Doghouse Tails
Created | Updated Apr 2, 2003
Weight Watchers Part Three. Mothers Day
'Do you need any help sir?'
What sort of question is that? Of course he needs help, he's male he's in a flower shop and it's the day before Mothers Day. He hasn't got a clue.
Oh no he's heading for the Chrysanths! She'll hate them! Women hate Chrysanths... except German women who like them for funerals... Sir I know your wife. She is neither German nor recently bereaved and she has exquisite taste... put them down... Why do I bother?
Dear God it's getting worse, one bunch of red and one bunch of yellow. How many red and yellow jumpers does your wife own may I ask? Do you have a red and yellow Andy Warhol living room? Bedroom even? Of course you don't. Your house is almost certainly subtle shades of cream with natural flooring and divine squashy sofas... red and yellow Chrysanths will look hideous.
'Do you think Mummy will like these Oliver?'
Why are you asking Oliver you idiot? Oliver is barely capable of speech let alone taste. Would you consider asking Olivers' opinion when purchasing a new set of golf clubs? I think not.
'Da da aaah.'
As Oliver grabs a virgin white Calla lily with his chocolate-gloved fingers (perhaps he will develop an appreciation of the finer things in life after all).
'Don't touch the pretty flowers Oliver'.
Don't touch? What does he mean don't touch? It's dead! Murdered by chocolate. You might as well let him eat the b****y flower now, at least the chocolate won't go to waste. On second thoughts leave it, I'll eat it later.
Mental note, florists should never embark on a serious diet before an important date in the floral calendar. Three weeks into weight watchers and the rats of human kindness, reason and justice have jumped ship... the large whaling weight watchers kind of ship that is.
Where is my Mothers Day card? Why haven't the offsprung phoned?
Now what is the dreadful child doing? He's going to knock that bucket over!
He has.
Give me a hammer. Let me nail his feet to the floor. Why do men insist on bringing their offending offspring into a flower shop on a Saturday? Do they think we will act as surrogate mothers? We haven't got time to act as surrogate florists let alone b****y nanny's. Take them to football, let them trash Tesco but keep them away from flower shops.
'Oh Oliver. Now look what you've done.'
That's right just 'look' at what he's done, don't bother to help in any way.
'Don't worry Sir it's only water. Are you all right Oliver?'
Oliver glowers evilly. He knows I want to kill him. Masonry nail in the left foot and a six-inch screw in the right... that should do it.
I bet his Mummy's got her card, even if it is red and yellow. He's going to cry. Dear God he's going to cry! A coach load of, 'would-be-far-happier-at-the-rugby-but-have-to-play-the-mothers-day-game', aliens have just flooded the forecourt and Oliver is going to cry. I need a break... Amend; I need food and where is my card? Surely the post has arrived. I know we're busy but hasn't himself with the beautiful eyes got time to nip home and check on the post?
'Can I have a Tweedle to the front? Olivers' Daddy needs some help and we're back on the Surrey tourist route... coach load coming in.'
The Saturday girls, two pairs, joined at the hip hence known as Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee or Tweedles for short, rush to the rescue, (perhaps 'rush' is a mite ambitious for Clarissa but the almost enthusiastic shuffle is an improvement on her normal Saturday Michael Jackson moon walking mode).
'Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.'
'Who put the phone back on?'
The standard eyes down 'not me Mum'; silent reply resonates guiltily through the shop.
The phone's been off the hook since Wednesday. We can't do any more orders. We are the living dead... have pity on my calluses. The phone is ignored.
'Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.'
Suddenly everyone has a job to do. Amazing! The phone rings and inexplicably the entire work force kicks into ER mode.
'Well thank you girls!'
'Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.'
Perhaps I could pick it up and put it down quickly... better not it might be the offsprung.
'Hello?'
'My heating's broken down and Archie needs a shower can he come round to your house?'
It's Angela my WW partner in brine... at least it's not a customer.
'Of course he can Angela.'
'I've had two cards! One from Archie and one from Hamish and a huge box of chocolates which I can't eat but aren't they soooooooooooo sweet?'
Will that be the chocolates or the children? Should I slit my wrists now or nibble on the crushed chocolate coated Calla lily?
'Must dash Angela, shops full. Tell Archie to help himself to the shower... see you later.'
The shop looks like a 'how many people will fit in a mini?' competition and there are revolting children everywhere. Oh no here comes another complete with its Daddy bearing gifts and cards... hold on a second it looks like...it is!
'Baybeeeee!'
Now twenty-nine year old male offsprung do not thrill to the address of 'Baybeeeee'. The thrusting of his daughter into my arms... A vain attempt to convince the crowd that I am addressing her and not him, falls apart at the seams, as the ensuing hugs and ruffling of hair... his not hers, guarantees blushes and shared 'aren't mothers awful' looks with the alien rugby contingency.
Suddenly the shop is the best place in the whole world. Filled with light and laughter. I love children. I even love grandchildren.
Knock all of the buckets over if you want to! Flatten the flowers! Who cares?
An embarrassed peck on the cheek and the Mothers Day offerings are pressed upon me.
Three cards all rude but not one is red and yellow. Oh aren't their words so beautiful... when did they learn to write like that?
'You are an inspiration, a friend, a guide but most of all a Mum.'
'Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.'
'Hello'
'How can I call to wish you a happy Mothers Day when you leave the phone off the hook?'
It's the gapee, her of the beautiful words... I am truly blessed. I have a symbiotic weekend ahead of me and they do care... they even remembered the sun bed.
