The Park Crescent Diary.

Entry Nº7.

Maisie came round with her lap-top this afternoon. She said she wanted to show me something. It took her half an hour to switch it on and twenty minutes to get the internet working. Then she couldn't find the page she wanted to show me. She's not very bright at the best of times. I went and cleaned the bathroom while I was waiting. Scrubbing the toilet bowl is more interesting than Maisie when she's on one.

I was just arranging the toilet rolls in artistic piles the Tate Gallery would have been proud of when she shouted me.

“Mary, come here. I've found it.” Reminded me of what Jack said the other afternoon. Only he got it wrong as well.

“What's that?” There was a blurry picture of something on the screen.

“Put your glasses on and have a look. I want one of those.” She said and pointed.

“Don't be daft,you don't like shell fish. It brings you out in a rash. Remember the time we were in Gran Canaria and had that Paella. You were pinker than the prawns for a week.”

I'd left my specs on the table by the TV, so I left her scrutinising whatever it was she was looking at and went through to the living room to get them. Maisie has a habit of going on food fads. It depends what's on offer at Iceland. If profiteroles are going for a pound a pack she'll eat them for a week.

I could hear her muttering on. My glasses were under the paper, I knew where I'd left them. I'd been reading The Sun again before Maisie came round, but I pretended I couldn't find them and sat down with the remote control and flicked through the channels. There was nothing on the tele but dust. What do the BBC expect us pensioners to do in our old age. Die of bloody boredom watching re-runs of Only Fools and Horses?

“Mary, hurry up. The battery's running down and you won't get to see it.” Anything for a bit of peace and quiet. I went back into the kitchen and nearly had a heart attack.

“What the bloody hell are you looking at, Maisie? That's pornographic”

“No it's not. It's lovely.”

“I want to look at penis's not bloody fannies.”

“It's called a designer vagina and I want one.”

“What's wrong with the one you were born with?” She hadn't taken her eyes of it for a minute.

“I'm after Peter.”

“Who's Peter?” I've never heard her mention him. Then again, I probably wasn't listening.

“I want to release his beast.”

“Maisie, luv,” I can be nice sometimes. “You've got a blue rinse which has gone wrong and borders on purple, bottle-bottom glasses and hips which hardly fit through the gate. I think you've left it about three decades too late. Who's Peter?”

“The new vicar.”

And I thought she'd started going to church on Sunday's to cleanse her soul of sins before she popped her clogs. No, not our Maisie. She goes to church to sit in the pew and lust after a man in a frock. She'll be telling me she's in love with the new neighbour next. I could see I'd have to humour her for a while until she lets the idea drop.

“How much does it cost?”

“About three thousand pounds.”

That made me cough.

“You can't afford that.” I told her. She wasn't listening. She had a silly dreamy expression on her face and was stroking the screen.

“Do you think they'll let me pay it in instalments?

“You haven't got enough life left.”

“I could do it over ten years.”

“Think what would happen if you drop dead and they did an autopsy. It'd brighten the coroners day when he lifts your skirts and takes a look. I can just imagine what he'd write on his report. Eighty five on the outside, but looks thirty five when flat on her back.” I was wasting my breath. Maisie wasn't listening.

“I'm thinking of dipping into my funeral fund. I can always put it back later”

“You haven't got enough later left. You've saved that so your kids don't need to pay for your burial.”

“It's my money.” There's no swaying Maisie when she's got an idea in her head.

“And if you don't pay for your plot” I asked her. “What'll your family do? Bury you upside down in the garden and use your new snatch for a decorative birdbath?”

“Well, I want one.” She used to sound the same when she was asking for a Mars bar during school break.

“Well, put it on your Christmas list and see if Santa will bring you one.” She seemed to be content with that. It was then a shadow flitted across the kitchen window and gave me a panic attack. Jack had snuck up the garden path without me seeing. He's always doing that to try and catch me out. Jealous old sod thinks I'm shagging someone else.

“Switch it off quick, Maisie,” I told her. “Or Jack'll think we've turned into lesbians and start getting ideas about a threesome.”

Mind you, I'm thinking of getting Maisie to print me the picture. I'll stick it on the pillow, get a laser pointer and give Jack a lecture on just which bit is which.

The Park Crescent Diary.

Entry Nº6

I had a swap of newspapers today and bought the Sun for a change. It was, to be honest, very enlightening There was an article on page twenty-six by Richard Bacon on a new TV program called Hidden Talent. It said they'd discovered loads of people who could do all sorts of amazing things like speak Arabic, climb mountains and tell at a glance when someone's lying. That's nothing unusual, I thought. I do it everyday when Maisie's telling me another one of her stories. Apparently there still looking for more people and I'm thinking of applying for the auditions because I've got a very special talent – for taking the piss.

There was a lot to read in Wednesday's edition of The Sun newspaper. It took me the best part of the morning, ten cups of tea plus two ham sandwiches and I'd still only got as far as the middle pages. That was a spread and a half. The real Essex is a dirty underworld of violence, cheating, drugs and money, the title said. Just like Park Crescent, I thought. Only, as we're all over seventy, we take a bit longer going about it.

Simon was in there too. Never you mind about the BAFTA's love, you come round mine and I'll give you an award all of your own. A very special (sexual) one. My granddaughter says if things are in brackets no-one can see them. Hope she's right, otherwise, I'll be blushing. Thinking on, I need to look for another nice picture of him to replace the one above the bed. The paper's got a hole in it now - right where his lips should've been. (I love snogging. Particularly Simon Cowell at half past seven in the morning. Then again, I always was a frisky cow.)

Old Arthur went past about half past ten. I was feeling charitable this morning and so I opened the kitchen window and shouted good morning to him. Silly old twat took his hand of his zimmerframe and fell flat on his back. I had to go out and help him get up.

“Thanks, Mary,” he said. “That's knocked the wind out of me. I think I'll go home for a rest.”

He could do with a bit of speed.The rate he goes at, he'll get there – sometime around about next week. Mind you, he'll struggle to get to the corner and find a dealer.

Wasn't that disgusting about that care worker Aquino? I was reading all the letters folks had sent in and quite agreed with them. Though if I'd have been in charge, I might have taken things a step or two further. I'd put him in a wrestling ring with Batista.

Yes, that man with the chest from Pressing Catch and possibly Simon C's only competition for my veteran affections. I have to have a chest to fantasize about. Mostly because Jack's has sort of slipped down and settled around his waistline.

Talking of waistlines. Batista's tattooed belly-button really gets my hormones flowing. He's a man after my own heart and knows what to do with his lunch-box. There's certain ways of packing them and he really has got the knack.

A few rounds with the hunks from Pressing Catch would show that Aquino what a slap was. After Batista, I'd make him do a few more rounds with the Undertaker. Then peel him off the floor, pack him in a box and post him back to the Philippines second class.

The Park Crescent Diary.

Entry Nº5

Jack popped round this afternoon for a quickie. He often does on a Thursday. When his missus has gone shopping and the British Legion Club shuts. Very predictable is Jack. Though there's nothing very quick about him these days.

He's a lot slower than what he used to be. It takes him half an hour to get it up - his body up the stairs, that is. We could do it somewhere else, I suppose. But I'm paranoid about him dropping dead in flagranti delicto on the dining room table. At the end of the day if the worse came to the worse, it seems a bit more appropriate popping your clogs in a bed even if it is someone else’s.

And for the rest of it, well, between me, you and the gatepost, I think he's lost it. It wasn't worth the bother today. He twiddled and twiddled that much, I had to tell him to stop.

“Get off, Jack,” I said and gave him a shove. “I'm not a bloody radio and I don't need tuning in.”

It was hard to tell if he was searching for my clitoris or looking for Radio Two. Then he fell asleep half-way through. Well it might have been half-way through if he'd have got started. Wasn't that romantic? Watching him snore and drool a fish pond of frothy spit onto my best SC monogrammed pillow slip. There wasn't much else to do apart from get out my knitting and do a few rows of knit two pearl two instead.

By the time he woke up, I'd gone off the boil and wasn't very happy.

“Go home to your bloody missus, Jack.” I told him.

“What's up with you today, Mary?” He asked me. “You got a dose of PMT?” The cheeky git.

“That'll be the day.” I said. “It's time you took up a new hobby. Something like do-it-your self because I'm not in the mood any longer.”

“Please yourself.” He told me, while he was tucking his shirt in his trousers. “I'll go out on the pull tonight. There's a ladies dart match at the Dragon and Dove.”

Good job I had my Tena Lady on, I nearly wet myself laughing.

“Piss off you silly old fart.” I told him. “You couldn't even pull a muscle if you were doing the gardening.” Who does he think he is.

It was the same when he went through his mid-life crisis. Mind you, that was a good few years back. He came round one afternoon, out of the blue as he's always had a tendency to do, when I was spring-cleaning the bedroom.

“Mary, I think I'm gay,” he said. I never laughed so hard in all my life. That's a nice thought. I could do that then. Laugh, I mean, without pissing my knickers.

“Fuck off, Jack. You're too bloody miserable to be gay.” I told him. “Anyway, only a woman would put up with you. No man'd be daft enough to have you.”

A good shag soon put him straight. These days even his memory's not what it used to be and on occasion, he even forgets what he comes round for. Once upon a time, he wouldn't go home without some serious fore-play, a good old roll in the hay and a nice long bit of the missionary position. Now, on a bad day, he's satisfied with a cheese sandwich and a slice of fruit cake. Just goes to show how age changes you.

Still, I had time to read the paper after he'd gone. That peeved me as well. I'm going to ask for a discount on the price ot it tomorrow. Half of today's was a football supplement. I hate football. It's a load of crap. That's just given me an idea.

I'm going to use it to line the bottom of the budgie cage. I'll shout gooooo-aal! every time the droppings land on that Drogba's head. It'll teach him a lesson. Fancy having his photo taken with his hands down his shorts in the middle of a match. Disgusting. Should be ashamed. Playing with himself in the middle of the pitch during a game and all them people watching. Anyway, I always thought football was a team game. It's a wonder the rest of them didn't join in.

The Park Crescent Diary.

Entry Nº4

Maisie's been getting on my nerves today. Once she gets something in her head, she never shuts up about it. On and on and on. I wouldn't mind, but most of the time she hasn't got a clue what she's going on about. Talking to Maisie is a bit like going to Bingo. You have to wait for the right number to come up. She gets to the point eventually.

Maisie's got a bee in her bonnet about a new neighbour who moved into the crescent a few weeks ago. To be honest most of the crescent's got a bee in their bonnet about her. The gossip has it she's a transvestite.

Maisie phoned me this morning just to tell me she'd hung some washing on the line.

“I can't tell, Mary” she says, “ whether they're men's underpants or women's knickers. ”

“What colour are they?”

“Well, they're sort of a greyish-white with pink flecks in them.” Something told me she was peeping with her mini-binoculars.

“Try again, you silly cow. Those are your net curtains.”

“White, Mary, They're white!” Anybody would think she'd just discovered America.

“Shame your curtains aren't. Can you see if they're Y-fronts?”

“What's them?”

“ Don't pretend you can't remember what Y-fronts are. You know, they're the ones with the little hole in the front. You used to shove your hand down them and fondle Billy Owen's plonker.”

“I never did.”

“Don't tell lies, Maisie. ”

“Who's Billy Owen, Mary? It's so long ago, I can't remember.”

“The whole school knew what you and him were up to behind the bike sheds. So pull the other one.”

“No, the name doesn't ring any bells.” The lying cow. She was married to him for thirty two years.

“Have they got any frilly bits on'em?”

“No. Do you think they might be unisex?” Truth I was starting to get a bit annoyed at Maisie and her latest obsession. There was only one way to stop all this.

“Okay, lets get back to basics. Have they got skid marks?”

“I can't see from here.” I gave up. When Maisie's on one she can go on for hours. Still, it's her phone bill not mine.

I'm not much of a one for beating around the bush and by then, I'd had enough of all the poncing about. All I wanted this morning was five minutes peace and quiet to snip pictures from the newspaper. I bought three different ones, so there was loads to go at. I hung up on Maisie, went over the road and knocked on his door.

“Have you got a willy or a snatch.” I asked him. He wasn't at all put out. In fact, he seemed very pleasant and made me a cup of tea. He knows how to brew it too. Not like some I could mention.

Well he was pleasant until he started showing me his postcard collection of Skegness beach. Boring old twat. I was in there for two hours. Now that really got the curtains twitching.

I've thought of a way to get my own back. I've invited him round for dinner next week. I'm going to lock the door so he can't get out and show my scrap book collection of Simon Cowell photos. Serves him right.

The Park Crescent Diary.

Entry Nº3

I don't like Mondays. They're a bloody waste of time. This one wasn't any different either. It's the same every week. There's only a small chemist in the village and if you don't get there early, they're sold out. I can think of a lot better ways to spend a Monday than queueing for a packet of incontinence pads. They say we all revert to infancy in our old age, but to be honest, I never planned on wearing nappies.

Old Arthur and Mrs Smith from around the corner both set off with their zimmer-frames at around half-past six. I watch them go while I'm eating my toast and then go and get dressed. Lucky for them the mornings are getting lighter so they can see where they're going. I don't worry too much about them getting there before me though. It takes Old Arthur two hours just to get to the end of the street and then he has to stop for a breather. I can normally overtake Mrs Smith on the way. As long as my bunions aren't playing up. If the chemist shut for lunch they'd never get there in time.

Last week Mrs Smith tried to block the path, so I elbowed her in the ribs as I passed. Silly old cow. It served her right when she fell arse-over-tit. Old Arthur nearly had a heart attack when he got a flash of her drawers. So did I to be honest. It was the first time I'd seen a woman of eighty five wearing a tanga. It was either that or her bloomers had got stuck up her crack.

To be honest, the Monday morning queue at the chemist can turn into a bit of a social gathering. Half the village is there. The only reason the other half of the village aren't there is because they go into town to get theirs from Boots - incognito. Silly buggers. As if we can't see then queueing at the bus stop and getting off with their bags bulging when they come back.

I normally take a folding chair and a Thermos flask with me. Mind you, I didn't bother to take the flask today. Supplies ran out on Saturday night and it wasn't worth the risk. Still, if I'm lucky, I'll get a couple of extra packets today. The chemist must've been expecting a rush. A Tena Lady container lorry was leaving the car-park when I got there.

Maisie was late and if she doesn't get any, well tough. I'm not lending her any of mine. She arrived half an hour after me and was twenty behind me in the queue. She kept shouting to try and get my attention, but I turned my hearing aid off and pretended I couldn't hear her.

I bought the Daily Mirror to read while I was waiting. What a waste of money. There wasn't one picture of Simon Cowell in it. Still the one above the bed looks lovely. I gave him a big, sloppy kiss this morning when I got up. Good job I looked in the bathroom mirror before I went out. My nose had gone black where the print had rubbed off.

I was sat in the queue, behind Stan from down the council houses. He was a twat when he was thirty two and old age hasn't changed him. Was he going on? Then again he always does. The rate of inflation, the politicians are wrecking the economy and the price of petrols gone up again. What the hell its got to do with him, I don't know. He really got on my nerves and I told him to sodding-well shut up. It doesn't matter if petrol goes up twenty pence a litre. He hasn't got a car. He rides a bloody push-bike.

I think I got his goat a bit because he told me not to be so rude. Then, can you believe this? He asked me if I was frustrated and did I want a good seeing too. Silly old fart. When he's man enough, I told him. Which will probably be never, because he's already pushing eighty-six.

I was lucky today, I managed to get a packet of extra absorbent. So I'm going to sit down, put my feet up, have a cup of tea and watch a DVD of Father Ted.

The Park Crescent Diary. Nº2

The Park Crescent Diary.

Entry Nº2

Maisie says, I'm obsessed. Maisie's my best friend, by the way. Has been since we were at school together. I don't know why. Most days I can't stand the sight of her. Any way, she says I'm obsessed with Simon Cowell - just because I cut his pictures from the newspaper with a pair of pinking shears.

As I put the scissors away in the kitchen drawer, I think she might have a point. Though I'd never admit it. I bought the pinking shears especially for the job. They were on offer in the pound shop and only cost me four ninety-nine.

Thinking back, I did buy the Daily Mirror the other day as well, rather than the Daily Mail which is what I normally read, couldn't resist it really. It had a nice big picture of him on the front. The pinking shears made it look really special, so instead of sticking it the album with the rest, I cello-taped it above the bed. I'll wake up and look at it tomorrow morning and think to myself, that's the way he'd look if we'd just had a shag - absolutely knackered.

Bless. That cut on his forehead reminded me of the day Jack from number forty-six cracked his on the headboard. I'll bet that took a bit of explaining to his missus. Simon must have been going some to get a bump like that. Jack's didn't get as big. Then again, thinking on, nothing of Jack's gets very big.

Mind you, just lately, I'm thinking of knocking Jack on the head. He's getting a bit boring and has always got the same excuse. Every time I get the Kamasutra out from under the bed, he moans his arthritis is playing up.

Maisie says I shouldn't compare Jack to Simon. There's not much chance of that. Simon's loaded and Jack's on a state pension. No competition really. Well, there wouldn't be if I could get hold of Simon's phone number. I did try a couple of times, but the operator said it was ex-directory.

Maisie says he's not as good looking in real life as he is in the photos, though I don't know how she knows. She did go to a showing of the first X-Factor programs, but I know for a fact her seat was three rows from the back and she left her glasses on the bus. Plus she'd had a glass of wine and wouldn't have known his head from his arse if she was sitting on his knee.

Any way she's a fine one to talk. She's been hankering after Richard Branson since I can't remember when. I've told her not to bother, there's no future in it. Anyone who names their company virgin has probably got a sexual hang-up. Mind you, Maisie wouldn't mind. The only time a man's seen her knickers in the last twenty five years is when they're hanging on the washing line.

The Park Crescent Diary.

The Park Crescent Diary.

Entry Nº1

Now I've got a computer, I've promised to write a diary entry every day. My granddaughter calls it blogging, whatever that maybe. Still it doesn't matter what it's called as long as I can get on with it.

You know it's going to be one of those days when things start going wrong the minute you put your foot out the bed. Today was one of those days.

I was drinking my tea this morning when the door bell rang. I was still in my nightie and as you can't be too careful these days, I had a peep through the nets to see who it was. There was a young man, dressed to the nines in a pin-striped suit, standing on the step.

There's something about men in suits which really gets my post-menopausal hormones going. It was my seventieth birthday last week and I wondered if my friend Maisie had splashed out on one of those male strippers, though I've never heard of them doing a door to door service. Truth is, Maisie's pretty tight, so I discounted that idea more or less straight-away.

He was at least six foot two and blonde. Now, I normally like my men dark, but when you get past a certain age you tend to stop being so choosy. I had another peep and decided he looked more like a double glazing salesman. I've had bi-focals for the last ten years, so he won't be getting much out of me. Still, he was very good-looking. I unbuttoned the top of my dressing gown, squared my shoulders and thought, I'll see if I can get him to come in.

“Good morning, madam,” he said as I opened the door. “I'm from Meals on Wheels and have just stopped by to see if there's anything you need.”

“How about a quick snog?” I asked him. I'd have been better asking him if he had the right address, but it amused me at that time of the morning.

By the look on his face, I could tell he thought he hadn't heard me right, so I puckered up and fluttered my eyelids at him to make sure he got the idea. He went a very strange shade of pink. Try harder, Mary, I thought, leaning against the door jamb in my most provocative pose and flashing him a view of my cleavage. Well, to be honest, I exposed the place where my cleavage used to be. These days it'd be more accurate if I lifted the hem of my dressing gown and showed him the area just above my knees. It was very strange, but by then, even his ears had gone a peculiar shade of red.

“We're st..st...starting to deliver afternoon t...t...teas to the elderly in this area. Would you like us to bring you some?” It was strange how he suddenly started stuttering.

“Well, I do like a bit of tongue...”

I was going to say in my sandwich, but he was up the garden path that fast I wondered if he'd left skid marks in his britches.

He didn't even close the gate on his way out and I had to go and do it. There's nothing like poncing up and down the path in your flannelette at half-past eight in the morning to get the neighbours talking.

I watched him climb into his car with a certain pang of disappointment. Looks like my pulling power isn't what it used to be. Not that Jack, who lives down the road at number forty-six, would necessarily agree.

I did a twirl on my way back up the path, just in case the nosey old cow over the road was peeping through her letterbox. It wasn't until I got back to the house and was shutting the door, I realised I'd forgotten to put my teeth in.