Ghost in the machine

This blog was first posted in August 2008, and I still wonder about this 

Not long after Phil and I moved in together we went on a weekend trip to Edinburgh where, on the spur of the moment, he bought me a claddagh ring.  This is commonly known as an Irish wedding ring;  which it is not. It is a fealty ring originally given by the kings of Donegal to their earls. 
The crown represents loyalty, the hands friendship and the heart love.

I've worn it virtually every day since (swollen fingers allowing) and it is very precious to me.

A couple of weeks ago I felt something strange when drying my hands. The band had broken just behind one of the wrists.  So I took it to H Samuel and asked if they could fix it. I explained it was of little monetary value but of huge sentimental value so it didn't matter if it was a bit of a botched job as long as I could wear it.

The assistant said she would send it to the workshop, they would look at it and to ring on Tuesday for an answer and estimate.  When I rang and was told it would be £19 and I told them to go ahead.

Today I went into H Samuel and handed over the receipt I'd been given when I handed the ring over.

They had fixed it beautifully and my finger is delighted to have it back.

I got my purse out and the assistant tapped the code on the receipt into the till.

"There's nothing to pay" she said.

"But I haven't paid anything" I said "I brought it in for an estimate and haven't been in since"

"Well it's down here as paid."

I was astonished

"Would you like my name and address just to make sure your till isn't out at the end of the day?"

"No. That's fine. The till won't let us go far wrong. Anyway I can't open it and not put money in."

It felt so strange to have something so precious back and not have to pay for it.  I very nearly burst into tears in the shop, muttered “thank you” and left before I did.

So ...

Was it human error or computer error?
Or is Phil still looking out for me somewhere in the electronic ether?

 

Dancing in the street

First posted August 2008 - aliases used to protect the guilty

Last month Mrs Mobilephone organised a reunion for the members of the now defunct Sandgate Women’s Clog Morris team.  The team was established for the Queen’s Silver Jubliee and had its last dance out 10 years ago.  Lack of members in both Sandgate and Tyne Bridge saw the teams fold into each other to form the current Tyne Bridge Morris in the mid 1990s.  I had tiny children at the time so had stopped dancing with Sandgate.  However when Number Two Son turned three I joined the new Tyne Bridge (it was that or succumb to cabin fever and infanticide, homicide or suicide).

Mrs Mobilephone has a lovely home and loves organising ‘bring and share’ suppers.  For many years she and her late husband have been avid photographers and videoers (?) so the old tapes were dug out and played.  One was of Sandgate dancing at the 1993 Tall Ships Race – about six months after I was widowed.  As well as recording us dancing on the stage someone had videoed us milling around afterwards.  Looking at the group I saw a shapely woman with long, dark wavy hair and thought “My she’s pretty – I don’t remember her”.  Then she turned around and, to my surprise, it was me!

Whoever was doing the recording had obviously upset me in some way because I looked them up and down in a way which asked “And whose shoe were you scraped off?”  I have no recollection who it was or why I so obviously despised them.  But the footage tickled the assembled party so much it was rewound and replayed half a dozen times.  (I’ve requested a copy in mpg format to email to friends!)

Now bear in mind when you read the following that Sandgate formed in 1977, so some of the ladies present were approaching or had reached retirement.  Many are or were at senior levels in their profession – or at least responsible ones.  None were drunk (even those who had drink taken).

In the early evening nostalgia really struck and people started wishing they could dance again just one more time.

It was suggested we give Mobberley a go. 

But where?  There was nowhere suitable in the house or garden.

“Well why not out in the street?” says someone “It’s a very quiet road.”

Instead of sticks we had a balloon each (from a previous party).  Drummerman made do with a washing-up-bowl and a large wooden spoon.  Those of us who remembered the tune dah-dah-ed Portsmouth.  Considering the number of years since some of us had practiced it really wasn’t a bad performance.  And we did complete the dance all the way through.

So if one sunny evening in July your car was held up in a Heaton back street by a ragged formation of eight ladies of a certain age wielding balloons, our apologies. 

But there are times when old girls have got to do what old girls have got to do.

Sometimes, though, I do wonder whether I’m living in a PosySimmons cartoon.

I've found photos!

 

 

Foot in Mouth #3: “So sharp you’ll cut yourself”

First posted July 2008 - names have been changed to protect the guilty

My late mother was blessed with a very quick wit, and cursed with (and sometimes by) children who inherited it.  On the rare occasions when one of us came back with something she had no answer to her final word (and Mother always had the final word) would be “Watch out, one day you’ll be so sharp you’ll cut yourself.”

She was right.

The prim and easily shocked should read no further.

Although as my Oldestbestfriend's mother used to say "All is pure to the pure."

Our Guitarman has Multiple Sclerosis, and is now in a wheelchair. So when Tyne Bridge danced outside the Cumberland Arms last summer with Hexham Morrismen Madam Fifi asked for permission to collect for a MS charity. As I have no shame, I went around with the bucket.  Half way around the crowd I came across a young man making a big show of trying to get his hand in his trouser pocket for some change.  This is an old ploy to get out of giving – they hope you’ll get fed up of waiting and move on.  I was prepared to wait and stood there for some moments, rattling the bucket in time to the music, then said conversationally; -

“You know by law I shouldn’t really be shaking this – it’s called soliciting”

“Yes” he replied “and it really should be an enclosed receptacle.”

“Ah well, at my age pet” I said “I haven’t got an enclosed receptacle.”

It was only after he’d dropped the pound in the bucket and I walked away that I realised quite how filthy it sounded.

Sometimes however the brain and mouth work together in perfect, swift and satisfying synchronicity.

At Morpeth Gathering I bumbed in Beardsley, an aged rapper dancer who I hadn't seen since the previous St George's Day.  He was out of kit and wearing motorbike leathers.  Since I'd last seen him his beard had shortened and his moustache grown to almost handlebar proportions.

"Gosh Beardsley" I said "I very nearly didn't recognise you with that, that ..."

Being lost for words I waved at his upper lip.

"You mean the thigh tickler" he twinkled roguishly.

"Only if you're going to grow it that long." 

This and all previous, and future, Foot in Mouth blogs are dedicated to the memory of the late great Humphrey Lyttleton and the writers of I’m Sorry I Haven’t A Clue.

This blog is also dedicated to the memory of Guitarman Fred Mowbray who sadly succumbed to MS in April 2015.

Foot in Mouth #2: Your slip's showing

First posted May 2008

I will admit that I regularly engage my mouth before putting my brain into gear (as my Oldestbestfriend says).

Here are more examples.

In both cases I was drinking lime and soda.

The prim and easily shocked should read not further.

One evening in the Punchbowl after Tyne Bridge practice we somehow got around to talking about washing and drying socks and how there’s always an odd one.   

Mrs Recorder suggested that they usually end up sliding behind the radiator when being dried.

“Oh yes” said Guitarman, a painter and decorator by trade “I’ve found some interesting things behind radiators – pairs of knickers and the like.  Clean of course.  That explains it, they’ll have slid down the back after being washed and put there to dry.”

I demurred “You never know – they may have been flung off in a moment of passion and fallen behind the radiator.”

Guitarman gave me a long, calculating, old fashioned look and said “By – you must have had an interesting life.”

(The only reply to which is a Mona Lisa type smile)

Another evening, this time in the Cumberland Arms Byker, we were discussing the propensity for things to ‘pop’ and pieces of kit to slide off at inappropriate moments (hence the stash of safety pins in the Bagman’s bag).  We reminisced with stories of petticoats being stepped out of, tights being held up with safety pins, and one handed hanky dances whilst the other hand held a skirt up.  As my mother used to say  “you should have used stronger elastic.”.

“Well” says I “I’ve never lost my knickers”

Then I saw the look on Drummerman and Banjoman’s faces and added

“At least not in a dance.”

There was another pregnant pause which I filled with

“I thought I’d better add that rider.”

Raucous laughter from the men followed by Banjoman’s comment “There was no need for that Brenda.”

(as they say ‘when you’re in a hole – stop digging)

Foot in Mouth #1

First posted May 2008

I must admit I sometimes engage my mouth before putting my brain into gear (as my Oldestbestfriend says). 

Here are a couple of examples, in all cases I was drinking lime and soda. 

The prim and easily shocked should read no further.

Though as my Oldestbestfriend's mother used to say "All is pure to the pure".

 

One night after Tyne Bridge practice we were in the Punchbowl and I mentioned it was Fester’s birthday.

"How old is he?" asked Drummerman

"51"

"Oh a good age" he commented - being that age himself at the time.

"Well I have to say you've worn a lot better” I replied “but I don't suppose you've abused yourself quite as much as he has."

Loud laughter from the fourpennies (as my mother used to say).

Another evening, in the same pub, we were discussing the reports about dogs being stolen and their skins being used in clothing and toys.  

Drummerman wondered aloud “Why dog fur?”

Deputy Squire suggested that it was because some dogs' fur was very soft and woolly.

"Yeah but what about something like a Bedlington terrier?" he asked

"Well "I suggested "You could always turn the skin inside out and use it as a muff."

In my innocence (and defence) I meant one of those cylindrical things you see ladies in Victorian snow-scenes keeping their hands warm in.  However the leer on Drummerman’s face caused Deputy Squire and me to become helpless with laughter and unable to speak for quite some time.  He, of course, refused to tell anyone else in the company why we were laughing until the tears ran down our legs.

(There are more, but I shall keep them for another blog )