Gilliflowers (9 page)

My jeans proved to be the straw that broke the Top’s back. I was making French toast with a twist, the twist involving topping it with slices of flash grilled smoked salmon, a touch of crème fraiche and a squeeze of lemon. After separating a few slices of salmon and slipping them under the grill I wiped my fingers down the sides of my jeans, as you do, or at least I do. Shane did not approve, barking that one did not wipe one’s oily fishy fingers on one’s clothes. One used a damp cloth or a bit of hygienic kitchen roll. He then noted that my jeans were
“as a matter of fucking fact”

disgustingly grubby and demanded to know how long they’d been hugging my arse.

I must admit his sophistic observation held some water. My jeans were indeed a bit grubby. In fact they were a cosmos of stains that were in danger of developing life forces all their own. Unlike the boyfriends who are both fuss pots and spoiled with it, I’m of the opinion that workaday jeans need only be laundered on high days and holidays, or when they actually throw themselves into the washing machine with their pockets full of Persil. It’s a habit dating back to when I only owned a couple of pairs of jeans and had no such luxury as a washing machine, never mind a serf to operate it for me.

Dick is the worst offender when it comes to laundry. He only has to pick an item of clothing out of his wardrobe for him to decide it’s dirty and needs laundering. He’d soon change his tune if he had to wash and iron it himself.

Anyway, I digress. Shane was disgusted when I fessed I’d been wearing the jeans since last year, which sounds bad I know, but last year isn’t yet that far away. I think I put them on clean just before New Year. It cut no ice that I mainly wore them around the house and for cooking in. In his exalted opinion they were filthy germ carriers.

The expression on his face as he said the words was evocative of a man discovering he was spreading shit on his toast instead of butter. I was told to get them off and in the wash immediately. For future reference he expected me to be decently presented at all times.

I dug my heels in, mulishly declaring I’d put them in the wash later. He repeated his instruction to get them off right now, pronto, mush-mush. I repeated my declaration about taking them off later. He didn’t ask again. There was a brief undignified struggle, which ended with me standing breathlessly in the kitchen clad only in a pair of briefs and a tee. The disputed jeans were banished to the mucky laundry basket and after etching several hand signatures on the backs of my thighs he sent me to put fresh ones on.

Dick, still cosily abed, was unsympathetic. He said if I insisted on doing a bit of early morning bear baiting then I shouldn’t whine when I got what I asked for, a mauling. Besides, he wrinkled his aristocratic nose, Shane was quite right. I was a dirty little sod for wearing the same jeans for weeks on end. There was no excuse for such slatternly habits.

Bloody businessmen. Put two of them together in the same house and they form a united front against the plebeian masses, or mass in my case.

I put on fresh jeans. I must admit they felt nice, less crunchy and stiff. I returned to the kitchen where my fussy Daddy had finished his morning repast and was awaiting a refill of his coffee cup, the arduous journey across to the percolator being obviously too much for him to undertake without a Sherpa guide.

I refilled his cup and got one for myself and then thumped my cleanly jeaned arse down onto a chair and pouted at him. He glared at me, or tried to. A broad grin suddenly spread across his face. He shook his head saying I was the most awkward, high maintenance little bugger he had ever met and it was a good job I was attractive with it. Suddenly getting up an ungodly hour didn’t seem so bad after all. All ire left me. Any and all shows of affection from Shane make me happy. Pushing back his chair he patted his lap. I perched myself on it. We kissed and made up, lovers on sweet terms again.

He had the last word when he left for work, reminding me to get my hair trimmed or he’d take shears to it himself. I didn’t fancy him turning demon barber on me. I hastened to Holga’s Hair Studio on the first available bus.

Holga himself was booked to the limit. I’d have to be royalty for him to deign to accommodate me. One of his assistant stylists, Jay, a man who puts the rainbow in gay, declared he had a slot in between a perm and a cut and colour and he’d slip me into it if I were prepared to wait. I waited. Having him outrageously flirt with me for an hour was a small price to pay for not having Shane hack of my fair locks with a pair of kitchen scissors. It was worth the flirtation. My hair looks great. I gave Jay a generous tip in the form of money, he’d have preferred something else, but he wasn’t getting it.

It’s been a nice day here today. It’s still windy but mild and bright. I got all our bedding and a heap of towels washed and out on the line this afternoon. We seem to get through more towels per day than a flaming large hotel.

I have the beginnings of toothache. We had pheasant for dinner last night and I bit down on a piece of shot. I think it may have cracked a filling. I hate getting the shot.

Apart from anything else it puts me off eating. I start poking through my food looking for more booby traps. It’s the pheasant’s revenge. I reckon a visit to the dentist is on the cards.

I’ve done bugger all worth journaling about today. I woke up tired for some reason. I couldn’t even be arsed to go out for a run. Basically all I’ve done since the men folk bailed out for work is drink tea and slouch over the computer reading gay porno stories on the net. Shane would tan my backside if he knew, so would Dick, if he managed to overcome an urge to enact some of the stories with me.

My tooth is still aching off and on, but I haven’t got round to making an appointment with my ham fisted dentist yet.

The tea drinking is Penny’s fault. Her Christmas present to me was a big box of assorted posh teas by Whittard of Chelsea. It was one of those gifts that when you open it invokes neither a positive nor negative response. All you feel is a sneaking suspicion the giver won it in a raffle and chose you as the person to palm it off on.

God knows why she gives me a present at all. I don’t get her one. The men folk insist on adding my name to the label on the gifts they give her, or that I buy to give the old bag on their behalf. I suppose it makes her feel obligated to return a gift to all three of us, though the gifts she gives Dick and Shane are always more lavish than the token ones she wraps up in newspaper to give me. (Lie detector says No!) Okay, I admit she doesn’t use newspaper, but I don’t get bows or ribbon.

I also suspected there was an ulterior motive for her gift. I interpreted it as some kind of sly comment on the quality of tea I serve in my capacity as housekeeper and kitchen serf.

I said as much to the lordly ones who both agreed I was a paranoid, ungrateful touchy sod. Anyway, as is often the case with such gifts, I ended up enjoying it more than some of the things that initially evoked a more enthusiastic response.

The box contains a variety of teas from around the world and I’m working my way through them all. So far my favourite, and also Dick’s, is Russian Caravan tea. It has a distinct toffee aroma and a malty flavour. Shane’s preference is the lighter Darjeeling tea, the so-called champagne of teas (learn all about tea with Gillibran Brown) So far today I’ve had White China, Kenyan, Jasmine, Earl Grey and Assam.

The Russian Caravan is still my favourite. I’m a sucker for anything warm strong and malty and I could be very smutty here, only I can’t be bothered. All that porn reading has left me wrung out, and you can make of that comment what you will.

Must go. My bladder is letting me know its full to capacity with tea and wishes me to sojourn to the bathroom to empty it before it explodes.

I’m right off life at the moment, though not suicidal I hasten to add. The Samaritans are not on standby ready to take my call. Besides, Dick and Shane would kill me if I committed suicide, especially if I hadn’t made their dinner and made sure the laundry was up to date before leaping off the doorstep of life into the great unknown.

I suppose I’m just a bit down, a case of the mundane Monday blues mixed with some leftover Sunday ones. I got into a spot of bother yesterday. I went over to Eileen’s to return a cake tin to her. As I left her house to go home I spotted her new neighbour in his front garden and took it upon myself to have words with regard to the door still cluttering up Eileen’s back garden.

She politely asked him to remove it a couple of days ago. He shrugged and said it was no good to him and she could get rid of it if she wanted. Talk about bloody cheek! It means she’ll have to pay the council to take it away.

I’m fond of Eileen and I don’t like seeing her upset. It was his door, it had caused damage because of his failure to secure it and to my mind it was his responsibility to clear up and pay out compensation. All I can say is some of Shane’s arrogance is beginning to rub off on me, because I said so, adding that he ought to be ashamed of his attitude towards an older lady. He told me to fuck off and mind my own business.

I called him an ignorant tosser, flipped him the bird and headed home bristling with righteous indignation.

Ten minutes later the doorbell rang a manic refrain. It was the tosser. Thrusting his face into mine he said I’d be pleased to know he’d removed his door from my
girlfriend’s
garden. I might have considered it a victory if not for the fact the bastard had dumped it on our drive.

I was furious and so was Shane, but mainly with me for interfering. He accused me of being able to cause trouble in an empty room and said I should have kept my nose out and my lip buttoned.

I wanted to drag the door over the road and throw it back in its owner’s garden, but Shane wouldn’t hear of it. He said I wasn’t starting a street war over a battered old door. It was placed in the garage and I was instructed to call the council this morning to arrange to have it collected and disposed of, at my personal expense. In addition he made me do corner time for half an hour by way of teaching me to mind my own business.

After granting me release from my corner confinement Shane issued a stern warning. I am not to speak to Eileen’s unpleasant neighbour again. I am to keep my tongue behind my teeth and my lips closed. Failure to comply will result in severe discipline. He will not tolerate our household becoming the focus of negative attention because I can’t exercise self-control and keep a low profile.

Fair enough. I get where he’s coming from. He isn’t ashamed of who he is or the lifestyle he shares with Dick and me, but he recognises it makes sense to avoid drawing undue attention from those likely to use ignorance and intolerance as an excuse for attack.

I’m not ashamed of my men, but I am a bit ashamed of myself. Eileen didn’t want me sticking my neb in and nor did the men folk, but silly Gilli still went right ahead and stuck it in anyway. I can be such a neb head. I think I’ll head off down the pub after dinner tonight. I feel in need of some comfort and contemplation time with my mate Stella. The men folk will probably welcome a break from my company. I’ll leave a beach towel on the couch so they can pretend they’re on holiday.

Being Shrove Tuesday today I came over all traditional and decided to impress the men folk by whipping up a batch of pancake batter for breakfast. I reckoned it would be a nice change and a fitting start to the beginning of Lent and our forty days of arduous fasting. (Yeah, and if you believe that you’ll believe anything. Fasting in this house comprises of saying no to third helpings at dinner) I improvised on the traditional recipe by adding cinnamon to the batter mix to spice it up. I’m really into cinnamon at the moment. It’s my spice of the month. I read on the net it has all kinds of health benefits and is reputed to help regulate blood sugar and thyroid function. I worry about my two. I mean they’re not getting any younger. I want to keep them as fit as possible for as long as possible. I have needs to be met and I want them meeting for years to come.

Shane voiced reservations about the cinnamon, too sweet he said, adding he wasn’t fussed on pancakes in general, not for breakfast. He’d prefer poached mushrooms on toast please, which sounded like a request, but was in fact an order. I made a shirty comment about casting pearls before swine, which Shane countered with a comment about casting his hand over my backside if I didn’t watch my lip.

I was sure Dick would be more appreciative of my shrove attempt. He was. He thought it was a charming idea. He was all for keeping old traditions alive. However, he hoped I wouldn’t be too offended, but could he pass on the pancakes and have a bowl of bran flakes instead? I was offended and said so. I’d gone to a lot of trouble, so no he bloody couldn’t pass on the pancakes. I’d made them and he could eat them, or I’d give up sex for Lent. All orifices would be closed to incoming and the trouser pup would be kennelled and unavailable for petting purposes by anyone but me.

He called me a blackmailing little bastard, but resigned himself to eating pancakes. His face lit up when I voiced an intention to toss in the kitchen. It didn’t stay lit for long. His disappointment was obvious when the only thing shooting into the air was a pancake.

Pancake tossing is easy, a doddle, until you get fancy and overconfident and try to pitch the pan from one hand to the other before catching the pancake on its downward descent. I dropped the pan when my fingers touched the hot metal part of the handle instead of the heatproof part. Damn my flabby reflexes. My tossed pancake landed on the lit gas ring and was consumed by flames. It made a hell of a mess and set the smoke alarm clanging. I had to open the back door to let the fumes out. Fortunately Shane had set off to work by then and missed the pancake conflagration. Dick thought it was hysterical and said it served me right for being a cocky little tosser. He was still grinning when he headed off to work, leaving me to clean up the kitchen.