Match Maker

Hello. It’s me, Sylvie.

I warned you about Joyce, didn’t I? Now you know what I have to put up with!

She was two hours late this morning and all of a fluster, her cat had a panic attack when a pigeon crashed into bay window. Bella had got her head trapped in venetian blinds, so Joyce took her t' vets and they said she was just a bit dizzy.

I said to Joyce, ‘Are you sure they didn’t mean you?’. She gave me one of her looks and pretended to tidy up Toffee Crisps.

Well, you know all about her family after reading that little epic last week, it was like an episode of Twin Peaks, and I made neither head nor tail of that when it were on tele.

Her Sidney’s a nice enough chap but a bit of a girl’s blouse, always fussing over nowt. By all accounts, he were wearing a string of pearls to school by the time he were twelve, he didn’t make friends easily.

I’d still love my Clint, even if he did sit on other side of church. I’d try and set him up with that nice Paul O’Grady.

Did you see him interviewed on TV last Friday? Even Clint said he’s a handsome fella with his three-piece suit. Aye, aye, I thought!

We’ve got a lovely homosexual couple along balcony. They’ve always got clean nets and go at it with the bleach every Saturday. Clint laid their kitchen lino last week, it looks like wooden flooring.

They’re dead modern and they’ve draped fairy lights over their pelmet and it’s not even Christmas! It’s another world, it is really.

Anyway, I expect you’ve been dying to know about the wine and cheese do. What a shambles! The buffet consisted of Philadelphia on Ritz crackers, which were well past their sell-by date, and we drank warm Blue Nun from polystyrene cups.

I stuck with the Quavers and didn’t go near the dips. Molly Chadwick’s never been much of a hostess. French Fancies on plastic doilies are more her stride.

And I had to wear a name badge which played havoc with my shrug. Despite all that, I got chatting to a nice chap called Percy who was hovering over Black Forest while waiting for it to thaw.

He’s a retired roofer and collects matchboxes. Mind you, he has a distinct whiff of sulphar about him but he was the only man there who had any grasp of bladder control.

Percy’s a widower from Bury. His lost his wife three years ago when she was struck by lightening while bringing in washing. Her own fault really, those metal curlers went out years ago.

If she’d have worn sponge, she’d still be here today.

Any road up, he phoned at weekend and invited me to t’ Harvester tomorrow as he’s got a two for one voucher for the Earlybird special. He could be a bit of a tight wad but we’ll suck it and see.

Molly thinks he’s a gigolo because he’s signed with two other agencies. He wrote on his profile, ‘Just because there’s snow on the roof, it doesn’t mean the fire’s gone out’.

That put me off him a bit.

I feel a bit strange going on a date, if I’m honest. It’s my wedding anniversary on Sunday and Eric always took me to Bellavista in Rochdale. It’s dead posh with white tablecloths and wicker baskets. We’d order Champagne and get bladdered, just like on our wedding day.

We’d have our pudding and then he’d pass us a small gift box which contained a new charm for my bracelet. The last one was a rotating heart which says ‘I Love You’, it’s my favourite one but there was no room for any more charms after that.

I only wear the bracelet on special occasions as it’s too jangly and always snags my tights. I shan’t be wearing it tomorrow night. Not at Harvester.

Anyway, I’ll not hold out much hope about this one, especially if Percy starts banging on about his matchboxes again. He’s after Japanese ones now and asked if I’d go on auction sites while I’m in class, cheeky bugger.

We’ve got a new teacher here at the centre, he’s called Lester and he’s got a gold tooth and rides a bicycle. His right hand has long nails because he plays guitar, so that’s nice, int it?

Ivy won’t be back this term, she rushed home from class last week and the dopey mare grabbed the casserole pot with bare hands. She’s up on Ghandhi ward with giant mittens.

She didn’t meet anyone at wine and cheese do which it’s just as well, really. She’s not had a good year, love her.

I popped up to her this dinnertime with a copy of TV Quick and had to read all the blooming listings to her, I shan’t be doing that again in a hurry. I kept hoping she’d nod off.

I watched Strictly Ballroom Dancing at the weekend. I didn’t know it were on both nights, what a treat. I quite fancy that judge, Len Goodman. He’s a right charmer, he can dip me anytime!

Me and Clint bet a fiver on who’ll win. I bet on that Andrew from GMTV but I’m not so sure now, he looked a bit simple on dance floor. Clint bet on Phil Daniels but he’s already lost!

Mind you, I thought that TV cook should have gone, I’ve got more rhythm in my little finger, and I probably make a better Shepherd’s Pie.

Mandy just sulked while it were on. She’s a bit needy and doesn’t like sharing Clint’s attention with others, especially with lasses in sequin body stockings. She gets on my wick at times.

Me and Eric could cut a rug in our day, we’d get dolled up and go dancing every Saturday night when we were younger. I couldn’t do it now, not with my knees.

Clint’s also watching X Factor but I can’t be doing with that, I’ve heard better down Gold Rush club. He went with Argos Alan to auditions at Old Trafford earlier this year, but they couldn’t be arsed to queue for registration.

They’d been practising ‘Wake me up before you go-go’ all day before, so that was a waste of time. The pair of clowns want to apply to Big Brother next year, you have to laugh.

Well, I seem to be getting on okay with computer class, though this keyboard is ruining my new nails. Lester is teaching us hyperlinks this evening. He asked if we’d heard of them and I put up my hand and said me and Eric used to shop at the one in Calais.

Oh, I did feel a fool when he explained what it was and the whole class burst out laughing. I wasn’t best pleased.

Though, I don’t know why Renee Braithwaite was laughing so much, when Lester asked who had Windows XP at home, she bragged she had PVC ones round at hers. Daft old bat.

Joyce is boasting to anyone who’ll listen that she’s better than me with this computer lark because she can use an electric typewriter. I don’t know who she’s kidding when she can’t even set video. I’ve got Sky Plus but she’s not as with it as me.

Anyway, I’ll love you and leave you. Joyce is on next time which means she’ll be wittering on about her tarts at drama group. It’s riveting.

Before I finish up, I have to put in a hyperlink, so bear with me. I was looking at websites earlier and I’ve chosen one for you.

There you go. AVON

Oh no, that’s not right at all, it’s supposed to change colour.

Hold up, I’ll have another crack at it.

AVON

By heck, it’s a fiddly business, is this.

Make any Avon orders through me and not Joyce because she won’t have a clue. I recommend the Aloe Vera cream, it brings up my horse brass a treat, does that.

I’d better get my skates on, I’m the last one left and Lester’s looking daggers.

I hope he hasn’t got a casserole on the go.

Cheerio for now, love from Sylvie x

Here it is, then!

Hello there, I’m Sylvie and this is my first blog. I run the hospital shop in Rochdale. Well, it’s more of a small booth, really. Annabel Pemberton (our area manager) announced that we have to start ordering stock on the line as soon as we get our computer.

I’ve used my clipboard for years but we need to move with the times. Annabel booked me and Joyce into evening classes to learn all about it. Mind you, she only booked one place, so we’ll have to take us turns.

Joyce will be here next week but don’t be surprised if she bangs on about the time her cat got her tail stuck up the Hoover. You learn to live with it.

Ivy Nuttall is teaching us at community centre. Her husband's run off with the Yoga teacher. They’d been at it for two years. Honestly, it gets more like Knot’s Landing round here!

Ivy set up this page in July when she were on anti-depressants and vodka. She told Joyce that we should write a weekly blog as it’s all the rage.

Here’s a bit more about me, then. I was born in Rochdale, an only child. My parents were in their mid-forties by the time I came along and they didn’t really know what to do with me. It was quite a lonely childhood, full of daydreams and tears.

As I got that bit older, I’d spend most of my time listening to dance tunes on wireless while trying to pout like Diana Dors at mam’s dressing table.

Times were hard with little money to go round. Mam took in other folk’s washing and I’d work the mangle while dad smoked his pipe and mended clocks in back room.

I became a bit of a handful and left home while fourteen and moved in with my friend Maggie’s family who were loud and had a caravan in Clitheroe. I left school a year later and worked in cotton mills before moving onto broken biscuit counter at Woollies.

I eventually ended up in stationery at Kendals department store, which is where I met my dear Eric, he came in to buy a Parker pen and some Basildon Bond paper.

Eric was four years older than me and quite a heart throb with local lasses. He looked like a young Tony Bennett. We were a striking couple with his black quiff and my blonde beehive.

We’d drive about in his red convertible and everyone would stare at us. He loved that car but it got stolen outside The Astoria Ballroom where we had gone to see The Beatles. He couldn’t stomach them after that.

We were wed at town hall in 1964, I wore a lemon shift and Eric chose a navy mohair suit. Our friends took us for a meal in Chinatown, it was such a bonny day and we got hammered on champagne!

Eric worked as an insurance rep and travelled all over North of England. He won ‘Salesman of the Year’ in 1968. His firm presented him with a decanter and paid for a weekend at Butlins in Skegness, or Skeg-Vegas as we liked to call it!

Our Clint was born in 1971, the long wait made him all the more precious. He were a right big bairn. Eric decided that one kiddie was enough, I would have liked more but there you go.

We had a good life which came with its ups and downs but we always worked at it. We went to Costa del Sol every year and made some good friends with folk who had moved there to start a new life. Clint calls it ‘Costa del Crime’, cheeky bugger.

Eric started to pop over to Spain to choose a property for our retirement. We looked forward to putting us feet up and drinking Sangria in the sun, while our Clint fancied setting up his own radio station for ex-pats. He could teach that Richard Branston a thing or two.

Sadly, our plans went to pot. Eric passed away in 2001, heart attack.

He used to stay at Doreen Bradley’s B&B in Scarborough whenever he was on the road. He was putting up shelves in her lounge alcove when it happened. She said he managed one last screw and that were it, he were gone.

Clint drove me there in the van after we got the call. It were the longest journey of my life.

Doreen was at the hospital with mascara running down her cheeks. I remember thinking she could have made time to wash her face.

The chaplain came over and took me and Clint to see Eric. The room was dimly lit and smelt of bleach and plastic sheets. I noticed there was a picture on the wall just like the one we had at home to cover a damp patch.

I combed Eric’s hair the way he liked it and waited for him to wink at me, but he never did. I kissed his cheek and told him I loved him.

Clint hovered by the door, he’s not very big on goodbyes.

I miss being Eric’s wife. He was the lid to my pot. I sometimes watch Match of the Day when I’m alone as it makes me feel closer to him. He liked nowt better than to watch his team of a Saturday afternoon followed by a pie and a pint down British Legion.

Clint doesn’t like football, he couldn’t knock snow off a rope, but he’s a musical man and a gentle giant. He works as a disc jockey for hospital radio and has quite a following. Even when folk get better they still come back to listen to his show.

He used to visit Radio Manchester and play his hospital tape cassettes in reception. He hasn’t done that for a while, something to do with a restriction order, I wasn’t really listening.

He could be as big as Steve Wright given half the chance.

Clint’s been engaged to Mandy for three years but he still lives with me. She works in hospital laundry and specialises in stain removal.

Mandy's a good lass but I wish she wouldn’t come round so much, I can smell those hospital sheets on her. I always have my Fabreze handy and give the sofa a good going over after she’s gone.

As for me, I’ve been at the hospital shop for six years now. I was promoted to manageress after Edna Cribbins got caught with her hands in the till. She had champagne taste and lemonade money, that one.

This is the ideal job for me because I’m a people person. I’m looked upon as a social worker by my customers who all come to me with their problems.

Clint says I’ve got healing hands. I thumped his back and saved his life t’other week when he choked on an onion bhaji.

I’m also an Avon rep, which is quite a responsibility. I try to look my best and keep in shape. Folk often remark on how young I look for my age. I’m like Jane Fonda only with less liver spots.

I better skidaddle. Me and Ivy are off to a wine and cheese party downstairs. It’s arranged by the Autumn Dating Agency which is run by Molly Chadwick whose wig has seen better days.

We only signed up for a giggle, really. We're daft like that.

I’ve picked out a few words which might link my blog to Goggles or whatever the heck it’s called, I’ve listed them below, look.

But I can’t see for the life of me what a blog has to do with ordering a box of Wagon Wheels on t’ internet.

Cheerio for now. Love from Sylvie x