Stairlift to Heaven (22 page)

“I’ll get my oilskin and sou’wester,” said The Trouble, displaying her usual lack of faith in my judgment.

She didn’t put on her oilskin and sou’wester, she hasn’t got either, she was just being facetious, but she did put on waterproof clothing and Wellington boots. I should have done the same, but having said that the weather would remain fine I couldn’t very well without looking face.

We set off walking on the nature trail. The trail used to be a railway line before Dr Beeching set about the country’s railway system like Ghengis Khan on crack cocaine, is fairly straight and flat, and set as it is in picturesque surroundings it makes an excellent walk of about five miles there and back.

The surface, usually prone to be a bit muddy, had been newly laid with crushed limestone, It was being put to the test by quite a few youngsters who had obviously been given mountain bikes for Christmas. The ‘in’ colour this year for children’s bikes would seem to be a sort of purple, which in a couple of instances matched the colour of the perspiring faces of the parents who were trying manfully to keep up with their offspring.

About fifty minutes later we arrived at the end of the trail and turned round to head back. We hadn’t walked more than a hundred yards when the heavens opened.

“Probably just a shower,” I said, more in hope than expectation.

The Trouble gave me a sweet smile, took her rain hat from her pocket and pulled it down over her head.

It rained every step of the way home. Poured. If Noah had still been around he would have started building another ark. The newly-laid crushed limestone very soon turned into, if not a quagmire, then at the very least a quag. Walking on it was like trying to walk through porridge, which it soon began to resemble.

On the way we met the returning bicycling families. Except that the parents had dismounted and were now not only pushing their cycles but those of their children. Little Brad and little Angelina were trailing some yards behind them either crying or moaning, often both.

I couldn’t have been more wet if I’d jumped in the reservoir that borders part of the trail. Plus I was at least two stones heavier due to the fact that I was wearing a fleece, under which I had a woollen pullover. If there is anything more absorbent than a fleece and a woollen pullover it’s a pair of denim jeans, which I was also wearing.

I don’t know if anyone has ever calculated how much water a pair of jeans can soak up but if it’s anything less than a bathful I’d be greatly surprised. The man who invents denim tampons will make a fortune. I can see the TV commercial now. ‘Super absorbent AND a fashion statement!’

Lugging two extra stones for two and a half miles whilst literally soaked to the skin is not to be recommended, especially when accompanied by someone relatively dry who keeps saying things like ‘I told you I didn’t like the look of the weather’ and ‘You should have worn your waterproofs’ and ‘The trouble with you is you don’t listen’. So by the time I arrived home I was thoroughly pissed off as well as being thoroughly pissed on. Happy New Year!

****

January 14 2010.
BATS.

I have had another BATS today. BATS is my acronym for Bloody Awful Telephone Salesperson. On a Saturday for God’s sake! They usually have the grace to ring you up on a weekday even if they don’t have the good sense not to ring you up when you’ve just that moment sat down to your evening meal or climbed into the bath, which they somehow always contrive to do. At least this one managed to pronounce my surname correctly. What I usually get, in a foreign accent that has its origins anywhere from the Mediterranean to Bangladesh, is: “Hello, is that Mr Ravenscroft” with the Raven part of my name pronounced ‘ravern’ as in ‘cavern’, and not, as it should be, ‘raven’ as in the bird. This is more often than not further mispronounced by leaving the ‘t’ off the end and adding an ‘f’ in its place, to make ‘Ravernscroff’. And I was once called, by a BATS who was probably a dyslexic Albanian, ‘Ribscroff’. Whenever a BATS calls me the conversation usually goes something like this: -

ME: Hello?

BATS: Is that Mr Ravernscroff?

ME: No.

BATS: It isn’t Mr Ravernscroff?

ME: No. It is Mr Ravenscroft.

BATS: I am doing a survey, Mr Ravernscroff , and I....

ME: (BUTTING IN) Call me back when you’ve learned how to pronounce my name properly.

Then I put the phone down. However on this occasion the BATS somehow managed to pronounce my name correctly, thus getting over the first hurdle and giving himself the chance to fall at the second, which he promptly did.

My ploy whenever a BATS successfully clears the first hurdle is to say “Hang on a minute will you there’s someone at the door.” Then I leave them hanging on the phone until it finally dawns on them I’m not coming back - anything from a couple of minutes to twenty or so, although I once had one supreme optimist hang on for an hour and a quarter - then, when they hang up and my phone starts making that awful noise it makes which tells you the line is still open, I too hang up. Sometimes, depending on how I’m feeling at the time, when I answer the phone I just say nothing and simply replace the receiver.

Occasionally I will let a BATS go on a bit, allowing him to think he has hooked me, before I deftly slip the bait, usually by telling him that thanks to his chatter I’ve allowed the chip pan to catch fire. And sometimes I pretend I am very hard of hearing so they have to shout so loud they’re in great danger of straining their vocal chords. However the mood takes me.

As luck would have it when the BATS who called today rang - a rare Englishman - I was at a bit of a loose end, my usual Saturday afternoon at the football match having been called off due to a waterlogged pitch, so I allowed the call to go on for much longer than I normally would. Here is the gist of it –

BATS: Hello? Is that Mr Ravenscroft?

ME: Speaking.

BATS: We’re doing a survey, I wonder if....

ME: Are you selling something?

BATS: No, we’re just doing a survey.

ME: What about?

BATS: Food preparation in relation to cooking facilities.

ME: You’re selling kitchens.

BATS: No, we’re just doing a survey into....

ME: (BUTTING IN) Oh, shame. You see I’m in the market for a kitchen at the moment. But if you’re not selling them I might as well hang up. Bye.

BATS: No! Don’t hang up! I’m selling kitchens.

ME: Excellent. So then, how much are your kitchens? I’m not interested in anything cheap, mind. It’s quality I’m looking for. The best.

BATS: The best?

ME: That’s right, you’ve struck gold; you’ve hit the mother lode. So how much is your very best kitchen going to set me back?

BATS: Well our top of the range kitchen, in the average-sized home, with all appliances, would cost you, ball park ( I let it go this time), about twenty two grand.

ME: I’ll take two.

BATS: ....What did you say?

ME: I’ll have two. You see my daughter lives next door and it’s her twenty-first soon, I thought I’d surprise her. That’s all right is it, you can do two?

BATS: Well, yes. Yes, of course.

ME: And when can you deliver?

BATS: Six weeks is the usual.

ME: Excellent. Have you got a pen, I’ll give you my address.

BATS: I’ve got your address, 17 Lingland....

ME: No. That’s my brother’s address. Terry Ravenscroft. I’m Tom Ravenscroft, I’m staying with Terry at the moment. And my address is 27 Woologongong Springs, Brisbane, Queensland, Australia. Have you got that? Hello?....Hello?

****

February 14 2010.
COSMETICS.

“Would you mind getting me a potato peeler, one of the French sort?” I said to the woman about to enter Boots. She looked me up and down with suspicion, probably wondering why I wasn’t getting it myself. “I suffer from Pharmophobia,” I said by way of explanation, “A fear of chemists’ shops.”

Looking far from convinced the woman nevertheless took the five pound note I proffered.

“I may be some time,” she warned, rather like a female version of Captain Oates but without the snowshoes and frostbite.

“Take all the time you want,” I said, magnanimously.

Earlier on that morning The Trouble had said, “If you go anywhere near the precinct call in at Boots and pick me up a potato peeler, would you? One of the French type. I can’t find mine anywhere.”

“No problem,” I assured her.

However there was a problem, but it had been so long since I’d been in Boots I’d forgotten all about it. The problem was, and is, that I find it hard to go in Boots without bursting out laughing at the bizarre appearance of the assistants behind the cosmetics counter. And as the cosmetics counter is the first thing you encounter on entering a Boots you can’t really miss it, and with it the grotesques lined up behind it. I don’t know what time these creatures have to get up in the morning in order to put on their make-up in the lavish quantities they do but I would have thought that, unless they had the advantage of a plasterer’s float, it would hardly be worth their while going to bed in the first place.

Atkins has the theory that as an incentive to maximise sales they are made to apply each morning any make-up not sold on the previous day, and he could be right.

One might think that in order to avoid collapsing in mirth on entering Boots I have only to keep my eyes to the front and ignore the cosmetics counter, but that’s much easier said than done, because it seems to draw you. It’s rather like being on a train seated opposite a pretty woman whose skirt has ridden up to reveal thighs and underwear - you try not to look but you just can’t help yourself.

I was with The Trouble the first time I realised I had this problem. The assistant in question opened her mouth, a crimson gash that I can only liken to a pig with its throat cut. “Good morning madam, what can I get for you?” she smiled. She had to smile, she had no choice in the matter, she was wearing so much foundation cream and face powder that her face was set in a fixed grin. She would have been smiling if she’d said, “Good morning madam, a mad axe man is just about to bring his axe down on your head.”

I didn’t laugh at first, managing to contain myself to a barely-contained grin. It was when The Trouble noticed me grinning and said: “Take no notice of him he’s got a feeble mind,” that I started to laugh, aware that people with feeble minds can get away with anything and cashing in on it.

Ever since then I’ve kept out of Boots, confining myself to a quick look through the entrance every now and then confirm that the cosmetics counter staff still make me laugh, in the hope that they don’t, as I’d quite like to go into Boots sometimes. However they still do.

Twenty minutes after she’d gone in the woman came out potato peeler-less and handed me back my five pound note. “They’re sold out,” she said, then, helpfully, “But they sell them at Debenhams, I bought one there a week or two ago.”

I thanked her and trotted off to Debenhams. And I was actually in Debenhams before I realised that they, like Boots, have their cosmetics counter hard by the entrance. I saw the cosmetics assistants, clones of those at Boots. Naturally I laughed.

“Did you get that potato peeler?” said The Trouble, the moment I got in.

“They were sold out.”

“Good. No matter, the other one turned up. Sorry to have wasted your time”