Thursday 17 March 2011

Yoghurt

     I understand blood, and I understand pain
     There can be no life without it: never doubt it, brother
     I'm a mother
        - Chrissie Hynde, "Mother"

"So would you like a wee brother or a wee sister?" asks the checkout lady, with a slightly lilting tone. She's a mischievous and unmaliciously cynical woman in her early forties, very worldly-wise, always cracking offhand jokes and making customers laugh in a way I really like. Anyone venturing even a giggle in reply had better be ready to be answered with a cackle that's almost a trademark of the store, but all she gets from the wee boy is a thoughful silence as he solemnly returns the chocolate bars to the display, surely what she had in mind anyway. A smart cookie, this woman. I nearly went to the younger woman on the other till but now I'm glad I deferred doing that. The best shouldn't enemy the good.

"None of the above," I offer, before anyone else thinks of it. I'm rewarded with a quick, wicked flash of the eyes from the woman and a slightly awkward laugh from the mother (and mother-to-be) too, back from scanning the magazine shelves with unwise inattention while she waited for me to pay. I haven't bought much: I'm single. She's buying plenty, but no magazines. The difference between TWIX and SEX is that SEX, always the largest word on almost every cover, isn't actually provided inside women's magazines (or men's for that matter) so grabbing them off the shelves doesn't work. Besides: the horror. Not a problem with chocolate, unless you count bathroom scales delivering their inevitable verdict.

"You'll leave those alone, we've yoghurts for later," seems to stop further attempts to increase the family shopping bill, or perhaps it's being reminded that it won't be me-me-me for much longer. Or not just me-me-me. My mother says I didn't take it very well either. A wee sister, by the way.

Sisters are supposed to help you with girls, but mine never did. Or maybe that's just older sisters, I don't remember. Even if not, this kid is far too young to be interested in much apart from chocolate, and even after that he'll be pulling legs off spiders for quite a while before pulling knickers off legs takes priority.

I think of something else and have to suppress a snort. The checkout woman's sharp up-look: not unfriendly, but alert - even suspicious - precludes a smile and a shake of the head. I can't share it though, it's too.. too much. I evade with a sotto voce "Get in!", still playing the boy. It's weak cos it's been too long, but it's enough. I'm not really a wit and she knows it. Her smile isn't false when she hands me my change.

According to another, slightly more up-market women's magazine (but not up-market enough not to have SEX in huge letters on the cover), wearing knickers made of nylon rather than cotton may have been the cause of a problem years ago for which yoghurt again provided the solution. In a memorable phrase my then-girlfriend's magazine also explained that "a partner can help you do this". As I was her's, I helped her: also memorably. The magazine didn't say how much yoghurt you'd need, but natural yoghurt isn't and wasn't pricey, even on a student budget. I bought loads. If we'd known what we were doing it would have been ludicrously excessive, but because neither of us had a clue we didn't anticipate that, even with her lying on her back, hardly any of what I applied to the affected area with much careful and dilligent spoonwork would stay there. Nor did we anticipate the ferocity with which it would escape, or the surprisingly contemptuous sound effects accompanying its rejection. We were both in absolute, well, hysterics.

Eventually we declared a partial victory and agreed, still sniggering, to try again the next day with more time and a warmer spoon. Or series of warmer spoons. Or just warmer yoghurt. A more sensitive partner than me might have twigged that there therefore wasn't much point leaving the existing spoon in the pot given that the pot would be spending the night in the fridge, but I've never threatened records on that score. I'd already bought her some new cotton underwear though, but (for my blushes) not at the same time as the yoghurt. Not that I could have: back then supermarkets didn't sell clothes. She wore one pair under her hired gown that evening to the hall revue, and I took them off for her later that night before we stepped together into a warm shower. Lo-and-behold: problem solved.

I quite fancy the woman on the other till so I'm hoping she's not married, whereas I know the first one is because her husband works away a lot and she's never really the same when he's not around. Just as irrepressible, but the twinkle's missing. I guess that's love, right? Or three kids, or something. But the other one is sweet. I was thinking of telling her as much, or at least a little of that much, before trying "Have you got a boyfriend?" and being ready to reply with "Would you like one?" or "Would you like another one?" as appropriate. But if she'd fired back with that her husband wouldn't be keen - note the crucial difference between wouldn't and won't in that reply - I wouldn't have had an answer ready, so I took the shorter queue and the coward's way out. Besides: the horror, the horror.

Years later we told our yoghurt story in the pub, riffing off each other a bit to keep the table guessing, and another bloke topped it with an even better story, far more and far too disgusting to record, which he said afterwords he'd never told anyone else and wouldn't have done that night either if we hadn't spun our's out so well. Later I found out they were sleeping together. But that surely wasn't why she was doubled-up with belly-laughter, totally incapable, very nearly knocking her drink all over the floor. I was laughing as well, but nothing like as hard. I didn't know about them, then, but I knew it was over: I hadn't heard her laugh like that in ages.

I usually get twenty quid out before I buy groceries and the time before last my total was £19.72, the year of my birth, which I mentioned, stupidly, to the woman I like: if she likes me she won't reveal her age yet. Anyway, last time it was £19.85: halfway through Thatcher, not that long after the miner's strike (my cousin Andy was a miner, then) and the Falklands; me in school, hating it but working hard anyway to make mum happy. I remember the time, but nothing about the specific year, so I couldn't think of anything to say about that. Nor did I think to glance at her ring finger: I'll do that next time.

Outside in the car park a lady is backing a 4x4 out of a parent-and-child space with an endless agony of cycles of the clutch and accelerator, making at best three inches progress at a time. As always I wonder why people don't reverse in, and why they buy cars they can't manoeuvre. Years ago my best mate's dad bought a second-hand Volvo estate in a dreadful mid-yellow vomit colour (I asked mine why he didn't get one: "If I still wanted to drive a tank I'd have stayed in the army", which was funny even before it became normal to see army vehicles coloured like sand - we were up against the Ordinary Decent Terrorists of the IRA in those days.) Mr Stevens had plank-set two neat wheel-strips of concrete along his driveway specially, and watching him back up and down in terror of dropping a tyre onto the pea-shingle was usually good for a laugh. But at least he'd reverse in. Was that 1985? No idea, but five or six years before Desert Storm sounds about right; I joined up after I graduated, so not in time for that one.

It's raining a bit but the clounds don't look too threatening, so, with the weight of the food I've bought pulling my shoulder-straps and pressing into the small of my back, I head diagonally across the car park towards the promenade. I much prefer to walk the long way home unless it's really sheeting down, and I actually quite like light, gentle rain.

"Saaarge! Hey, Saaarge! Look at this! Guys, look at this! Look at THIS!" For a split-second I'm distracted by an unlikely detail in the image, before I realise that the smear of blood between the model's legs isn't part of the picture, or rather isn't meant to be. "I thought rags didn't approve!!!" Jonesey's ecstatic face is bulging and twisting, distorting as if he's trying to accomodate some divine revelation, some joyous, vital, transcendental truth he alone can impart to all mankind, but Sgt Mitchell is no more impressed than I am (as he begins to make very clear to the crestfallen Private) and I'm already turning slowly on my heel towards the sun, squinting, scanning the cloudless sky. Only the fierce, fierce heat is moving the air; the mirage-glare from the sand is impossibly bright, and we've all of us here witnessed enough pornography for any day.

Needless to say I didn't have to take the spoon out of the pot, or the pot from the fridge, because the next morning the pot was in, not the fridge, but the bin. And the spoon had been washed. But I bet it wasn't when some drunken prat ate the yoghurt. Or a pratess, even, who might yet have stolen it for the same reason I bought it. We laughed at that, too.

[[[ Twix is a trademark of some chocolate company. -M ]]]

Conjuring Works

"Conjuring Works" - an Elizabethan comedy sketch in two scenes.
     (adapted from "Doctor Faustus" by Christopher Marlowe.)

Cast:
       (in both scenes)
     ROBIN, a stable-hand (70ish lines)
     DICK, his assistant (30ish lines)

       (in second scene only)
     The VINTNER, a publican (15 lines)
     MEPHISTOPHILES, a demon (12 lines)


-- [first scene: a field]


          [Enter ROBIN, with a book in his hand.]

     ROBIN. O, this is admirable! Here I ha' stolen one of Doctor
     Faustus' conjuring-books, and, i'faith, I mean to search some
     circles for my own use. Now will I make all the maidens in our
     parish dance at my pleasure, stark naked, before me; and so
     by that means I shall see more than e'er I felt or saw yet.

     DICK. [off] Robin, prithee, come away; there's a gentleman tarries
     to have his horse, and he would have his things rubbed and made
     clean. He keeps such a chafing with the mistress about it, and
     she has sent me to look thee out: prithee, come away!

     ROBIN. What, Dick? Look to the horses there, till I come again.
     I have gotten one of Doctor Faustus' conjuring-books; and now
     we'll have such knavery as't passes.

          [Enter DICK.]

     DICK. What? Robin, you must come away and walk the horses.

     ROBIN. I walk the horses! I scorn't, faith: I have other
     matters in hand; let the horses walk themselves, if they will.
     [reads] A, per se: A;.. T-H-E: that's THE;.. O, per se: O;
     Demi, orgon, gorgon.. [realises DICK is looking over his shoulder]
     Keep further from me, O thou illiterate and unlearned 'ostler!

     DICK. 'Snails, what hast thou got there? A book! Why, thou canst
     not tell ne'er a word on't.

     ROBIN. Keep out, keep out, or else you are blown up, you are
     dismembered, Dick! Keep out, for I am about a roaring piece of work.

     DICK. Come, what doest thou with that same book? Thou canst not read.

     ROBIN. Yes, the master and mistress shall find that I can read: he
     for his forehead [=he'll be jealous], she for her private study [=she
     won't menstruate]. She's born to bear with me, or else my art fails.

     DICK. Why, Robin, what book is that?

     ROBIN. What book? Why, the most intolerable book for conjuring
     that e'er was invented by any brimstone devil.

     DICK. Canst thou conjure with it?

     ROBIN. [drawing a circle on the ground] That thou shalt see presently.
     Keep out of the circle, I say, lest I send you into the 'ostry with a
     vengeance.

     DICK. [sarcastic] That's like, faith! You had best leave your foolery,
     for, if the master come, he'll conjure you, i'faith.

     ROBIN. My master conjure me! I'll tell thee what: if the master
     come here, I'll clap as fair a pair of horns on's head as
     e'er thou sawest in thy life.

     DICK. Thou need'st not do that, for the mistress hath done it. But,
     I prithee, tell me in good sadness, Robin, is that a conjuring-book?

     ROBIN. Ay. I can do all these things easily with it: first, I can
     make thee drunk with hippocras at any tavern in Europe for nothing;
     that's one of my conjuring works.

     DICK. Our Master Parson says that's nothing.
     [=over-drinking and non-payment is rife anyway]

     ROBIN. True, Dick, and more, Dick, if thou hast any mind to
     Nancy Spit, our kitchen-maid, then turn her and wind her
     to thy own use, as often as thou wilt, and at midnight.

     DICK. O, brave, Robin! Shall I have Nan Spit, and to mine own use?
     On that condition I'll feed thy devil with horse-bread as long
     as he lives, of free cost.

     ROBIN. No more, sweet Dick: Do but speak what thou'lt have me to do,
     and I'll do't: if thou'lt dance naked, put off thy clothes, and I'll
     conjure thee about presently; or, if thou'lt go but to the tavern
     with me, I'll give thee white wine, red wine, claret-wine, sack,
     muscadine, malmsey, and whippincrust..
     [presses hand to stomach] hold, belly, hold
     ..and we'll not pay one penny for it.

     DICK. O, brave! Prithee, let's to it presently, for I am as
     dry as a dog.

     ROBIN. Come, then, let's away. Let's go and make clean our boots,
     which lie foul upon our hands, and then to our conjuring in the
     devil's name.

          [Exeunt.]


-- [second scene: another field, later]


          [Enter ROBIN reading a book and DICK with a silver goblet.]

     ROBIN. Come, Dick: did not I tell thee, we were forever made
     by this Doctor Faustus' book?

     DICK. Sirrah Robin, we were best look that your devil can answer
     the stealing of this same cup, for the Vintner's boy follows
     us at the hard heels.

     ROBIN. [of the book] Here's a simple purchase for horse-keepers;
     our horses shall eat no hay as long as this lasts.

     DICK. But, Robin, here comes the Vintner.

     ROBIN. 'Tis no matter; let him come: if he follow us, I'll so
     conjure him as he was never conjured in his life, I warrant him.
     [closes book] Let me see the cup.

     DICK. Here 'tis. [Gives the goblet to ROBIN.] Yonder he comes!
     Now, Robin, now or never show thy cunning.

     ROBIN. Hush! [Hides goblet.] I'll gull him supernaturally.

          [Enter VINTNER.]

     Drawer, I hope all is paid; God be with you!--Come, Dick.

     VINTNER. Soft, sir; a word with you. I must yet have a goblet paid
     from you, ere you go.

     ROBIN. I a goblet, Dick, I a goblet! I scorn you; and you are
     but a slanderer. I a goblet!

     VINTNER. [sarcastic] You are a couple of fine companions.
     Pray, where's the cup you stole from the tavern?

     ROBIN. How, how? We steal a cup?! Take heed what you say: we look
     not like cup-stealers, I can tell you.

     VINTNER. Never deny't, for I know you have it; and I'll search you.

     ROBIN. Search me, ay, and spare not.

     VINTNER. I mean so, sir, with your favour.

     ROBIN. Come, come, search me, search me hither.

          [VINTNER searches ROBIN from feet; ROBIN throws goblet to DICK.]

     How say you now?

     VINTNER. I must say somewhat to your fellow. [to DICK] You, sir!
     Come on, sirrah, let me search you now.

     DICK. Me, sir? Me, sir? Search your fill.

          [VINTNER searches DICK from feet; DICK throws goblet to ROBIN.]

     I fear not your searching: we scorn to steal your cups, I can
     tell you.

          [VINTNER finishes searching DICK.]

     Now, sir, you may be ashamed to burden honest men with a matter
     of truth.

     VINTNER. [less sure] Well, one of you hath this goblet about you.

     ROBIN. Sirrah you, I'll teach you to impeach honest men; stand by:
     I'll scour you for a goblet.

     VINTNER. [angrily] Never out-face me for the matter; for, sure, the
     cup is between you two.

     ROBIN. Nay, there you lie: [holds goblet ahead] 'tis beyond us both.

     VINTNER. A plague take you! I thought 'twas your knavery to take
     it away: Come, give it me again.

     ROBIN. Stand aside you had best, I charge you in the name of Beelzebub.
     Look to the goblet, Dick. [Throws goblet to DICK and opens book.]

     VINTNER. [to ROBIN] What mean you, sirrah?

     ROBIN. I'll tell you what I mean.--Dick, make me a circle, and stand
     close at my back, and stir not for thy life. [DICK makes a circle etc]
     Vintner, [threatens] you shall have your cup anon!--Say nothing, Dick.
     [Reads from book] O per se, O; Demogorgon; Belcher, and Mephistophiles!

          [Squibs. Enter MEPHISTOPHILES. ROBIN and DICK cry and run about.]

     VINTNER. [crossing himself] O, nomine Domini! [=By name of our lord!]

          [VINTNER falls to knees and begins praying.]

     DICK. Peccatum peccatorum!--Here's thy goblet, good Vintner. [Drops
     goblet near VINTNER]

     ROBIN. Misericordia pro nobis! What shall I do? Good devil, forgive
     me now, [kneels, offering book] and I'll never rob thy library more.

     MEPHIST. Monarch of Hell, under whose black survey
     Great potentates do kneel with awful fear,
     Upon whose altars thousand souls do lie,
     How am I vexed with these villains' charms?
     From Constantinople am I hither come,
     Only for pleasure of [taking book, contemptuous] these damned slaves.

     ROBIN. How, from Constantinople?! You have had a great journey: will
     you take sixpence in your purse to pay for your supper, and be gone?
     [Stands and reaches into pocket for money.]

     DICK. [already kneeling, prostrates himself] Ay, I pray you heartily,
     sir; for we called you but in jest, I promise you.

     MEPHIST. [ignoring money] To purge the rashness of this cursed deed,
     First, [to ROBIN] be thou turn'd awhile this ugly shape:
     For apish deeds transformed to an ape!

          [ROBIN takes the stance of an ape; DICK kneels, praying.]

     ROBIN. How, into an ape! That's brave: I'll have fine sport with
     the boys; I'll get nuts and apples enough.

     MEPHIST. [to DICK, ie ignoring VINTNER] Be thou transformed to a dog!

          [DICK takes the stance of a dog. DICK barks and ROBIN whoops.]

     [to each] Away! Be gone!

     DICK. A dog! That's excellent: let the maids look well to their
     porridge-pots, for I'll into the kitchen presently.

     ROBIN. Come, Dick, come.

          [Exit ROBIN and DICK as animals.]

     MEPHIST. Now with the fire of ever-burning flame
     I'll wing myself, and forthwith fly again.

          [Squibs. Exit MEPHIST.]

          [VINTNER looks up and about, grabs goblet, exits.]


-- [end]