The Squashed Man Who Married a Dragon

by Anthony Blackie

  Stephen had made exactly the same claim to us, when we were out walking in the Yorkshire dales, crossing a farmyard a large cat sunning itself leaped up and shot past us. ‘That’s an active female cat’ says Stephen. Then he explained that there is an almost ninety something per cent likelihood that any three-coloured cat will be a female, something to do with passing on of hereditary colouring, genetics, etc. All cats may be one or two colours but only the female will have three colours. One of those wonderful, almost unusable bits of knowledge. Thanks to Stephen, my stock in Sweden is now so high I am the toast of Stockholm.

  BACK TO THE PLOT

  Over the next few years we spent many happy hours, walking and dining when we met up in the summer months. At the end of a very long coastal walk, the women had gone on ahead. Bjorn said ‘When we are getting back – our little women will be doing kisses to us and welcome home little kings – and they will be bringing us nice beers.’ They may not have lived up to expectations but ever since we have been the two little kings. In a sort of Walter Mitty way, Bjorn is as mad as I am, although this doesn’t stop him being a very accomplished jazz pianist as well.

  Inga mentioned to us that next year Bjorn will be President of the Swedish MG Car Club, and would we like to come and stay a week with them in Kalmar. We were concerned because we had heard that Sweden is a very expensive country, but we were in fact surprised to find this was not necessarily the case. Of course, our hosts knew where to eat out, and staying in their very comfortable wooden home makes all the difference to finances.

  My mad woman was much impressed with all the Swedish flag flying, much like the USA. Every home flies the flag, I must have said something about it being a good idea – because she went and bought a Swedish metal pole-holding wall bracket for me to fit outside our U.K. home. Currently she’s flag happy, the English St George flag is flown almost continuously with short intervals when the Spanish flag appears if Rafa Nadal is playing tennis on TV, she takes her sport seriously this girl. Somewhere I have a Welsh flag, (due to my quarter Welsh blood) it’s not been aired yet, if I find it, and get ‘permission’ up it will go.

  Bjorn’s two classic cars are kept in a modern, warm garage – he has an MG Magnet four-door sports saloon, a very good original car and his treasured MGB special gold edition, he brought over from England. He then had all the internal trim removed and remade in best gold leather to match the exterior. The engine is tweaked and tuned – altogether a very fast and unique car. The four of us went on a special MG Rally in the Magnet. At each stop on President Bjorn’s instructions I had to say ‘Gentlemen, start your motors’ and drop the flag, then everyone roared off to the next check point, we had a lot of fun and enjoyed the day in the company of our hosts and their club friends. Back home a few beers then dinner and wine and a little later Bjorn produced a bottle of whisky.

  After a few drams – we kings were deciding how we would run our respective countries. As fellow kings we had absolute power – so – we shot every politician just for starters – a very popular move, altered a few laws, and had more whisky. In our own world we changed army uniforms for more colourful flamboyant outfits, with sponsored training shoes, more whisky and on to planes, Swedish ones were jazzed up with multi-coloured dots and flashes – a great improvement, the RAF sported sexy cartoon girls in mind blowing poses, to delay fire from the enemy planes – all good stuff! Whisky and imagination flowed at last onto cars and roads – Bjorn wanted a change but wasn’t sure which side of the road Sweden should ultimately drive on, he thought they should try both, not to be outdone, I went for a good English compromise by driving fast down the middle of the road and slow back up the edges. Nothing we couldn’t do.

  The two fellow kings ruled, toasting each other then toasting all our good ideas, the two wisest of worldly men.

  A & K

  We have two daughters, you might wonder where are they? Did we perhaps bump them off or farm them out? Not at all. We even love our daughters……. in a sort of family way! When they were little it was easy, but once they hit teenage years and with opinions and views of their own……. well…….

  Daughters, Angela and Katy, if they got up to half the things we got up to, I had every reason to worry!

  Angela, who was as good as 18 carat gold and never said boo to a goose, became quite a different person when she hit her mid-teens. Then great tall boyfriends kept appearing.

  Sons of local farmers – some seven feet tall and strong as oxen, without doubt they were pleasant, amusing, politely polishing the top of my bald head as they looked at Angela’s very young mum as another older sister – almost!

  For some reason trials of strength were popular. Lying on the floor arm-wrestling with ‘Joiner John’ or ‘James T’ trying hard to win an impossible contest with young men half my age but twice my size. I think Angela had told them I like this sort of thing. I had hoped to stress to her boyfriends, that if we said back by twelve thirty – it was what we tried to mean!

  They were never the lip trembling ‘Yes, Sir’ sort of boys, I had hoped to impress. Very early on in order to even things up, I had the idea of inspecting their cars – to make sure that they had decent tyres and weren’t driving death traps, but I learnt years later from Angela – via Vicki – that they were a bit shocked by this tactic. Angela nearly died of embarrassment. These great boys became good family friends enjoying competitions, parties, barbecues, etc., and still are family friends to this day.

  Katy as a young girl didn’t want a pony but preferred a small motorbike to ride round on. This tom girl started with a chunky little Honda 50cc monkey-type bike – progressed to junior trials bike and then onto a three wheeler ATC. She handled bikes with real style. We had competitions, speed trials, and we had, in those years, some really good crisp cold winters with plenty of deep snow.

  The ATC really came into its own, power sliding about everywhere, Katy towing skiers holding a long rope tied to the back of the three wheeler. When the roads were totally impassable with very deep snow Katy’s delight was to go out on the roads shouting – ‘I’m illegal, Dad!’ Vicki rode the bikes too, but Katy was Top Biker, when she wasn’t taking stray ducks to school or going out with trainee commandos. Try being forceful with these men!

  ALL HEART

  I daren’t complain, as wives go, Vicki is very economical. The money spent on make-up, clothes, etc. is very small indeed. She doesn’t drink, smoke, gamble, she won’t ever go to the hairdresser; sounds too good to be true……

  She is attracted to charity shops, pound saver shops – these are to be encouraged, if she went berserk in a pound bazaar, I don’t think it would reach twenty pounds ever, enough of the praises. This is a bit like her mother, who also had her quirky ways, she loved auctions and would outbid in angry determination all other women who dared to bid against her, sometimes ending up with things – like a stuffed, three-legged zebra – but never outdone.

  After a lot of deep thought and realising that after around forty years or so, she was taking our relationship as a permanent fixture, I had a pang of secret, romantic, generosity.

  When we were married all those years ago, I had to borrow thirty pounds from my Mum to help buy the engagement ring, which I bought from my old school friend, Tony Baker, a very knowledgeable and high class jeweller. I was concerned about the size of the stone; don’t be, he said, the purity and quality are excellent. So Vicki’s engagement ring is rather like an immaculate industrial diamond! And bless her she’s never, ever hankered after jewellery or anything expensive.

  Time to remedy this – what I was after, Tony described as something a galloping horseman wouldn’t miss. Think Kohinoor, but for five guineas, somewhere between these extremes was my quest! It took Tony over six months before he rang me with news of the find – only because of his generosity and our well over fifty years friendship could this happen. He did us proud.

  The night we were going out to dinner, I put the boxed ring on a shelf in the bedroom – w
here she couldn’t miss it as she changed. Twice she moved the box out of the way, without noticing it. A third time I put it back; at last she noticed it, thought something odd here and opened the box. ‘Is it real?’, she said, then ‘You’ve excelled yourself this time, Blackie’

  Why do I bother? I could possibly change it for a glass Kohinoor one day, and have some spending money. There’s a moral here somewhere something about ‘spare the whip and spoil the wife’ or ‘the sweetest rose has the sharpest thorns’. Could this be nearer the truth?

  JUST A MORPH

  Fancy going to bed with a grandma – that was something I had never ever contemplated. Vicki was ageless, a forever girl. Something about becoming a grandmother was a very desirable state for her; to me it seemed like slippers and cocoa – ugh. When our first grandchild arrived, Robert, the little boy changed my life. From a toddler, we played cowboys and injuns, constantly rolling over on the floor, fighting pesky Indians – who ambushed us – causing dramatic wounds. We pulled arrows out of each other’s chests, all day long. This was the bonding of young and old.

  Robert became my protector, helper and buddy. It was great to be the one he wanted to sit next to, the selected one to feed him, and whatever else. He stuck up for me so well, that one day in the car, when wicked grandma had said some cruel and harsh words to me – he chirped up ‘Grandma, if you say nasty things to grandpa you’ll go to prison for a very long time!’ Such sound judgement from someone so young; and a stickler for the truth too. Around the age of four he told his teacher that his mother was a test pilot for BAE systems and that she played football for Manchester United at the weekends. Obviously, Angela is her mother’s daughter alright.

  Which makes me wonder – does Angela’s Neil – who I know to be a model husband – does he suffer similar vicious outbursts –to those I endure? I think there must be a bit of genuine affectionate bonding here – plus I think his Irish charm will carry him through.

  I had heard that being a grandma – might mellow the woman – it didn’t. She acted just the same – no softening that I could see. Except one day she found a grey hair. She decreed that she would go grey gracefully. I can’t remember what exactly changed her mind but she went blonde instead, hey! A new blonde playmate, what a great decision and what a fantastic effect. Maybe this seasoned warrior, breathing pain and destruction won’t be so bad after all.

  Cool Grandma Dragon

  DRAGON TIME

  This could be hunker down in the bunker day. The omens are not looking good…. I could ask for a sick note……. but I don’t think it would work; it’s going to be grin and bear it!

  The National Trust – is the badge of the retired, mobile and two old for Disneyland brigade. It vacuums up those with time and cash to spare, the car badge and handbook suggest an air of understated culture. So we joined like most of our friends. Quiet and safe – a stress free pastime. The only one downside for me is that I love the smaller stately homes, ones I can imagine living in. These impress me so much so – when I get home I want to put a match to our miniature castle, only Vicki’s restraining hand and the damage that I could inflict on our very kind neighbours next door stop me.

  Off we go for another cultural embalming – not quite accurate, although whenever we go out on a jaunt there’s always a N. T. place on every planned route, like a McDonalds or a BP petrol station. When we arrive the car park is a good half mile or more from the house itself. Often the day is clouding over, distant rain threatens, as a courteous, forward thinking soul. I ask ‘do you want your coat?’ ‘No’ – she snaps…. . ‘Your brolly?’ ‘I’ve said no’ snarls the ‘gentle one’; so off we go hand in hand. A couple of hours later, it’s dropped a few degrees, rain is starting – then and only then ‘beloved’ says ‘IF you’re going to the car, would you………. ’

  In order to degrade me even more – she’s taken to increased criticism of my driving. Me, who first instructed her in the art of synchronising in and out foot movement, in order to change gear! Parking is one of her nitpicking favourites, acknowledged as one of the world’s best parkers, a man who could park a high topped long wheel base Master van in a space a Fiat 500 had just vacated doesn’t count any more.

  She does exaggerated foot brake movements, hands held in front of her face, sometimes she adopts the air-line safety crash position – all for show and quite unnecessary just to spook me and sap my confidence. Didn’t you see that car – she screams – psycho style. There was no panic – no near do. All so the faithful servant can be harassed and humiliated. Now when she drives and she is good, competent and competitive too – but when we come to a stressful situation she talks it to death – what are you doing Mr Green Audi, if that bus would move over, stupid man, I could get through there – you too blue sports car…. . None of the cool, unruffled driving of the master.

  Opinions she has in droves, strong, ballistic and delivered like the Daughter of Genghis Kahn especially when I’m driving – and when choices need to be made, a commitment to which route, it’s like the arid desert not a peep. There’s a choice of direction up ahead – I need to know – left or right, I ask, this is ignored or parried – which way do we go -which way do you want to go she murmurs. I can get an inkling of preference – nearly at the junction – ‘left or right’ this is desperation stakes – so after fainting to the left – swerving to the right and lurch back again to the left. It’s a nano second later after continuing up the motorway – she says ‘Why are we going this way?’ followed by ‘I don’t know why you chose this way’ and ‘I would have gone the other route…through the Trossachs and by-passing Llandudno!’ Hindsight – it’s another gift that many women have, but in Vicki’s case it comes in bucketfuls.

  SUPERMARKET

  Thursday, Black Thursday – another supermarket shopping day. Why did I say yes? It wasn’t really a question – when she said ‘Are you coming with me?’ It’s more a dare – if you know what’s good for you – THIS IS NO CHOICE! Into slave mode – meek and servile – I drive us to the supermarket, park in the wrong place – ‘Over there, it’s a lot nearer’ – restart the car – ‘Never mind’, she says in that bitter, withering way that women have.

  I run and get the trolley – so she’s not hanging around holding stuff, why not wait until I get back with the trolley first before starting? ‘What have you been doing?’ she snarls. It’s taken me twenty seven seconds and a snatched ‘How are you doing?’ to someone. Now it’s fetch and carry time. Sprinting across ten aisles to the water storage area and back with two large six-bottle water packs – ‘We only need one today’ okay.

  Back again for milk, dozens of cartons of pasteurised semi-skimmed milk, the green one with the cow on…so it goes, fetch this, get that, while she, like a programmed robot, dredges up and down every aisle. They don’t stock take as thoroughly as she inspects each and every one of the shelves.

  The movement of people has carried me over, like the tide moving flotsam, and dropped me on the wines and spirits shore. Here tottering around are a couple of beaten men, like bedraggled seabirds leaving the oil slick to stagger up the beach. Alive – but only just! We stand together in the shelter of Riojas and London Dry gin – too destroyed to speak more than a grunted greeting. For a brief interval we feel the solace of mutual pain, before some fire-breathing spouse with laden trolley claims one of us. Life in the supermarket jungle grinds slowly on.

  After several days we reach the checkout tills – standing in line, each man chained to his trolley, mutely and submissively awaiting the final task. For some reason this has to be done at breakneck speed, packing designated items into bags, which are designated only to receive those special grouped designated items. Got it!

  God it’s awful – my wife; Dracula’s sister, carries fifty six shopping bags in the boot of the car –many we take into the store, plus several secret fold out ones she has hidden about her. This is too much for me, I put the wrong things in the wrong bag – ‘that’s fruit not veg’, �
�no, frozen goes in the freezer box!’ orders are barked at me – confidence flies from me.

  Sometimes in a supermarket at the cash-out till – when a cruel woman’s thoughtless words cut a man to the quick – there passes between men a despairing look, a sneaked glance that flashes a bonding sign in the fraternity of the down trodden. This sympathetic recognition is stronger than a poisoned verbal lashing or nagging, jagged edge of a down-turned mouth. This is the knowledge, men – that you are not on your own…. never.

  THE WONDERFUL ONES

  I do try to keep on the right side of all females, but in Lola’s case, it’s a joy and a pleasure to sprint the extra mile. When she comes to stay, I take her into town…. to make her purchases, in my clean and polished car. As a courteous and well trained chauffeur, I open the rear door and pass things to her. In town, I change to a doting grandpa. We walk hand in hand to the sweetie shop, for her to choose a selection of strange favourites. Weird colours and oddly named delights these we buy by the bag full, priced by guesswork or weight, I am happy to pay whatever it comes to!

  Then on to the market, fruit stalls first, ‘Oh look, grandpa, strawberries’. Do you like strawberries?’……. silly question really. We purchase a punnet, then guess what! round the corner, are cherries, these are Lola’s ‘all time favourite fruit’. I dive in anxious to fill a bag as fast and full as possible. ‘No grandpa… you don’t do it like that’ says a beautiful, polite, and gentle voice. She takes the bag, puts her hand in, turns it inside out, covers the cherries, and in an expertly done way, ends up with the bag, now filled with the best, choicest cherries.