So, I’ve been busy whilst I’ve been away. Statues going up and down in Bristol more often than the knickers of The Happy Hooker. Do you remember her and how racy we thought she and her book were in the early 1980’s. I had a copy of the book on the beach with me in Rimini and everybody wanted to borrow it. As you know I don’t normally lend books ( or borrow them for that matter ) but this one got handed around to a whole beach-load of Jewish holiday makers and ended up so suntan oil stained that I had to throw it away ( looking surreptitiously over my shoulder to make sure nobody was looking as I tossed my soft ( and often not so soft ) porn into the hotel rubbish bin.
As I recall Xaviera Hollander was a good time girl from Amsterdam ( aren’t they all there ?) who just happened to be Jewish. Now the trade she plied was certainly not a nice job for a nice Jewish girl, but it probably earned her a bit more money than being an accountant or a pharmacist or a Personal Assistant at some big corporation. Although now I come to think of it, she also provided some personal services.
Anyway, with a few days off and time to recharge my batteries and give my eyes a rest I’ve returned with some fresh and hopefully good, ideas. I am working on hiring somebody to remove Nelson from the top of his column and replace him with a statute of …. Me. I’ve spoken to my pigeon friends who have promised not to give me a hard time. The only thing I need to decide is the material from which my statue will be made. Bronze, granite, stone.. or maybe chocolate. Somebody once said about a famous cricketer that if he was chocolate then he would lick himself and I can be accused of the same self-adoration I fear. Although, on reflection I think I’ve come across as fairly modest in the first one hundred editions of my blog. Anyway, watch the space in Trafalgar Square.
We all remember George Orwell’s 1984 ( which seemed an awful long way away when he wrote it ) and Room 101 bowdlerized by the annoying tv programme , when the hero and heroine asked each other, “ What was yours? “ meaning what fear caused them to betray each other. It was rats for one and I can’t recall what it was for the other although I am sure one of my intellectual readers will tell me. So, what is my fear? I think for a while it was being sentenced to write a blog every day for the rest of my life, but I’ve got that in hand now. Or not being able to write at all. Or not been adored by my public. Or being forgotten by my public and I am thinking that my statue as referred to in the third paragraph today will ensure that my fame and public image long outlive my blog. Unless I settle for the chocolate.
Not that the bloody protestor whose statute they stuck up to replace Colston in Bristol lasted long. Less than seventy two hours I think. And the bloke who created her ( I think his effort bore a marked resemblance to Olive Oyl from Popeye ) has been charged by the Council for the cost of removal and may yet be charged with other offences as well. Like scaring small children with his monstrosity.
At least not being on a blog deadline has given me more chance to watch the cricket and very entertaining it’s been too. Spare a thought for Joffre Archer who was confined to his room for five days with no access to the world at large ( and certainly not his girlfriend the unauthorized visit to whom caused all the kerfuffle) So, Joffre stuck in a small room on your own. Windows in hotel which don’t open wide so no fresh air and no exercise. As my grandson once said to me when I complained, as he hustled me into the back seat and settled down in the front, “Welcome to my world, Grandpa. “ Joffre welcome to my world in the early days of lock down.
Am now counting down the days to the end of my personal lock-down unless someone pops up from NHS on July 31stand says “ Fooled You “ and tells me I have to stay in until the end of the year. I wouldn’t put anything past that person who only five months ago told me the best they could come up with if my isolation got too much, was to call the Samaritans. But, meanwhile I continue, basically to sit tight. Which means I’ve still not been inside a shop since early March. And that’s why the shares of Marks & Spencer keep falling and why Brooks Brothers went into administration. And that’s why we are still reliant for our kosher shopping on deliveries and the kindness of strangers ( whoops, mean friends )
So, every Sunday we place an order for the following weekend, via our friend Ann, with Daniels, my kosher baker of choice for our bread, cakes ( not so many of them as I’ve got my weight down below ten stone and want to keep it that way ) bagels, rolls, challah ( the traditional bread we have on the Sabbath for my non-Jewish readers ) and my regular Friday treat, a large jam donut. ( using American spelling as saves me arguing with my American word recognition ) Daniel’s make the best doughnuts. ( that spelling worked there to my surprise ) I hate “ Dunkin’ Donuts “ in the States . I seize upon it eagerly and cut it in half. I am nothing if not disciplined. I carefully wrap one half in tin-foil and put it in the bread bin to eat on Saturday and have the other half with my Friday tea. For Northern readers that means 4.00pm. Tea-time.
My missus goes to collect our package from Ann around the corner and she and her husband Jeff have them all sorted and ready. Daniel’s put them into separate bags, but my doughnut being little, comes separately in a paper bag with the grease and jam oozing through. As I say it’s a real doughnut. I had an awful day last Friday . One crisis and one meeting after another. My wife collects the package, declines the offer of a coffee knowing she has to hurry my doughnut back to me. She unpacks the bread etc and interrupts my meeting looking distressed.
“ The doughnut is missing, “ she whispers and promptly withdraws as if she has brought the news from the Front Line back to Base of a terrible defeat.
I rushed through my call ( I had one eye on the cricket anyway ) and discovered the terrible truth. There really was no doughnut. Ann put out an SOS to the What’s App group, but nobody fessed up. I ranted and sulked wishing all sorts of digestive problems on whoever had stolen by doughnut. “ Call in Scotland Yard “ somebody suggested on the group message board. Ann sent out a second message saying I was “ sad “ That evoked no positive response either. Merely more ribaldry.
I went to bed Friday night and anticipated a doughnut-less Saturday. Then on Saturday morning a knock on the door. Ann with my doughnut. Looking the worse for wear ( the doughnut, not Ann ) but undeniably a doughnut if a little stale, as it was still in its original bag. It had been put into the wrong carrier bag along with some bread. The recipient had been invited out to dinner on Friday night and hadn’t unpacked the bag till Saturday morning. Ann has refused to yield the secret of who that was, but if you are reading this and want to tell me I will listen to your confession and probably let you off with three Hail Marys.
Anyway, hope you are glad I am back. Stay safe and if we are spared I will write number 102 within the next few days. I like the element of surprise.