I’m Beggin’ of You Please Don’t Take My Man
Graceland. Little known fact:Named after previous owners Grace and Lando Fuffkin
For about five minutes last week Meeester and I entertained the thought of moving house. We even did a slow drive by of a house on sale in not so nearby Fyvie. By the time we’d driven by, we decided that we’re happy where we are. At least we’re not unhappy enough to move to Fyvie.
Some hours later we both admit what really bothered us about our quick not-quite-stop-off to the village featured in the famous party piece of old codgers everywhere, The Bonnie Lass O’ Fyvie-o! (You’ve got to add an –“o!” to all folk songs, it’s the folk song law. There’s never a “Bonnie Lassie”, she’s always a “Bonnie Lassie-o!”; you’re never alive but you’re “Alive-alive-oh!” You know the kind of thing. )
No, it’s not the village itself -OK it is a wee bit, it’s a horse short of being a one horse town. It’s not even the house in question -OK it is a wee bit, Meeester didn’t like it, but if I liked it enough I could’ve strong armed him like I did into the whole living together, getting a job, getting married and having kids thing. Easy. No it was the house next door. Specifically, the name of the house next door.
The house was called Johlene. The name stood brazenly in big mirrored letters reflecting the entire village back. Clearly someone called John and someone called Arlene or Carlene or Sharlene had decided to proclaim their union to the world by Frankensteiningly forcing their names together into one like a big bastard hybrid monster. We both clocked it, we both stored it and we both dwelt upon it silently until some hours later.
“Did you see that house?”
“You mean Johlene?”
“Yes. Yes I did.”
“I don’t want to live in Fyvie-o.”
“No, me neither, let’s just stay where we are.”
“Yes, let’s just stay in The House of the Flying Martinis. Let’s just sit tight.”
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The Seven Ages of Bed
On the occasion of the purchase and delivery of our biggest and most expensive bed to date (see above) I give you the seven ages of bed: Misssy and Meester style.
The Age of the Porch Bed
When I first met the lovely, golden haired rock God that has become Meeester M, he lived in a porch. I lived with my parents, having skulked penniless back from an ill-advised sojourn in the Basque Country teaching English. So the only place to be “alone” was on the sofa that Meeester called bed, in a porch, with a wasps’ nest.
Along with about 500 pet wasps we would also be joined by:
1. Gerald, the 400-year-old cat. A more joyless creature you have never met. He was a Rottweiler of a cat. Never purred; was too macho for purring. Didn’t like cat food as he preferred to crunch the skulls of baby bunnies at the bottom of the sofa you were sleeping on in the middle of the night.
2. Ian and Catherine, the Christian couple who would turn up and watch telly with us, stopping us from having sex. Well, if they couldn’t, then neither could we. Fair’s fair.
3. “Fuck Off Davy”, the young lad from next door who would turn up to ask Meester to tune his bass guitar as soon as Ian and Catherine had left, and we were thinking about “retiring”. He was called “Fuck off Davy” for obvious reasons. If the poor lad only knew. If you’re reading this davy, I’m sorry.
Oh who am I kidding? Fuck off, Davy.
4. Donald who would pop in on a Sunday morning to get Meester to help him sing to the Woodlands Hospital Kids.
Donnie would invariably not know the difference between long haired sleeping Meeester and long haired sleeping Misssy and would arrive in bikers’ leather and visor-shut helmet and sneak up closely on sleeping Misssy (for it always seemed to be me) and scare the bejesus out of her.
5. Lovely Tony who was our best man. Tony doesn’t ever remember ever asking Meeester to live in his porch, but let him stay there for 2 years.
There are actually two epochs in the Age of the Porch Bed; they are the Sofa Epoch and the Single Bed Epoch. Tony realised that Meeester was going nowhere and got him a real bed. In his best man’s speech one he told our friends and family that when he moved the sofa to install the bed, he found 127 empty crisp packets that Meeester had stuffed down the side. I’ve just glanced over at Meester and he has an empty bag next to him right now….he better not stuff it behind the sofa.
The Age of the Single Bed
I managed to move out of home and rented a flat. Meeester followed, leaving La Vida Loca d’el Porchio behind him.
The bedroom was only big enough for a single bed. Upstairs we had delightful neighbours called “The Shaggers”.
The guy must have worked on the rigs, as there would be silence for a fortnight. Then once a fortnight of beautiful sleep was over, the seal noises would begin. All bloody night, every bloody night. At first it was funny. After weeks of incessant shouting, screaming, yelping, howling, barking and shrieking, it became a nightmare. I remember being so sleep depraved that I burst into tears at work because someone told me to “Chill out” about it.
Around that time Richard and Judy had a phone in about noisy neighbours and some poor cow phoned in about the same problem and fuckwit Richard laughed and got the same response.
Noisy shagging neighbours are not funny. How do you complain? Well, you just can’t; simple as that.
For months we never saw, only heard, The Shaggers. Then we met them on the stairs. She was about 16 stone, wild ginger hair and Christopher Biggins red rimmed glasses. He was a wee bald, skinny, moustachioed guy. The image of them at it was too much. We had to move out.
The Age of the Second Hand Double Bed
Meeester and Misssy move into bought flat. Spend all their money on buying flat and forget they have no furniture. Misssy’s parents give them the very bed they bought when they first moved into together.
Meeester and Misssy then go on to conceive Indy in the very bed that Missy was conceived in. There’s either something magical about that, or something freaky. I can’t decide.
The Age of the New Double Bed
Two weeks before Indy graces the world with his wonderful presence, a gigantic spring the size of Zebedee boings through the mattress cover on Misssy’s side and threatens to skewer both her and unborn Indy. New bed is bought with money for Indy’s University Education.
When Misssy’s waters break in the middle of night both parents-to-be are more anxious about ruining the new mattress than the impending miracle (horror) of childbirth and the start of their lives as parents (end of their lives in the pub).
The Age of the Superdooper king-size Monstero of a Bed
And thus begins the age of the Superking Sized Monster that I bought from M and S. It was delivered last week. It is so massive that Meeester and Misssy no longer need to touch or even see each other whilst in bed. Perfect!
In fact, we could have done with this a lot sooner to accommodate the two sneaky Petes (Indy and Misssy) that routinely burrow in between us in the dead of night and force us to cling to either side of the bed for fear of falling out completely.
The Future Age of Martini Bed?
Meeester says that twin beds, Mary Tyler Moore and Dick Van Dyke style, are only a matter of time…..
******For any pedants out there: I know there’s only six ages here, but the seventh is too depressing and seven sounded better*******
