Mobility matters

There are few things worse than trying to use someone else's phone.  Obviously there are many things worse, but reading and replying to a text from my friend's housemate as said friend tried to drive in convoy, at speed through rush hour traffic wasn't the easiest thing I've ever done.  It's quite an old phone, with at least three letters on each key.  I had to start again four times before I found the delete button, and where on earth is the full stop?   I have never sent such a badly-punctuated text.

It didn't help that calls were coming in at the same time from passengers in the other vehicles we were travelling with.  We lost the lead driver early on, as she was following her satnav and turned off unexpectedly.  "Tell them not to worry," my friend said, "I think I know the way.  Oh, and you'd better call the others so they don't panic either."  That was all very well, but my friend had dropped her phone in a pot of paint some days previously, so you have to hold it horizontally and speak into the end - but then you can't hear what the other person is saying.  It also didn't help that the other person had two very vocal lambs in the back of her vehicle and we had two dogs in ours.

At least we all had our phones switched on, unlike my beloved.  His defence?  "I wanted to save the battery, and I didn't need to speak to anyone."  My response? "That's why you nearly had nasty pizza instead of nice beef chow mien.

Weigh me down

It's true that I haven't always had good relationships with bathroom scales; my last set embraced the grunge lifestyle and left home to live in a skip a couple of years ago.  I wasn't put off though.  I quickly opened my home and heart to a new set of scales; Max Morrison - a pale, slim, efficient type.  Rather like the android secretary of a Bond villain.  I should have been warned, but I reckon everyone deserves a chance.  And Max has done well in the warm and caring environment of my bathroom.  He even put up with the dust, with only the occasional reproachful glance in my direction.

Sadly, all has now changed, and I think poor Max has had an emotional crisis.  While my bathroom was being re-fitted, I moved him into my bedroom and tucked him cosily away under the bedside table.  Now he's refusing to go back.  This morning I wiped his face, then stepped on to weigh myself.

 Wow, 8 stone 13!  I haven't been 8 stone 13 in years!  But I knew that, whatever Max said, I'm not 8 stone 13 now.

I took him back into the bathroom, set him down on the new tiles and tried again.  Oh good grief, 10 stone 13!

 

 That, I have to admit, is more likely, but I've been on a diet for a fortnight so I had the feeling he was not being entirely honest.

I took him out onto the landing, where he said I was 9 stone 1.

 Pleasing, but less probable and I wasn't going to give in to flattery.  Besides, it would be most inconvenient to leave him there as I'd be falling over him all the time.

Now I do know that altitude affects your weight, so I took Max downstairs.  {You do actually weigh different at sea level than you would on top of a mountain; not much different, but I felt it was worth a try.}

  

Apparently I'm only 8 stone 4 in the living room.   Time for shock tactics, so I dragged him into the kitchen, where he looked round in terror and blurted out the first number that came into his head, which happened to be 11 stone.

 

I can only assume that poor Max has either had a breakdown, or has decided that he prefers carpet to tiles.  I will try to placate him with new batteries, and see how it goes.

Grandma said...

"Eeeew, too much information!" my friend remarked, when I mentioned that I'd had 'a lick and a promise' this morning.

 I only meant that, as my bathroom's out of action at the moment due to being refitted, I just had a quick wash at the sink instead of my usual shower. How times change.  Not just the daily shower instead of the weekly bath, but the expressions we use.  That particular phrase was a favourite of my Grandmother's, but in her case it did often refer to an actual lick, as in, "spit in your hanky and let me rub that dirt off your face".

My Grandmother used a lot of strange expressions, now I come to think about it.  "He's as queer as Dick's hatband," she'd say, meaning that someone was what I'd call mildly eccentric.  {In the days when that's what the 'Q' word actually meant.}  I never found out who Dick was, or what his hat looked like, but as she wore some pretty strange hats herself I longed to see it.  An expression that mystified me completely, though, was the condemnation, "fur coat; no knickers". 

 Picture: Portrait of a Woman in a Fur Coat

 How on earth did she know?  It's not like a fur coat is a flimsy garment, given to revealing all in a light breeze, or getting caught unexpectedly on passing gentlemen.  And if you were wearing a fur coat, it was likely to be in order to keep warm in winter. Surely you'd want substantial layers of clothing on underneath as well?  Perhaps she meant that a fur coat was so expensive that the poor lady couldn't afford knickers too.  But she had a fur coat herself!  And many knickers, with long legs, that fluttered merrily on the clothes line every washday.  A variation on that theme was, "red hat; no knickers".  Did my Grandmother have x-ray vision?  Was the whole thing just coded messages to Granddad?  I will never know.  I can only wonder what she would have said about someone in a fur coat and a red hat.

Picture: Portrait of a Man Picture: Portrait of a Man