Grabbing your Dracula

Friday 5 January 2018

Sunny periods 6 degrees 

I really haven't chosen a good time of year to start this blog.  I have flu and consequently beggar all to write about.

The last two days I have slept fitfully, either burning up or shivering and spent most of the night wrestling with my duvet or staggering to the loo.  There is a corner cornice which is specially designed to grab an unsuspecting boob when it wobbles past at 3 am.  The house makes creaking noises and car lights periodically sweep over the ceiling.  The wind makes whale song in the chimneys.  The lights flicker over at Arnside.  I try and listen to a podcast on the murder of Thomas Beckett.  He could have compromised and had a natural end.

OH has been ordering knick-knacks to enliven our windows and shelves back in France.  Each morning, the postie staggers up the steps with enormous boxes, mummified in parcel tape and rammed full of either pieces of the Daily Mail (OH puts these away quickly, as the Editorials render me apoplectic) or styrofoam versions of cheesy wotsits.  Every day, at 10 am, neither of us is dressed.  He must think we are such slobs.  I wear my Bet Lynch spotted dressing gown bought for me by eldest son last year.  It is probably not a good look.

Today, the sun was shining and eldest son is here on a short break, so he and I head out.  I feel a hundred years old and we wander slowly along the Prom whilst he tells me about the various Eastern Europeans with whom he has worked.  The Slovaks like a shot of neat alcohol to get them going in the morning, the Romanians like poker and women, the Czechs break machinery.  He has a friend called Stan - I had lost track of which nationality he was - whose English was not brilliant until you get him on the subjects of rapping or prostitutes.  I think of all the camping families, innocently ordering their double fried chips and burgers, or steak and salad, and children's menus, and who is preparing the food on the other side of the kitchen door.  It is another world through there.  A world of 12 to 15 hour days.  Cocaine and weed and alcohol is how people keep going.  Last Summer we picked up eldest son for a break - he was terribly thin - barely 9 stone.  I was shocked and horrified.  So shocked that he has made an effort to eat more and sleep more and actually looks better, despite working 7 am to 10 pm over Christmas and New Year.  He came back and slept for nearly two days straight.  It is no life for anyone.

After getting to the far end of the prom, I felt exhausted and we went for a coffee and hot chocolate.  A lady came into the shop, and maneouvred a large pram containing an adorable baby girl.  I cooed over her and asked her age.  The lady said she was not English and held up six fingers.  I asked her nationality - Romanian.  I turned to eldest and asked him didnt he know a bit of Romanian.  His eyes bulged and he made choking noises.  We left and he admitted he did know a bit of Romanian and muttered something that sounded like grab your dracula.  And what does that mean, I enquired?  Hurry the fxxk up....  We laughed so much that I had to cross my legs (pelvic floor not good at dealing with surprises) and he then had to get my inhaler out of my bag.  

It appears that he knows a variety of Eastern European phrases, none of which can be easily inserted into polite society.  In fact, when we came to France, the boys were taught Spanish by their French teachers and had it pimped by their contemporaries. By the time we had been abroad six months, they could swear fluently in all three languages.  Job well done.