Meeting the boyfriend 

My mother, my step father, add in myself and a new boyfriend, what do you get? Well you can pick from, finding both your parents stoned dancing around the living room or walking in on them having sex in the front garden hammock, or a room full of post-its? Not expecting the last option? Well, why would you? You’re relatively normal. When your boyfriend or girlfriend comes over for the first time, your parents have probably laid out tea and biscuits, or gone out for a meal? Yeah, I wish. So Timothy (we’ll call him that to protect his identity) comes over, this is the latest edition in a very short line of men that I’ve decided to bring home. In fact, I don’t even think if they all stood back to back it could be defined as a ‘line’ more like an obstruction on a really narrow pavement that you would have to manoeuvre around. He’s nice, tall, dark haired, greenish eyes. So my parents, being on their best behaviour, after many occasions of not being, decide we should go out for a meal. A little restaurant by the sea. Idyllic some might say. Beautiful views, lovely food and the company previously mentioned. All you could ask for. But of course with all of those things comes conversation, and this is where I’m sure you’ve noticed most social occasions seem to go from good to horrendous. Maybe that’s just me.

‘Darling, you never told me how handsome Timothy was, and his arms are so big, his hands look like they know what to do.’ We aren’t in the ladies; we haven’t gone to the bar. We are at the table. My mother is saying this to Timothy. She is stroking his hand. He deals with it well, the usual, ‘Oh Mrs Bentley haha’ bit pink in the face. I no longer get embarrassed, I just sigh, and ask Dad to pour me some wine, I don’t even drink!  Dad doesn’t beat around the bush, he goes directly for the balls, literally, ‘So Timothy, you’re having sex with my daughter, I hope you’re using protection. What is it you young kids say.’ Don’t say it. ‘No protection. No fornication’ Well that was actually quite refreshing! I feel at this point that I should save Timothy ‘Yes Father. Thanks for bringing that up.’ I’m now drinking from the bottle. Mother continues to stroke Timothy’s hand, and if I just, yep she is also stoking his leg with her foot. Dad is oblivious. Can I be drunk already? Or maybe I’m about to faint?

‘So darling, how’s work? My work is wonderful, been working so hard, haven’t I sweetie?’ Dad nods. Oh, sorry I didn’t say, mum’s work consists of coffee, tennis, more coffee, picking up the dog poo, and running around the garden screaming the two words I fear more than anything ‘processional caterpillar.’ ‘Yeah mum works going well, you know it can be hard work but …’ I’m interrupted by a noise that only dogs can hear, my mother’s screech. Dad is still oblivious ‘Well darling, you can’t get anywhere without hard work. I mean look at me, how do you think I got here?’ Hmm ohh I have so much that I could say, but to save the world from WW3 I refrain. ‘Yeah mum, I know, just got to keep working hard.’ ‘Yes sweetheart, but don’t forget to play hard’ she winks at me, the kind people do when they can’t wink, one whole side of her face lifts towards the sky, her head tilts to the right, mouth wide open. She laughs, dogs are howling everywhere.

My 22nd birthday was two weeks ago ....

Birthdays, now this is a day which is similar to the famous Marmite advertisement, you either love them or hate them!  At home birthdays consist of ALL my parents’ friends, who have decided that on this special day, the day I entered into this world, quite pink, with masses of dark hair (not much changed there), that they must come to our home and celebrate. And that is what they do, in fact it’s become so much of a tradition, they now do it without my presence, me being at University. So on 27^th January, I receive a phone call from my mother, usually around 3pm, she has already called the previous day to check that my birthday is tomorrow and that she hasn't missed it, ‘well you know darling, I am terribly busy, those balls wont drink themselves.’ I tend to assume she means coffee. So I receive this phone call, and like all birthday phone calls they start off with the best intentions ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU, HAPPY BIRTH’ oh you know the rest Foo, (yes my mother called me Fenella, and then decided to really fuck me over with the nickname Foo.)

So the conversation goes along in that vein, how has your day been so far, do you have a boyfriend, are you sure you’re not a lesbian, it really is fine, I've tried it, not that bad really, what are you going to do with the rest of your life and where do you intend to live. After that begins the motherly disbelief that you can be twenty two years old; well it’s all passed by so quickly, drugs are such a lifesaver, really don’t know why the government worries so much! After this of course we all know what comes next; well darling I must go you fathers been following me around the garden, remember to thank him for the presents, not that he chose them, anyway darling, love you.

 I always wonder why people do that, he is right behind her; literally can hear every word she says. Then it’s on to my stepfather and he has also joined the celebrations and now sounds as if he’s swallowed large quantities of alcohol … 

So Bloggers, I've decided to stick to what I know, and one this I know really well are my friends and family ... and when do these people show themselves to us most clearly, well that has to be Christmas ..... 

Christmas at my house usually consists of 8 bottles of wine, 3 cases of beer, 2 bottle of vodka, 1 bottle of gin, a variety of soft drinks and a box of celebrations. The night ends when all of these drinks have been devoured … and then we bring out the shots. As the teetotal member of the family, with the occasional glass of wine (to get me through the evening), I witness all of the bad behaviour. The most potent memory I have is of Uncle Chrissy, (a loveable Irish rogue verging on the middle class and reaching it through his continual use of the word cunt) dancing, as what I can only describe as a steroid hooked chicken. His arms flailing, red face bouncing to the music, with the occasional kick in the air. An image I will always treasure. My mother has a glazed expression; eyes almost shut, with her mouth slightly open, reminding everyone, in a very slurred voice ‘I love you all so much.’ The hostage, we call our step father now begins his dance moves, a mixture of yoga and cage dancing, being 6ft 3 he tends to look like an over active Christmas tree. By now we are all displaying our favourite moves, my sister puts on the rave dance look with my aunt, I bob side to side, and occasionally copy those around me (I do a mean drugged up chicken). Basically it’s a festive time, not so much about the birth of Jesus, but we are definitely celebrating. There is always a drama, always someone wailing at the side hoping to be noticed. But the next year we do it all over again, so it can’t ever be that bad!

Merry Christmas,

Love from the mad house.