wish I was where you are!”
“Where do you think I am, man?”
“Er, Mumbai, perhaps? Bangalore?”
“I’m in bloody Bridgend, man!”
“Oh, right. Where were you born, then?”
“Merthyr Tydfil.”
“That’s near Delhi, isn’t it? Hello? Hello?”
As much as I love my brilliant job, it was quite a relief to leave on Tuesday knowing I had the rest of the week off. Things had become rather tense in the run up to the audit, to say the least. Kate had stripped the department virtually bare, so no one could find anything, and then she’d upset Gay Ray by confiscating all his pictures of David Beckham in his H&M underwear. Ray said he simply couldn’t work surrounded by so much ugliness, which, in turn, had upset all the women in the team. Sky continued to blame Derek for her plastic cups trauma, and had accidentally pinged his nose with a rubber band, causing him to collapse in pain. We went through a whole packet of paper towels before we managed to stem the bleeding. Joy had called us all together for a very stern team talk, saying if anyone let themselves down in front of the auditors it would be “career threatening”. I was so relieved to be on holiday; what a bit of luck that Kate had recommended I take those days off! The stress was even getting to Alan. I heard him go completely berserk this afternoon, and Tim only asked him for a paper clip.
We had another Wizard of Oz rehearsal this evening and I went along, even though Tom had texted me to say I didn’t need to be there. He was going to be cutting it a bit fine if we didn’t start to rehearse my lead role soon, so I thought I’d try and have a chat with him about it. Unfortunately, I arrived there much later than I’d planned because the Mega Bright LED lights I’d won on eBay failed to pick out the remnants of a pickled onions jar in our drive, so I had to repair yet another puncture.
A couple of roads from the Jubilee Hall, I could hear Myra singing ‘Over the Rainbow’, so I made sure I entered very quietly so as not to disturb her rendition. I joined the others who were pressed against the back of the hall, some with their hands covering their ears so they could channel the wonderful sound more effectively. Thin Lizzie clung onto the water jugs, the vibration causing them to move around on the top of the counter. Myra finished with a truly heart-rending “Why, oh why can’t I?” and held the end note for a full twenty seconds, maintaining concentration even when two trestle tables collapsed around her. What a trooper!
Tom the director led the applause, swallowed a handful of Nurofen, then organised everyone for ‘We’re Off to See the Wizard’. Great - this must be where I come in! But no; it was just Dorothy and the Munchkins as they waved her off from Munchkinland, and then the same song again but with the Scarecrow, the Lion and the Tin Man. Whenever Tom was distracted or had his head in his hands, Frankie Trevino changed the lyrics to “If ever, oh ever, a spaz there was, the Wazzock of Oz is one because...” and gesticulated towards me with his flick knife. Did the Cowardly Lion carry a flick knife in the film version? I thought that was East Side Story.
Tom really put them through their paces, making Myra do the Yellow Brick Road dance in front of him over and over again. She was going to be exhausted, all that jumping up and down! She wasn’t very happy about being pelted by apples by the Talking Tree, played by Trunky Tracy, and I thought the Wicked Witch a little over-zealous in her encouragement, yelling “Harder! In the face! Get her in the face!” but all in all, I think it went pretty well. I leapt up hopefully when they reached the Emerald City, but they didn’t get to meet with the Wizard, instead skipping ahead to practise the flying monkeys’ attack. I tried to speak to Tom at the end of rehearsals, but he swept past me and out of the hall before I could catch him. Myra would have left too if I hadn’t called out to her. “Hi Myra!”
“Oh, hello Foggy, I didn’t know you were here.”
“Thought you would have smelt him,” Frankie joked, pushing past Myra as he left the hall.
“Yes, thought I’d better come, in case I was required. I wasn’t, as it goes ... I thought you were brilliant, by the way! Your solo was so moving - some of the cast actually had tears in their eyes! Shall we go to Den’s - cheesy chips and curry sauce to celebrate?”
“Er, no, not tonight,” Myra said, tugging at the door. “Got to, er, colour Mum’s hair for her and you know how long that takes me, especially unblocking the plug hole afterwards.”
“Oh, ok.”
“See you tomorrow, though? Do some shopping?”
“Yes, shall I meet you-” I started, but she was gone. That was odd; I’d never known Myra turn down cheesy chips before. Perhaps she was trying extra hard with her diet this time – after all, she did appear to have put on a little more weight recently. I’d never say that to her, of course; the last person to do that had been impaled on a kebab skewer. I called out goodbye to the rest of the cast, who were having a chat over an orange squash, but they didn’t hear me. I left the hall and went to unlock my bike. Oh no! Someone had carved ‘TWAT’ into my gel-sprung comfort saddle. The kids from the affordable housing estate, probably. Oh well, never mind; no doubt this was exactly how Darren Day had started his musical career and he’d never let little setbacks get him down - just look at him now! I pumped up my tyre again and cycled home.
I met Myra outside Evans, although she was almost an hour later than we’d arranged because she’d been sick again. Poor Myra was having a terrible time with her health just recently! I wondered if she could be suffering from stress. After all, living at home and not going to work could take its toll. Perhaps I should ask Sky for some relaxation techniques. I followed Myra around Evans but she seemed to be looking for clothes for herself rather than presents for others. “What do you think of this, Foggy?” she asked, holding up a voluminous black smock top.
Based on previous experiences, I knew I was in very dangerous territory. If I replied, “Yes, that’s nice” I would be accused of “not giving a crap”. If I replied, “I don’t really like that one” I would be accused of “having the dress sense of Susan-sodding-Boyle”. (Mind you, I’d seen a picture of Susan and I thought she looked rather charming in her purple polo neck jumper, tangerine jacket and zebra print fringed scarf.) I tried to respond in the helpful, kindly manner of Gok. “Er, I like the colour, it really suits your skin tone. I’m just wondering if it might be a little baggy on you.” I peered at the label. “It says ‘maternity’, Myra.”
“Um, what about this one, then?” She pulled out a jazzy, zig-zagged patterned tunic. My eyes went all swimmy.
“We’re still in the maternity section though, aren’t we? How about that lovely top over there? It’s all sparkly - perfect for Christmas!”
I went over to the glittery section and examined the sequined top. “This is a great shape for you!” I said, playfully. “It will show off your beautiful bouncy bits to perfection!” I turned round, beaming, but found myself looking into the wizened face of a little old lady. She stared back at me, her mouth dropping open in horror. I thought Myra had followed behind me! But no, I could see she was still in the maternity section. Muttering “Sorry, sorry”, I quickly left the shop. Best to wait outside.
Myra wanted to go to Smokey Joe’s for lunch, thinking I’d get a staff discount, or “freebie” as she put it, but when we got there, we found it closed. I couldn’t believe it - why on earth would it be closed? And on a Wednesday lunchtime, market day, when Joe hoovered up the over-spill from Greggs. I peered in the windows but there was no sign of Joe. What a mystery. We gave up and went to Burger King instead, where Myra felt well enough to order a double whopper with cheese and extra gherkins and their new gooey chocolate fudge bites. I said I was glad she’d got her appetite back and she replied, “Well, I’m eating for two”, which I guessed meant this was her breakfast as well as her lunch. From the window, I saw a large man in a fifties-style suit passing by, the front of his hair gelled up into a tall quiff. He was holding the hand of a very slender lady, who
turned and looked in our direction - it was Auntie Trisha! I waved like mad, and she spotted me, tugging her wife Biffa back towards Burger King.
“Wotcha Foggy!” Auntie Trisha exclaimed as they plonked themselves down at our table. “Blimey Myra, what the hell are those? Flame-grilled dog turds?”
“They’re ‘warm, bite-sized treats featuring a fudge-brownie outside and creamy molten chocolate filling on the inside’.” Biffa read from the menu. “Can I try one?”
I looked anxiously at Myra; I didn’t dare ask to share her food. Barry had tried to steal a chip once and almost had his hand severed. Myra, however, appeared unwilling to take on Biffa, swallowing hard before eventually replying, “Yes, of course.”
“Are you Christmas shopping too?” I asked them.
“Yes, isn’t it the most bloody awful bind?” Auntie Trisha took a suck from my strawberry milkshake. “We literally couldn’t move in Debenhams and in the end I had to machete my way through to reach Biffa’s Eau Savage. But at least we’ve managed to find a great book for your Gran.” She pulled a paperback from her Waterstones bag and handed it to me.
“Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit,” I read. “Good idea to get her a book on fibre, given her dietary problems.”
“Oh, this will