Dear Angela...

I received a letter today from my 70 year old Auntie Ivy.

I haven't seen her for thirty years and to hold her perfectly typed letter in my hands was a tender moment for me. Like I said before in a previous post I always liked Ivy, she was and I'm glad to say still is, a feisty sharp woman. I can tell by the short sharp sentences which are laden with wit and wisdom. Her body she said was quite old but in her head she was still 'fortyish'.
I liked that.

She enthused about the old days when me mum and dad used to visit her large house in Clapham Junction.
She ran a fraught house packed to the ceiling with kids and tropical fish. One of her husbands wore a bow tie and ate only eggs and bacon and rice pudding. They had the kind of home which made you want to run up and down the stairs barefooted, everything was chaotic and I never wanted to leave.

She loved leopard print cushions, several Martinis, several foreign holidays, leather pouffes, fur coats, and had a pine breakfast bar before pine breakfast bars were fashionable. She also hung 'The Green Lady' over the huge fireplace.
She laughed a great deal and also cried a great deal, she went through two or three husbands and several houses. But whatever the emotional weather she always looked glamorous.

She was a strict mother who angered her step-children to such a degree that one day after school, they slashed all her clothes with the kitchen scissors and emptied talcum powder over the black satin sheets.
They were severely chastised.

This letter from Ivy came about as a direct result of the arrival at mum and dad's door of a man called David who purported to be dad's nephew. I'm very pleased he did arrive though, because, as a result, I've re-discovered my slightly scary Auntie.

And she writes well does Ivy, and I will take a great deal of pleasure in corresponding with her.
I hope to meet her one day, but I won't press it.
I daren't.

Combing The Sky

Udder.
Waterfall.
Camel.
Arabesque.
Cracking the Nut.
And Combing The Sky...
A hotch-potch of crazed words from the keyboard of a drunken Glo? Nope. The terms used in Belly Dancing.
And how this information was brought about I will now tell you.

My Sister-in-Law and Nof her gift giving husband and my number one fan came for lunch with me and Mr Horsehound and I loved every sweet moment. For not only was it a family visit it was uplifting. I was given lots of good stuff, a home made c.d. which had a picture of me on the cover. I was also handed a pot of quince jam, two novels and a marrow. And in between a rather long delicious lunch of pork, rice, jelly, grapes,chocolate cake and beer and wine we spoke of mums, dads, maps, life, trains, death, work, pensions, wills and poetry. And then the boys sat out the afternoon amongst the cobwebs in the hot conservatory whilst I saw the light with Mrs Nof...

Mrs Nof.

A petite silver flapper-haired good soul who imparted unto me a priceless gift...The gift of a boot up the backside, in other words she made me think, made me re-evaluate my situation, hell she made me want to do something. Something other than shove a Hoover around. And as we laughed and shared our experiences, my eyes creased with jollity but inside my heart was crying. And these invisible tears were borne from a desperate need for satisfaction. Not monetary satisfaction but every day mundane satisfaction, the kind she has, on a Monday when she goes to her work and helps people.
That's what I want to do.

Anyway, as the sun melted the lino and a rude Monty dissed us, the boys rattled on about the A127 and other male things. But me and Mrs Nof chatted and then suddenly she shot from the chair to show me the 'waterfall' and pointed her sandal clad toes in a move known as 'cracking the nut'. Then whipped her hips this way, that way in a move known as the 'Suzy Q'. Her long flowered red skirt shifting in and out and round and about, brushing my poorly painted cupboards.

Watching these belly dancing moves in the chaos of a post lunch kitchen was funny and youthful and made me long to join in but being the hostess I just sat and enjoyed the show. Mrs Nof's face was alight, not because of the pork or chocolate cake but because she was enthusiastic about life. About belly dancing, about people. About what she does. There was an almost child-like quality to her passion and devotion. Getting on the bus on a Monday whether to go to work or belly dancing class was no chore.
How I envied her.

Mr Nof and Mr Horsehound's voices began to fade away as I was taken on a tour to a better place.
As I swallowed and noted every single word from my sister-in-law I started to feel zeal. To feel ablaze. I was hopeful. I could see myself, maybe not yet, but in the future doing something more fruitful with my life than what I'm doing now. Don't ask what, because I don't know.

But as Mrs Nof spoke about characters and where we get them from, I said that Susan, Mrs Nof's younger sister, got her ebullient luvvy character from her late, but always-the-star Mother, Vera.
And as I said that I immediately thought of my dad. And how alike we are He has done stupid and brave things. He's done loads and done nothing. Has failed and then opened doors which were very stuck or slammed in his face.
I am him in a skirt.

As Mrs Nof rested after her exertions a picture of me spread in my head and I liked the picture I saw.
As someone once told me "You're not a cleaner". And he was right, by gum.
I shall comb the sky!