Monday, 25 July 2011

Delusions of Grandeur . . .

I had the most awkward moment today - someone actually looked at me!! I mean, totally caught my eye and kept it when everybody knows that when I enter a room, step out of a car or stand at a cash register they must avert their eyes. It was embarrassing because I then had to totally give them my most murderous stare until they looked away! This is why I don't leave the house, people have a tendency to just stare, stare, stare and sometimes from the corner of my eye I catch them pointing too. I always keep my head held high at these times because I've always believed if you look to the sky you'll see the stars whereas if you look at the ground you're only ever going to see shit.

It's not my fault that people are totally fascinated by me. I guess I've known I was special since I was a child and it was only jealousy that made those other children throw rocks at me and set fire to my book bag. Mother always told me that I had the bluest eyes and the blondest hair and that my skin was like that of a china doll and that's why at school she insisted I always wore a little cap and elbow length gloves. My skin is beyond delicate and the sun so ageing that I knew from a very young age that I must keep it covered at all times. I hated the rough and tumble of childhood games and every break time I could be found sitting under the willow tree at the edge of the playground engrossed in a monthly periodical. I loved to read the high fashion magazines of the day and pretend that it was me looking coquettishly up from my gelato in Milan or swinging playfully from a streetlamp on the Champs De Elysee. It was only the shrill ringing of the school bell or the pain of a football being kicked directly at my face that brought me back to that playground in dismal south east London. Still, I knew even then that my talent and fine looks would take me far, far away from this awful, common place . . at least someday anyway.

I've had another letter from the "Local Authority" demanding I pay my rent! I mean seriously, do they really think that I LIKE living in this piss stinking tower block?? I just cannot cope with these mean spirited people! I explained to the ethnic looking lady at the council offices that I wouldn't be paying my rent for the next couple of weeks as I had to invest all of this months money on Monty's vet bills. Monty is my darling Persian Blue and the only thing that keeps me sane. As I explained to the vet when I rushed him there last week. I'd only just opened the bottle of peroxide when Monty made a leap for it and spilled it everywhere. All over himself, all over me ( he absolutely ruined my antique silk kimono) and destroying the Marrimeko bath mat. The poor darling is now part Persian blue and part pigeon grey. The vet said unfortunately cat's fur doesn't respond to bleach in the same way my silky tresses have. Poor, poor Monty, I have a good mind to take him down to the council offices myself just to prove a point to those rent demanding Nazi's! He could have died and I was almost left with my hair half done.

I've decided the only way I can get Monty and I out of this pickle is to leave the flat and go back to mothers. I haven't spoken to her for almost five years, she didn't take kindly to the news that I had been having an affair with  Ranjit from the post office as she doesn't believe in ethnic mixing. I explained that Ranjit and I had been frantically clashing our cultures together since she started collecting her pension but she threw me out of the house and told me to take my perversion elsewhere. That's how I ended up in "local authority" housing. They do rehouse you quite quickly if you're 54 year old single white male with a silk cravat and a Persian blue. I don't think the neighbours will miss me. I've been playing my favourite aria's full blast night and day just to drown out the sound of the police helicopters and those awful barking pit bulls. I've always thought that it's possible to beautify your surroundings with some scatter cushions and a nice aria.

The taxi driver was furious with the amount of bags I told him to carry downstairs. I didn't care what he said, I wasn't having my drapes and lounge suits being put in that urine and vodka stinking lift! So what if he had to walk up and down eighteen flights of stairs, that's what I'm paying him for. I told him he's lucky we have stairs in this country. I said " I bet you haven't even seen a mud shack taller than two storeys where you come from" but I don't think he understood.

Anyway, everything is fine and beautiful again now. I'm safely ensconced in the room where I grew up. I've put mother to bed. I've tucked her in very tightly so she can't fall out the side, or even get out of the bed without calling for me.I've made sure I've locked her bedroom door just in case she thinks she's going to go wandering again. She made the local news a couple of weeks ago when she was found at half past three in the morning, barefoot and in her nightie around the back of "Uncle Jack's Chicken Shack".

I know she's glad I'm home really, even if she said she'll never forgive me for dallying with "Rancid Ranjit".

 It's all worked out well really, just me, Monty, my silk kimono, mother and my aria's.

1 comment:

  1. All life`s problems can be solved with a good aria and a bottle of tequila. Great blog -- gotta be on my top favorite!