The Caped Towel-Raider

Today was “Pick-On-Me” day. It started when I opened the door wearing my stained dressing gown, a turban towel around my head, a dirty nappy bag in hand, no make up and a suspicious looking rash on my cheeks (face) where the shower had been a tad hot. I was not looking good and therefore less than thrilled it wasn’t just a delivery man who I would never see again. It was my old neighbour who had a lovely little chat with me, oblivious to my mortification whilst I cowered in the doorway. To my horror, my still current neighbour came out of his house. I watched him do a double take, clearly wondering what had possessed me to open the door in such a state.

I should have learnt the lesson my other neighbour taught me the time he chose to run out to his car at midnight, one luminously white towel casually tucked around his waist, the other draped around his shoulders like a caped ‘Absorbent Superhero’. He had obviously weighed up the hassle of getting dressed versus the risk that anyone might actually see him and decided he could pull it off. Unfortunately for him, there were four of us walking home that night. He was like a little rabbit caught in the headlights with nowhere to run as the car’s internal light spotlighted him beautifully in his half-fluff/half-buff glory.

The local paper came out again yesterday. It was slightly embarrassing last week when my photo, which I’d spent hours preening for, was miniscule. Friends had questioned when I was appearing as they’d been looking out for me and I had to explain that I was postage stamp sized so they would have missed me!

My ever supportive family have spent many pleasurable minutes exchanging droll banter with each other at my expense. They seem to particularly enjoy the irony that I made a big fuss over my quiff being oversized in the photo when it could actually be Elvis size and you’d struggle to notice.

Imagine their joy this week when they discovered I’d been shrunk down smaller still, stripped of all colour and relegated to Page 20. I’m so tiny that even I missed me, twice. It was Glam-Nan this morning that pointed out that I was actually in there at all. That’s Glam-Nan and Sister cackling like witches over my itsy-bitsy-teenie-weenie photo. Yes, I get it, it's really, really small.

It’s coffee morning again so, after enduring the grief mentioned above, a telling off about leaving nappy bags and a plunger on my doorstep and how I really shouldn’t let Chickie slap people by way of a greeting, off we went to the café. Glam-Nan’s conversation naturally turned to domestic matters as she usefully pointed out that you can make rugs out of carpet rembrandts. Think you'll find that's 'remnants' Glam-Nan.

To finish my day off in the spirit with which it began, I got reprimanded by a three year old. I was in a shop with Sister and happened to say, “Sod”. Swearing is a big no-no in our family and all vocabulary is monitored by the “Profanity Police” headed up by Snowy, who’s one of those annoying individuals who could drop a ton weight on his foot and utter no worse than “Drat!”. He’s told me off already for saying the “f” word the other day in my blog (fart) so I apologise in advance, despite being over thirty years old, for sod too.

Anyway, Sister said, “Don’t Swear!” – yes Snowy, brownie points for minty-fresh-mouthed Sister. I explained that “Sod” wasn’t really a swear word at which point the toddler in the buggy by my side, (who, in my defence, I hadn't noticed) glared at me ferociously and screamed “NO!”. Somewhat taken aback, I mumbled a hurried apology to his mother who had adopted the same disapproving staring routine as her scary child. I then did the mature thing and ran away.