Joyce's week

Hello everyone, how have you been?

It’s spitting outside but I hope it comes to nowt. I had to throw my brolly away after it broke this morning, I nearly had a lollipop lady’s eye out with it. And these nights are starting to draw in, I have to use a mini torch to find my keyhole.

Argos Alan said he can get me a security light. I offered to pay but he said he gets things free from his store, so that’s good of them. He’s holding an Elizabeth Duke jewellery sale from his extension next Sunday.

Oh, I’ve had a terrible time this past week. I was mugged on the bus by a hoodie man, he took my purse from the top of my shopping bag. It was found in one of the precinct bins, even my picture of Bella was missing along with everything else.

Why would anyone want a photo of a three-legged cat? I was that upset, one of my heads came on and I couldn’t go to work.

Sylvie came over and opened my bottle of Asti to help with the shock of it all, she’s good like that. She loaned me £25 and said not to rush paying her back, but I paid her the next day and gave her an extra fiver for her trouble. She said I should only pay back what I owe, but she was grateful nevertheless.

Then, I got a call from Blockbusters in Bootle who said I was overdue with ‘Romancing the Bone’ and ‘Saturday Night Beaver’. I said, ‘Do I sound like the type of person who would derive pleasure from watching such filth?’ They said ‘It takes all sorts, last week a priest came in and snuck ‘Forest Hump’ under his robes’.

Sidney went into my local branch and got a new card, so I can still rent my musicals. He bought me a new shopping bag with a zip rather than Velcro fastening and I suggest you do the same if you don’t want a pornographic phone call from Bootle.

Well, you heard about poor Ivy and her mittens. I had to hold a carton of Ribena up to her mouth while reading out my library book to her. But she’s a terrible fidget and the straw kept going up her nose. It was all a bit of a hoo-ha to be honest and I don’t think she appreciates Miss Marple’s detective skills, so I shan’t bother again.

Lester’s very pleased with my progress and he’s teaching me how to add a video link, I can’t see Sylvie coping with that. I told her she’d put Len Goodman on last week’s hyperlink, then she accused me of sabotaging her blog and called me a gobbin. But I let it go as I know she doesn’t mean it.

She’s in a bad mood because it was her wedding anniversary at weekend and she felt a bit low. Percy came to the hospital shop this morning and gave her a small gift-wrapped box but when she opened it, she was livid. It was an old box of Fire Engine Safety Matches, she said she felt like setting light to the thing and throwing it at him.

I don’t hold out much hope for their relationship, really.

Sylvie wants me to join that dating agency but I said it’s not my boast. Anyway, she’s only after the set of steak knives that Molly gives away if you refer a friend, I’m not daft.

Our area manager, Annabel Pemberton (we call her Lady Muck), joined my drama group. I brought along some of my tarts and she didn’t touch them but everyone else couldn’t get enough. She parades around in her paisley shawl and brooch like she’s Penelope Keith and she’s not a patch on her.

She’s after the lead in ‘Private Lives’ but Daphne Burrows will fight her tooth and nail for that part. There’ll be hair-pulling over this one. Mind you, Daphne’s hair doesn’t move, it’s got that much lacquer on it. Molly Chadwick says it’s flammable. I said, she best not go near Percy then!

Annabel once stood at local elections as ‘Cocktail Party Candidate’. She only got twelve votes and they were her macramé class. Sylvie had the flyer and crossed out ‘Cocktail’ and wrote ‘Barmpot’ and then pinned it on hospital notice board! We had a good giggle over that.

She’s a one, she is really.

Apparently, Lady Muck formed a Neighbourhood Watch group and had a serving hatch installed especially. She doesn’t impress me with her cul-de-sac ways. She thinks she’s Margaret Thatcher with her pussy-bow and patent handbag.

I used to wonder what the queen and Mrs Thatcher talked about behind palace doors. They probably kicked off their shoes and flipped through Argos catalogue like rest of us.

Did I mention that I met my new neighbour, Lesley? She’s got decking out back. She told me she’s a counsellor, ‘Oh good!’, I said, ‘You can sort out my wheelie bin, or lack of one. ‘I shouldn’t think so’, she said, ‘I’m a marriage counsellor’.

She’s too late to help me in that department, I thought.

Lesley went on to say that she’s getting divorced. Apparently, her husband had an affair with one of her patients. It’s awful when you weigh it up.

She kicked him out, tiled her bathroom and sold the house. She had to go into therapy herself, after that. She’s going to a health farm to be decaffeinated. Mind, I wouldn’t pay for someone to come at me with a rubber hose-pipe, thank you very much.

Ted is still living above Valerie Ashcroft’s drycleaners. She’s a jezebel, that one. Her husband was hardly cold in his grave when she was on karaoke at the Gold Rush Club. I know people grieve in different ways, but one week after you’ve been widowed is a bit too soon for tangerine chiffon in my book.

Sylvie still grieves for her Eric, she puts on a front but I know she hurts inside. Its like I said to her, a heart that loves is always young, and she has the good times to look back on.

I’d hate to lose my memories, they shape who you are. I just wish I had better ones.

My old colleague, Tommy Cresswell, lost his wife Patsy two years back and I bumped into him in Icelands a few days ago. He was wandering around with her old shopping basket. I said hello but he looked right through me. He still looks a broken man, poor soul.

He was wearing his waistband up to his chest and an old threadbare cardigan. Patsy would never have allowed him out looking like that. He used to be quite a catch in his day with his motorcycle and side-car. We all had a crush on him at town hall but I was no match for Patsy with her red lipstick and kitten heels.

At end of day, we’re all survivors but some get there quicker than others.

Barbara Windsor’s a survivor. My Sidney’s a big fan, he idolises her and often writes to her fan club. She sent him a signed photo which he has on his mantel piece alongside one of Jane McDonald, another idol of his.

He wanted to go on Mastermind to answer questions on Barbara’s life but he’s not very good with leather chairs. They’d do well to think about that.

It’s brewing up a storm out there and I haven’t got my rain bonnet. I might have to put a carrier bag on my head, I’ve only had this Topaz rinse since last Thursday.

There’s a video link for you to enjoy from the Tube website, it’s one of my favourite songs and another of Sidney’s idols, I hope you enjoy it.

Sylvie will be here next week, so take care until next time.

God bless, Joyce xx