Thief in the night

“Ooo an early night…” I thought happily, as I tucked myself in and reached for my Kindle, preparing to re-read the chapter I’d forgotten from the night before.  “… Lovely!   I’ll just have a few minutes.”  

Nigel was settled into the control centre that is his bed -  iPad securely clamped in and accessible; headphones on for listening to the music that invariably wakes me up at 3.00 am; the soft ‘whoosh…whoosh’ of the ventilator providing a passable impression of Darth Vader; tissues close to hand to catch a sudden sneeze; eye-drops for reviving those tired eyes and a couple of sweeties for potentially peckish moments. 

Sleep would be some time off for Nigel as he had to attend to much correspondence on Facebook before getting stuck into a bit of on-line poker.

It wasn’t long before I gave up trying to care about the characters in this book and, like the little dogs, who’d been snuggled up and dreaming doggy dreams for hours, I drifted off to sleep.

The first thing to spook the dogs turned out to be nothing.  But, recognising that their barking was a little more strident than usual, and because I needed the loo anyway, I did a little naked patrol around the house on my way to spend a penny.

One o’ clock and all’s well.  Nigel was still engrossed in his poker game, the dogs were calm once more, and, as everything was now as silent as the softly falling snow, I was back asleep in seconds.  

There was no false alarm the second time.  This time the dogs’ sudden barking was frenzied, hysterical and incessant.  Something was wrong. 

Contrary to what you might expect, I didn’t leap from the bed.  I got up slowly and took the time to put on my jim-jams.  (No sense in being humiliated as well as murdered!)  The dogs’ querulous chorus continued as I joined them in the hallway.

Nigel, oblivious to everything but the next turn of the card, played on.

The first thing to strike me as odd was the tea-light holder and candle on the floor.  What kind of gust of wind could have swept in and lifted that off the shelf I wonder?  I picked it up and noticed that the spare bedroom door was open, and the light on.  I didn’t leave the door open did I?  I never leave the door open.  Don’t want the dogs going in.  And surely I didn’t leave the light on as well?

Had I been watching this on TV I would shake my head in disbelief and say, “You wouldn’t do that would you?  That’s just stupid!”  But, as this was not fiction, and common sense in real life is rare, I walked slowly down the corridor towards the bedroom, and the now quiet dogs, tiptoed along behind me.

Armed with my tea-light holder, I went into the bedroom, not quite sure what I was expecting to see. 

A tray filled with miscellaneous bits of stuff that might come in useful one day was spilled out on the chair.  I didn’t leave that there did I?  Perhaps my brain was still fogged with sleep, because I tried to remember if I had.  I then noticed that the TV was not was where it should be, and the door which leads from the bedroom to the conservatory was open.   

Then I saw the smashed window and the conservatory door open to the elements and the darkness of the garden.

So, like a fool, I went in.

It all happened very quickly after that.  I’m not sure who was the most surprised.  Although why any of us should have been surprised I really can’t imagine, given that it was obvious from the minute the dogs started barking that there was someone in the house and surely intruders expect people to be at home when they intrude?

But, surprised, we were.

“What are you doing?” I demanded, stupidly, as the shape of, what I later described in my statement as a “tallish, broadish” man, loomed before me.  (Should have no problem finding him then, eh?)   Another, smaller shape, completely obscured by the taller, broader shape, was behind him.

Almost choking with fear, and in a voice I could not recognize as my own I yelled, “Get out!  Get out!  Get out!”

And, thankfully, they did.  They got out.  Stumbling through the door, the way they had come, they fled into the night. 

Perhaps it was the power of suggestion?  Or perhaps just a bit of good luck.  But get out they did.  Empty handed.

Right, better see if Nige has finished his poker game.  He’s going to want to know about this.

I was in a bit of a dither as I relayed these events to Nigel and remained in a dither when I asked Paula and Tom to come down from their flat upstairs and also when I phoned the Police. 

The frustration that Nigel feels at being unable to do anything in circumstances like these is unimaginable.  Five years ago he would have strung them up on one of his scaffolds.  He can still, however, be strong for me, by simply being there.  And that is enough to make me feel safe.

The police arrived in a flash.  Patrol cars were searching the area within minutes and a dog team was despatched from York.    Capture is probably unlikely.  A tallish, broadish shape and the back of a head in a blue hoody aren’t all that much to go on to be fair.  They wore gloves, as any self-respecting thief would do, so there are no prints, but, because it had just snowed a little, there were footprints – some of which also bore the unmistakable evidence of dog poo – obligingly left by our two little superheroes.

It was after four when the police finally left.  As sleep was now out of the question, I cleaned the house, made a curry and did the washing.  Like you do.

We later discovered that the thing that first spooked the dogs must have been the thief attempting to break into Paula and Tom’s flat, as clear damage from a screwdriver was evident on the lock.

When something like this happens you inevitably ponder on a number of “what ifs.”

·      What if the dogs hadn’t barked?

·      What if the thieves had come into our bedroom? 

·      What if they hadn’t left when I yelled at them?

·      What if … what if … what if?

Also, because of Nigel’s vulnerability, you can’t help wondering if you were a deliberate target. 

But wondering things like that can send you mad.  So, we will tighten our security where we can, keep some handy ‘even-Julie-can-use-it-weapon’ by the bed, and carry on as normal.

But first, we will treat our superhero little dogs to a big fat bone, and have them measured for a red cape!

So, why no blogs?

Here I am, enjoying one of those rare moments when I have nothing much to do and, surprisingly, nothing much to plan for …  quietly wondering if my poor liver will survive another month … when it occurs to me that I haven’t blogged for a while. 

What an unfortunate term that is – ‘blogged.’  Is there a verb ‘to blog?’  Yes there is, I’ve just checked.  So here I am blogging, and once finished, I will have blogged.  Mmmm … sounds gross!  I can hear the conversation now -

“I’ve just blogged…” 

“Oh dear, try not to worry about it…”

Anyway, so, why no blogs for a while? 

I can’t adopt a ‘poor me’ expression and say, “well nothing ever happens worth talking about,” because that is such a lie!  The truth is that, with one exception, I’ve been caught up in a plethora of parties, a torrent of terrific trysts so time consuming that I have been rendered blog-less.  

Let me explain …

February saw the first ‘do’.  My brother Nigel’s fiftieth, hosted by my sister Paula and me.  A fairly modest little bash, catering for around thirty people.  All events in my family – no matter how small - demand many, many hours of planning.  And, obviously, you can’t plan without wine.  Lots of wine.  Can you?  Well, apart from the losing battle with my underwear, (see previous blog) this little ‘do’ passed without incident.

Then came March’s do – Tom’s seventieth.   This had been a full twelve months in the planning and all seventy – coincidentally - guests had been sworn to secrecy.  Poor Tom must have wondered why his big birthday was being utterly ignored, when a simple Friday is usually grounds enough for a bit of a celebration.   This do smacked of a covert military operation and Paula was in total command.  Performers of global renown had been secured via their agent a year in advance and at great expense.   The hotel was booked; table plans done, menus decided.  Even the posh frock was hiding in the wardrobe.  Sorted.

What could possibly go wrong?

And then came the phone call.

“Sorry, we’re triple booked.  We can’t accommodate you,” said the very brave hotel receptionist.

With murder in mind, I accompanied Paula to a meeting with the Manager.  Death threats proved ineffective, demands for compensation fell on deaf ears, and swearing that would shock the most seasoned soldier failed to intimidate this excuse of an hotelier, but at least it helped expel the tiniest bit of rage.

Dilemma!  A few weeks to the do of the century and no venue!

A thousand phone calls and as many wine bottles later, we discovered that there were only two venues available in the whole of Scarborough.  One pathetic offering - a shabby, draughty old function room at the Spa, where only the dirt came free, was instantly dismissed.   But the last  - our final hope - was perfect!  Far superior, far classier, and far more worthy of posh frocks than the original venue.  Within days the whole operation had been re-planned. 

 And still Tom had no clue.

The secret was kept right up to the point when Tom’s guests leapt from their hiding places and he was surprised again when his favourite performers, Paul Jones (think Manfred Mann) and Dave Kelly came on and wowed us all. 

So March marched on to April…

A perfect little pyjama party proved precisely the right prelude to Mel’s forthcoming wedding and we four hens clucked our way to Mel’s Newcastle home to indulge in girlie gossip, guilt-free grub and bucket-loads of beauty babble washed down with barrel-loads of booze.  Thanks to the wearing of jim-jams we didn’t have to suffer the indignities brought about by suffocating underwear or the agony of ill-fitting shoes.  The only pain we endured was the mild morning hangover that denotes a damn good do.  Just as it should be!

The merry month of May hosted Mel and Derek’s magnificent wedding.  A superb and lavish occasion made extra special by their chosen themes:  popular music to reflect their passion and a black and white colour scheme to echo their exquisite taste.    The magical mix of Geordies and Tykes made for a truly memorable day -  well, that is, the bits of it I can actually remember!

Of course all ‘dos’ away from home are tinged with sadness because Nigel can’t attend, and missing his sister’s wedding was particularly hard.  His illness now means he is confined to the house where, with the help of his carers, he can access his equipment.  Being away from home for any length of time is now too difficult and too stressful. 

As May merged into June, Nigel’s sister Tracey came to visit.  Both our birthdays are in June, and so, there followed a week of …  yes, well, you know the script by now!

Once July arrived you would have thought there would be some respite and I could take a break from all this fun?  Not a bit of it.  Paula and I took ourselves off for a weekend with Becky and indulged once more in gossip, food … and of course, the odd glass of wine.

Nothing else was supposed to happen in July.   The rest of this month was to be quiet.  It was a time to recharge the batteries in readiness for August’s activities.   

But then Dad died. 

Whilst not altogether unexpected, it was still a shock.   

And so an entirely different type of planning began in earnest.  How to capture, in a thirty-minute service, the very essence of the man?  How to celebrate his full and rewarding life, whilst mourning his loss?  How to ensure his funeral was worthy of him: remaining dignified whilst at the same time enjoyable?  How to remember and honour him, with equal measures of sadness and joy?      

Well, we did. 

He would have loved it.

Then, as is usual, July gave way to August. 

It is not possible, in my family, to turn forty and get away with not having a party -  however small that party may be.  And so, as Craig’s fortieth birthday dawned, we imposed on him and his brood an intimate family gathering.   The venue – Nigel’s Company penthouse on the beach, completely wheelchair accessible - was the ideal place to spend a few precious hours on a wonderful summer’s afternoon.    Of course there were balloons, a most impressive cake, simply excellent food, the best possible company, and, oh, I almost forgot to mention, one or two bottles of bubbles.  

As the August heat intensified, poor Nigel became desperate for a break.  Alarm bells sounded and pangs of panic persisted, caring carers begged for something to be done ….

Well, I’m nothing if not considerate, so I buggered off to Malta with Paula and Tom for a week’s holiday in the sun!  I mean, fair’s fair eh?

And when I returned, September had arrived and there was much to do!  The do of all dos, Nigel’s sixtieth, was about to take place.   There were two big reasons for this party.  Obviously, every decade birthday should be celebrated, and especially a sixtieth, but there was much more to this party than that.  We were celebrating the fact that Nigel is still alive.  Seven years ago he was given three to five years to live – and here he is.  Party time!

This particular shindig was not without its challenges – for Nigel’s comfort, the party had to take place at home, and there were over eighty on the guest list.  Nothing we couldn’t cope with!

As any event planner will tell you, good parties don’t just happen.  It takes hard work to make anything look effortless.   For me, the success of Nigel’s party lies in the memory of his beaming smile and that courageous and moving speech.   

You can’t plan for moments like that.

September slipped into October in a bit of haze and Danny turned forty before I’d even cleared up.

A relatively small affair this one, as Danny and Ellie were heading off to London to see a show.  Just a regular little Friday night family meal – with balloons and stuff, of course -

- I can’t imagine why the hangover lasted until the Monday.

So, in the past nine months we’ve had two fortieths; a fiftieth; a sixtieth and a seventieth: plus a wedding; a funeral; three girlie get-togethers and a holiday. 

Is there any wonder why I haven’t blogged?

Not surprisingly, we are planning a very quiet Christmas and New Year.  Indeed, not a single party is in the diary for 2015.  Yet. 

Who knows, I might even find time to blog? 

But perhaps, more importantly …

…  my liver will be saved!

Spanx? No thanx!

Sorry ladies, I know that it is forbidden to divulge that which should remain forever cocooned in the mysterious and secret realms of women’s lingerie, but I feel compelled to share with you, for your own good, my recent experience with a ‘slip of a thing’ from the Spanx range of targeted control wear.

I’d tried the rest, so try the best, I thought, as I happily paid three times over the odds for this miraculous garment that would provide me with a sexy and sylph-like silhouette and enable me to squeeze into the six dresses hanging in my wardrobe that are the teeniest bit too tight.  Thereby eliminating the need to buy new.

Bargain!

Not only that, as this is turning out to be a year of ‘dos’, I’ll get bags of wear out of the thing, and look fab to boot.

Perfect.

So, the day of this year’s first do dawned and I was all set.   New slinky dress, first time out, waited patiently on the wardrobe door.  It had one drawback – the length – to the knees – meaning that, given the time of year and the ghastly white legs, stockings were required.   Not tights – can’t afford a ridge around the waist, and not sussies either – no room for any lumps other than mine in this dress!  No, it had to be the ‘hold up all by themselves’ ones.  Because they do don’t they?  Hold up all by themselves?  Ever had one sliding down your leg when you’re out?  Ever had to adopt a Quasimodo gait as you race to the sanctuary of the loo to pull the bloody thing up?  ‘Course not! 

But anyway, this was a minor risk, as I had the protection of the non-cling, non-roll, non-climb, ‘I make you look superb,’ Spanx garment which was draped seductively over the bed, preparing to make me look and feel fantastic!

Well, not without the odd expletive, I eventually got it on.  With much grunting, tugging, shoving and pulling, I somehow prized my now sweat-soaked body into this sleek and stretchy sock.  Phew! 

The dress went on as soon as the breath had returned to my ragged lungs, and as I turned to admire my new and improved silhouette I caught sight of a fluffy white lump of cotton wool inside my stocking.   Aaaarrgh! 

The performance was repeated, the cotton wool discarded, and a much-needed glass of wine placed in my trembling hand.

It’ll be okay, I told myself, after a few more of these….

Right, party time!

An hour into the evening and the wine hadn’t had quite the numbing effect that I had hoped for and I was getting a little irritated.    There were a number of reasons for this:

·          - The magical non-cling garment had developed an extremely ‘clingy’ relationship with the dress, sticking like glue to all the wrong bits.

 - In addition, its non-roll qualities were clearly overstated, as it does indeed roll when you make the mistake of sitting down.   As standing in killer heels for any length of time is now beyond me, the shoes had long since been abandoned.  This did little to contribute to my looking fabulous.   Might just as well have brought my slippers.

 - Leaning forward slightly to listen in interest to others was equally out of the question.  This simple movement caused something to stab me fiercely in the heart, threatening to bring on a heart attack at the very least.
 
 - The risk of the seams not surviving was too great for me to dare to tuck into the crisps and picky bits and so my hunger went unchecked.   
 
 - I was loathe to participate in much chit chat as I could scarcely breathe, and when I did speak I was sounded like I had swallowed a couple of helium balloons.

So, all in all… not going too well.

I endured this ridiculous self-imposed torture for a little while longer until common sense got the better of me and I dragged my sister into the bathroom to help me get the bloody thing off.

Not an easy task, even for two of us.  Indeed, Houdini would have been proud of some of the moves I made to escape from its clutches!

Free at last, I shoved the offending garment in my handbag.

Ah… I can breathe…

… and eat, and sit, and speak…

and enjoy the party!

There are lessons to be learned from this experience: 

·        -   If you have any influence in planning future dos, make sure it’s a ‘pyjama party’, so all the middle-aged women can breathe without pain and sip their wine in peace.
 
·      When you buy ‘control wear’, ensure that it is at least two sizes too big, even though that renders it useless.
 
·      Always carry a handbag that is big enough to hide your underwear when you are obliged to remove it. 

  - I suppose you could always lose weight, exercise or buy bigger dresses …
 

Or, if really pushed, find an excuse to not go to the party …

… but where’s the fun in that?

Overheard on a train ...

I must admit to being a bit of a snob, but an extra 300 quid to travel first class was a little steep, even for me.  So my six-hour train journey to see Becky would have to be spent amongst ‘normal’ people.  It shouldn’t be too bad I reckoned.  I had reserved table seats all the way, got lots of reading to do.  And anyway, I like trains.

First leg:  Scarborough to York

One minute before departure, seated alone at the table, I thought I was safe.  Ah… perhaps not.  A middle-aged woman, a couple and a baby in a pink Cinderella carriage that was too big to get between the seats got on and joined me.

…maybe I should have paid the £300…

I smiled politely, as one does, and shoved my studious and slightly stuck up nose in my Kindle.

The book I’m reading, however, could not hold my attention when pitched against my fellow travellers’ babbling.   There followed a near violent verbal exchange regarding which one of them had had the least sleep the night before and who was the most tired.  The sleep snatchers included the baby, the dog, the window, the quilt thief, the wind, the rain, the neighbours  ….

Perhaps you should all take this opportunity to shut your gobs and have forty winks then…

It wasn’t to be.  There was then a row over the difference between paying rent four-weekly, or by calendar month - sorry – munff, and money-grabbing landlords in general.

Being one of those money-grabbers, I pressed my face closer to my Kindle, but was too late to miss the girl in the glittery bobble hat and matching glittery T-Shirt expose the livid, purple stretch marks on her expectant belly, still raw from the child in the pink Sherman tank.

I should definitely have paid the extra £300…

Not unhappily, we parted company in York, where I grabbed a sausage butty and a bowl of latte in the station pub.  It stank of mucky mops and was empty but for a small crowd hovering around the fruit machine, perhaps hoping they would win enough to upgrade to first class…

Second leg:  York to Basingstoke

The train was packed.  They poured into the carriage from both ends and I was obliged to carry my weekend case over my head as I squeezed past aisle blockers too large to be allowed on public transport.  Eventually, having deposited my luggage, I found my seat.   Despite the fact that the table was full of litter and the seats were cramped and hard, I was pleased to be seated opposite two nice Geordie lasses and next to a pleasant, and thankfully, quiet, young chap.

We all did the polite smiley thing again, and as I was to spend four hours on this train, I settled down for a good listen.  This time I eavesdropped on excited chatter that focused on the joys of shopping; designer handbags; face creams and holidays to New York and Egypt.  Then we had weddings, enormous pink hats and Shirley Valentine.

An hour into the journey I was most impressed to see a bottle of Moet appear from the classy lady’s bag and even more impressed when she insisted that the silent young chap and me have a glass!  

I’ve always loved Geordies…

Naturally we were not so rude as to refuse, so we shared a pleasant glass with the two of them.

“What are you celebrating?”  I asked.

“Shopping!” they declared in unison, with a degree of enthusiasm that I could only wonder at.

We did however decline a second glass, but as their champagne flowed, their conversation switched to the size of “so and so’s house” and “Eee, she looked a bugger in that dress mind…”

By the time we reached Derby my legs were going numb and a small child had started to wail.   By Birmingham the baby bawled ferociously and I was now desperate for the wine trolley.  I tried not to be cross at Banbury when a ‘sniffer’ got on and parked himself and his noisy nose just a few seats away.   Once he caught my disapproving glance he merely doubled his efforts to be disgusting.

I was sad to see the two nice Geordie lasses leave for their shopping extravaganza at Leamington Spa and wished them well in their endeavours.

An elegant woman with a laptop took their place.  A solicitor I decided, on hearing her speak on the phone about a conveyance that morning.   So why wasn’t she in first class?  When she paid for a sandwich with a credit card I guessed she was too tight or too skint.

But I had my wine now so I really didn’t care.

By Oxford, my legs were actually numb.   But the baby was now quiet.  At Reading the ‘sniffer’ got off and things were definitely on the up because Basingstoke now beckoned…

Third leg:  Basingstoke to Hook

Ah, this is the way to travel!  I had the entire carriage, and quite possibly the train all to myself. 

Shame this part of the journey lasted all of four minutes!

But regardless of the trials and tribulations of train travel, it was worth every second of the six hours it took to be able to spend a fabulous weekend with my little Bex.