Dale & Samuelson, Solicitors. (Christmas Ghost Story 2015)

It's about about this time of year that I like to write a traditional Christmas Ghost Story in the style of M.R. James (No, not E.L. James) - This is this years, a tale of wet socks and expensive tea...

“Start, you complete bitch. Why must we go through this every time that the temperature drops below, like, two degrees?” I hit the steering wheel as hard as I can with the palm of my hand, accidentally beeping the horn, I look up, through the part-defrosted windscreen, at the schoolgirl in the almost too short skirt walking across the road.  She flips me the bird, then turns to her friend with the massively abnormal eyebrows and calls me something like ‘King Perve’ although I’m not entirely sure that I caught the first part of what she said. I made sure that they’d both turned the corner onto the pikey housing estate that leads to the local comprehensive school before I tried the engine again.  There is nothing as pathetic as the sound of a fifteen year old car engine turning over but not quite catching.  I stretched for the lever that opened the bonnet before realising that all that would lead to would be me, the ‘king perve’, stood in the slush, freezing my nuts off whilst I stared at whatever confusing hardware cars have under their bonnets, not really knowing what I was looking for.  A voice in the back of my head reminded me that perhaps I should have bought a new battery the weekend before last, rather than buying that studenty-looking girl two pints of cider and a pizza in the vain hope that I could find out whether she actually was wearing ‘Adventure-Time’ panties.

I got out of the car and slammed the door harder than perhaps I should have. The sound of something falling off inside the car didn’t help my mood any and I fumbled with my key, aware of the fact that it would be just my luck if it snapped in the lock.  I managed to get into the hallway without experiencing any other emergencies despite my glasses misting up almost instantly and the slush melting into my socks.  I made my way into the kitchen, dialed the office, and balanced the phone handset between my shoulder and my cheek whilst I filled the kettle.

“Hello, Dale & Samuelson, how may I help you?” Tina, the head receptionist answered, in her normal, disinterested way.

“Hey, Tina, it’s Steve.”

“Oh… Hello Steven, ringing in sick… Again?” She pronounced the ‘N’ at the end of my name as if she was hitting me over the head with a brick in a sock. But her comment did remind me that the word ‘disciplinary’ had been mentioned more than once in the past couple of weeks.

“Actually, no.  I was just calling to say that I was going to be a few minutes late, my car is refusing to start you see. So I’m going to wait for the b…” I didn’t bother continuing, she’d obviously got bored of me and had decided to put the phone down, bitch! She was one of those women who think they run the company.  You know the type, all high-heels, pencil skirts and plunging necklines when either of the partners were in the office. Made a mission of making everyone else’s life a misery when they weren’t. The kettle boiled and I looked at the clock; it was almost 8:30.  Fifteen minutes to drink my coffee, half an hour to get the bus into town, then maybe a ten minute walk, I should be in the office by half nine, probably. Providing the busses were running on time because of the light covering of slush on the roads, and I didn’t spill my coffee down the shirt that I’d just ironed. Not that I like to tempt fate you understand.

I jog up the stone steps to the imposing oak door of the office.  I’m always overcome with the feeling that I should knock, you know? Despite the fact that I’ve worked there for over a year now.  Do you ever get that feeling? As if you’re not really a member of the team, that they’re just tolerating you? I’m still the new-boy you see, no-one else has joined the company recently. In fact, I’m surprised that they don’t still make me get the coffee. I push the door open and step onto the marble tiled floor, my old, damp, trainers squeaking with every step.  The noise echoes around the empty space, making me cringe. I tried to make myself as small as I could, but Tina still spotted me from behind the sweeping desk and holds up a pencil, as if it were Lion-o’s Sword of Omens and she’d suddenly found that she had the power of Greyskull.

“Please hold, caller,” she said, talking to the client on the phone, but never losing petrifying eye contact with me, “Mr. Samuelson wants to see you, in his office, now.” She looked over her shoulder at the clock behind her, then turned back to me and shook her head. The Pencil of Omens was lowered and she continued talking, politely but firmly, to the client. As I pass the desk, I notice the sound of traditional Christmas Carols coming quietly from the radio, even though this was only my second Christmas with Dale & Samuelson, I’ll wager that our Reception had never heard the voices of Noddy Holder, or Michael Buble for that matter, wishing us a Merry Christmas – It was traditional choral music or nothing. Traditional… that was a word that came to mind more often than not.

I passed through into the offices themselves, momentarily wondering if I could go to Samuelson’s office via the kitchen so that I can make myself a coffee or something.  But I thought better of it, Tina’s obvious scowl at the clock had told me all that I needed to know. The partners’ offices were on the top floor, obviously.  With grand views across the city.  The few times that I’d been up there and had the time to look out - the skyline always amazed me, so many towers and spires, so much that you would never see from ground level. I arrived outside his office door after squelching my way up four flights of stairs, winter had managed to soak its way into my second pair of socks for that day. I looked down and realised that I was still wearing my trainers. Then I looked at the old drawstring swimming bag that contained my brogues. Oh God! Did I have time to change into my shoes? If I could just slip off my…

“Come in please, Steven.” Samuelson’s voice echoed clearly onto the landing as if it had not had to suffer the indignity of actually going through the closed office door and my heart sank.  Nothing for it I suppose, ‘time to face the music’ as my father always said.  I opened the door and stepped inside, trying to conceal the bag behind me.

“G… Good morning Mr. Samuelson.” I stuttered, kicking myself for making it sound like a schoolchild greeting his teacher.  He pointed at the chair next to me with the flat of his hand and I sat down, awkwardly. He reached toward a floral teapot that was sat, gently steaming on his desk.

“May I interest you in some tea? It’s Da Hong Pao.” I shook my head and he smiled gently, his pale, thin lips parting to show hints of his tea-stained teeth. “A Christmas gift from a particularly satisfied customer. Its name means ‘Big Red Robe’ you know – I think it may have been his little joke.” He looked at me and I smiled blankly back at him. “Big… Red Robe? No? Saint Nicholas?” I nodded, finally understanding what he meant, and started to smile. He copied my movements almost exactly then sighed and turned away towards the window, as if he was dealing with a complete imbecile. Which in fairness, at this stage, he probably was. But he poured out two cups anyway. “What do you do for us, Steven? What is your reason for being with Dale & Samuelson?”

“I’m a junior filing clerk, Mr. Samuelson.” There are few feelings more cheering than sitting in your boss’ office and realising that he has no idea of who you are or what you do.

Yet another smile escaped his lips as he stood and moved over to the window. “I appreciate that is your title, Steven, but that does not answer the question that I asked. What is it that you do?” he raised his eyebrows, giving me the feeling that my future very much rode on my answer to his question.

“Well,” I started, trying to make it look as if I wasn’t just desperately stalling for time, “I cross reference all the paperwork that I receive daily, I process the probate applications and of course there’s the filing and the archiving in the… erm… cellar,” I juddered, as if someone had walked over my grave, I hated going down to the cellar, just the merest mention of it made me go cold, with its rows of dusty shelving and mysteriously locked doors. You never felt that you were completely alone down there, “and of course I flag up any queries with Mr. Muller, for him to follow up personally.” I noticed that I was wringing my hands in my lap with a mixture of anxiety and the cold spreading up from my wet socks.

“Mr. Muller, yes, one of our oldest and most respected staff members. Did you know that I recruited him personally?” I shook my head once more, “No reason you should of course, I just thought that he might have mentioned it.” He turned from the window and caught sight of my sodden trainers and the damp trail that they had left on his carpet. I squirmed, nervously, in the chair. “Are you… Uncomfortable? I understand that many of the younger generation wear their training shoes to travel to the office, but I admit to having assumed that they would change into something more ‘business-like’ upon their arrival.”

I held up my swimming bag, and explained that I had been in such a hurry to get to his office that I had forgotten to change my shoes. He peered at the bag over the top of his glasses, regarding the cartoon pirate motif. “And who is this ‘Captain Pugwash’ exactly?” he let me talk for a good few minutes about The Black Pig and Tom the Cabin Boy before holding up his hands and admitting that he was teasing me.

“My Mother made it for me.”

“I’m sure she did, yes. Look, I tell you what, why don’t you take off your socks and dry them by the fire, I can’t imagine anyone wanting to spend the morning with wet socks, let alone eternity.”

I slowly untied my trainers and rolled down my socks, all the time looking at him out of the corner of my eye, thinking that this was some kind of test that I would fail at any time. I went to hand my socks to him, but he shook his head and pointed at the open fire.  I stood, and trapped my socks under a pair of heavy candlesticks that were on the mantelpiece, so that they hung down, into the flow of heat - and then sat back down.

“How very festive,” Samuelson remarked, “Now, as I was saying, Mr. Muller holds you in very high regard. He feels that you are… wasted in your current position and he also feels that you are ripe for promotion.” He steepled his fingers together and drew them up to his lips. “Steven, I should like to offer you a position as one of Dale & Samuelson’s prestige client service advisors.  Do you think that this would be something that would suit you?”

My mind immediately started to spin with the possibilities; I could finally afford to get my car fixed… No, I could probably afford a new car – well, new to me at least.  And I could afford to take out girls that weren’t satisfied with cheap cider, I might finally have a shot with the posh ones who ordered wine by the glass. “Yes Mr. Samuelson, I would like to be promoted to a Client Service Advisor.”

“Good, there are some things you should know about your new position. One, you will need to wear this all the time, as a sign to our clients that you are ‘fully accredited’.” He reverently handed me a small box, like one that might hold a piece of expensive jewellery. I opened it to find a small, plain antique key on a chain just long enough to fit comfortably over my head. “It will open any door in the building.” He looked directly into my eyes, “Any door. And Two, there’s also the somewhat particular nature of some of our oldest clients.”

“I know that we have handled the legal affairs of some very prestigious families, from all over Europe.  Mr. Muller tells me that some are even royal.” I was desperate to show Samuelson that I’d picked up a few things whilst I worked.

“Did he indeed? And what else did Mr. Muller tell you?” Samuelson’s eyes seemed to light up.

God-damn! That sounded like a loaded question, was there something Mr. Muller had told me that he shouldn’t have?  Was this all just a ploy to make me admit to something irregular, or illegal even, that Muller had done with the promise of a promotion? “Erm… No, not really… That was about it, I asked if I could go with him on client visits sometimes, but he always said that it wouldn’t be possible.”

“No, no… Quite right too.” He clasped his hands behind his back and paraded slowly around the room, “You will be dealing with cases where there are post-mortem changes to the will.  You would be surprised how often that happens.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t… Oh! Do you mean where there’s an argument between the beneficiaries and the executor about how the…”

“Ah, no. You misunderstand. Sometimes the deceased isn’t happy with the way that their will is being interpreted, there may have been unforeseen circumstances or an issue with a member of the family perhaps, and that is where we come in.  Ah! Mr. Muller, so glad you could join us.”

Muller stepped into the room, nodded at Mr. Samuelson and shook my hand. “Welcome to the business Steven.  I’m sure that…”

“I was just about to ‘process’ Steven’s promotion, would you care to assist?”

“Of course, Mr. Samuelson, it would be an honour.” Muller moved behind my chair and wrapped his arms around me, pinning me down.  Despite my struggles, and the fact that he was easily twice as old as I was, he would not budge. It was as if the chair itself was holding me fast.

Samuelson moved until he was right in front of me. “You see Steven, despite the fact that most of our clients haven’t been dead for very long, they do all seem to have developed something of a distrust for the living, which is why this promotion will be so very final.” He brought his hands from behind his back and I just had time to register the straight-edged razor in his fist before it sliced cleanly through my throat.  Muller held me whilst my body tried to thrash around in panic. At one stage I thought that we would both topple over with the chair and end up on the floor. But slowly, the feelings subsided, Muller let go and brushed his lapels, then both men reached into the collars of their shirts and pulled out their own key.

“I’ll have one of the boys from Maintenance move your body to one of the crypts in the cellar, you can visit it whenever you like.”

I looked down at myself slumped in the chair, the front of my shirt and suit was covered in my own, sticky blood, then I saw my key, on its chain in my hand, I took it, carefully put it over my head, and tucked it into my collar.

Samuelson sat down at his desk, “Now, how about that tea?”

This time I grabbed the delicate china cup and drank the cold, black tea down in one gulp, I had never been so thirsty in my life, it was almost as if my throat had been...

Gods Rest Ye Jerry Mentalmen

Those of you that are on Facebook will no doubt, at one time, have been the victim of one of those chain message things.  You know the story… Where one of your 4 billion friends updates their status to be their favourite flavour of sandwiches, or tells you how the nearest object to their left hand is their only weapon for the entirety of the coming zombie apocalypse.

(My iPhone headphones, should you be at all interested)

Normally, I would run away from such shenanigans with such speed as would emasculate a ferret, but my friend, and fellow celebrity blogger Tattooed Mummy has ‘nominated’ me to answer some questions about myself, and since I once used one of her nipples for something for which it was not originally designed, I feel that I somehow ‘Owe her one’.

It’s all very festive.

(Hey girlie, if you’re reading this, We’re even now… Actually, come to think of it, you still owe me for that whole ‘thing’ with the 99p Store)

Here are the questions that she asked, and my answers.

1.       Favourite Festive Food.

Well, I’m a sucker for a goose-fatted Hasselback potato… What? You’ve don’t know what one of those is? It’s… It’s… Well, it’s sort of like a roast potato, but cut into the shape of a woodlouse.  It’s better than it sounds, here’s a picture.  Mmmm – Tasty. Moreso even with bacon.

2.       Favourite Reindeer.

Favourite… Reindeer…? Who has a favourite reindeer? – Maybe a Laplander? And then I’d have to looks at them pretty askance to see exactly why they’re the favourite one.  So, what are my choices?

Dasher – No, I don’t like animals that move too fast.

Dancer – No, I’m all Strictly come Cottaging’d  out.

Prancer – Seriously? Who even prances?

Vixen – Hmmm… Vixen’s a contender.

Comet – At Christmas? Electrical goods? Hardly.

Cupid – Little naked fat baby? My favourite? Not in this day and age thank you very much – Not to be confused with Cherubs, which is short for ‘cherubim’ which are described in the Bible thusly: “Each of them had four faces and four wings, with straight feet with a sole like the sole of a calf's foot, and "hands of a man" under their wings. Each had four faces: the face of a man, the face of a lion on the right side, the face of an ox on the left side, and the face of an eagle”

Donner – Thunder? No.

Blitzen – Lightning? See above

Rudolf – Added to the list over a hundred years later by the nice people at Montgomery Ward as an advertising character.  Now, I’m all for ceaseless consumerism… But at Christmas? That’s probably toevah or something.

So, I’m going with Vixen, Because the word reminds me of shiny PVC, which can’t be a bad thing.

3.       Favourite Day of Christmas.

The fifth, because who doesn’t like yelling ‘FiIIIiIiiiiIiiiIIIIIIiVe Go-OOoOOoOooOOooooLD RiIIIiiIIIIiiiiIiIngs!’ every thirty seconds at the top of their voices?

4.       Favourite Christmas Song.

Erm… I’m not aware that I’ve actually got one, but if I were to be pushed, I’d have to say the Bowie/Bing version of ‘Little Drummer Boy’ – I’m a softie, leave me alone… Although I still say it’d be better if he’d done it as ‘The Man who fell to Earth’ (You were expecting me to say that Pogues one weren’t you? Admit it)

Parup-pa-pumpum!

5.       Favourite Present.

Obviously, this is going to be from my dim and distant youth. So I’m going to say, from about 1979… ROM the Spaceknight – In fact, I got two of these, one each from my Dad and my Brother (Yes, the one that lives in the hollowed-out volcano in the Med) They were brilliant, like armoured robot Action-Men (GI-Joes) that had flashing lights and beeping and everything.  I remember swinging one around my head once and cracking myself in the temple with it… Good times

6.       Favourite Festive Film.

Scrooged, with Bill Murray – If you’ve ever seen it, you’ll know why… If you haven’t, the line ‘Well, I'm sure Charles Dickens would have wanted to see her nipples.’ Will tell you all you need to know.

(I’m sensing a theme today, is anyone else sensing a theme?)

7.       Favourite Festive Cracker Toy.

Easy, Bottle opener, I currently have on my keyring a bottle opener in the shape of a fish skeleton.  You’d be surprised how often people ask to borrow it.

8.       Favourite Cracker Joke. 

What do you get if you eat Christmas decorations?


Tinsilitis!

Last Christmas, my son used to tell this joke about every 7 nanoseconds, right up until the point where we bricked him up in the cellar.

9.       Favourite Christmas Decoration.

There’s a star that we have on top of the tree that’s sort of made of silver fretwork… Not sure where it originally came from.  But it’s hollow, you can put a few of the twinkly lights from the tree inside it.  When that gets turned on for the first time, it’s officially Christmas.

10.   Favourite Christmas Candle Scent.

Well, I just haven’t got one of these… Because I don’t know how to co-ordinate scatter cushions and I do not recognise ‘puce’ as a real colour, but my least-favourite is vanilla, the smell of it makes me boak in a projectile fashion.

11.   Favourite Christmas TV Advert. 

I don’t got one of these either, but last year’s John Lewis one was quite cleverly done.  Was there a bear and a donkey? Possibly a rabbit? Or am I thinking of a different DVD all together?

12.   Favourite Festive Tradition.

When the Dandies became their own family, we decided to start all new traditions… They’re pretty normal for the most part – Home-made mince-pies, shooting at the kids riding past on their new bikes with our bows, trying to get an arrow to stick in the spokes of their front wheels etc.  But my favourite is that the adults get to open one present each before they go to bed on Christmas Eve.  It can be addressed to anyone, but it becomes yours (which reminds me, does anyone like Hexbugs?)

13.   Favourite Place to Spend Christmas.

I suppose the stock answer should be ‘At home, with my loving family’ – So I’m going to say that… I’m certainly not going to say ‘Somewhere hot, on a beach, surrounded by morally corrupt ladies who are allergic to clothes.’

14.   Favourite Christmas Fact.

The German word for ‘Mistletoe’ – Mistelzweig, literally means ‘Crap on a twig’

15.   Favourite Snowman Accessory.

In our house, some sort of heavy shielding… (You thought I was joking about the bows and arrows, right?)

So, finally, happy Yule to you all, this probably won't be my last post of the year (although it might be - I'm the first person to admit that I've not been hugely prolific recently, You know, real-life and all that) but if I don't see you before next year let me leave you with this thought...

The price someone paid for your Christmas present corresponds directly to how much that person likes you.

This is why I never seem to get very much.

Christmas Ghost Story

Those of you who've been with The Chimping Dandy since last year will remember that around this time, I told you a ghost story, and said that it was going to become a bit of a tradition.

Well here's this year's, unlike the last one, this is made up, a fake, completely from one's imagination.

Most of it at least.

-oOo-

THE TRAIN NOW STANDING.

The tea was awful, but then the tea here was always awful.  He looked down into the grey-white mug and despite the milk he'd put in, he could still see the bottom. How was it possible for something that came out of a steaming kettle to be so weak and tepid? He pushed it away, disgusted.

He was alone, apart from Ranjit, the small Indian gentleman behind the counter who was busying himself by wiping the cutlery from the tray with a tea-towel.

'I was expecting it to be busier tonight,' He looked up at the man, who smiled and stopped his polishing, 'with it being Christmas Eve.'

'Yes, there are usually more people trying to hurry home.  Maybe there is not the same pressure this year? Many people do not feel so Christmassy.' He looked out into the late afternoon darkness, 'Although the rush hour has not really started yet.'

It was true, it wasn't even four O'Clock yet, but the gathering clouds were already conspiring with the winter's lack of daylight to darken the view from the station cafeteria's long windows.  He rose from his seat and looked out onto the platform.  In one direction, he could see the empty ticket office, in the other, the platform lights reflected off the steel rails as they curved away into the distance. 'Here it comes.' He announced flatly to the air, as the first blobs of the forecasted torrential rain plastered itself against the glass.  He released a deep sigh, which fogged the window and momentarily obscured his reflection.

He drew a smiley face, grinned to himself halfheartedly, and then wiped it away just as the heavy beads of condensation started to make it look as if it were crying.

Sitting down again, he asked Ranjit for another tea.  Ranjit raised an eyebrow and pointed at the mug that was already on his table. 'Ah, yes, of course.' He lifted the tea, swallowed its milk-warm load with considered indifference and gestured with the empty mug.  He smiled and shook his head. 'My wife says that one day you will turn into a mug of tea Mr Dullahan.'

He was just about to reply when the metal framed door swung open and a woman walked in, she was in her mid-forties with a once pretty face and long blonde hair, with a confused look, she stared at the ticket in her hand.

'Are you alright?'

She looked at him with reddened eyes and noticed his freshly pressed, blue serge, railway uniform, 'I'm trying to get home., I usually drive you see.'

He reached out towards her ticket, 'May I?' He made a show of reading the destination and nodded, sagely. 'You're in luck, yours is the next train at this platform. And, we are currently serving complimentary tea and coffee, as it's Christmas.' He leaned in close and whispered, 'But if I were you, I'd stick to the coffee.'

She smiled, thanked him and took back her ticket.

The door opened for a second time just as he was raising his cup to his lips.  This time it was a young man carrying a small bunch of flowers, Dullahan looked at the label on the cellophane wrapper and, as he saw the logo of a popular chain of petrol stations, he tutted quietly to himself.  'Come in sir please, you're letting the rain in. May I see your ticket?'

He shook his head, as if waking from a daydream, peered at the door and absently let go of the handle.  It swung slowly shut, the wiry plastic brush screwed to its base making curved muddy lines on the tiled floor.

'Here,' he said, thrusting the small piece of card at the railwayman. 'Never been on a train before, going to my girlfriend's house, her parents are away for Christmas.' He gave Dullahan a theatrically knowing wink, which he returned, in kind, along with his ticket.

'Help yourself to a hot drink sir, a Christmas present from... the Management.'

'Got any lager?  Been out with the lads at lunchtime, had a proper skinful, could probably fit another one in though.' His smile slowly changed to a frown of puzzlement, 'It's funny though, I don't feel as drunk as I did a minute ago.'

'I'm sorry sir, just tea and coffee although, there might be some soup, I can ask...'

But the young man had sat down and was looking closely at his ticket, his lips slowly moving as his finger traced out the few lines of words.

'Mr Dullahan sir, it's nearly time.' Ranjit was pointing at the round white plastic clock on the wall. He checked his watch, the second hand moving in exact time with the clock.

'Ladies and gentlemen, you train will be arriving at the platform directly outside in precisely five minutes, though you should all have more than enough time to finish your drinks.  Please make sure you have all of your belongings with you.' He looked at the bunch of flowers that had fallen from the table and were now lying forgotten on the floor next to the young man who was scratching his head with his ticket. Exhaling through his nose he shook his head and went back to his own table.

There was barely two minutes to go when the door opened for the last time.  There was a bustle as a young family tried to force their way through the doorway all together.  They stood for a second, shaking the rain from their bedraggled Santa hats. 'It's blowing a gale out there!' He grinned at Dullahan and offered him the four tickets, 'Could you tell me how long we have to wait?'

He took the tickets, and without even looking at them said, 'Your train will be here any second, right outside.' Gesturing at the rain-lashed platform, he offered them the traditional free hot drink and looked down at the two children who were probably both no more than five years old. 'Would you like a glass of orange?'

The little boy looked up at him seriously as if it were the most difficult question he had ever been asked, then looked at his Mother, who shrugged, then nodded with a smile. 'Yes please, can my sister have one too?'

Dullahan gave the order to Ranjit, who poured out two small beakers of juice and handed them back with a the beginnings tear in his eye.

The boy took his and immediately started to drink it thirstily. The little girl was not so keen, she held onto her soaking wet teddy bear so hard that she started to wring the rain from it, and shifted uneasily behind her Mother.

'Are you... Are you looking forward to Christmas?' Dullahan faltered, but the little girl nodded.

'We're going to see Grandma, she's not very well.' She grabbed a handful of her Mother's skirt and covered her face.

'Oh, I'm sorry to hear that.' He looked at her Father, whose face told the story of exactly how ill her Grandmother was.' He looked in his notebook, ran his finger down a list of names and smiled weakly. 'You'll be seeing her very soon, I'm sure.'

'It was raining... There was a lorry...' Whispered the man, looking down at his children through eyes filled with such love. 'I... Tried...'

'I know you did,' Sighed Dullahan quietly, as he put a gentle hand of the man's shoulder, 'but you don't need to worry about that any more, the train's here now.'

They all looked through the window, outside was a huge steam train, it's shiny black bulk almost glowing in the rain.

'All aboard.' intoned Dullahan, and he slowly lifted his arms, palms upwards.  One by one, the six passengers faded from view until he was left alone apart from Ranjit and a scant bunch of petrol station flowers.

'Cup of tea?' Offered Ranjit.  He nodded emptily and sat down to wait for his next passengers.

In a week and a day?.. Nope... Nothing?

I don't know if it's just me, but does this Christmas just not feel very Christmassy to you?

Fewer people seem to be doing the whole 'Traditional English Christmas' thing - Don't get me wrong, the pikeys who live on the ring-road near me have all got their retina scorching poundshop illuminations up, especially the ones who've managed to jemmy the inspection hatch off the streetlight outside their house so that they can plug them in for free.  And there's a girl in my local Tesco that's wearing a Santa hat unironically (I think she is anyway, I'd ask her, but I really can't be bothered to explain what ironically means)...

But not a Traditional Christmas, like in the old days.

I mean, how many of you are intending to have a side of Guisers in to give you a good, hard, Mummering this year? None of you? Really?  What are Old Father Christmas, Slasher and Beelzebub going to do if they're not dancing through your housing estate espousing morality tales and killing mechanical worms with big sticks?

This country's going to the dogs, Ah tells thee...

What about Frumenty? You've made a big bowl of Frumenty for Christmas Eve surely? - Did you know that You don't have to eat your Frumenty plain anymore? you can add some really great stuff to it to give it a bit of 'pep' - Nuts and honey for instance, even currants or big chunks of porpoise (for Frumenty, and other religious purposes, they're considered fish, so you can eat them on a Friday, if Christmas day is on a Saturday - Don't all thank me at once.)

Have you bought new decorations to 'jazz up' the graves of your ancestors?  Really getting into the Christmas spirit (graves? spirit? geddit?) Share the season of goodwill with your dearly departed by spending an hour or so tinseling up their headstone or planting a yew or oak tree on their gravesite so that it'll both provide you with a place to hang your festive apples (which have now evolved in baubles of course), and drink of their decomposing remains... It's what the Cir-hercle of Life is all about.  You could even do a bit of topiary and fashion the tree into a likeness of the person that it's vampirically feeding off - Although that might be a bit ghoulish, even for me.

You've ordered your goose though right? No, not Turkey, nor Turduken because they are from the Western Colonies, and therefore cannot be traditional by definition, because we only stole the land from its indigenous peoples in the early 17th Century... And in my book, anything that's been happening in a foreign country for less than 500 years can't be called a tradition in England, sorry.  Come back in fifty years, and I'll have a rethink... Possibly.

Although, you could eat Humble Pie too if you've forgotten the Goose,  I know my Yuletide's not complete without a deer's brains, heart, kidney and lungs in a savoury piecrust, swimming in ale gravy and savoured with gusto (which is a bit like piccalilli I think, but I'm not completely sure)

You have made sure that all of the presents that you've bought for your family will fit comfortably in one of their own knee-socks?  Presents under the Christmas Tree (and for that matter, Christmas trees themselves) have only been around for a couple of hundred years - they were introduced by Zee Chermans, who, on a slightly more serious note, bombed our chippy and are therefore to be reviled, although not as much as the French, obviously.

There's a bit of irony there too if you think about it... If you have bought a new XBox One for your child and it fits easily into their stocking... They should probably be out in the fresh air getting more exercise - Get them a hockey stick instead, they're perfectly designed to fit in stockings. and a slew of satsumas, and an exercise DVD.

-oOo-

But how will the Dandies be celebrating?

Well, the children will rise at approximately 3:00 am and cook a Full English Breakfast for their parents.  As well as the traditional breakfast fare, there will be hand-cooked minced pies, with real meat, in oblong cases (because the Baby Iesu didn't sleep in no round crib).  We will rise at 8:00 am and complain that the breakfast has gone cold, this will set the mood for the whole day.

Then we all retire to our separate rooms and delve through our stockings (there is a ten minute pause for the disappointed crying to die down) and my Father, The Grand-Dandy will arrive to preside over the Christmas Luncheon.  He will say that it is very nice, but there is too much of it, and it is different from the lunch he had on Christmas Day 1942, which will both confuse and depress him.

Children will play with their handmade wooden toys, whilst looking longingly at the tablet, mobile phone and games console adverts on the 14" black and white television that we normally hire for the occasion.

Once the Grand-Dandy has fallen asleep we will go to the top floor of Dandy Towers with our flatbows and try to get an arrow between the front spokes of any child riding their new bicycles up and down the road to show off, thus teaching them a valuable life-lesson.  There will be a prize for the highest score, providing that there are any minced pies left that is.

A two hour silence will be observed whilst I repair, alone, to the Library to watch the Doctor Who Christmas Special, naked, on my 100" HD ceiling mounted, flatscreen.

The day will end with a rousing rendition of our favourite macaronic carols and the children will fight, hand to hand, for the honour of being soundly flogged before bedtime.

Ah tradition, the lifeblood of our fair country... Without it, we are nothing.

Well, technically it's a crime.

I've been a bit lax with the old Blogeroonie recently haven't I?  This is this week's first post and it's Thursday.

I blame celebrity Blogger Bennett McVeigh, The lovechild of the guy who played guitar for Fleetwood Mac that wasn't Peter Green, and Shirley Bassey, the Welsh brother of the decidedly American Oklahoma bomber and wearer of some spectacular hats.  He has been taking up my time by exercising his writing muscle and making me cry into my weak lemon drink... Thus making it weaker, and less lemony...

So, it's now it's pretty much just drink...

And there's the writing of the next book, about robots and pirates and airships, that's been taking up a lot of time too...  Got less than three weeks to get that written, so I'm going to make today's Blog a short one...

It starts in the past, as most of my memories do, and it involves Christmas, and motorcycles and alcohol.

-oOo-

Derby (UK), as some of you might know, was one of the hubs of the Industrial Revolution.  We had silk mills and mass produced pottery and kids dying left, right and centre of black lung.  But mostly, we had trains and train infrastructure.

There was a branch line of the Great Northern Railway in the west of the City that you can still explore, there are ghost lines and disused warehouses with rotten floors that will quite happily drop you thirty feet to the dark, rat infested cellars below...  Great place, spent a lot of time there in the mid nineties.  In fact, there're a few pictures of the place in question HERE by a chap that explored it long after these events took place.  Although, in fairness it looked exactly the same, even the toilet (The fouth picture down) was just a disused urinal, and you did your best not to miss the hole that led to... Well, into the bowels of the Earth.  Which was difficult because you had to keep your eyes closed to stop your retinas exploding from the smell.

It had everything you could ever wish for in a subterranean space, rivers of raw human waste, rats, suspiciously rusty looking water dripping from the brickwork and tree-roots coming through the ceiling.  As an extra bonus, there was no real ventilation, and as a lot of business that used 'The Arches' were connected to the motor trade, the Carbon Monoxide levels were often pretty high, as were most of the people who worked there a lot of the time.

A guy I knew, I wouldn't call him a mate really, I can't even remember his name... Might have been Trev or Terry or something like that though now I come to mention it, owned a bike breakers in one of the aforesaid arches.  He was, in the best tradition of such people, a bit 'Woooo' and a bit 'Weyyyy'

Characterised by the time that he offered me a fixer-upper 1943 Harley Davidson WL45 motorcycle for a set number of 'Goes' on my then girlfriend (To my eternal shame I did actually think about it, but she informed me that the correct answer was, in fact, 'no')

Anywho, Trev, Terry, T-Dog whatever his name was, suggested that 'The Lads' go for a Christmas Eve wander around town, starting when the pubs opened and finishing... Well, no fixed finishing time was set, as such.  We were going to start at his 'Arch' at about 10ish, have a few cans and then sally forth.  Which is what we did, except that between the 'few cans' and getting to the pub, there was a brief alcoholic interlude.

A bottle appeared, with no label on it, its contents were clear, but luminous yellowy-green... Much, I expect, like a urine sample from Dr Bruce Banner.

This wasn't it exactly... But it should have been

'I made it myself...' Said the T-Meister, which bearing in mind the analogy above, was very probably true.

I sniffed it, it was definitely vodka, but with delicate notes of halibut and primroses.  I wiped the brim on my sleeve and took a deep swig, swallowing quickly, reasoning that the less time it spent in my mouth, the better.  And it didn't taste that bad, it had the smoky aftertaste that one normally associates with french-kissing a rhinocerous, but other than that, perfectly passable.

We emptied the bottle between us and went to the pub.

It only took an hour or so for the first one of us to go blind...

My legs wandered off for a little unattended walk of their own, leaving me balanced precariously on a bench, in a beer-garden, in the snow.  Terence sat down next to me, giggling to himself, plucking imaginary butterflies from his beard.

'Dude, what was in that vodka?'

'Hmmmm? Vodka?  Skunk mate..?'

'Skunks?' I giggled to myself, wondering why it didn't have black and white stripes in that case.

'Nah-nah-nah.. Not skunks... skunk... Marry-Jew-Wana.'

I laughed uncontrollably for a while, looked at the pretty patterns in my bottle of Newcastle Brown Ale, then I made my way back home, dragging myself with the only muscles that I still had control over...

My lips.


Drugs are bad kids, especially if you ingest them completely by accident.

Just say No! (No really, do, they're tremendously bad for you.)

One more rusty nail

There's a lot of talk about racism at the moment isn't there?

With the terrible scenes at Woolwich Barracks, I suppose it was a bit of a forgone conclusion.  It really doesn't take long for the bug-eyed mentalists on both sides of the argument to start rattling sabres and throwing tomatoes at each other.  But once either side achieves critical mass, you'd better just stand back and let them get on with it, because it becomes a self sustaining reaction.

Let's get my position fortified first before I start receiving the hate-mail.  I don't believe for a second that what happened to Drummer Lee Rigby was an organised terrorist attack, sponsored by al Qaida, al-Muhajiroun or any other 'real' terrorist/extremist organisation.

It's my personal opinion that the two chaps involved are just f*cking mental - One slightly more than the other.  And were one day sat in their lounge, throwing chips into the air and catching them in their mouths, when one gets the great idea that they could get famous by killing a squaddie.

'But why would we do that?' Asks Less Mental.

'To be famous!' Replies More Mental.

'We'll never get away with it.' Opines Less Mental.

'We'll pretend we're terrorists, the police are really hands-off with terrorists.' Says More Mental.

'But don't you have to be an Islamic type person?' Quips Less Mental, threatening to blow the whole operation.

'Your point?' Asks More Mental.

'Well, We're from Romford. And we went to your Mum's for Christmas dinner last year.  So I kind of assumed that we were Christian.' Explains Less Mental.

'Ah, got that covered, you're right, I was Christian, but I converted to Islam about ten years ago - After I bought that Cat Stevens album off of Amazon.  In fact, from now on, I want you to call me Mujaahid.'

'Mujahadeen? Isn't that those Afghan blokes, out in the desert, with the flat caps?'

'Look, stop d*cking about, let's get on with it.'

'We'll never get away with it... We'll get shot or something.'

'Nah, it'll be fine, once we say that we're Islamist terrorists, they'll all be so busy lynching Asian people that they'll forget all about two geezers from Romford, whose parents are from Nigeria.  Remember though, we'll have to completely incapacitate the soldier so that there's no chance of it being a fair fight.'

'You're really counting on a knee-jerk reaction by the whole of the British public to mask our escape?  I didn't realise you were THAT mental, they're not THAT stupid... Are they?'


S'funny though, I've not seen much backlash against Nigerians (Although I guess they were both born in the UK - Maybe we should all march on Romford with torches and pitchforks) but plenty against Muslims in general.  weird that innit?

It's like they're our go-to bad-guy...

It's snowing on the Bank-Holiday? - Blame Islam

The corner shop's run out of Old Holborne - Blame Islam

Two airliners fly into American skyscrapers - Blame the FBI/CIA

Or something.

-oOo-

Now the serious bit... For those of you who say that I'm making fun of the situation.  I'm not, really - The people that I'm taking the p*ss out of are the mentalist, swivel eyed. 'If you hate Britain so much then go home.' brigade.  Thing is, for most of these people, this is their home - They've never been to Nigeria or wherever their parents or even their parents' parents were from.

I'm really very sorry for the loss of Drummer Rigby, my thoughts are with his family and friends.  It's a tragic thing that never should have happened.

But don't blame Islam

Don't blame the Police

Don't blame the Government

Blame two mental guys from Romford - They're who did it, no-one else.

They're the people who killed the soldier - Whose only crime was to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

They're the people who widowed a woman and orphaned a child.

They're the people who raped an otherwise peaceful religious text to publicise themselves and increase their infamy.

Them...

No-one else...

At all...

Not this time...

If you create too much friction, the skin comes off

A long time ago, all the way back in 1996, I worked for a childrens' clothing supplier based in Nuneaton. As normal, I won't mention the name, but their logo was an apple and their stores were decorated like nurseries with pretend laminate flooring with hopscotch... erm... boards? courts? What do you call the thing you draw on the floor when you play hopscotch?

Anywho, their Head Office was decorated in the same way and it was a wonderful, jolly place, where it was a joy to work... Honestly, I really enjoyed my time there, it wasn't like having a real job at all.

There are many stories about this particular period that might be of interest to you guys, and some of them are directly below.

-oOo-

The HQ was quite a large building, with offices at the front, and a huge warehouse at the back, where thousands of different types of childrens clothes were stored in racks going about thirty feet up into the air. The guys who drove the forklifts would have a pick-list of daily stock that the stores needed and would wander around picking bits and bobs from here and there. The trucks that they used were very strange, in that they didn't have forks, the cab where the driver sat went up and down to reach the shelves. I'm sure there's a proper name for them.

One day, a couple of us were in the computer room, which was on a mezzanine floor, overlooking the warehouse, when we heard that noise that an AT-AT makes when it trips over a snowspeeder tow cable followed by a really loud bang.

What had happened was that one of the drivers, whose truck was fully extended as he was getting something off the top shelf, had noticed that his next pick was on the top shelf of the next set of racks. He didn't bother to drop the cab back down, as the safety instructions suggested, and had driven his truck down to the end of the row, done a u-turn to go up the next one, clipped another truck and toppled over, taking a set of racks with it. We stood there and watched as the racking fell in slow motion into the next row of racks, all of the boxes sliding off it and falling to the floor. It was like a snowdrift of baby-grows and inappropriately adult looking childrens clothes.

I commented to the warehouse manager a couple of weeks after the event.

'I know you have posters all over the place saying that you shouldn't move the trucks with the cabs extended, don't you tell them that when they start?'

'Yes, we do,' He replied, 'Unfortunately it seems that during the interview process, we don't check to see that they're clever enough to be able to eat with a fork, or able to read'

-oOo-

The IT department was quite large, but it was also pretty relaxed. It was one of those places where the Boss genuinely meant it when he said 'As long as the work gets done, and I don't get any complaints, then you do what you like.'

So we took him at his word, and often decamped to the beer garden of the local pub of a summers afternoon and stayed there until we got a call, or until it was time to go home. Winters days were handled in roughly the same way, except that we'd be in the bar rather than the garden. Until that is, someone bought in a hooky copy of a PC 3D shooter game called 'Descent'. The entire department was instantly hooked. It was loaded onto pretty much all of the computers in the office and eight of us at a time would take turns blowing each other up with little blocky spaceships. It started as a lunchtime timewaster, and mutated into an afternoon timewaster, then an evening timewaster... Games would often start at five in the evening and end at nine o'clock at night. Except at Christmas, when they would last all day.

We didn't let it influence our professionalism of course, not once did we ignore the phone when one of us was on a kill-streak, neither did we get the Big boss' PA to call whoever was winning at that time and ask them IT questions until we managed to pass his score. We were professionals, and we always put our customers first. As I explain below.

-oOo-

I had a call once, from one of the buyers, she was quite pretty and as I was 'between relationships' at the time, I'd been cultivating a relationship with her that was on the cusp of becoming... Not completely professional.

'Hi Dandy, I have an IT emergency, I need your help right now!'

'OK, what seems to be the problem.'

'I think it's my clitoris, it's not working.'

I took a deep breath, waved at my work partner, whom we all called The Shadow, who had been following my heavy-handed attempts to progress my relationship with this particular customer and put her on speakerphone, 'You say you're having problems with your clitoris?'

'Yes, I'm pushing it from side to side but nothing seems to be happening!'

'OK... Erm... Have you tried... Erm... moving it up and down?'

'No, that makes my finger feel funny, I only ever go side to side.'

'I think I need to take a look,' The Shadow gave me a thumbs up, pointed to himself - implying that he would like to attend this call too, 'where are you?'

'I'm in the front office, downstairs.'

'We'll be down in a second.'

'Both of you?'

'Yeah, if that's OK?'

'Of course, the more the merrier!'

We looked at each other, stories from Mayfair's Readers Confessions running through both our heads, slicked our hair back (This is when I still had hair) and nonchalently ran down the stairs. We paused to catch our breath before we entered the office, expecting to find her alone, in a state of undress. posed languidly on the desk.

What we actually found was a full office, with the young lady in question waving at us from the middle of it.

'Helloooo! Over here!'

We dejectedly made our way over to her, took up positions behind her shoulders and I said, 'You're having a problem with your..'

'Clitoris, yes, look...' She proceded to open her laptop and start to violently tug at the little red pointing device in the middle of the keyboard. 'See, it doesn't work.'

'You call that a clitoris?'

'Yes, why, isn't that the proper name?'

'Well, it gets called a lot of things, I've known people call it a joystick, or a nubbin, even a nipple, but never a... a...'

'A Clitoris?'

'No, I've never heard anyone call it that before, but I vow, that from now on, that's the only thing I will ever call it'

And true to my word, that is what I have called it from that very day. It makes for some interesting conversations with IBM engineers, but I have become something of an expert. So, if any of you ever need any help with yours, even if it's just to get the dust and gunk from around the edges, give me a call, I have a special tool reserved for just that purpose.

It was a bright, cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen

And suddenly... Monday!

Well, I don't know about you guys, but that last weekend just zoomed past. I got the precise total of no things done at all, watched a bit of TV, ate a wonderful roast pork dinner, Sat through 'Battleship' with liam Neeson and that geezer what played Gambit in the X-Men film - I hope you guys did nothing of any import too.

-oOo-

So, today's Blog is a character assassination of my Brother, well no, it's not really... I love my Brother, if I had to make a list of the people who've helped me out most over the last forty years, he'd be at the top of it. But when we were little and everything, he was a monster. (At least, according to my Mother, who relayed these stories to me, although she did have a reputation for embellishment - So, whilst they are, to the best of my knowledge true, there's a possibility of artistic licence in the details.)

Love you Man!

Let me do a little scene-setting. My Brother is ten years older than me, born in the fifties, grew up in the sixties, went to Uni in the seventies, got married in the eighties, rode the promotion rocket in the nineties, retired in the noughties and now lives in his hollow volcano, super-villain hideout in the Mediterranean eating Greek food and playing Star Wars: The Old Republic.

My earliest memory of my brother is, of course, one of torment and torture. (quelle suprise I hear regular readers gasp) When I was but a mewling, pewking, babe in arms, he was my babysitter whilst our parents desperately tried to have a social life. Remember this was the seventies, and parents having a social life was not yet frowned upon. As my Brother was a fairly normal pre-teen, his brand of babysitting often involved putting me where I would be least trouble and continuing with... Whatever it was he did... Watching TV, eating more walnut whips than was strictly good for him and suchlike.

His safe-place of choice on this particular occasion was a doorframe mounted baby-bouncer. If you haven't seen this kind of contraption, it comprises a clamp, attached to the top of the doorframe, then a long spring, some 'safety' straps and a seat, with holes for the feet, sort of like a plastic nappy. (One wonders if this is how fetishes start?) I was a needy child, which in fairness hasn't changed that much, and I enjoyed this contraption, but only if it was moving. Every once in a while my brother would wander over to me and give me a push, that would see me bouncing, or swinging, depending which way he pushed, into paroxysms of happy gurgling.

I guess on this one occasion, I had become particularly needy, and there was possibly some frustration on his part. But the next thing I knew, he'd taken hold of the 'gusset' of the bouncer, took a few steps back and let go. I went shooting into the other room, the spring stretched, then contracted, and sent me shooting back into the living room. I understand that I quite enjoyed this... Initially. Until he tried it again, and on this occasion took a few more steps back.

This time, I performed the same repeated trip between the two rooms, but at a higher speed, with my head snapping back and forth like an acid-fuelled Woody Woodpecker, and... Are you familiar with the latin phrase ad nauseum? - Seemingly, I went slightly past that point. Well, let's say that I'm glad that I didn't have to pay for a new carpet.

-oOo-

The second incident is a Christmas story, one overflowing with comfort and joy. Our Father, at the time, worked at an electrical shop, and as such was the go-to guy for Christmas lights. We had everything it was possible to get; Flower-shaped ones, Snowflake-shaped ones, Cold-cathode ones that flickered like candles and, my personal favourite, a string of fairy lights where every bulb was a mini lava lamp - I poop you not! - All running on 240 volts, no transformers, no 'Ideal for outdoor use' labels, proper man's electricity, with all the danger and fire-risk that that suggests.

The setup for this story is the same as before, parents out, Brother babysitting, although I think I was a little older, maybe four or five. And I'm not sure how the subject came up, I think we were shining torches up each other's noses to make them glow red. And then 'someone' suggested that if I were to put a fairy light bulb in my mouth, my whole head would probably light up.

I think he paniced when he heard the crunch of broken glass, and ran to get a towel from the kitchen and 'encouraged' me to spit the razor-sharp shards into it. I can't remember that there was a lot of blood, which was definately more by luck that judgement. It's not an experiment that either of us were in any great hurry to repeat - And I suggest you do not try it at home, or at B&Q or Asda.

(And to clarify, the bulb had been removed from the light fitting, I mean, he wasn't mad or anything)

-oOo-

My final story for today is one of mayhem, death and destruction. It is the tale of a young child, sadly robbed of his innocence too soon, cruelly snatched from under his Mother's wing and thrust into the harsh, actinic glare of the real world with not a thought for his wellbeing, future trust issues, or length of his limbs.

The stairs at my parents house were (and still are for that matter) very steep. My Dad would often arrange for Chris Bonington to come around to the house and give us tips on how to scale them safely. (Especially the difficult overhang on the West face) There was a family of goats on the third step from the top that you had to give a portion of your packed lunch to before they would let you pass. Standing at the top, you got the same view that Hawaiian cliff divers get just before they take a deep breath and make like a Puffin, only the sea is made of deep-pile berber that the landlord got cheap after one of his other tenants 'tripped and fell'.

Steep, right?

Anywho, we used to play a mean game of cops and robbers, did my Brother and I. Well, I say cops and robbers, it was more sort of beat the poop out of me (in a brotherly and loving fashion), tie me up, stow me somewhere where I wouldn't be found too quickly, and then wander off and do something more exciting. On this occasion however, there was some 'Escalation' as I believe it's called in serial killer parlance. There was the standard light beating, as one had come to expect, possibly a chinese burn or two, and then my hands were tied together with one of the many ties that my Father regularly got for Christmas but never wore.

Then the other end of the tie was loosely tied around the banister rail... As I am a kind and loving person, who never holds a grudge, I'll describe what happened next as me 'losing my footing'. Have you ever fallen downstairs? it used to be a weekly event for me when I lived at home. It involves a kind of rolling motion, designed to spread the trauma over your whole body. That can't happen when you're tied to a banister. So my ass took a real pounding.

No, there might be a better way to say that... Aw hell, you've read it now anyway.

He was very apologetic, once he'd stopped laughing and came downstairs and untied me.

-oOo-

So there you go, my Mother couldn't stop interfering in my life even after she died, my Father made free and easy with the Lords' little feathery creatures and my Brother was, well, one hesitates to use the words 'Fratricidal Maniac' doesn't one?.. So let's say, just a completely normal Big Brother - He even painted the number 101 on our shared bedroom door.

An eye for an eye

Yesterday, I spoke of the awesome bird mutilation skills of my Father. It seems only fair that I now tell you tales of the occular disassociational episodes that my Mother peppered my younger days with.

If you're a regular reader, you'll be au-fait with my Mother's sense of humour - She definately mellowed after she died, but whilst she was still alive - Seriously, she'd do stuff even that I'd think twice about - And I can throw fruit at myself.

In the mid 70's, she lost her right eye - I mean, she didn't come home from the shops one afternoon and say 'Oh Bugger! - I must have left it on the bus', there was some serious medical reason for it. I have vague memories of visiting her in hospital and stuff - In fact, one story that she used to tell (she really spun this one out, it could take her hours to tell if someone else was providing tea and/or biscuits) - But it boils down to my Dad redecorating the kitchen, then accidentally setting fire to it, and me running down the ward screeching 'Dad's set the kitchen on fire! Dad's set the kitchen on fire!'

Anywho, after a time of walking around with an eyepatch on, she was fitted with a 'Glass Eye'. For those of you whose total experience of false eyes is Mr Ragetti from Pirates of the Caribbean - I'll let you in on a secret, They're not spherical, they're kind of, well... scutiform (If nothing else happens today, you've learned a new word, it means 'Shield-shaped').

If I go into too much medical detail in the next paragraph, please feel free to skip It - But I feel that it gives some important background info.

For the first few months after the patch came off, she was fitted with a 'training' eye - Much like the oversized bar that they put in when you first have your tongue pierced, only the other way around, in that it's smaller than standard, to make up for the swelling etc. It seems that the way you can tell when you're ready for your 'real' false eye is when your training eye starts to fall out. I poop you not, (Remember this was the '70's, there are probably all kinds of clever scientific ways that they do it now - Anyone with impending eye surgery probably shouldn't worry... Well, not about this... I mean, you should probably still worry, it's your eye, and they'll be poking at it with sharp things... Like, totally, Ewww!)

The first time this happened, I think it was February / March - It was definately Shrove Tuesday, because we were all sat around eating pancakes. All I heard was a quiet *Tink* noise and my Mother said,

'Oh!'

There, resting on her plate, was her eye... Staring back at her. The rest of us sat there in stunned silence as she calmly picked it up, brushed the sugar off, and put it back in.

Young Dandy Trauma Level: 2.3

The second time I remember was when she called me into the kitchen and asked her to take stuff out of the washing bowl and pass it to her to dry - You know where this is going, right? I think that I'd given her a few cups, the odd plate and a knife, when I felt something at the bottom of the bowl. I thought it was a piece of broken mug or something as my Mum was famous for washing the crockery overarm - We got through a tea service at least every few weeks - But it wasn't, imagine being a five year old boy holding, what for all intents and purposed was a real, human eye. I just stood there going 'Eye... Eye... Eye... Eye...' Whilst she wept uncontrollable tears of mirth (out of one eye)

Young Dandy Trauma Level: 5.1

The third and final time, apart from when it came out into a package of butter as she was getting out of the 'fridge, was when she dropped it into the old upright washing machine and we had to go through all the pockets of the clothes that were being washed before we found it. That's an experience that brings a family together, I can tell you.

After she had been fitted for her new eye, you'd have thought that she'd have grown up a bit, but no... they let her keep her old eye (old false one that is, not old real one) which meant she had a spare. Over the next couple of years, I cannot count how many times this 'spare' ended up in my school lunchbox, on friends plates when they came over after school for tea and on the fireplace when she left the room - She would palm it and then pretend to take her eye out, close her eyelid and say something like,

'I'm watching you two,' As she left the room.

When I was maybe eight, I plucked up the courage to ask her what it actually looked like when she took it out... There was no 'Are you sure' or 'No, I don't think you'll like it', she just flipped it out, I was transfixed... If she had held her false eye to her forehead, she would have been the living embodiment of Davros.

Young Dandy Trauma Level: 9.4

She had another couple made over the years, in fact, I seem to remember that her consultant, Mr Farquhar, even made her a 'bloodshot' one as a Christmas present. This just increased the level of tricks she could play on people. One of her favourties wes secreting one in her mouth and then slowly opening her eyes and her mouth at the same time - It was like living on the set of The Reanimator at times - Although, in fairness, I did use them in the occasional modelling clay project for school.

I have one at home now, in a little box - I always toyed with the idea of having it made into a signet ring - I think that would probably go with my Super-Villain persona pretty well.

　

Whistle, and She'll come to you my Girl

As Christmas has many associated traditions, I thought I'd reel some of them out in a 'Good Gods, what should I drone on about today' Kinda way.

The first one that I would like to have at is the Christmas Ghost Story. In the past, the BBC have done a cracking job of adapting the works of MR James (And others) into stories in the style of those told by the older generation, to the younger generation around open fire when the only lighting was provided by stuttering candles.

I present to you my own family Christmas Ghost story, a true account where names have not been changed, as no-one is truly innocent, are they?

it was the winter of 2002, we were a smaller family then - just the three of us. My Daughter was an accomplished talker and had quite a vivid imagination, despite only being three years old. She would often hold long conversations with her toys, posing them around a tea-service or arranging an improptue picnic for them.

Her mode of conversation was very adult, she would ask Piglet a question and politely give him time to reply, nod sagely and move to the next stuffed animal or doll, to see what their opinion on the situation was. This was the rule, rather than the exception and was thought to be quite 'cute' or even precocious by any assembled onlookers.

One afternoon, when Mrs Dandy went upstairs to collect her after her regular nap, she heard our daughter laughing and having one of her conversations, the gaps where she would normally wait for her toys to reply were slightly, but noticibly, longer. It also sounded like the toys were asking the questions, and my Daughter was the one doing the answering.

When the chat seemed to have reached it's natural conclusion, Mrs Dandy entered the room to see our daughter sat on the bed, alone. Alone in this case meaning no other toys, not the treasured Piglet or any of her other plushy inner circle.

"Who were you talking to Baby?"

"The Lady." she replied, in a completely disinterested tone.

"Which Lady?"

"Don't know, just the Lady, what's for Dinner?"

This was talked about for a couple of days as an odd occurance, but nothing really came of it and the assumption was made that 'The Lady' was an imaginary friend, based on a half remembered character from a Disney Cartoon or a Narnia book.

A few weeks later, we decided to make a photo-wall in the dining room, with family pictures from the past fifty or so years. The project took some time, with photos being printed then framed and mounted on the wall. I walked into the dining room one day to see my daughter staring at the pictures.

"Who's that?" I asked, pointing at a picture of her

"Me!" she shouted, excitedly

"OK, who's that?" I pointed at a picture of my Brother

"Unca Pete! - Who's that?" She asked, turning the game around and pointing at a picture of Mrs Dandy.

"That's Mummy!"

"Who's that?"

"That's MY Mummy" I replied, preparing to tell some stories of my youth.

"No, silly Daddy, that's The Lady!"

"Which Lady, Baby?"

"The Lady," In a tone that implied that I was quite possibly the stupidest person on the entire planet, "That comes and talks to me in my bedroom!"

I should probably explain that my Mother had died of cancer some fifteen years previously.

After some small amount of coaxing, my daughter told me that 'The Lady' regularly visited her and would ask if everone was alright and if she was happy. So far, so spooky, but that's not where the story ends.

As the identity of The Lady had now been established, a strange pall fell over the house, everyone seemed to be treading slightly lighter, a room you would normally walk through without turning on the light became a study in moving shadows and half-seen figures. Every creak of floorboards from the first floor was met with a strained silence to see if it evolved into footsteps.

As escalations go, the next 'stage' of the experience was strange, but for anyone who knew my mother, completely understandable.

My Daughter was (and still is) a reasonably sound sleeper, once she was asleep nothing short of a tactical nuclear strike would wake her up. Mrs Dandy often used 'Naptime' as a couple of hours that could be spent on housework that was otherwise difficult with a toddler in tow, such as dusting upstairs. One afternoon, she decided to try vacuuming, knowing that she wouldn't wake our daughter up.

I think she managed to use the vacuum for around fifteen seconds before it turned itself off, not at the vacuum, but at the switch on the socket. It took her some time to realise that that was what had happened as she assumed that something was loose, or the machine itself had overheated. The switch was turned back on and cleaning commenced for another few seconds until it was turned off again by the unseen hands.

My wife put down the vacuum, took a deep breath and turned to address the empty air:

"Look, Grandma Dandy, I'm not going to wake her up, everything is fine, we don't mind you visiting, but let me get on with my work"

The silence was deafening, which made the roar of the vacuum turning itself back on all the more of a shock.

After that The Lady's visits became less and less frequent, we think that she visited my Son a couple of times from things he's mentioned in conversation - But not to the extent that she did with my Daughter.

She did always say that she wanted a Grand-Daughter though.