The Mercury Travel Club: Getting your life back on track has never been more funny!

by Helen Bridgett

  She puts a reassuring arm around me, which instantly has the opposite effect; what is she planning now?

  ‘Which is why we need you, Bo Peep.’

  She’s thought it all through: while the trio carry the song, I carry the act with granny-isms to entertain the audience. I offer them boiled sweets, tell them they’ll catch their death of cold and occasionally do a granny dance to tunes that ‘take me back’.

  ‘You’ll be like Bez to our Happy Mondays.’

  Oh Lord.

  Having established the set list, Patty moves on to discuss costumes.

  ‘I have some ideas, just wait here,’ she says and leaves the room.

  This week seems to have been all about clothes, from Granny-Oke costumes to Charlie’s dating outfits. Could there be a more diverse spectrum?

  This is also the week of Charlie’s first dinner date and the debate with Josie has continued every day. I don’t know why there is a debate, as men always look the same: trousers and shirt. The colour might change but that’s about it. We used to have training days at the airline where the dress code was ‘smart casual’; for women this is impossible to interpret but for men? Trousers and shirt-top button undone. Formal occasions? Trousers and shirt-top button fastened and tie on top. Black tie? Well, that’s self-explanatory. I suppose they might think that we just throw on a black dress or a blue dress according to the event. They don’t, however, understand the complex underwear partnering with any outfit. I’ve never yet heard a man discuss the difficulty of getting out of Spanx when you desperately need to get to the loo.

  Anyway, despite me thinking that there was an obvious solution for Charlie (and his eyes are a beautiful blue, so even the colour of shirt isn’t up for debate), I was happier discussing his outfit dilemma than I am sitting here waiting to see what Patty has conjured up for me.

  ‘You should wear a soft tactile fabric,’ Josie had enthused, ‘so that if he just brushes against you when he’s pouring wine or something, he’ll want to do it again.’

  ‘Great idea.’ Charlie was taking notes.

  ‘It has to be an expensive material,’ I’d added in jest. ‘You don’t want him getting an electric shock.’

  ‘No, that’s not the sort of memorable night I was aiming for,’ he laughed.

  ‘And no cheap nylon,’ warned Josie, ‘just in case the place is candle-lit.’

  Then we were in free-flow imagining the disasters that could avail Charlie if he wore the wrong shirt. I thought I’d managed to keep the conversation away from me but no chance.

  ‘And then just as I’ve electrocuted my date with a nylon shirt, the Granny-Okes turn up and the sparks land on their blue-rinse wigs,’ said Charlie.

  ‘... and fire spreads to the cardigans and surgical stockings,’ from Josie.

  ‘... while they’re singing Eternal Flame!’ Charlie burst into song.

  I cringed. ‘Please don’t make me dread this more than I already am.’

  ‘You’ll be great,’ Charlie wiped his eyes.

  ‘It’ll be too hilarious,’ added Josie.

  ‘I know it’ll be funny,’ I said, ‘but here’s the question: will people be laughing with me or at me?’

  And by people, I meant Richard Branson of course.

  But back to the current costume dilemma...

  Patty brings out four suit bags and hangs them on the wall. The bags hang from the picture rail like the corpses of my entrepreneurial career as Patty builds up the tension for the grand-reveal.

  As each bag opens, I can see that she’s done herself proud; she’s taken the costumes as seriously as the set list. I’d expected fancy-dress shop leg warmers and tutus, but Ms P has more ambitious plans.

  ‘We’re like the Spice Girls,’ she explains. ‘We each have our own character and personality.’

  ‘Kath – Granny Ant.’

  There’s a military jacket and frilly shirt to go with Kath’s black curls and no doubt suitable face make-up.

  ‘Sheila, my little rock chick, Gran Bon Jovi’, and she pulls out ripped jeans, leather jacket, a big wig and a bandana. I hadn’t seen that coming but Sheila loves it.

  ‘Bo...’ It’s my turn, what on earth has she chosen for me? My heart is thumping as she opens the bag.

  ‘Granny goes to Hollywood.’ Inside the bag is a big white T-shirt with ‘GRANNY SAYS RELAX’ emblazoned across it. I’m quite relieved, it could have been much more embarrassing.

  ‘And what about yours?’ asks Kath, but I already know the answer.

  With a delighted flourish, Patty unveils the final costume bag, and there they hang, the wig, the jewellery and the multi-coloured layers of lace that will transform one mid-fifties widow into the one and only Granny Lauper.

  ‘Nothing can stop us now,’ she declares.

  That’s what I’m afraid of.

  Love is in the Air

  As we reach closing time on Saturday, we’re given a preview of tonight’s date outfit. Charlie has decided on a new slate blue shirt and designer jeans (told you so).

  ‘I think this says casual but classy.’ We nod as if this combo was not entirely predictable from the start.

  ‘I’m almost sick with nerves,’ he tells us.

  A tad melodramatic but Charlie does look terrified.

  ‘You needn’t worry, your stars are fantastic.’ Josie reassures him by reading out today’s words of wisdom from the Metro: ‘Although you’ll feel uncomfortable at first, your surest route to success is put yourself out there with confidence and courage.’

  They nod sagely at the advice of the oracle; most things work out better if you approach them with confidence but I don’t like to point this out. I’m the one with the life coach after all.

  ‘Think about something else,’ I advise. ‘Do you want to see more on the travel-club idea?’

  The ploy works and both Charlie and Josie are instantly animated. We sit down together and I pull out the scrapbook I’ve been doodling in.

  ‘The Mercury Travel Club – Global Adventures, Local Service’ reads the front cover.

  I’ve taken all of the ideas we developed and I’ve drawn a calendar of trips. If you join our club, you become a Mercurian member and you’ll be going somewhere new each month. There are plenty of book weekends to keep Caroline happy and I’ve combined bigger holidays with weekend trips. Each one supports a local business, so there’s a wine safari with a tasting at a local wine merchants before we go and the chance to win a case of wine when you get back, and a trip to Belgium with prizes from the local chocolatier, as well as all the ideas we came up with on the BIN. Over time, my thinking is that you get to know people (although I do realise that many people can’t wait to get rid of anyone they’ve met on holiday, despite the promises to keep in touch). I guess that even in a small town like this you can avoid them if you want to. I’ve been very creative with the scrapbook: each month has a picture of the destination and the ideal prize to give at the end. The pretty pictures seem to have Josie enthralled.

  ‘Oh I love February’s trip to the home of Aphrodite,’ she enthuses.

  ‘I thought it was a bit less obvious than Paris and, of course, there’s a Greek restaurant over the road that might donate a meal for a prize.’

  ‘It’s gorgeous,’ adds Charlie. ‘Can I take it with me tonight? To see what people think?’

  And, of course, it gives Charlie something easy to talk about. My mind wanders to the Entrepreneur of the Year award speech where I tell the audience that of course I tested the idea with local people before going ahead. ‘After all,’ I’d say, ‘customer feedback is essential to entrepreneurs.’

  My scrapbook method will probably be taught in all the top universities.

  ‘Brilliant idea,’ I answer, ‘and see if you can get any of them to book a trip.’

  With Charlie despatched to get ready for his date, Josie and I get ready for ours. I decided to start doing something; after all I did put it on my plan and so far it’s the only area of my life I�
�ve neglected. Last week I mentioned that I might start internet dating and it sent Josie into a frenzy of excitement.

  ‘Oh you have to let me choose someone,’ she said.

  ‘You have to be able to read between the lines,’ she told me. ‘Stocky build means short and fat; masculine appearance means bald with tattoos.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ I exclaim.

  ‘I’m telling you. And you have to check out the hobbies, like this one – “enjoys watching TV” aka “has no life at all and is extremely dull”.’

  ‘I like watching TV,’ I protest.

  ‘But that wouldn’t be the highlight of your profile would it? You’d say – “successful businesswoman” or “mature lady who loves to travel ”.’

  ‘Less of the mature, that’s not how most people describe me.’

  ‘You’re right; mature in a woman’s profile means forty and in a man’s means seventy.’

  ‘You’ve done this before, then?’ I ask and she nods.

  ‘Oh yes, many years ago; no one is what they claim to be. I started writing a glossary to help people navigate the BS’, she tells me.

  ‘You should publish it.’

  ‘It makes you look too cynical: “Hi, I published a book about the crap men say” isn’t a good conversation starter,’ she sighs.

  ‘So what should I do?’ I ask.

  ‘Speed dating,’ she asserts and that’s why we’re now both getting glammed up in the toilets at work, nervous as hell but on our way to a wine-tasting event organised by ‘Love in the Fast Lane’.

  Love in the Fast Lane

  We found a plethora of speed-dating events you can go to. I’d envisaged a room above a pub where you sit at a table and the men circulate every five minutes. That’s old school and nowadays, speed-dating events can be anything from dinner parties (too difficult to escape, according to Josie), to salsa classes (too much touching) and diving holidays (too much flesh on show). We chose wine tasting in the Italian wine café off Albert Square. I love the idea of a wine café; we thought it might be the safe speed-date option and reasoned that at least we’d have the distraction of a good Barolo if the conversation wilted.

  ‘I can’t imagine you needing to do internet dating,’ I say to Josie. ‘You’re young, attractive, good fun.’

  ‘It’s not really a last-resort thing like it used to be,’ she explains. ‘I might meet someone when I’m out with mates and if I do, that’s cool, but he might not want to commit or something. So if I want a relationship and not just a one-nighter then I get online and filter out all the time-wasters. You kiss fewer toads.’

  It seems rather cold but I can imagine Zoe doing just that, ordering a man to meet her specific specification: six foot, professional, own teeth and happy never to watch golf or fart in her presence. I must tell Patty.

  ‘We need a code,’ Josie tells me; she goes on to give me some signals for ‘rescue me’, ‘steer clear’ and ‘this one’s perfect for you’.

  ‘I rarely use the last one,’ she adds optimistically as we get out of the cab.

  Once more unto the breach.

  ‘To start with,’ begins the sommelier, ‘an elegant Gavi from the Piedmont region.’

  ‘Not bad at all,’ says a voice behind me. ‘I was there last summer; stayed in a delightful casolare – sorry, cottage, just can’t help falling into the lingo. Anyway, had a lovely time exploring the vineyards. Of course it’s all more authentic out there, they don’t export their best, well why would you? And as for the food we heathens call Italian...’

  Just as I think that I’m only going to be bored to death, I realise that I might also drown in splash back as he gargles the mouthful of wine, squirts it from cheek to cheek and then expels it vigorously into the spittoon.

  I tug my right ear so much that my lobe is six foot long by the end of his exhibition. Josie waits at least ten minutes before coming over and I sigh with relief as I excuse myself.

  ‘That was our “rescue me” signal,’ I hiss.

  ‘I know but your face was a picture when he started all that gargoyle stuff,’ she laughs.

  OK missy – game on.

  We change wines and partners; for the Fiano I have a divorced lawyer who boasts that his ex-wife didn’t stand a chance with the settlement; he’d made her sign a watertight pre-nup.

  ‘That doesn’t seem very fair,’ I comment.

  ‘If I’d been fair to all of them, I’d have nothing left,’ he tells me.

  ‘All of them? How many times have you been married?’ I ask.

  ‘Er, three...no, four times. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a romantic at heart, just get bored easily. Did I see you come in with the ripe little Aussie over there?’

  Forefinger pressed on end of nose ‘steer clear of this one’. This signal also has the fortunate effect of making you look so ridiculous that the guy leaves you alone anyway.

  Josie doesn’t seem to be doing any of these signals; I’m sure she’s set me up. There are six wines to taste and six men to accompany them. I attempt to pair the wine with the men but the Gavi wasn’t fresh or fruity and the Fiano was a little too acidic for my taste.

  The Pinot Grigio, however, does seem very easy going if not a little young.

  ‘So which wines do you like?’ I ask him.

  ‘To be honest – anything on special offer.’ We both laugh. ‘I won’t pretend to know anything about it.’

  ‘That’s refreshing, there are a few know-it-alls in the room tonight.’

  ‘Amongst the women too,’ he tells me. ‘I’m not cultured enough for most of them.’

  Across the room, Josie is scratching the top of her head like a primate; our ‘perfect for you’ signal. Damn, why now when I’m finally having a decent conversation?

  I ignore her but she continues, adding a glare and a sideways nod at the guy she’s with. Pinot Grigio notices it.

  ‘Is that one of your little signals?’ He smiles when I look surprised.

  ‘I noticed the ear tugging and nose pointing, not that subtle,’ he explains. ‘So what does the gorilla impression mean?’

  ‘That the guy she’s with might be perfect for me,’ I confess.

  He laughs out loud.

  ‘She’s having you on,’ he says, ‘unless you like BO.’

  I look at her again and she’s still at it, signalling me to come over.

  ‘Seriously,’ continues Pinot Grigio, ‘I stood next to him a while ago, it’s not easy to smell the wine around him.’

  ‘I’ll get her,’ I say.

  Just as the sommelier is about to suggest we change partners and I see Josie trying to make her excuses, I start asking questions to delay the move around.

  ‘Could we just try this one again?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes, it’s more complex than I’ve had before. Maybe we could talk about it for a bit longer with our current partners,’ follows Pinot.

  ‘Maybe have another glass together?’ I add.

  The sommelier agrees and we stick with our partners for one more. Pinot and I start scratching our heads, tugging our earlobes and pointing at our noses while loudly discussing the wine.

  ‘Huge aroma,’ he says, ‘overpowering at times.’

  ‘Could be served with something quite bold and brassy, like an Aussie barbecue,’ I suggest.

  Eventually Josie escapes and confronts the giggling duo that we’ve become.

  ‘Very funny,’ she says.

  ‘We thought so,’ answers Pinot. ‘I’m Matt by the way.’

  And so it passed that my speed-dating session ended successfully – for Josie anyway.

  Mothers’ Day

  Mothering Sunday – the day that mothers across the land are waking up to partially cooked breakfasts and egg boxes transformed into daffodils.

  I smile as I recall Zoe’s childhood efforts. I loved seeing what my completely unartistic daughter would produce; she was always better with practical ideas and every year she’d be more concerned about where I’d keep the eggs if she took a
ll the boxes. ‘They make the boxes to fit the egg shape,’ she’d explain to me earnestly.

  And now look at her, graciously helping her Gran out of the taxi and into the restaurant. Three generations of women celebrating family together.

  As we sit down and clink a toast with our complimentary glass of Prosecco, I relax. After our goat’s cheese starter, we order a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, which I can now bluff my way in appreciating. This is going to be a good day I think to myself as a delicious salmon en croute is followed by a fluffy chocolate soufflé.

  I am in heaven but Zoe looks a little agitated, almost as if she’s going to make a speech. Instead, she takes a quick gulp of wine and turns to my mum, ‘Aren’t you going to tell her?’ she asks.

  I look quizzically at Mum. ‘What have you done now?’

  ‘It’s not what she’s done, it’s who she’s seen,’ says Zoe.

  I can’t for the life of me imagine where this is going and Mum is giving nothing away; I have never seen such concentration on petit fours.

  ‘Come on then, someone tell me,’ I plead.

  ‘Dad,’ pronounces Zoe.

  I’m confused at first.

  ‘Alan? When? Why? You’re not even his mother,’ I say.

  I’d be hurt by this if I wasn’t so astounded. Without even looking up she mumbles:

  ‘He says I was like a mother to him and he doesn’t want to lose touch.’

  I swear a halo has just appeared over her head. Who the hell does she think she is? Mother Teresa? I’m now livid.

  ‘It’s a bloody shame he wasn’t more like a husband to me then. Mum, honestly how could you?’

  ‘I was curious and besides it was a Wednesday and Jackie had cancelled on me.’

  I shake my head in disbelief; a lovely lunch ruined (and a daughter betrayed) because my mum’s chiropodist couldn’t make her usual house call.

  ‘Wait, Mum, listen to what happened.’ Zoe takes hold of my hand tenderly.

  ‘Go on, Gran.’

  Under orders from her granddaughter, Mum shrugs like a spoiled child.