by Swan, Tarn
Twinkles was remarkably restrained, for him. He didn’t want to upset Maryann, but I could tell he was getting rattled. When he found out that Callum actually did play rugby, he sweetly told him that he’d heard that the rugby scrum was a euphemism for group oral sex and asked was it true that when they were huddled together on the field, they were all sucking each other’s dicks? Callum didn’t mind dishing it but he didn’t like taking it, and his face darkened. However, seeing as Maryann was standing next to Twinkles and she laughed at his ‘joke’ there wasn’t much he could do, but if looks could kill, Twinks would be history. He got his own back though. It was a warm evening and we were in the garden. Mum had set out the patio tables and chairs and after dinner we went outside to sit and chat. Callum got up to go to the bathroom, managing to tilt the table in the process, sending a jug of Sangria crashing into Twinkles’ lap. I felt I had no choice but to accept it as an accident, but I’m certain it was no such thing. Twinkles knew too and he was fuming, but again, for mum and Maryanne’s sake he kept fuss to a minimum. I was proud of him. He doesn’t find it easy to keep his temper in situations like that. At least it offered us an excuse to leave and go home. Twinkles t-shirt and jeans laundered all right, but his sandals were ruined. The stains wouldn’t come out of the soft suede.
That might have been that, but unfortunately, mid-week, mum decided to have a family party and invited all known clan members within a thirty-mile radius. Short of hiring a shuttle to take us to the moon, there wasn’t much we could do to get out of it, not without hurting my sister and mother’s feelings.
Callum started as soon as we arrived, ‘jokingly’ referring to us as SpongeBob Square Pants and his little friend Pansy Star. When Twinkles pointed out that actually SpongeBob’s friend was called Patrick, he sneered and said so what, it was well known that he was a wee pansy. Ignoring my warning glance, Twinks gave one of his best theatrical squeals and throwing his arms around Callum in a stranglehold hug shrieked, ‘oh you darling man, you’ve heard that I’m a drag queen and you’ve reinvented Patrick and made him a drag Starfish with his very own drag name just for me.’ He then kissed a shell shocked Callum full on the lips, causing a certain amount of amusement amongst onlookers. Callum was far from amused. I thought he was going to hit Twinkles and prepared to intervene. Fortunately, mum and Maryann made an appearance at that point. I quietly told Twinkles that while I could understand his desire to get back at Callum, the kiss had been unnecessary and I didn’t want him doing anything like that again.
I stuck like glue to his side after that, steering him around various relatives, keeping him busy, well away from Callum. There was one tricky moment when an elderly uncle sidetracked me, and Twinkles escaped. I spotted him heading purposefully in Callum’s direction carrying a jug of Sangria. Making a hasty apology to my uncle I darted after Twinks, cutting him off. Removing the jug from his hands I told him that if he moved from my side without permission for the rest of the evening, I would punish him. He said I had a suspicious mind and he was just going to offer Maryann a drink, to which I replied, and pigs ride bicycles!
I can only hope that Maryann’s affair with Callum is just that, and nothing more. I can’t say I find the idea of having him as a brother-in-law very appealing. However, I’m the last person in the world to say whom another should love. If Maryann loves him, she loves him.
As I write, Twinkles is having a nice long soak in a cool, peppermint oil bath. He’s tired and overwrought. He doesn’t know it yet, but he’s going to bed after his bath. It’s been hotter than Hades here for the past few days. It’s the sort of weather that makes you feel sluggish and irritable. I made the mistake of grumbling to mum about the heat when she came round for tea yesterday evening and she immediately went for my jugular, snapping that I knew nothing about heat and I ought to thank my lucky stars that I wasn’t menopausal, because the real meaning of misery and discomfort was having a hot flush in a heat wave. This set her off on a tirade about bloody selfish, shallow men, be they gay or straight, who had no idea about the horrors that women had to suffer with their hormones and all for what? To bring ungrateful children into the world, children who grew up and left you without so much as a thank you for the loan of your womb! Twinkles immediately leapt to my defence and begged mum not to be cross with me, because…he burst into wracking sobs as he made the dramatic pronouncement…I had cancer.
My poor mother was utterly stunned. I thought she was going to faint. Thankfully she didn’t. Following Twinkles’ example she burst into a storm of tears. I had two of them simultaneously howling and trying to hug me. It started to get a bit competitive. I felt like a bone being pulled between two dogs, one of them snarling that I was her baby boy, and the other that I was his husband. I hastily adopted a King Solomon stance before I got split in two, firmly calling a halt to the hysterics. I settled mum at one end of the sofa and sat next to her, while cuddling Twinkles on my other side. It was hard to be cross with him, he’s scared for me, but really, I hadn’t wanted mum to know, not until I was sure there was something she needed to know. I explained to her that Twinks, as per usual, was being a drama queen, and as yet I didn’t know what I had, if anything. I reassured her that as soon as I had any news I would tell her.
She’d calmed down by the time Priscilla came round to pick her up. They were going to the cinema to see War of the Worlds. I had to put my hand over Twink’s mouth to stop him launching into a detailed blow-by-blow account of the film and thus rendering going to see it as a complete waste of money. When she left her farewell hug and kiss were particularly affectionate, as if she was fearful she was never going to see me again. I told her she wasn’t to worry. She said it was a mother’s prerogative to worry and had I told my dad, because he had a right to worry too. I said I’d call him later. She hugged Twinks, telling him to keep her properly informed, as she knew I’d only tell her what I felt she needed to know. Honestly, those two, if I’m not refereeing their rows or negotiating peace between them, I’m the object of a mutual conspiracy.
What’s all the fuss about? Well, something and nothing really. On Sunday gone, Twinkles and I were sitting in the garden and I asked him to rub some sun lotion on my back, which he did. He suddenly stopped rubbing and clutched rather painfully at my sides. I asked him what was wrong? He said there was something different about the mole I have on my right shoulder. It had altered shape and was definitely much darker in colour than it used to be. He’d read about this kind of thing, it was serious. He was clearly upset, so I calmly told him that it was probably nothing to worry about. I’d probably rubbed a towel too hard across it when drying myself. He wanted me to make a doctor’s appointment there and then, but I reminded him it was Sunday and the surgery was closed. He immediately began cranking his mood up, wanting me to go to A&E, or call out a doctor. I knew he was worried. I too was concerned. The ugly word cancer wasn’t spoken, but it hung on the air like a threat of thunder, dimming the sunshine. However, I wasn’t going to get hysterical nor was I going to let him get hysterical. I firmly told him there was nothing to be gained by bothering the emergency medical services unnecessarily and I would make an appointment on Monday morning.
I half expected my GP, Doctor Sharp, to tell me it was nothing at all and it would clear up on its own, but he didn’t. He spent quite some time humming and hawing and prodding at my shoulder. Then he picked up the phone and made arrangements for me to be referred, as a priority, to a Dermatologist at the hospital. I should have an appointment within the week. They’ll most likely remove it and do a biopsy.
I keep telling Twinks that the chances of it being something sinister are slim and that removing it is just a precaution, but he’s still worrying himself sick. I found him surfing the web at two o clock this morning looking at grotesque pictures of advanced, terminal melanomas, with tears pouring down his cheeks. I took him back to bed and forbade him to look at anything like that again. It was only feeding his anxiety. I would let him know as and when there was
cause to worry, and how much he was allowed to worry. He gave a sharp intake of breath and indignantly told me that I might think I was lord and master of all I surveyed, but he’d bloody worry if he wanted to and I had no right, and no authority, to tell him not to. I conceded that point, but told him I had every right to dictate how he expressed his worry, and scaring himself silly by reading about worst case scenarios was not was of them. At least making him cross with me stopped him crying and gave him something else to focus on. It was a horribly hot and sticky night, but despite that, he wanted to cuddle me and lay in my arms muttering darkly until he fell asleep again. I lay awake, indulging a few of my own anxieties until it was time to get up. I’ll feel better once I know exactly what I have to contend with.
I’m going to go and close the bedroom blinds, put on the ceiling fan and sort out some videos for Twinkles and I to watch in bed. I’ll open a bottle of chilled wine and put out some snacks and hopefully take his mind off things for a while.
14th July 2005:
My Salad Lives
I had one of the most revolting and horrible experiences of my entire life today, and it was all thanks to him in frocks. My skin is still crawling and my blood pressure has yet to equalise. Let me explain. I’ve taken a few days holiday from work. After dropping Twinks at the shop this morning I came back home and pottered around doing some housework, catching up on the ironing, washing the car, that sort of thing. Incidentally, Twinkles is very grumpy about me being off when he isn’t. I had the devil’s own job getting him out of bed this morning. He feigned a headache and wanted me to phone him in sick. I know when he’s got a genuine headache, and I was having none of it. I cheered him up by showering with him. It cheered me up as well, there’s nothing like warm running sex for relieving anxiety and stress.
Before dropping him off at work I gave him strict instructions not to phone the hospital to demand when my appointment would be (he’s called them nine times to date, they’re getting a tad annoyed) Anyway, getting back to the incident, I finished the ironing and put it all away, then went to get some lunch. We had salad last night for dinner and I decided to finish the leftovers of that with some canned tuna. So, there I was, reading my book, happily munching away on my salad when, to my surprise, nay, astonishment, I glanced at my plate and noted that the salad appeared to be slightly vibrating. This puzzled me somewhat, after all it hadn’t been vibrating yesterday evening. I peered more closely and poked around with my fork, and what I discovered in amongst the greenery caused my hair to stand on end. My salad was alive, and not with the sound of music, but with scores of maggots. I rocketed to my feet so abruptly I overturned the chair. Abandoning all propriety I spat the contents of my mouth onto the floor, along with some pretty strong expletives, before dashing to the sink and heaving. Oh God was I sick, and it had maggots in it. I’d consumed maggots! I was sicker still, fighting a powerful impulse to run around the house screaming out my revulsion.
Eventually, when I stopped heaving and rinsing my mouth again and again and shuddering, I turned my thoughts as to how the damn things had got into the salad. It had been freshly prepared the night before. All the salad vegetables had been washed prior to use, they had been clean, so where had they come from and why was there so many of them? One or two would be bad enough, but dozens! Worse was to come. Opening the fridge I discovered upon inspection that everything was infested with maggots. It was the most disgusting sight I’ve ever seen. They were in the butter, the cheese, the cooked meats, the salad drawer, they were wiggling on the steak I’d been planning to barbecue for dinner. My stomach rose into my throat once again. How the hell had it happened? A plastic box, an unfamiliar plastic box, on the top shelf of the fridge provided the clue. It had obviously once been the home of the maggot hoards that were now colonising our refrigerator; a few less adventurous specimens were still huddled in its corners.
TWINKLES! I actually yelled his name, even though he wasn’t in the house. I phoned the shop and politely asked if I might have a word with him. I asked what he knew about the mysterious plastic box in the fridge that had once been filled with live maggots. He asked me what I meant by ‘once’ and I explained. There was a long silence followed by some odd muffled noises. I spoke very quietly into the receiver, ‘if you’re laughing, Jonathan Lane, I swear I will drive over there and I will spank you until you can’t sit down.’ He claimed he was gagging in sympathy for my ordeal. Little liar.
It turns out they were Lulu’s maggots. His fridge apparently gave up the ghost yesterday and he asked Twinkles if he would store the beasties in our fridge to keep them fresh until the weekend, when he’s due to go fishing with his dad. Twinkles didn’t mention it to me, because he thought I might object, as I was renowned for being a bit finicky about things like that. He didn’t think I’d notice if he kept the box at the back of the fridge. I asked how the lid came to be off the box? Twinks confessed that he took it off this morning, to give the maggots a bit of air. Despite the fact that they were repulsive, it bothered him that they might suffocate with the lid on, even though Lulu said they wouldn’t, it just kept them dormant. He’d meant to put the lid back on before going to work, but forgot. He was sorry. I said that we would talk about it this evening. He asked was I annoyed with him? I said no of course not. I was bloody livid! I had eaten maggots. I had actually consumed living, wriggling things. That horrific detail aside, it was discourteous to store something like that without informing me. At least if I’d known about them I could have stopped him interfering with the container. He said he was sorry for not telling me and had I heard anything from the hospital? I said no, and he said did I want him to phone them again? I said no and he might have changed the subject, but I hadn’t and we’d be talking further this evening.
As it happened, the letterbox clattered the moment I put the phone down. The post had arrived. Once upon a time, you could guarantee that your mail was delivered early on a morning, in time for you to read over your breakfast before leaving for work. It can arrive anytime now, mid morning, mid afternoon, anytime but when you actually want it. My appointment for the dermatologist was in among the usual circulars. It’s tomorrow morning at nine-thirty. I called Twinks once again to put his mind at rest. He was relieved and happy that a Specialist was seeing me.
He wasn’t happy with the talk we had when I brought him home this evening. I made it very clear that I did not appreciate his lack of respect and courtesy in agreeing to store the bait without at least seeking my opinion. I appreciated still less munching on maggots and having them freely roaming around the fridge. This was yet another example of him being careless and acting without thinking. It cost us money. Everything in the fridge would have to be thrown away.
As punishment I told him that he was to clean out the fridge and get rid of all trace of the revolting creatures. He was dismayed to say the least, saying they were Lulu’s rotten maggots and he should come round and clear them out. As he had been the one to liberate them I felt it only fair that he recapture them. He let out a screech when he saw them clustered thickly over things, saying tearfully, that he couldn’t touch them, he’d be sick. I gave him a choice, he could do it with or without a sore bottom, but he was going to do it. I handed him a pair of rubber gloves and some bin bags and bade him get on with the task. It took him ages to clean them out and he did it with much grimacing and groaning, but to give him his due, he did a thorough job, checking and cleaning every last inch of the fridge interior. He didn’t want any dinner. He didn’t think he’d ever eat again after what he’d seen and handled. I could empathise with that. The mere thought of food set my stomach churning.
Afterwards I took a dominant stance, telling him he was to go straight up to bed and no television. He was most put out, as he had plans for this evening. Lulu was coming over to help him cut out a new dress pattern. I said he would have to rearrange it for another evening. He said I was being unnecessarily harsh, but I didn’t agree. In my opinion he needed some quiet time to thin
k about the consequences of his careless actions, not only in terms of financial cost to us both, but in terms of the consequences to himself when I called him on them. I reminded him that in a matter of weeks, he had flooded the kitchen and hall, shattered several light bulbs along with a glass shade and broken the television. I warned him, any more incidents stemming from carelessness and I would penalise him more severely. With the look of a man deeply wronged, he called Lulu and apologised for cancelling their plans. He explained that I was unwell on account of greedily scoffing all of Lu’s maggots and they’d soured my disposition. I could hear the screams from across the other side of the room. Grabbing the phone, I hastily explained the truth, telling Lulu that I would reimburse the cost of the bait, but would not give consideration to the possibility of keeping any replacements in our fridge.
Oh well, at least maggots are high in protein and low in fat. They shouldn’t cause me too much harm. I just hope the ones I swallowed are dead, and there’s nothing wriggling around inside me. Going to the bathroom should be interesting in the morning, as will going to the hospital. I must confess to a slight nervousness in both respects.
15th July 2005:
Grave Considerations
Twinkles accompanied me to the hospital this morning. Even though it was an early appointment it was very busy and there was a fair amount of waiting around to be done. First one reception area, then another, then another, so it was good to have his company in one respect. However, he can’t resist sifting through the piles of magazines that are usually to be found in such places. There’s always some article that catches his eye, and believe me, that can mean trouble. This morning he read an article that claimed tomatoes contain an anti-aging enzyme and proceeded to entertain the entire waiting room by reading it aloud to me. To my dismay he then picked up a magazine aimed at pregnant women and began to flick through it with great interest, before settling on a feature about cracked nipples in lactating mothers. Whipping out his cell phone he announced he was going to call Karen and ask her what state her nipples were in, and offer advice, as gleaned from the article he’d just read. I reminded him that cell phones were not to be used in the hospital and he could just keep it switched off. Before I could stop him he tore the page out of the magazine and folded it up to take home with him, along with a coupon for a free sample of nipple salve. I sharply told him to leave the magazines intact. He was just reaching for a pamphlet on the treatment of anal fissures and haemorrhoids when, to my utter relief, a nurse called my name.