Spewing and sprawling on the Ionian Sea

When the captain of a boat sits on his own in the corner, hands over his face, his bowed head shaking from side to side, it is reasonable to suspect that all is not well.

Such was the scene Mrs Jones and I witnessed while on a boat returning to the Greek island of Corfu after a day trip to Albania. We were ensconced, below deck, in the covered area of a pleasure cruiser along with around one hundred other tourists. The Ionian Sea had been choppy since we left the port. Ten minutes into the voyage, and the boat was swinging from side to side like a giant hammock in a gale. At first it was amusing to watch: unoccupied chairs and tables sliding around like a scene from Poltergeist; young men zig-zagging to the toilet, grasping the hands of seated fellow passengers to steady themselves; and an Italian beauty, wearing more makeup than clothing, sliding to the floor and unable to get back up, her long legs akimbo.

From the outset I’d been making eye-contact with an obese, disabled Romanian gentleman sitting directly opposite, leaning forward on his walking stick, our mutual nods and smiles showing smug acceptance of the situation. Two old sea dogs like us were not going to be phased by a bit of choppy water. White foam rendering the windows opaque, as if we were all entombed inside an iceberg, didn’t worry us. Real men, made of sturdy stuff, while lesser mortals floundered. Suddenly, the boat lurched violently to starboard catapulting the 17-stone Romanian towards me; he landed at my feet with a thud.  

I, and others, feigned to stand up to help him – if we had, the pendulous swing of the boat would have put us all on our arses – but the prostrate fella oozed calmness and rationality.

‘I’m fine on the floor,’ he said, palm of his hand raised with the authority of a traffic policeman. ‘It’s the best place for me’.

And then the vomiting started. The kids who’d been screeching and running amok on the outward journey were now sat in a line, motionless, their faces displaying various shades of green and yellow. In response to their communal retching, a number of plastic shopping bags had appeared and were now being used to catch the dribbling puke. Some adults with sea sickness – including the two holiday reps – had braved the wobbly walk to the outside deck and were now vomiting over the side, their white-knuckled hands clinging to the rails.

A young man who had been laid horizontal across three seats, apparently sleeping, roused himself. He sat upright, appearing confused. In an instant, perplexity was replaced by horror and he sprung to his feet and made a dash for the toilet, his cheeks puffed out like an inflatable toad. He stumbled, falling in my direction, and for a second we were almost nose-to-nose. I resigned myself to being peppered with a semi-digested Albanian buffet, but – and give the lad his due – like a skilled fighter-plane pilot, he pulled off a last-minute swerve to the right and vomited over my shoulder into a recess behind me.  

Mrs Jones and I had remained seated throughout, absorbing the chaos around us: upturned tables and chairs randomly sliding back and forth; a chorus of retching and gurgling; white froth slapping against the windows as if the sea had morphed into a fizzy drink; and a rotund east European lying on his side at our feet, his chin resting on his hand, nonchalantly perusing the mayhem. As the boat continued to veer like a giant swing at a funfair, we had focused on the behaviour of our Greek captain. Oblivious to the stumbling, vomiting passengers, the skipper continually ventured outside onto the exposed deck – the open door letting in a howling gale – returning wet and windswept, only to then repeat the action.

But now the captain had sat down in our midst. I – and I suspect many others – looked to him for reassurance that everything was under control. But we couldn’t see his features: he was slumped, hands over his face, shaking his head from side to side. There was only one conclusion to be drawn: the boat was sinking.

Mrs Jones began texting a farewell message to the kids.

I considered ringing my son to remind him of the cabinet drawer where our will was kept.

My hand started to grope under my seat in search of a life jacket.

And then the horizontal Romanian calmly asked the question we all wanted answered. ‘Captain, is there something wrong with the boat?’

As if wakened from a trance, the captain lifted his head and looked around, perplexed, trying to locate the source of the voice that had intruded into his inner world. It took a few seconds to notice the fixed stare from hulk on the floor and realise this was his interrogator.

‘No, no, the ship’s fine,’ he said. ‘I’ve just banged my head on one of the rails outside’.  

Ten minutes later, the sea calmed and we arrived safely in Corfu town.

‘That was horrendous,’ said Mrs Jones as we got off the boat. ‘I thought we were doomed’.

‘Just a bit of choppy sea,’ I said. ‘I don’t know what all the fuss was about.’      

 

Image courtesy of bplanet et FreeDigitalPhotos.net

 

What do doctor's receptionists talk about?

My haemorrhoids are misbehaving again. After completing my morning evacuation, the bathroom porcelain resembles the aftermath of the siege of Leningrad, with sufficient of the red stuff to supply the national blood bank for the next decade. So, reluctantly, I decided to see my doctor.

As per the formal procedure, I rang the health centre at 8.00 am to request an appointment. After noting my name and date of birth, the receptionist found me a slot later that morning. But the conversation was not yet over.

‘I’m now obliged to ask this,’ she said, followed by a short pause. ‘What is the problem that you want to see the doctor about?’

Somewhat taken aback by the intrusiveness of the question, a range of retorts pushed into my mind:

I’ve ruptured my foreskin while engaged in athletic love-making;

I’m farting so much I’m a fire risk when near a naked flame;

I tried on my wife’s bra and the metal wire from the left cup has punctured my lung;

My testicles are hanging so low, when I sit on the toilet they plunge into the water like depth charges.

But I resisted the temptation and, instead, told the truth.

‘I’m bleeding from the arse-hole.’

‘Oh … right … sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘I’m told that I must ask, but it seems … it feels a bit…’

‘It’s OK, no worries,’ I said, starting to feel sorry for the lady’s awkwardness.

***

As I sat in the doctor’s waiting room two hours later, listening for my name to be called, I sensed eyes on me. When I glanced up, there were three female receptionists behind the glass talking and giggling to one another. I wondered which of the trio I’d spoken to earlier on the phone. Was it the young blonde lass, barely out of her teens; her inexperience might have been responsible for the awkwardness? Or was it the older, worldly-wise woman in the middle of the threesome, who seemed to be in charge? Maybe it was the smirking receptionist on the end, whose gaze was fixed in my direction?

And what were they discussing? The weather? What each was planning to eat for lunch? Or whether I was the bloke with rivulets of blood trickling down the crack of his arse? When I arose to see the doctor, I imagined them checking my waiting-room seat for stains.

But I subsequently realised that all my speculations were likely to be groundless. As I was leaving the doctor’s surgery, I overheard another patient - an old lady - standing at the reception window.

‘I need a follow-up appointment with the doctor,’ she announced. ‘I have to let him know whether I’m still leaking yellow goo out of my cherry.’

Clearly, the receptionists hear more spectacular stories than mine.

Photo courtesy of pixtawan at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

   

The elusive cucumber

‘On your way home, will you stop off at the supermarket for some salad stuff?’ asked Mrs Jones.

My car was in for its annual service so I took the call on my mobile while sitting in the garage waiting area. ‘Yes, sure. What items do we need?’

‘Oh, the usual: lettuce, cucumber, tomatoes and red onions.’

Two hours later I returned home and deposited the contents of my supermarket bag onto the kitchen worktop. Mrs Jones exhaled – audibly – and I detected a roll of the eyes followed by an implosion of her cheeks which, after 36 years together, I knew could mean only one thing: I’d cocked up, big time.

Failure to live up to a wife’s expectation typically means that a man is subjected to a circuitous form of interrogation that is intended to shame and humiliate.

‘Where’s the cucumber?’ she asked, while her foot tapped on the tiled floor, as if delivering a countdown to the moment of my execution.

‘There,’ I said, pointing to the large, cylindrical item in front of us.

‘What makes you think that’s a cucumber?’

‘Well, it looks like a cucumber; it’s dark green, shiny and … … phallic.’

‘It’s much bigger than any phallus I recognise,’ she said, now relishing the role of the strident prosecutor. ‘That is not a cucumber.’

‘What is it then?’

‘It’s a courgette.’

‘A what?’

‘A courgette. A marrow-like vegetable, sometimes referred to as a zucchini.’

‘It looks like a cucumber, so how was I supposed to know?’

‘Maybe the sign over the box in the supermarket that read, COURGETTES, might have given you a clue.’

Mrs Jones, savouring the taste of blood, broadened her onslaught. The tomatoes were insufficiently ripe, the onions partly rotten, and the lettuce much too big and shabby. (I must admit the lettuce resembled the severed, semi-decomposed head of an obese gladiator. Although it could have been worse; I almost brought home a cabbage).    

And to add to my pain, I now recall that I don’t like the taste of courgettes. Something tells me they will be served up with every meal for a week.

   

Hovering over the cash machine

Life can be difficult for older people. In particular, advancing years and technology can be a discomforting mix, as I recently discovered when trying to teach my 85-year-old father how to use a cash dispenser.

Throughout his life, my lovely dad has always drawn his money from the local post office and, if paying his bills by cash is not an option, he has always chosen to write a cheque. Credit and debit cards are alien to him. Alas, all the post offices in his locality have shut down so he is now compelled to rely on the ‘hole-in-the-wall’ cash machine to get his hands on his money. He asked if I would show him how to use it and I agreed to accompany him.

The first time, he watched as I carried out the procedure step by step, while providing a running commentary. On the second occasion – in an attempt to consolidate his learning – I suggested that he perform the whole operation himself, while I observed. We chose a quiet moment at the cashpoint located 200 metres from his home.

The process went something like this:

DAD: Am I holding my card the right way up?

ME: Yes, it’s the right way up.

DAD: Then why won’t it fit in the hole?

ME: Because you’re trying to shove it into the slot where the notes come out; you need to put it here, where it says ‘INSERT CARD HERE’.

Card inserted, the menu of options appears on the screen.

DAD: Do I put my 4-digit number in now?

ME: No, not yet. You first need to read the options and decide which one you want.

DAD: But I can’t read them – I need my specs. (Starts rummaging in his pockets in search of his reading glasses). OK – I can see it now. So do I want ‘CASH ONLY’ or ‘CASH WITH RECEIPT’?

ME: Well, do you want a receipt?

DAD: Oh yes – I always get a receipt. You can’t trust anybody these days; they’re all trying to rip you off. I need a receipt to …

ME: So press the ‘CASH WITH RECEIPT’ button then.

DAD: Where is it now … let’s see … (Finger hovering over the screen, as if carrying out a subtle piece of black magic)? Oh, what’s happened now?

ME: It’s timed you out. Take your card out and we’ll try again.

DAD: Just my luck to get an iffy machine!

Dad inserts card again.

DAD: Do I put my 4-digit number in now? It’s 672 …

ME: No, not yet. Push this button here to say you want cash with a receipt.

Dad pushes said button.

DAD: Can I put my 4-digit number in now?

ME: Wait a moment. What does it say on the screen?

DAD: It says … (moves his face closer to the screen) … ‘DO …YOU…WANT…TO…CHECK…YOUR…BALANCE…BEFORE…WITHDRAWING … YOUR…CASH?’

ME: Well, do you?

DAD: Why would I want to do that? I wouldn’t be withdrawing money if I didn’t have it in my bank account. Me and your mother don’t spend money we haven’t got – unlike this younger generation who … …

ME: Then press this ‘NO’ button dad.

DAD: Oh, the damn thing’s timed me out again

By this point, a queue had formed behind us. Their facial expressions suggested that, after witnessing this odd couple hovering over the cash dispenser, many of them suspected I was guilty of elderly abuse, trying to rip off the old fella.

We let those waiting go before us and, about 20 minutes (and three further attempts) later, my old dad was able to withdraw his £250. He then proceeded to count it out – note by note – in the midst of passing shoppers. I think I will need to accompany him a few more times before he gets the hang of it.

Photo courtesy of jk1991 at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

My six enduring memories of Christmas and the New Year

As we enter into a new year, I thought I’d share with you my personal highlights of the festive season, the most memorable moments of the last three weeks. In no particular order, they are:

1. Singing with my mother-in-law

Sadly, my 81-year-old mother-in-law is afflicted with Alzheimer’s disease; her memory span is no more than a few seconds, she’s lost her sparky temperament, and - even when surrounded by her family – she sits in silence with a blank expression. Well she does until she hears Dusty Springfield.

Late on Christmas Day, when all the feasting had ended, we played some songs from the 1960s on You-Tube. Watching mother-in-law belt out her rendition of Dusty’s ‘You Don’t Have To Say You Love Me’ (word perfect, face glowing with delight) will be an image that will remain with me for ever.

2. Greeting cards from my elderly parents

Both my parents are in their mid-80s and, while yet immune from the ravages of dementia, they do tend to be a tad confused and forgetful. Sending greeting cards is a case in point.

We received a delightful Christmas card, wishing us wonderful cheer, but there was nothing written in it – completely blank. A process of elimination, and detective work of a quality Sherlock Holmes would relish, was required to identify the source.

For Mrs Jones’ birthday (2^nd January) their greetings card arrived two days late due to their decision to use a 2^nd-class stamp – my lovely mother is as tight as a her compression stocking – the post code was wrong, and their birthday wishes were to their ‘daughter’ rather than ‘daughter-in-law’. Ah well, it’s the thought that counts.

                                                               

3. Disturbing images of offspring

My two babies are now aged 26 and 22, both away from home and enjoying their lives to the full. Over the holiday period, each sent me an image that unsettled me.

Ryan opted to attend his football’s team’s annual fancy-dress pub crawl in the role of Alex, the
evil star from the cult film, A Clockwork Orange. Never one for half measures, the
resemblance with the Malcolm McDowell character was chilling, not least because he had            informed me that he’d recently rerun the film six times to get into role. I was left to hope that,
during his tour of all the local drinking holes, he refrained from beating an old lady to death
with a giant phallus.

Becca is gallivanting around the world and sent me a video of her sliding, head first at high velocity, on a flimsy piece of matting down an improvised mud slide in Brisbane, Australia. When she hit the pond at the bottom, she skimmed across the water and almost hit the banking on the other side. She afterwards tried to reassure me that the only injuries she’d sustained were 'a few friction burns'.

                                                                     

 

4. Arse grabbing

           
Shortly after midnight, in the midst of new-year revelry, the wife of my best friend grabbed
my right buttock. She can be forgiven for I was wearing my favourite slacks, the cut of which
shape my arse into an irresistible pout. The butt-clutching incident was made all the more
remarkable as the lady in question is typically reserved and self-conscious. Luckily, she was
so pissed at the time I’m sure she’ll retain no memory of her cheeky squeeze; I’ll choose the
right moment in 2017 to remind her of it!

5. A vivid dream

Over recent weeks, our house has undergone a few renovations and, as such, many workmen
have visited. One night over the Christmas period I experienced the most vivid of dreams. I
will not go into detail. Suffice it to say that it involved me, Mrs Jones, two burly builders and
a hosepipe. Watering the garden will never feel quite the same.

6. Prettiest lady in the pub

A couple of minutes before the end of 2016 I recall glancing across the table at the woman
opposite and thinking that she was, undoubtedly, the most attractive individual in the whole
pub. My second thought was that I’m so very fortunate, as the lady I was eyeing was none
other than Mrs Jones. And in addition to her beauty - inside and out - there is an additional
bonus: she can’t half hold her ale.
                                                                          

                                                                                
Best wishes for 2017 to you all.

A bus ride, Greek style

After another afternoon in Kefalonia, lolloping by the swimming pool under the scorching Greek sun, Mrs Jones and I followed our usual holiday routine. We returned to our apartment, showered, admired our tanned skins in the mirror, plastered our flesh with generous splodges of hydrating lotion, and dressed in smart night-time attire in readiness for the evening meal in a local restaurant.

Macho madness in the front garden

I’m not a gardener. It typically requires all my self-motivational powers to hoist me out of my

armchair to mow the back lawn once a month. But a recent house move, male pomp, and a desire to impress our new neighbours, spawned some frenetic green-fingered activity that almost resulted in my hospitalisation.

The front garden comprises a sloping rockery down one side, and a gravel area in the centre with flower beds around the edges. A two-day combined onslaught by me and Mrs Jones successfully removed all the weeds. Job complete, I was anticipating a few weeks of rest until I noticed my lady gazing at the pebbly expanse with an expression that could only mean that she was forming a cunning plan.

‘We need some decorative slate for this middle section,’ she said. ‘It’s looking a bit shabby.’

I held back my sighs. There was no point arguing – her mind was made up – so off we went to the local garden centre.

‘This blue stuff would look nice,’ she said while pointing to a mound of hefty bags stacked outside the main entrance. ‘How many would we need?’

‘Four?’ I ventured, mindful that they were £4.99 ($8) each.

‘We’ll require more than that,’ she sneered.

‘OK, eight then; but let’s remember whose fault it is when we have loads left over.’

When we’d paid the lady cashier, she insisted that one of her boys load them into the back of my car. I thanked her for her kindness, while inwardly affronted that she thought that my 57-year-old frame was not up to the task.

The same afternoon I set to work, while Mrs Jones attended to indoor domestic chores. Yes, they were heavy, but I managed to unload each of the eight bags of ‘blue slate decorative aggregate’ and dispense the contents onto the gravelly stretch of my front garden.

Thirty minutes later, my sweaty brow and dusty eyebrows appeared at the open front-room window, prompting Mrs Jones to turn off her noisy vacuum cleaner.

‘We’re going to need a few more bags,’ I said.

She immediately gave me the ‘I told you so’ look. ‘How many?’

‘Thirty-five more should do it.’

This time I ordered online, and the following afternoon the garden-centre van reversed onto my drive. A muscular, gypsy-looking 30-something with a shock of black hair, wearing a flimsy white t-shirt that struggled to contain his rippled torso, opened the rear doors of his vehicle.

‘I’ll need to unload these bags next to where you’re going to spread them; they’re heavy.’

‘No, stack them over here, next to the garage,’ I replied, pointing at a spot about 20 metres away from my front garden.

‘Are you sure?’ he asked, looking me up and down as if assessing my body mass index.

‘Yes, here will be fine,’ I said, smugly.

The hulk proceeded to flip each of the bags from the van onto his shoulder and stacked them on my driveway as directed, completing the whole venture in less than five minutes.

Immediately he’d left, I set to work. How difficult could it be? I’d earlier managed to spread eight of the things, so another 35 shouldn’t be too difficult. The warm, sunny afternoon had brought a few neighbours out into their gardens. I sensed they had clocked my conversation with the delivery man. I had an audience. The challenge was on.

The first few bags caused little difficulty. I flipped each onto my thigh before raising it to chest height (like a professional weight-lifter) and strutting across to my garden for spreading. Indeed, I imagined I was in ‘The World’s Strongest Man’ competition showing those hairy Neanderthals (who, in my imagination, comprised the other contestants) how it was done. I could swear that the lady next door was almost swooning at my raw athleticism.

By the time I reached double figures, I could feel the burn of lactic acid accumulating in my arms and legs. The bags were no longer reaching chest height, instead dangling around my legs as I dragged them while clinging to two corners of the plastic packaging.

When I reached the twenties, I was panting like a Viagra-fuelled dog. One lift triggered an audible fart, and I prayed that the neighbours were out of earshot, or that the sound of my gaseous emission had been muffled by all my gasping and wheezing. I felt dizzy, and suspected that I was now swaying as I heaved each load to the garden. My vision blurred as salty perspiration stung my eyes. 

I think it was around bag number 31 that I wet myself, the energy behind my upward thrust, while barely sufficient to move the blue slate, was enough to contract my bladder. Thankfully my navy-blue tracksuit bottoms concealed the damp patch emerging around my groin.

Despite these adversities, I somehow managed to complete the job. As I staggered back indoors, feeling confused and disorientated, my clothing stained with sweat, piss and spittle, Mrs Jones was stood gazing out of the front-room window.

‘Ah, that looks much better,’ she said.

‘It wasn’t that difficult,’ I muttered, while hurrying to the bathroom to clean myself up before she turned round. ‘They weren’t that heavy.’