Hallowe’en is coming up.
Normally this would be of little interest – now we live in a gated community (a
block of flats) we don’t have to concern ourselves with trick or treaters. This
is a relief because I can’t manage to be polite about it, even when quite young
children are involved. As far as I’m concerned, it’s demanding money with
menaces and it’s wrong. I blame E.T. However, number three son runs a fancy
dress shop, well, two, to be precise, and this is their busiest time of year.
So busy, in fact, that I helped. I am a bit dim - you need a thorough knowledge
of popular culture to succeed in this business, and I haven’t got it.
“Have you got the black
outfit that Sandy wears at the end of Grease?” Wouldn’t know what you are
talking about, I’ve never seen Grease.
“It’s nineties party. What have you got?” Surely the nineties were just last week.
Haven’t a clue who was famous then.
I am quite good on Marvel
superheroes. Watching Only Connect, on
BBC4, I’ve only once got the connection between four things after only one has
been given, and I’m sorry to say the connection was that the four things all
turned someone into a superhero. Sad, I know.
Also, I’m not sure whether
I’m nice enough. I find it really hard to be patient with clueless or disrespectful
people. Actually hardly anyone in the fancy dress shop is rude, but a quite a
lot have absolutely no imagination. Or too much – one of the really frustrating
things, fortunately not that common, is when a woman wants to be Audrey Hepburn
in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, or My Fair Lady, or try on one of the
Marilyn Monroe dresses. When they have them on, they look in the mirror,
realise that the dress doesn’t automatically make them look as good as Hepburn
or Monroe, and then it’s YOUR fault.
The most popular look this
year seems to be Jimmy Saville. We’ve had to do a rush order for more long
blond wigs. At one time, Osama Bin Laden was the favourite bogy man, then
Colonel Gaddafi, now it’s a paedophile DJ.
After my father died my
mother supported us by running an off licence. This was much harder work than
the fancy dress shop as it was open for such long hours, and quite a lot of
customers had drink on board, which didn’t make them nicer people. But my
mother could almost always see the good in people and even when she didn’t like
people, she could usually be much kinder than I could have been. She always had
a lame duck she was doing her best for, often several of them, and she was able
to see the humour in situations. For example the local catholic priest used to
go into her shop regularly to buy a bottle of whisky. I think he felt he
shouldn’t be doing so – why, I don’t know, because the church doesn’t seem to
frown on alcohol. He would always sidle in during a quiet period, hat pulled
down and collar turned up, and my mother would amuse herself by humming the
Harry Lime theme.
The best story about my
mother’s time in her shop, was the one about the well known prostitute, who
arrived in the shop and bought some tights, and then said, “Can I come into the back room and put them
on? My shoes are making my feet sore without any.”
Obviously, my mother
wasn’t too keen, but said alright, and then went in to the back room to keep an
eye on her. To my mother’s surprise, she turned out to be stark naked apart
from her coat; and with great perspicacity my mother said, “You’ve got nothing
on!”
Her customer embarked on a
long and convoluted tale of trouble aboard a ship in the docks. “When that
happens, you have to get off quick – you could end up in the water and no one
any the wiser until the ship’s left.” The story ended with money being
snatched, and the customer shouting indignantly, “Hey, none of that! If you f……
you pay for it!”
Hearing my mother tell the
story I was fascinated, and asked what she had replied. My mother said,
proudly, “I said, And quite right too!”
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