mamahog 'n the lets

down a little alleyway behind the wesley chapel. moss on the ever damp concrete, where the sun rarely shone, i'd let myself in. somehow inside was always bright. everything painted white. or variations thereof.

i drop my bag next to the figurines on the side, and head through to the kitchen. a frozen 'fresh' cream and jam sponge is defrosting on the table. bless her.
lift the lid of the chest freezer and pull out 2 rectangular butter sauce boil-in-the-bag fish. now where are the new potatoes?

the little net curtain in the widow is still and spotless, and the radio plays, though i can't be bothered to pay attention to what- 'golden oldies' i expect.

nanny's still at the oxfam shop, where she volunteers. there's a jumper and a tight red skirt in the bag that i bought from her earlier, when i popped in to get her order for tea.

i love this woman. and this place. i love this ancient orange flowery biscuit tin, that is never EVER empty.
god i do love biscuits.
i love these naff white china horses, and old fashioned paintings. i love the massive dictionary and scrabble board always within reach. and i love her old lady smell. similar to the one at the oxfam but cleaner and crisper and tinged with coal tar soap.

she's not my nanny by blood. she's my sisters but not mine.
she's the mother of the man i dislike thinking about more than any other.
but he is never ever mentioned. we never let that stop either of us.
she's my nanny by will.
she's still nanny. and now that i've left home and moved away and then back against my will and have to travel miles to school, she is my rock. my little haven of peace. and it suits her well.
this wonderful woman was divorced for a younger model years before. she's a good christian. a bright, cheerful, forgiving and caring woman. she helps. and never says a bad word. ever.

all we need is a little radio. hot tea and convenience food. countdown or scrabble and conversation from our wildly different lives. she tells me of choral recitals, her friends, her job her sister, her daughter, my sister. then i talk of hair dye and house parties. we are somehow both interested. and we smile. and we laugh.

laughed and smiled. when i visited her yearly once i'd left.
when i was pregnant and huge and wobbly.
when i brought my babies to meet her.
when she almost forgot who we were, but hid it quite well considering.

and i cried as i left.
never to see her again.
i knew.

i miss her. gone now for a year. my nanny.

*

so different from my gran. who died many years ago now, when i was only 15.
she with the fantastic food, meat and gravy pies, the only edible scrambled egg of my childhood, the buttery potatoes and seafood sometimes presented in shells.
and her marvelous frocks.
and getting up at 6am to take out her curlers, put on a sexy baby-doll and climb back into bed with papa.
she who convulsed on the floor to last of the summer wine and danced to burl ives and gave me asda stamps, and stationary to play office with.
and who pulled me out from the back of the sofa for masturbating and told me it would make me ill.
but who also let me dress up in her shoes and taught me that a girls should wear good moisturizer and be nice and smiley -never a bitch- as scowls are bad for the skin.
who took me to buy leather gloves, stylish tweed suits, and wore a deerstalker hat.
she who would laugh loud at the world in our kitchen and everywhere she went, and tell stories of women she still called by their maiden names 40 years on.

who died suddenly and young and refused to have her date of birth written on her cremated remains plaque. as she'd spent years, and good money concealing her age.

*

so different again from olwenorbetty. those inseparable maiden (great) aunts (papa's sisters) from my childhood, who outlasted them both.
those peculiar women who picked their teeth. and spoke low and funny.
who put me off lemon curd almost for life. -by very demonsterously sucking the knife and replacing it in the jar.
who's boobs somehow managed to come lower than their waists despite the rest of us all having AAcups or tissues shoved down our fronts.
who wore woolen stocking, and sandals. and unashamedly sported hair on legs, chins and upper lips. and who insisted on always kissing everyone wetly on the lips.
who always seemed confused.
and confused the young me. and us. and who's names i could never really tell from the other.
until now.
now that olwen's gone too. this july just passed. and i finally know which one travelled to asia and germany as a young nurse/midwife. which sister sent my mum and uncled-erek exotic presents and returned one day different, and odd.

and now betty is alone, and depressed. and still writes tragic yet hilarious, yet tragic letters. (like about how olwen used to perform midwifery on a bike, or how betty tried to kill herself in a bath) and a memoir, telling us how much she still misses her brother (the reason my gran took out her curlers and went back to bed- my papa), and now sister, and remembers a life not as much lived, as endured, feeling grateful for small mercies, yet heavy under their weight.

*

and now autumn is here again.
and the other generations of women in my family are all going about their business.
feeling the weather turn wet and cold and windy.
watching the leaves turn.
patching clingfilm over splits in terraces to stop the rain flooding the french women's flat downstairs.
tightening purse-strings for the cold winter to come, and for christmas presents we've yet to buy.
reading with their children, and thinking about how to clean the place up before the older generation comes to visit.
reading with their mothers and wishing they could watch some telly.
thinking about photos and frames, and ways to make sure we are not forgotten. and don't forget. how to keep ourselves and the women who helped shape us alive. for the next lot.
how to keep busy, and happy with all this weight.

i thought i liked autumn. it's colours, and smells, it's chestnuts, conkers and leaves to gather.

but i think i've been mistaken. maybe with the years it's just taken on another meaning.

in more recent years autumn makes me a little sad.

last year certainly did, for good/bad reason. and this year feels much the same. for no reason other than the feeling.
we've lost another 2 of our remarkable women since last autumn.

and today i can't help but wonder who, of all my family of women, i resemble the most.

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Labels: istanbulundercover, other., questionable past lives

or my inspiration, or my will to blog.

dear, dear me, i have been neglecting my underpants terribly.
and you.
many apologies.

i've been busy having work related drallemas, which almost resulted in a job change but morphed at the last second into a pay rise, lots more creative input and responsibility, and my own art room project, in which the whole school will be invited to get messy.
which in the end is a good thing for all.

and i've been doing lots of very little else frankly. lots of being too lazy to go out, or to sort out photos or films, or to write, read, or even to watch rubbish tv.
and LOTS of long hot baths and early nights.

any more details would bore you to tears so i'll give none.

but, life is good.

except for the fatblob, which is the next mission. once i buy membership at the world most expensive gym again for my birthday next month.

despite which, i promised to show a few of you my bum....

it is a vintage, pre-blob bum, obviously.
but hey it's still funny to look at how teensy those hips were in those days -back in the last century-, the newer, post bloblets, and cheeseblob bum version, could eat 'em for breakfast.

i'm afraid, as you may remember my beloved nikon got nicked so there'll will be no photographic evidence of the fatblob until it's all been conveniently and expensively, sweated and jiggled, and starved away.

but i will try to write a bit anyway in the meantime. and i've still got spaggillions of summer photos and films to avoid editing so you will still get the odd visual.

maybe.

occasionally.

pah, in my dreams.

phew that was exhausting... i've forgotten how to type. write. sit.

oh yay, wine please...

yes a large one.
and could you start running the bath?

ta babe.

what?

bloomin 'eck, look at that flippin mirage. was i really that much of a moody cowbag thenadays?

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