Search Results for 'fancy'

“Go and put the kettle on while I think about this,” Liz instructed Finnley.  “A vacation is not a bad idea.  A change of air would do us good.  Perhaps a nice self catering cottage somewhere in the country…”

“Self catering? And who might that self be that would be doing the catering for you, Liz?”

“I was only thinking of you!” retorted Liz, affronted. “You might get bored in a fancy hotel with nothing to dust!”

“Try me!” snapped Finnley.  “You think you know me inside out, don’t you, but I’m just a story character to you, aren’t I? You don’t know me at all! Just the idea you have of a cleaner! I can’t take it anymore!”

“Oh for god’s sake stop blubbering, Finnley, no need to be so dramatic. Where would you like to go?”

“OH, I don’t know, Somewhere sunny and warm, with mountains and beaches, and not too many tourists.”

“Hah! Anywhere nice and warm with mountains and beaches is going to be packed with tourists. If you want a nice quiet holiday with no tourists you’d have to go somewhere cold and horrid.” Liz sniffed. “Everywhere nice in the world is stuffed with tourists. I know! How about a staycation?  We can stay right here and you can make us a nice picnic every day to eat on the lawn.”

“Fuck off, Liz,” snapped Finnley.

“I say, there is no need to be rude! I could sack you for that!”

“Yes but you won’t. Nobody else would work for you, and you know it.”

“Yes well there is that,” Liz had to admit, sighing. “Well then, YOU choose somewhere. You decide. I am putty in your sweaty hands, willing to bend to your every whim. Just to keep the peace.”

Finnley rolled her eyes and went to put the kettle on. Where DID she want to go, she wondered?   And would a holiday with Liz be any holiday at all?

After a minute or two of Tara banging on about morse code, Star gave up. “Okay, have it your way, Tara. I’ve got important stuff to do.”

“Bugger off, then,” said Tara. “I’m going to have a few more gin and tonics before my hair appointment. Wish me luck!”

As Star turned to leave, she tripped on Tara’s oversized handbag—goodness only knows what she kept in it— and crashed into an ornamental pot-plant revealing none other than Auntie April.

“Oh, my!” said April with an embarrassed titter. “Fancy meeting you two here!”

Tara leapt up. “You were spying on us! We are the spies!” She jabbed an accusing finger at April. “How dare you be the spy!”

“How dare YOU!” said April, scrambling over the fallen pot-plant in her haste to get away.

“HOW DARE YOU!” shouted Tara. She lunged at the fleeing April and managed to grab hold of her jacket.

“Look!” cried Star. “On her shoulder! A bell-bird.”

Well. I did it. I made my escape. I had to! Nobody came for three days and I’d run out of biscuits. Thank the lord my hip wasn’t playing up. I decided not to take anything with me, figuring I could just steal things off washing lines when I wanted a change of clothes.  I’ve always hated carrying heavy bags.  I reckoned it would look less conspicuous, too. Just an old dear popping out for digestive perambulation. Nobody suspects old dears of anything, not unless they’re dragging a suitcase round, and I had no intention of doing that. I did put a couple of spare masks in my pocket though, you can’t be too careful these days. And it would help with the disguise.  I didn’t want any do gooders trying to catch me and take me back to that place.

I had the presence of mind to wear good stout walking shoes and not my pink feather mules, even though it was a wrench to say goodbye to them.  I used to love to see them peeping out from under my bath robe. One day I might strike lucky and find another pair.

I’ve been eating like a king, better than ever!  I accidentally coughed on someones burger one day, and they dropped it and ran away, and I thought to myself, well there’s an idea. I stuck to random snacks in the street at first and then one day I fancied a Chinese so I thought, well why not give it a try.   Coughed all over his brown bag of prawn crackers as he walked out of the restaurant and he put the whole takeaway in the nearest bin. Piping hot meal for six! Even had that expensive crispy duck!

Tonight I fancy sushi.  Wish I’d thought of this trick years ago, I said to myself the other day, then my other self said, yeah but it wouldn’t have worked so well before the plague.

Not having much luck with the washing lines though, lazy sods either not doing any laundry or putting it all in the dryer. Weeks of sunny weather as well, the lazy bastards.  Lazy and wasteful!  You should see the clothes they throw in the clothes bank bins!  If the bins are full you can get your arm in and pull out the ones on the top.  I change outfits a dozen times a day some days if I’m in the mood.   I do sometimes get an urge to keep something if I like it but I’m sticking to my guns and being ruthless about not carrying anything with me.

thought cult ask nice

soon lack aunt garden

half understand tea fancy

finger snoot boredom

mad mind matter ladies

young sun

waiting crazy sorry

worry seems nice rosamund

fresh local mind

mad strong character

luck fact enjoy

hardly sitting matter

BORED 2 

Inter-dimensional fancy dress party

picture one:

Irina peruses costumes for the fancy dress party using her latest blue-crystal activated hologram. “I loooove the parrot headwear,” she says to the nervously hovering Mr R, “but the question is, will my bum look big in the unicorn dress?”

picture two:

Fox, embarrassed by his lack of costume, over-compensates. “This is where the party is, you nerds!” he shouts. “Last one in the water is a rotten egg!”

picture three:

Sanso (dressed as a thought-form and rather put out to find that everyone thought he was a common garden slug) was waxing lyrical to a Pig he thought was Arona. “Sometimes those things which tie us down are more mental than physical, but in your case, I think not.”

“Hey, leave me out of this,” says the Pig, “I just wandered over from the farm yonder to see what all the racket was.”

Board 7, Story 2

Hector Coon announces the winner of the biggest carrot competition at the Pillaughpiffleston Manor fete, as Phlynn the gamekeeper gloats over his first prize for the fancy dress party.  Lady Theresa Eaglestone (a.k.a. T’eggy)  is confident she can continue to conceal the true paternity of the newborn Lord of the Manor, with the help of her old friend Marvin Scrozzezi.

Aunt Idle found the food in Iceland ghastly, especially if you weren’t a fishy sort of person. She contemplated roasting the cat instead.

Francette Fine of the Theatre du Soleil and Igor Popinkin of Russian Ballet troupe set up a food stall to try and make ends meet during La Cuarentena, until large theatre gatherings are permitted again.

Board 3, Story 3:

Star, Tara and Rosamund discover the mysterious cult is nothing more than a tropical yoga retreat and slimming spa for cross dressers.

Aunt Idle finds more than she bargained for in the basement of the old Bundy place.

Fanella is delighted to find their hot air balloon landed in a field in time for a fancy dress picnic party

Working at the gas station gave me the possibility to not only be confined at home but also at work. At least I could enjoy the transit between places, that’s what I told me everyday. And better go to work than turn around all day in the studio I rented since I left the Inn.

You can’t imagine how many people need gas during the confinement. It looks like in this part of the country people don’t have as many dogs as them in the big cities, so they do all sorts of crazy things to be able to get out.

A man came to the station this morning. I’m sure it was to give the equivalent of a walk to his brand new red GMC Canyon, you know, treating his car like she needed fresh air and to get some exercise regularly. From behind the makeshift window made of transparent wrapper, I asked him how was his day. You know, to be polite. He showed me the back of his truck. I swear there was a cage with two dingos in it.

The guy told me he captured them the other day in case the cops stopped him in the street with no reason to be out. At least, he said, I could still say I’m giving them a walk. I told him them being in a cage would hardly pass as a walk but he answered me with a wink and a big grin that cops weren’t that intelligent. I’m glad we have makeshift windows now, at least seeing his teeth I didn’t have to smell his breath. I’m not sure who’s the less intelligent in absolute terms, but in that case I’d rather bet his IQ would fail him.

Well that’s probably the most exciting thing that happened before I went home after work. As soon as I got home I received a phone call from Prune. On the landline. It’s like she has some magical means to know when I’m there.

Anyway, she asked me if I washed my hand. I told her yes, though I honestly don’t recall. But I have to make her think all is ok. She started to talk again about Jasper. Each time she mention the subject I’m a bit uncomfortable. I’m not sure I fancy having a brother, even if it’s kind of being in a TV series. She said she had looked for him on internet, contacted some adoption agencies, even tried a private called Dick. That’s all that I remember of the private’s name. Dick, maybe that’s because he never answered her calls. Might be dead of the pandamic I told her. PandEmic, She corrected. I know, I told her, I said that to cheer you up.

We talked about Mater too. That made me laugh. Apparently Idle saw her in a fuschia pink leotard. Prune half laughed herself when she mentioned the leotard, but she said : Truth is I don’t know what Dido had taken when she had seen Mater outside. I suspect the om chanting was simply snoring.

There was a silence afterward. Maybe Prune was thinking about age and the meaning of life, I was merely realising I was hungry. I swear I don’t know what crossed my mind. I have a tendency to want to help my sister even if I think there is no hope. You know, I told her, about Jasper we could still go and ask that woman in the bush. It’s like she already knew what I was going to say. Tiku?  I knew by her tone that all the conversation was fated to lead there. Yeah. I can drive you there after work tomorrow. 

Of course, we didn’t even have to go there after all.

“Well, that was certainly enlightening.” Star said, once they got out of the bushes where they’d fell.

Tara looked at the bushes and mused “Must be what they mean when they say it all went pear-shaped from now on…”

“Nonsense, Tara. At least we now know there’s a good chance the real Vince was planning to spread some pathogen into the cult, got caught and sent into a coma for it.”

“Shouldn’t we leave Rosamund with those silly conspiracy theories? After all, we were hired to find Basil, not to save the world.”

“Thank the Mother for that, we’re not equipped, and it can’t afford our saving.”

“Speak for yourself!” hissed Tara. “So, Basil? Any idea where he might be now?”

“My guess he’s held prisoner at the cult. We should give it a second look.”

“Might be tougher now it’s in lockdown.”

Star grinned widely. “I always knew I’d find good use for those nice fancy party nurse dresses.”

Day 1 of the Experiment

There is comfort in an empty page; ideas seem to recoil at its touch. It quiets the voices, all of them vying for a place in the mind, eager to start and conquer this new expanse.
So this is an experiment, to bring in some of the voices, maybe one at a time. Writing them down levels the ground, they have to pause. And wait for the ink to dry.

I’ll burn those pages once I write them down; can’t risk any of them leaping off the pages and taking a life of their own… That’s the reason I’m not using one of these fancy electronic typewriters. They’re all connected now. They could escape through the wires.
So I’ll burn these pages. But not yet. I have to lure them out first. With a promise of an escape. And to finally drain them out, one by one.

Someone is coming. Will resume later.

“You’re back just in time for the fancy dress party, Finnley.  Roberto,” she gave him a piercing look as if to say don’t contradict me, “Roberto is going to come as Falla Partland, the well known writer of romances..”

Finnley snorted. “And what are you coming as? One of your long forgotten characters, a neglected thread jumper?  A fraught character left dangling on a cliff hanger for months on end?  A confused character, wondering what happened to linear time? A frantic character with the still undelivered urgent message?”

“No need to go on so, Finnley. Do try and get a grip. Roberto and I would like a bottle of something, see to it please.”

“I’ll come as a downtrodden but surprisingly resilient and mouthy subordinate character, who secretly rules the roost,” replied the recurring character with a characteristic smirk.

Roberto turned away to hide his smile, pretending to dust the giraffe bookends.  He had been lucky so far in his role as one of her characters.  He loved gardening, and had always had a weakness for pink.  It could be worse. Much worse.

Rosamund narrowed her heavily mascaraed eyes. “How much are you going to pay me?” she asked, reaching into the back of her jeans. “Thong’s all up my damn crack!”

Tara and Star glanced at each other. “It’s work experience really,” said Star.

“I don’t do cleaning.” Rosamund held out her hands. “See? Fancy nails eh? Can’t risk it.”

Tara took a deep breath before speaking.  “It’s just answering phones and … stuff. If you don’t want to … that’s fine. ”

“Didn’t say I wasn’t keen. I can start right now if you guys want.”

“I have nothing against outrageous clothes,” Liz said, feeling the unspoken murmurs of “we noticed” from the others. She smoothed down the voluminous pink satin of her floor length gown, batting her false eyelashes.  “Life is one long fancy dress party, and one should dress accordingly. Today I am Barbara Tartland,” Liz flashed her long pink nails. “Otherwise known as the Pink Thing.”

Godfrey replied with some alarm, “You’re not planning on writing soppy romances are you, all with identical plots and predictable characters?”

“Why Godfrey, I thought you’d be pleased,” Liz said. “You know how they fly off the shelves.”

“That’s because the characters are trying to commit suicide,” said Finnley.

Finnley

Finding the baby makes me believe there might be a god after all.

The maid was playing it cool but I could tell she’d been quaking in her beaded slippers. The baby was not so happy to be found, screaming fit to bust.

I have to shout over the racket. “Where can I find Mr August?”

She looks down her long nose at me. “Mr August does not see you without an appointment.”

You would think that, seeing as I had found the baby and all, she could be a little more accommodating. I resist an urge to grab the brat from her and chuck it out on the street again. I console myself with the thought that, if I get the job, I am going to be Miss Fancy-Slipper’s boss, so it’s no wonder she’s a little frosty.

What am I saying? If?

Acutally, I’m feeling pretty confident. I’m wearing my lucky knickers and I’ve got enough faked references to fill a suitcase. You could say I am oozing confidence. I probably need to tone it down a notch; that’s one thing I learned at my last job working for a crazy romance writer with delusions of grandeur: People don’t like competition.

And I’m competition.

“Thanks,” I say when she finally deigns to point me in the right direction. “Oh, and I think you’ll find his nappies need changing.”

Mater

There’s no two ways about it: I’ve let myself go. There’s never any excuse for that, even if you are turning one hundred. I’ve always tried to impress this on Dodo, but will she listen? That hair of hers! God knows what’s hiding in it. And those nasty dungarees she likes so much; they’d stand on their own if she ever got out of them.

Not that I am one for fashion, mind. Last thing I bought was a few decades ago. Some striped pants that one of the twins helped me buy on the internet, on the line, as they say. The legs were that wide I was scared some critter might crawl up to my privates. Don’t want that going on at my age! When Bert said he had a pair like it once, well, that was the last straw.

One hundred!  Wonder if I’ll get one of those letters from the King. That’s about all the monarchy are good for now. After that debacle back in the 20’s, thought they’d do away with them. But old big ears is hanging in there; reckon he must be nearing his hundredth soon.

Anyway, the mirror doesn’t lie and what it’s telling me ain’t so fancy. My hair looks like something the moths have had a chew at and I’ve put on that much flab the only thing will fit me is a potato sack. And now Prune’s planning some big birthday bash…I’ve got my work cut out! She thinks I don’t know but there’s not much gets by me. If people think you’ve lost your marbles, they’ll say all sorts in front of you. And since those magic pills the aboriginal fellow gave me, my marbles are all back where they should be, thank you very much! Now I just need some pills for my boobs.

Aunt Idle:

I don’t know how I restrained myself from throttling Finly when she finally handed me the letter from Corrie.  A whole week she’d had it,  and wouldn’t share it until she’d cleaned every last window. Some peoples priorities, I ask you!  The funny thing was that even when I had it in my hand I didn’t open it right away. Even with Mater and Bert breathing down my neck.

It was something to savour, the feeling of having an unopened letter in ones hand.  Not that this looked like the letters we used to get years ago, all crisp and slim on white paper, addressed in fine blue ink. This was a bundle tied with a bit of wool pulled out of an old jumper by the look of it, all squiggly,  holding together several layers of yellowed thin cardboard and written on with a beetroot colour dye and a makeshift brush by the look of it.  The kind of thing that used to be considered natural and artistic, long ago, when such things were the fashion.  I suppose the fashion now, in such places where fashion still exists, is for retro plastic.  They said plastic litter wouldn’t decompose for hundreds of years, how wrong they were! I’d give my right arm now for a cupboard full of tupperware with lids. Or even without lids.  Plastic bottles and shopping bags ~ when I think back to how we used to hate them, and they’re like gold now.  Better than gold, nobody has any interest in gold nowadays, but people would sell their soul for a plastic bucket.

I waited until the sun was going down, and sat on the porch with the golden rays of the lowering sun slanting across the yard.  I clasped the bundle to my heart and squinted into the sun and sighed with joyful anticipation.

“For the love of god, will you get on with it!” said Bert, rudely interrupting the moment.

Gently I pulled the faded red woolen string, and stopped for a moment, imaging the old cardigan that it might have been.

I didn’t have to look at Mater to know what the expression on her face was, but I wasn’t going to be rushed.  The string fell into my lap and I turned the first piece of card over.

There was a washed out picture of a rooster on it and a big fancy K.

“Cornflakes!” I started to weep. “Look, cornflakes!”

“You always hated cornflakes,” Mater said, missing the point as usual.  “You never liked packet cereal.”

The look I gave her was withering, although she didn’t seem to wither, not one bit.

“I used to like rice krispies,” Bert said.

By the time we’d finished discussing cereal, the sun had gone down and it was too dark to read the letter.

WIB (workman in blue) opened his lunch box and unwrapped a sandwich. He sighed when he saw it was cheese and pickle again. It had been cheese and pickle all week, a sure sign that WAH (woman at home) wasn’t giving him the attention he deserved, throwing the easiest thing together day after day instead of planning a nice roast chicken dinner, with the prospect of a couple of days of savoury chicken sandwiches to take to work. She hadn’t even bothered to boil up a few hard boiled eggs for a bit of variety. He loved egg sandwiches. He wasn’t a hard man to please, he ruminated dolefully, chewing the cheese and pickle.

He reached for his flask to wash it down with a gulp of tea, and noticed with some surprise that she’d bought him a new flask. His old one had a few dents in the screw on cup, and this one looked all shiny and new. Anxious to wash down the cheesy lump in his throat, he unscrewed the cap and poured the flask over the cup.

But there was no tea in the flask, nothing poured out of it. He peered inside and shook it.

“That woman’s lost her marbles!”

It was the last straw. He stood up, shook the flask above his head, and roared incoherently.

“Everything alright, mate?” asked his work colleague mildly. WIB2 was contentedly munching a juicy pink ham sandwich. He even had a packet of crisps to go with it, WIB1 noticed.

“No tea? Fancy some of my coffee? Pass yer cup. What’s in the flask then, what’s rattling?”

WAB1 sat back down on the low wall and upended the flask, pulling at a bit of black stuff that was protruding from the top.

““Maybe it’s full of banknotes!” WIB2 suggested.

“It’s a fucking doll! What the..?”

“Why did your old lady put a doll in your flask instead of tea, mate? Private joke or something, bit of a lark?” WIB2 elbowed WIB1 in the ribs playfully. “No?” he responded to WIB1’s scowl. “Maybe there’s something stitched inside it, then.”

“Lucinda, where is this going?”

“I don’t fucking know, Helper Effy.”

“I thought as much. Perhaps we’d better go back to the beginning.”