Thursday Bodhi’s. Love it. Can only mean one thing. I’ve got the day off tomorrow. Woop woop.
I like to think of myself as quite the modern man. For example I mentioned over dinner the other night how amusing it was that Mike Bell, the racehorse trainer, had used the term “throwing a few shapes” to describe his horse, Big Orange’s, melo-dramatic reaction whenever the school bus passed it alongside the gallops leading into Newmarket. To my surprise I had to explain to Sophie, trying my best not to sound condescending, that this was a phrase, in common parlance, normally used in the context of moves on a dance floor. I kind of felt the extent of respect I was accorded by the youth around the table was a little over the top though it’s fair to say they don’t witness, or even wish to, me throwing shapes very often. Nevertheless I did feel quite proud of myself I suppose.
When I was sent, on our Whatsapp group chat “Famalamadingdong”, a photo of Lottie sitting in the hairdressers with some tin foil looking stuff on her bonnet, initially my only concern was how much was that going to cost. We’d already spent £10 on haircuts this month. Bob had his done the other day. Long overdue. He hadn’t been for close on a year. Although I don’t see him very often either, Chris Brown, the barber both Bob and I use in Newmarket, is a good bloke and we have always have a nice old chat about this and that. Mainly golf and exercise regimes as he’s quite a fit old boy into his cycling and hasn’t forgotten the time I ran the 6 miles in for a 7.30am appointment on a Saturday morning and left an unattractive pool of sweat on the big red imitation leather chair for the guy with the 7.45am slot. Anyway Bob told me we were lucky to get away with just the standard tenner for this haircut. It took considerably longer than the allotted 15 minutes not to mention the time it was going to take to sweep the cuttings off the floor, but Chris had told him not to worry. £10 would do. Anyway, he’d added apparently, what I lose cutting your hair I more than make up for on your Dad. Cheeky blighter. Where am I? What is the meaning of life?
Oh yes, Lottie, “our normal and straightforward baby darling” at the hairdressers. So, I knew her visit was going to cost more than a tenner. But then came a message saying she was sitting in the sofa waiting for the dye to set in. “Whatt????????” I couldn’t stop myself responding. Jimmy chipped in that Lottie was having blue highlights and then Sophie that in fact she was going for green. I knew they were pulling my leg. Lottie’s only 16. She’s got two more years at one of Cambridge’s leading private schools don’t you know and anyway she’s way too sensible. A little later though she came back on the chat. No, she reported, she’d not been brave enough to go for the green. She’d settled on purple. A photograph duly followed and the horror was vivid and appalling. I’ll spare you it. It was monstrous. I spent the rest of the afternoon musing on life’s rich tapestry. What can you do? There’s no point getting uptight about this sort of thing I managed to convince myself. After all, the deed was done. And, as I’ve already told you, I’m a modern man. Look at the equanimity I’d displayed when Hen got “Scuse me whilst I kiss this guy” ( or was it “the sky”? ) tattooed on her arm.
Lottie wasn’t home that evening for supper. She was staying with a friend in Cambridge, up to what goodness only knew. But the others were around, including Jimmy’s boyfriend, and could they talk about anything other than Lottie’s purple hair? “It looks so coooool” / “She’s going to Reading Festival next week you know. Her hair’s perfect.” / “It’ll grow out, eventually.” That sort of thing. I took it as nonchalantly as I could and even when they suggested I was very quiet and maybe a wee bit irritated I claimed that I was just distracted and mulling over the fact the rubbish bin had been left outside the back gate since Monday. But in all honesty they were right. A dark cloud had settled over my side of the table and all I could really think about was how surprised and disappointed I was that Lottie had gone punk. So they relented and revealed it was all a wind up. She’d had a few blond highlights put in and the photo was concocted using a puerile little app called HairColorBooth. Oh how I laughed.
Sometimes people tell me my life seems a strange one, but I don’t think it’s any more peculiar than the next persons. For example I got this email from one of Bob’s god-fathers ( he’s Swedish ) with whom Bob stayed last weekend on his trout fishing expedition:
Subject: A strange family day...
Patricia and I were just laughing about what an odd day this has been.
I have been working most of the day (OK, not so strange, I know).
Patricia has been looking after five (5) dachshunds here at home (our two plus three more guests). Bloody mayhem. Felix went to bed last night after midnight (which qualifies as today) to find a dog poo in his bed under his duvet just by his pillow (a real dachshund one, not the fake plastic one Patrica bought years ago and she used to put in his bed...).
Felix has been fly-fishing all day/evening with Oliver (‘Bob' for short - who is my Godson) on the River Test, the origin and Mecca of fly-fishing, some 30 min south of here.
Ebba, meanwhile, has been partying at the Brighton Gay Pride Festival. Ebba just called home to tell how fab it has been/is and how one male remote friend of hers had told her he was about to have a sex-change and that he wanted to end up looking just like Ebba. Ebba said that she had never had a compliment quite like it.
It is almost 9:00 pm, Felix and Bob are still fishing, Ebba is still partying and all the dogs are still driving me mad…
Kram
Olle
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