Last Wednesday
Let’s talk about the weather. You know what I hate? Gales, hurricanes,
generally wind. A cool breeze in summer,
that’s one thing, a beautiful thing. But
going down the street getting irregularly pushed at by wind, especially when it’s
cold and already raining? That’s just annoying.
I feel like I’m personally fighting it. It’s personally pissed off with
me and wants to annoy me.
I only mention this, as I came down the hill, and first it
was that lovely fine rain. The rain that will coat you completely and have you
soaked before you realise it, but it feels more or less friendly. I was imagining it frizzling up my already
unruly hair, which is a nice free service here performed by Mother Nature where
some women would pay money for it. Then
the wind started. Harrumph.
Today has the potential to be highly stressful (hospital
appointment for Fluffhead, arrangements of possibly invasive tests; cue massive
overprotective co-dependent frenzy of projection and worry on my part), so the
least I owe myself is not to get overly irritated by a bit of wind. You know, prioritise the shit fits. (Don’t think about the hospital, don’t think
about the hospital.) Sit down. Write the blog.
*
Last night was the Night of Bangs and Sparkles. Fireworks Night, Bonfire Night, Guy Fawkes
Night. Blow up Parliament like V would
night.
The Prince, Fluffhead and I stood outside, shuffling and
stamping feet in the already smoky air, waiting for Stanley (whose raison d’être is to keep anyone waiting
for just about anything for just long enough to piss you off but not long
enough for you to deem it worthwhile to have a proper go at him; I end up
providing a snippy comment I am unable to suppress, which he will regularly
ignore). We listened to bangs and muffled
plosive sounds from the distance on all sides.
Watched the blaring light through the leaves from next door (the crap
neighbours) and the total darkness from the other side (the lovely agreeable
neighbours, the ones who don’t steal
your recycling bins).
Fluffhead pressed the button on his Prince provided light
stick, turning it from blue to white torch point, to flashing and dead and back
again. I said I was bored (which is one
of my raison d’êtres come to think of
it, and how sad), as well as hungry (ditto), and the Prince smiled as he’s used
to me now, and knows when I’m really moaning and when I’m playing at it.
Eventually Stanley
appeared, muffled in a big scarf and his army jacket, carrying the box of
garden fireworks and the long package of rockets provided by Saint Mum. (And very luckily too, as we had left it to
the last minute, too late to shop, a bit unusual considering we currently had 3
sparkle and bang obsessed males in the house instead of the usual 2. Mum saved the day.)
The Prince and Stanley set to organising the little
display. The Prince pulling free all the
fuses?, wicks? – what exactly are they?? – from the tissue paper tops, Stanley fixing the little
metal shelf we balance them on securely to the ground.
Fluffhead, quite interestingly I thought, seemed to remember
the whole production from last year, and kept saying in a guttural croaky
voice, “BANG!” “BANG!” (This is also very similar to his garbled
pronunciation of the words ‘brown’ and ‘black’ but contextually, and with the
accompanying hand gestures of rising – outward
fan – falling, it became clear what he meant.)
He settled himself on the small stoop by the back door and
held his hands together in his lap, smiling and calm, like a small gentleman
waiting for the opera to start.
The Prince scuffed his feet some more and looked about him
for things to be helpful with (this is what he’s like). There was nothing immediately doing so he
grinned at me a bit ruefully and looked perturbed. I gave him one of my biggest teeth smiles, as
his helpfulness both amazes and amuses me.
As in, its so kindly and nice and er, helpful, to save other people time
by doing stuff for them…and then on the other hand, I can’t help comparing
myself to him, so he makes me feel a bit like Saint Mum does sometimes: like I
can never be this Good and Kind to people, and indeed, I rarely want to be (as in the words of
Phoebe from Friends, any favours for
others are to be considered in terms of
whether they are boring, expensive or time consuming; and evaluated for action
or rejection accordingly). In the face
of such regular unselfishness as a mirror, I often feel like flopping down on
the sofa, remote in hand and saying “feck you all”, just generally, to the world.
This is actually one of the major differences between
Stanley and The Prince. The Prince is
unfailingly kind and considerate. Making
a moody person like me feel a bit rebellious and naughty. Stanley
on the other hand, can and does help people.
But entirely on his own terms, in his own time, and very often
accompanied by mocking irreverent good humour; generally inappropriate
rudeness. I like the way we move around
the house Being Rude to each other, swearing
like teenagers just discovering the joy of a good cuss (it has to be
said, the swearing part is mostly me). It’s
refreshing, childlike, and weirdly sincere.
I can be my irritable downcast and insecure self around Stanley, and it becomes incorporated into a
sort of joke. Real but not a cause for
concern. To an extent, Stanley fulfils exactly the same function for
The Prince. He calls him out on the
sometimes excessive Butler-like helpfulness, and the tolerance and seeing well
of other people that can cause him to be taken advantage of. He is Rude to him. The Prince smiles. Stanley
makes us laugh and not take ourselves so seriously – a very good skill. And he does it often. I don’t know where he fetches his good humour
from. Its consistency in the Face of
Life impresses me, daily. His
non-sponginess I aspire to.
The show starts.
Fluffhead springs up. I pull him
back by the hood of his jacket, and he makes a cross noise before taking my
hand and standing relatively still. Stanley is muffling the
view, running back from the lit firework that’s gassing Chinese Green behind
him. The Prince takes his hands out of
his pockets and watches. His eyes light.
“BANG!” says Fluffhead, even though this one is mostly cream and green sparkles
and shoots. He jumps up and down. I keep one hand close to his shoulder, a
small part of my head filled with public information films from my childhood
about burns.
There’s 30 fireworks, but they seem short, shorter than last
years. By the end, there have been some
semi loud ones, and Fluffhead has pressed himself back against the glass door to
the living room, corners of his mouth pulled down. Cryface.
He’s had enough. I pick him up
and he puts his chill face in my neck, I feel snot. I rub his back and we go indoors to watch the
last one from there. The smell of
gunpowder sulphur follows us in.
Fluffhead kicks off his wellies and leaves his jacket on the floor,
rushing to the glass door and putting his whole face against it. I turn the
light off so he can see better.
Stanley and The Prince banter outside, about who gets to
clean up the mess.
“BANG!” I hear, followed by an actual one from the
garden. Stanley and The Prince are
murmuring together, yes, that was the best one, the last one, how weird. Fluffhead turns to me, all teeth, happy. Precious.
I go to the kitchen to put the kettle on for the men.
