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.