Red Coat

 

Yet again I find that I am turning into my mother for Matty had a thing about coats. Every time we went into a charity shop (which was often) she’d be perusing the coat rails looking for the perfect, lightweight, showerproof beige coat. My thing about coats does not include beige. My thing is the perfect funeral coat.

I have yet to find it. At a pinch I have a couple of coats that would do. One black and one navy, both M&S. For a long time I resisted navy as I have never gotten over the trauma of St. Louis Grammar School, those three hellish years that I was tortured by fascist nuns - a special mention for that vicious bitch, Sister Mary Benedicta. I still shiver at the sight of navy skirts.*

My funeral coat needs to be smart and sombre. I know that now. For there was another traumatic time in my life, thankfully brief, only about an hour long, that I got the funeral outfit very wrong indeed. And it could have been avoided, if only I’d known. You see, I was not used to the mores surrounding a Presbyterian funeral. Bert’s Aunt Sally’s husband Jack had died very suddenly. He was carrying buckets of meal to his calves when he suffered a heart attack and fell to the ground face first, stone dead. How the minister preached! At any moment, we might be struck down! Are you ready? Are you saved? And so on…

I heard all this because in my stupidity, not wanting to be left alone in the house with the female members of the family I went with Bert and his father to the burial ground. Bert promised me I would not be the only woman there but I was and not only was I the only woman I was the only person there in a bright red coat. Everyone else was wearing the darkest of hues. It is also highly likely that I was the only Catholic in the crowd. Oh, I would have given anything then to be back in the farmhouse, coatless and braving the Presbyterian womenfolk.

A humiliation never to be forgotten. Although it didn’t put me off red coats. I’ve three hanging in my wardrobe right now.

I know that's just two but the corduroy one I have in two sizes, one that fits and one that doesn't.

We Go To Belfast

Jazzer and I went to Belfast yesterday for a bit of a day out. First of all, we went to Matchetts to purchase a few clarinet supplies for Bert. But we went into the wrong Matchetts. We entered the shop that sold guitars, keyboards and drumkits and where the assistants had long greasy hair, jeans that were falling off their bums and an air of debauchery. I expect they all play in thrash metal bands. They sent us to the right shop. This one sold all the other instruments. Here the assistants had neat short hair, a slightly patronising air and I'd say they probably played with the Ulster Orchestra. They didn't have the actual thing that Bert wanted most - a new mouthpiece for his clarinet. Nor did they have the pads he needed. All I was able to buy from them were a few packets of reeds and a stick of grease. No wonder Amazon is taking over the world.

There were further disappointments in store. I'd never been to a Frankie and Benny's before and I intend never to darken their door again. I ordered spaghetti and meatballs and it was dire. Couldn't finish it, flavourless and could barely cut the meatballs in half they were so tough. I think the chef must have bound the meat together with a good-sized pinch of Blue Circle cement. I was even more convinced of that this morning at my ablutions. The last time I offloaded one like that I'd drank about a quarter bottle of kaolin and morphine.

We had a bit of a wander around the streets adjacent to Royal Avenue and came upon a live Nativity Scene featuring two shepherds, two donkeys, a goat called Tinsel and a pregnant Suffolk ewe called Holly. All the animals seemed very content in clean, comfortable stalls and were eating their heads off. Oh! Forgot to mention - there was a plastic Baby Jesus but no sign of Joseph and Mary. They'd probably slipped over to Kelly's Cellars for a pint. I'd say that meeting Holly the sheep was one of the highlights of my day. That and the sale at Seasalt Cornwall.