Weevilstepmother Hear no weevil, see no weevil, speak no weevil

Second Past the Post

The tooth, the whole tooth...

It was my turn today to be manhandled by a medic. My dentist's appointment was at two in the afternoon, the comedy dental appointment slot of two thirty being sadly unavailable to me.

I've never been overly bothered about the dentist. Don't get me wrong, I don't enjoy it - but I don't get that pit of the stomach thing that many people seem to. Appointments at the hairdressers, for example, fill me with the kind of dread with which the dentist just can't compete. Given the fact that when I was a child Mum routinely refused anaesthesia for me during fillings, I ought to be a quivering wreck every time I smell that special dentist smell. But I'm not.

As an aside, when I took the Steps back to Poppy's last night, she showed me her youngest cat, which is spectacularly missing its left upper canine tooth. No dentistry required as she seemed perfectly happy, but a trip to the vet might be in the offing - for the tooth recipient, that is. "I hope it lodged in that bloody Siamese," was all that Poppy would say.

Fortunately today I was sporting all my teeth. Well, all those which remain after having my wisdom teeth hoicked out, and taking into account the gaps round the side where two adult teeth failed to grow. In fact the dentist was very pleased with the condition of my teeth and gums. So effusive was her praise of my durable dentition that I was most put out at the end not to have been awarded a nice shiny sticker. The Sun always gets one...

As I reclined in the chair ("I'm just going to tilt you back" No really? Whatever will they think of next? Tilting back? In the dentist's chair? Blimey days!) I did muse on why the dentist visit does feel different. I suppose it has a lot to do with interaction. At the hairdresser's, the doctor's, the opticians, there is a dialogue. At the dentist's there is "Urgh".

There's also the rather unwelcome intimacy of someone peering closely into your mouth, poking their fingers around, even raising the corner of your lip in a mock Elvis sneer so that they can probe you even more. That bit's not as bad as at the optician though, by a long way. You know when the guy shuts one eye, and puts the light thing up to the other one, and tells you to look straight ahead while he looms right in front of you peering deep into your retina? I hate that bit, and have to control my natural urge to pull away from the invasion. I also have to bite the insides of my cheeks, as it gives me an almost uncontrollable desire to laugh my head off.

The final indignity has to be the crappy vacuum cleaner sucky thing which is generally wielded by the insanely sadistic assistant. She knows just where to put it so that it's almost effective, but not quite. Just another millimetre and it would be sucking up the gunk, you think to yourself, and you try to move your head that imperceptible fraction to guide the nozzle to the sweet spot. But she sees what you're doing, and moves away just that little bit, and you're back where you started. Then, just to make sure you don't get any silly ideas about doing it again, she casually lets it travel to the inside of your cheek, where it sucks at your flesh like a gummy elderly piranha until she releases it with a little 'poc'.

I emerged, still smarting at the lack of a shiny sticker, and handed my file to the smiling receptionist. "Back in six months, then?" she trilled. Yup. I can't wait...

Round the Rugged Rock...

Methane Boy will soon be sixteen and a half. Or, to put it another way, he can start learning to drive in April next year. This fact fills me with equal measures of anticipation and apprehension.

A sensible boy, he is busy squirrelling away funds against driving lessons, driving tests, vehicle purchase and of course tax, MOT and insurance. You may wonder to which vehicle he aspires. A hot hatch, perchance? Something in two wheels for monsieur? (We think it would be OK if he gets proper training, but Poppy is less than convinced.) A ratty Ford Fiesta or a trim little Corsa?

No. His dream vehicle is a Bedford Rascal. Honestly. So convinced of its suitability is he that he has already concluded the purchase of the workshop manual on eBay.

Why does he want one? Well, for a start, he would enjoy building a bass sub-woofer and assorted speakers to fill the load space at the rear. His most recent effort was a bass sub-woofer designed and constructed by him from scratch. It's housed in a 50cm x 50cm x 50cm MDF cube which weighs a ton. Cracks have appeared downstairs (so far only in non load-bearing walls) as a consequence of its use. He has never yet dared to turn it all the way up. I think he fears my response to the smoking crater which would appear in the place of Weevil Mansions.

Secondly, it would be handy for filling with crap from skips. An acolyte of the Way of the Tallboy, he has followed faithfully in his father's footsteps of rescuing other people's rubbish. The tally between them so far includes an aquarium, A Vax wet'n'dry vacuum cleaner, various broken VCRs and TVs, and once (apparently) a toilet. A second-hand toilet. A broken second-hand toilet. No wonder I have so many grey hairs an air of distinguished maturity about my temples.

Finally, it will be "cheap to insure". On what, I enquired, did he base this assertion. Had he obtained some quotes, maybe. Oh no, he had "read it somewhere on the internet". Phew. For a moment I thought he may have been assuming wildly without basis in fact.

Every time we pass one on the road, he jiggles with excitement in his seat. He is watching about twenty Rascal auctions on eBay. Today, though, his star was in the ascendant, and he had the Rascal experience to end all Rascal experiences. He and Tallboy found themselves parked next to one in a car park. They appraised its rugged good looks and sleek lines. They viewed it from all sorts of angles. They peered through the windows. The owner arrived. Tallboy explained their interest and the worried owner put down his baseball bat and turned into a fount of Rascal information. Tallboy plucked up the courage to ask if Methane Boy might 'try on' the vehicle and the kind owner muted his young son's protests that he wished to return home and allowed MB to get behind the wheel.

Methane Boy was still grinning when they got home. I could tell that he could still feel the seductive pressure of seat on thigh. No matter that his left knee was pressed against the indicator stalk. Either the seat would go back a bit, or he would be able to announce to other road users his intention to turn or change lanes without removing his hand from the steering wheel. No matter either that his nose was pressed against the windscreen. Either the seat would go back a bit, or he would project a keen and hawkish mien to fellow motorists.

Let me know if you hear of one for sale. We'll come and take a look at it. And if Methane Boy buys it, I will arm wrestle Tallboy for the right to drive it home.

The bland leading the bland

Tallboy is quite the dab hand in the kitchen. And I don't just mean reaching down pans from the rack or getting the new jar of coffee down from on top of the larder. He can throw his hand to pretty much anything which doesn't involve actually following a recipe. "Yes, I know it says to use 50g of flour/fry it for 5 minutes first/avoid combining these two ingredients until the end but I just thought I'd do it this way instead..." It's the same with new things like lawnmowers and window blinds and anything else which comes in a box needing even a modicum of assemblage. He will dive in there while I sit nearby, reading the instructions. There will come a point where he grinds to a halt, scratching his head, while I wordlessly hold up the piece he is looking for and time how long it takes him to notice.

Anyway, back to matters culinary. When we first became romantically linked, I was pleasantly surprised by Tallboy's prowess in the kitchen. His cooking wasn't bad either. It was also wonderful to discover that he likes nearly everything. The Ex wasn't overly adventurous - "I don't like X." "Have you ever tried it?" "No." - and didn't like mushrooms, onions or curry. This I found rather limiting in veggie cuisine terms. Tallboy is a different proposition, and has even introduced to me to creations of his own. Sandwiches, mostly - he is the sandwich king after all. He eats like a horse and needs to keep himself going between meals, normally with a quick sandwich. Bread just evaporates in this house. Tallboy favourites include mashed potato sandwiches and egg sandwiches. Now, I bet you think you already know egg sandwiches. Not a la Tallboy, you don't.

How to make a Tallboy egg sandwich.

Hardboil an egg.
Butter two slices of bread.
Using asbestos fingers, reach into pan, remove egg and shell it.
Place whole egg on one piece of bread, top with other slice, consume in no more than three mouthfuls.

Again, I'm drifting off the point. This post was supposed to be about the blandest dish known to man. Last week, feeling hormonal and tired and jobless and penniless, I was in dire need of comfort food. What, enquired Tallboy, would I like for tea? Cheesy mash with stuff in it, please. Nice strong cheddar in the mash, and bits of other stuff like hardboiled eggs and sweetcorn and mushrooms and kidney beans embedded in the cheesy goodness. Can't beat it. He served it with a flourish and I sat down eagerly to eat. After a few mouthfuls, my brain tapped me on the shoulder. "Did you put any cheese in this?" Nope, there it still was in the kitchen, a little grated mountain ignored on one side. We worked it into the mash on our plates, so all was not lost, but it was a close shave.

That mash was not the blandest dish known to man, but it reminded me of the dish that carries that distinction. Going back a year or so, when Tallboy was newly resident at Weevil Mansions, he made dinner. We sat down to cauliflower cheese - the cauli beautifully cooked, the sauce lumpless and clinging. No cheese. He forgot it. Cheeseless cauliflower cheese. We struggled to eat the tasteless meal, pining for the forgotten cheddar. If you think you've had blander, I want to know about it!

How did you do that?

I have to admit that I'm not immune to the odd little accident, like dropping a large kitchen knife on my bare foot (two days ago, small nick, no blood), falling down the stairs (5 months ago, banged shoulder and head, should have been looking where I was going and not wondering what shade of blue to paint the bathroom) or nearly severing my thumb on a toilet. I may have these little happenings from time to time, but here's the important thing - I always know what I've done.

Tallboy sometimes seems to be a series of accidents loosely joined by the odd pain-free moment here and there. There was the time when he was bringing the duvet cover downstairs for washing and got his legs entangled in it with obvious consequences - he really twisted his ankle and it took ages to get better because his old bed wasn't as long as he was and his foot drooped, unsupported, off the end. And the time when his foot was run over while he was waiting at a roundabout on the bike - not his fault at all, some morons thought it would be funny to do it, and he still has a scar where his calf was squished into the footpeg. And his hernia - or 'hyena' as the Sun christened it. And the time he slipped over getting into the bath, jarring his arm and shoulder - hopefully the operation next month will fix that for him. And who can forget the nasty bang on the finger occasioned when he was helping me fit the barrel on the Purple Peril's engine (at least a four-hand job, that) and I let it drop after the last piston ring had been breached. These injuries are all ones which I have witnessed or had related to me very soon after the event. Or caused, come to think of it.

The others, which he acquires mostly at work or in the shed here, are complete mysteries. I will notice a new cut or burn or graze or bruise or chunk missing, and will ask, "How did you do that?" - the answer to which question, nine times out of ten, is "I don't know." I find this incredible. He has had some really nasty slices and bruises, and can honestly say he has no recollection of how they got there. It's become a family joke that one day Tallboy will come home after work with a gently pulsing stump where his right arm used to be, and when asked "How did you do that?" his gaze will follow the direction of the horrified pointing finger and his expression will register mild surprise and he will say "I don't know."

The Sun is in training to follow in his footsteps. His legs are continually covered in bruises varying from little dark smudges to full-on multicoloured extravaganzas. I believe that there has been one time in the past five years when there were no bruises at all on his legs. I shudder to think what the teaching staff at school think when he changes into his PE shorts. He had one on his shin last week, it was bigger than a credit card, and about the same kind of shape. "How did you do that?" was my immediate query. I don't learn, do I? "I don't know," came the response. Arrrrrgggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhh!

"So, Weevil," you may be thinking, "you nearly severed your thumb on a toilet? Really? How did you do that?" If I said I didn't know, would you believe me?

Well of course I know, unlike all these other unconsciously-mutilated freaks round here. It was during the building work on the extension that a shame-faced Boss Builder came out of the garage to confess that some idiot had dropped something heavy on the toilet bowl, cracking it irretrievably. It was moved into the kitchen out of their way. When Tallboy got home that night, I could hardly wait to tell him the exciting news of the day, and dragged him into the kitchen to show him the stricken WC. The cracked part was hidden from view so I gestured round the back to demonstrate the extent of the damage. Sadly, I was incredibly accurate about its location and discovered the hard way that a broken ceramic surface is about as sharp as you can get. I had no idea that every day I was entrusting my botty to something that potentially could remove a buttock. It was a huge cut which bled and bled and took ages to heal. But at least I knew how I'd done it...