The Music Room

I like to think that I am well and truly in control of what goes on in The House of the Flying Martinis. Cheekily, but usually fairly confidently, I also like to think that I am adept at handling my husband, the celebrated Meeester M.

Other people have noticed my ability to get him to do what I’d like him to do. Although I’m probably no better at it than any other wife. I draw to your attention this faked up magazine cover, designed by my sister, Misssy A, for his 40^th birthday who has been studying Meeester with a wary eye for some time. (Click on it for a closer look)

In some of those coverlines regular and long-time readers of the Misssives may notice some stories I’ve told you about Meeester in this very blog, but the one I’d like to draw your attention to is this one.

It suggests that in the early days of our relationship that Meeester perhaps wasn’t so interested in the career side of life. Perhaps post Uni he worked for a short time in a patisserie wearing a straw boater and an apron whilst sporting a recently acquired Bachelor of Divinity from the University of Aberdeen. I can only assume some kind of loaves and fishes type link between the two enterprises. Perhaps he also got the heave-ho from that job by messing about too much doing Dick van Dyke impersonations to the customers with the aforementioned boater, “Jolly ‘Oliday” style. I don’t know, my memory isn’t what it was.

Perhaps he was actually quite pleased he got the boot and could spend more time playing his guitar and getting out of bed just before Countdown. If the world of pastry didn’t want Meeester then who was he to argue? “They told me I was too happy”,he said, which we all knew was nonsense as apparently Dick Van Dyke complained about breach of copyright and the late arrival of his pastry and cup of tea.

The coverline also suggests that I was the force behind him changing his ways and now having an almost 100% perfect attendance rate of his job as a teacher. It's true, I’ve never seen him take a bona fide sick day never mind pull a cheeky wee sickie to watch a football game like a lot of blokes do. He has a work ethic like I’ve never seen before. Apparently a few threats was all it took. Indeed.

The title also suggests that I can control the movements of my husband, and up until today I may have even boasted this to be true. Turns out I’ve been had.

For years Meeester has been banging on about turning one of our rooms into a music room. We have little room enough as it is. We are not Mr and Mrs Mozart, confident though we are that our son’s saxophone lessons might well lead to a secure retirement for us both, so good is his recent rendition of “Theme from the Flintstone’s”. I have been unequivocally against this development, particularly as the room Meeester has designs on is the room formally known as The Dining Room which I kind of need for, you know, dining in.

It started with some hooks going up on walls. “It’ll keep my guitars out of your road”. The scam begins. Then a music stand was put in the corner. Then a small amp tucked itself into another. A couple of years passed and the dining room table made its way into the newly renovated kitchen. A couple of years on a saxophone and a saxophone playing son took up residence. Then I was suckered into buying Meeester a banjo for our 10^th wedding anniversary. A really nice banjo that looks great if left on display, as it happens. Some mouth organs, recorders and even a Stylophone gets chucked into the mix.

Then his plan all came together on Friday night. “My work colleague has offered us a free piano. She wants rid of it. I think we could put it in the dining room”. Now, as those who have been watching TV magician Derren Brown over the last few weeks will realise that what Meeester has been doing is a bit of auto suggestion. He’s still calling it the dining room, so that I won’t notice a thing. I’m like a rich widow at a séance. I believe every word.

The piano arrived today. There is now no dining table and no couch in this room. No eating ever gets done in this room. It has turned into the Music Room.

I have been well and truly scammed.

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Granny Tax

On just (I say just...) turning forty it seems like a crossroads has been reached. I'm suddenly feeling all grown up and worrying about pensions and stuff. It's sobering.

I also seem to be going to a lot of funerals recently for another thing. An old family friend I’ve known since we were both kids said to me at one recently, “Weddings and funerals, that’s it for us now, Misssy. Weddings and funerals. Next time I see you will be when someone’s died.”

Oh dear.

All of a sudden I look around and three-quarters of my grandparents have gone, and I never got answers to so many questions. Now read that sentence again, it’s not that I never asked questions, I just never got answers.

Examples:

“Gran, how did you meet Papa?”

“Move your head, the snooker semi-final’s on.”

or

“Papa, what were your grandparents’ names?”

“This whisky needs a splash of water, there you go. Just a splash, mind. Don’t drown it!”

or

“Gran, did that old uncle really get the Victoria Cross or was that something you saw in a film and thought was your life?”

“No, that’s a Battenburg. They didn't have Victoria Sponge.”

or

“Granda, why are we all so...well.... odd?”

“Well, it’s been nice to see you all. Here’s some money for the kids. I’m due down the pub. Cheery-Bye! Just slam the door behind you as you go out.”

Recently I’ve been trying to prise some old, old family photos out from under my paternal grandmother or, “Last Gran Standing” as she’s known (behind her back). She’s got a carefully stashed catalogue of holiday photos of my dad as a boy with his brother and sister that she’s only let me see once. Up until that point I thought my dad had been born six foot tall with sideburns. Who knew he was ever a kid? Not me.

Why won’t she let me see them? Why won’t she let me take them away and copy them and then give them back with only a few choice ones stolen? Why won’t she indulge my questions about who was who in my family now that I’m obsessed with that TV family tree programme “Who Do you Think You Are?” but don’t have the BBC researchers at my disposal or the celebrity status to warrant someone else doing all the hard work for me?

Why are old people so ...well, difficult?

I think I’ve found the answer; they are onto us. As soon as family members start asking to do theses on you, or want to see documents, photos or pick your brains on what happened when years ago to Great Uncle Jim who may or may not have been gay, then that’s it- your funeral is being planned. People only want to know all that stuff when they think there’s going to be a day soon when they can say “If only I spoke to her when she was alive...”

As soon as you hear the words, “Granny, tell me about what life was like when...” then it’s time to panic, get your affairs in order and cancel the newspaper.

How annoying must this be, though? To have a granddaughter set up a video camera in your front room and say, “Right Granny, off you go. Speak of olden times, crone! I’ve got three 60 minute tapes, go for it! Don’t fear the Reaper.”

I’ve already devised a strategy for this kind of near death hectoring that will doubtless go on once I hit the 80 mark, I am going to demand payment. For every family story I expect to be taken along on an outing I otherwise would be a nuisance to take along. For every photo album that gets borrowed, I want my house cleaned from top to bottom and my lawn cut. For every clarification on an item of family genealogy I want a free session of chin electrolysis paid for AND a lift to the salon and back.

Last of all, for anything that requires me to write anything down on paper to help out with family trees, or any rummaging in drawers to find any certificates of any kind I want pre-paid tickets to accompany them on their next family holiday. And first dibs on the window seat on the ‘plane.

Effectively for every family memory I divulge I want a new one created for me in the present. That should stop them in their tracks.

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Twinageddon

September is always a busy busy month for us in The House of the Flying Martinis. This year it was even busier. It appears that most of my family decided to become or have offspring at this time of year and therefore the whole month must be set aside for celebrating.

Not least of all those celebrations was the fortieth birthday of my husband, the infamous Meeester M along with that of his twin sister, who is not allowed to be called Misssy M because I thought of it first, so will therefore be called Meeester'sTwin. Incidentally, we celebrated Meeester'sTwin's birthday 20 minutes earlier than Meeester's.

A big fuss was made.

I have spent the last three weeks collecting, scanning, collaging, cutting, framing, gluing and stealing old photographs of the two birthday bods into various pieces of memorabilia designed to make both of them cry with emotion and/or embarassment. No awkward spotty gawky teenage photo has gone unused. No mullet, perm or shiny wedding suit has been edited out.

Then a quiz was devised pitting the twins against the rest of the family answering questions on their lives and foibles. I called it Twinageddon and and it was so good that TV company Celador who make Who Want to be a Millionaire are rumoured to be interested in optioning it on a five year global contract. How we laughed as we remembered MeeestersTwin's crush of former Scottish First Minister Donald Dewar after a misunderstanding in a Glasgow coffee shop. How we cried as we remembered Brabbajackal the frozen pet guinea pig their mother was advised to thaw out in the oven by the vet, but forgot to tell the twins about the situation when they came home expecting their tea.

All this twin business actually made me quite envious- how lovely to be a twin. I wish I had a twin, I'd think from time to time as I cut yet another seventies image of two wee kids who don't look remotely like each other but seemed always to be hanging about together and often had the same anoraks on.

This pair seem to have the best of both worlds, because as nice as it is to be a twin who has shared experiences, birthdays and milestones, being "not from the same egg" as they would repeatedly tell anyone who asked, and of course of different sexes, they wouldn't have the frankly freaky lookalikey thing going on.

Being an identical twin couldn't be as good as their situation. Identical twins would be subjected to a lifetime of other people who couldn't tell you both apart and people would comment on who was the brighter, the better natured, the more dominant, as people tend to do to be able to distinguish between identical twins, not realising how annoying that must be.

Then there's the whole getting married thing. You meet the man who ends up being your husband, but it turns out that he's an identical twin. Don't you feel a bit weird when you meet a second version of him? Don't you worry, even only deep down in your dark subconscious, that one night, for a laugh, they might swap places just to freak everyone out? I have a friend who is married to an identical twin. I don't know her well enough yet to ask her that question, but I'm working up to it.

So anyway, that's what I've been doing with my September, making a fuss of my favourite twins and thinking freaky thoughts about identical twins.

Oh, that and getting excited about the genius present I got for my most favourite of husbands: a trip to New York! With me!

Hey, I'm walkin' here!


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