Swan Songs

by Swan, Tarn

  9th November 2005:

  Chainsaw Mascara

  By and large, as a certain Ms Vida Boheme might say, I’ve had the day from Gay Hell. Just way, way too much Stardust!

  To begin with he woke up to discover something throbbing on his lower lip and it had nothing to do with frisky advances from me. It was a cold sore, or a harpy as he calls them. We had the usual high drama. He had AIDS. It was the first sign. He was going to die. I must have given him it. Who had I been sleeping with behind his back? The high drama was followed by a low tantrum when he discovered we were out of zovirax cream.*I* must have used it all. What kind of selfish Top used the last of the cold sore cream and didn’t replace it…gripe, moan, complain, whine. I pointed out that I didn’t suffer from cold sores and therefore had no use for zovirax cream. He flung another fit saying it was unfair that I never got them. Why did he get all the nasty things like chickenpox and acne and cold sores? He couldn’t possibly be seen outside with a hideously disfiguring facial appurtenance and he was staying in bed. Talk about wild exaggeration. You’d be forgiven for thinking he’d woken up to find a tribal plate inserted in his lip from the way he was carrying on. You could barely see the thing. Fortunately it was his day off work, so I could escape to my own place of work a little bit earlier than usual leaving him nursing his pulsing appurtenance under the bedcovers.

  He rang me for a chat around mid-morning to bring me up to date on the state of his developing cold sore. He’d humanely destroyed all his lipsticks in case they harboured the virus and would re-infect him. Lulu was coming round later with his cosmetic collection and he would purr-chase some new ones from him. He also felt I should know that him giving head was off the menu. It stood to reason that should he give me a horrid little harpy down there then I would give him it back in a place inaccessible to the application of zovirax. Teddy had called and invited us to a bit of a do at their place on Thursday evening (read my joy) to officially launch their brand new state of the art designer kitchen. Could we at least buy some new floor covering for our kitchen? I said no. He said it was little wonder that he suffered from harpy attacks. It was the stress of living with my parsimony and rang off in a huff.

  He soon got over his huff and called me again at lunchtime. I could tell immediately by the pitch of his voice that he was highly excited. I braced myself. He imparted the reason for his excitement and my blood ran cold. He’d decided to have a change of career. He was giving up his job at the jewellers to become a childminder. What did I think of that, wasn’t it absolutely brilliant? I almost choked on my sandwich and once I finished coughing I asked him to explain this turn of events. Karen had paid a visit with Dominic. She revealed that she had begun a quest to find a suitable nursery or childminder for him because her yearlong maternity sabbatical is nearing its end. She’s been humming and hawing for a while over making the decision to return to her secretarial post, torn between material considerations, a need to do something more mentally stretching and a natural desire to be with her son. I would welcome her back. Her stand-in, Claire, is a really nice woman and efficient enough, but she lacks Karen’s organisational abilities and initiative. And besides that I missed the banter I’d shared with Karen. Twinkles turning childminder was another matter. I asked him to take me through the process that had led to the making of this radical decision.

  He had decided that he and only he was fit to care for our godson in the event of Karen returning to work full time. No one else could be trusted. The things you read in the papers indicated that most childminders were more like the evil child-catcher from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, and most nurseries were just scaled down prisons and a source of emotional and sensory deprivation for their little inmates. Thus he would be Dominic’s childminder, sorted.

  I cautiously asked if Karen knew of his plan and he said not yet, because he’d only thought of it after she left. He was sure she’d be thrilled to have her problem so easily solved. I took a deep breath and did some prompt bud nipping. I didn’t think it was a good idea for a number of reasons. I told him we’d talk about it properly when I got home. There was a pause and then he carried on as if he hadn’t heard what I’d said. I was informed that he was already drafting his resignation for work and he’d hand it in on Friday, a months notice as required. My patience expired and I told him that he could just un-draft it, because he wasn’t giving up his job for a bloody silly, impulsive pie in the sky idea about being a childminder. If he stopped to think for a second he’d see why it wasn’t a feasible idea. He took offence because I’d sworn at him and banged the phone down. I regretted snapping at him, but honestly he’s like a runaway train sometimes. The only thing you can do is use brute force to derail him before he ploughs onto disaster.

  I picked up some flowers and a bar of his favourite chocolate on the way home by way of apology for my short-temper. I knew I was well out of favour when I got home to find him attired in an outfit I particularly dislike…I’m talking hatred here. It’s a very short, flared pink gingham dress that reveals pink frilly knickers. He wears it with a pair of long purple striped over the knee socks and hiking boots. To complete the ensemble he wears this sort of stretchy headband thing with a big pink bow on it. It makes him look like a little boy playing dress up in his big sister’s clothes and his dad’s footwear and it makes me feel like a paedophile for being partner to someone who looks about ten. Not that there seemed much chance of fun and frolics taking place between us. After giving my peace offerings a disdainful glance, he turned his face away from the kiss I was aiming at his cheek and clunked off into the kitchen looking like a cross dressing rambler who had just been denied permission to cross a farmer’s field. I followed taking my spurned gifts along for the ride.

  I stopped short when I saw what he’d done in the kitchen. Despite my having told him numerous times that we were not redecorating the kitchen again this year he’d bought assorted test pots of paint and daubed defiant squares of colour all over the kitchen walls. Giving me a tight smile he said he rather liked the sweet lavender, what did I think? I coldly told him that I thought he was well out of order. Sticking the chocolate on the table and the flowers in some water, I went out to the garden shed and rummaged around until I located the leftover paint from the last time we’d painted the kitchen. Taking it back inside I told him that he could damn well use it to go over the patches he’d made. If they didn’t cover successfully then not only would I pull down his knickers and turn his bottom a shade of hot pink, I would also give serious consideration to drowning him in a vat of emulsion and I wouldn’t be fussy about what colour it was.

  Aside from wall daubing, he’d been busy. He’d done half the ironing, his half, leaving all my stuff in the basket and he’d cooked dinner. He banged the plate down in front of me, saying, ‘there you are, dear, eat it all up, it’s good for you.’ I stared at it in revulsion. I loathe and despise liver. I simply cannot eat the disgusting stuff and he knows it. I said so and he snapped my head off saying he couldn’t keep up with my fussy food fads. I was always complaining and I never appreciated anything he did or liked any of his ideas. I was always putting him down, undermining his confidence, trampling on his dreams, stifling his creativity. I was insensitive to his needs, deaf to his desires and cruelly dismissive of his feelings and I always made him feel STUPID. Removing my plate before I could at least eat the vegetables he briskly scraped the contents on top of his own dinner then scraped the whole lot into the bin. Slapping a loaf and a packet of ham onto the table in front of me he told to make a bloody sandwich if what he’d cooked wasn’t good enough. Hurling open the freezer he extracted a tub of coffee ice cream, snatched up the bar of chocolate I’d bought, gave me a filthy look and clogged out of the kitchen with them. That was Tarn told!

  I guessed from the remark about me making him feel stupid that he’d given the idea some logical thought, realised the impracticality of it and was holding me responsible for the resulting feelings. I made a sandwich and poured myself a glas
s of milk, which I took into the living room. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor scooping up ice cream with the bar of chocolate while watching Hollyoaks. I sat on the couch and asked if he wanted to talk. He said no and I wasn’t getting any of his ice cream either. I said I didn’t want any, not after he’d spread his cold sore germs into it and really I wished he’d use a bowl instead of eating it from the tub. He snapped that he hadn’t thought about that, but then he was incredibly frigging STUPID so what could I expect. Then he burst into tears. Wresting the ice cream from his hands I pulled him up off the floor and onto my lap. There was a struggle as he resisted the cuddle I was trying to give him, saying he didn’t want one. I played the Top card and won, telling him if he preferred he could go over my lap instead of on it and he relaxed. I know it was underhanded cheating in its way. If he doesn’t want a cuddle why the hell should he have to have one? But the thing is he does want one, he just doesn’t want to admit that he does. Thus my playing the authority card has the desired effect for both of us, fulfilling my need to comfort him and his need to be comforted.

  I apologised for being sharp with him on the phone. I did not think he was stupid, he knew that and if he honestly wanted a change of career then of course he had that right. All I asked was that he thought it through sensibly and thus avoided doing something he would live to regret. The thing with Twinks is that he gets all fired up about things and steams ahead without actually looking ahead. Then when he hits a hurdle not only does he feel disappointed, he also feels foolish for getting excited in the first place, especially if he’s shared his grand plan with someone, even if that someone is me. Karen earns a good salary as a secretary, but she could never afford to pay him enough to cover the salary he would lose by giving up his job. It wouldn’t be worth her while working if she tried and even if he looked after a dozen kids at a childminder’s going rate it wouldn’t begin to cover the loss. In fact it wouldn’t keep him in false eyelashes and lipstick. That aside, he isn’t a qualified registered childminder anyway and while he might be great with Dom for a few hours, looking after more than one child for hours on end would stress him to death.

  Despite the fuss he often makes about his job being boring he does like it on the whole. It suits his personality. It’s a small family owned business whose main emphasis is on high quality merchandise and good service, rather than on multiple sales of fashionable throwaway trash. He enjoys advising and chatting to customers in general. He also has a small loyal clientele that think he’s God’s gift and will deal with no other, plus he’s able to express his creativity via designing and dressing the shop windows and display cases. Don, recognising talent when he sees it, gives Twinkles free reign when it comes to displaying the merchandise to advantage. Theirs is not a firm that deals in uniform numbered pads being stuck in the windows and Twinkles’ Christmas themed sets are something of an event in the town.

  As far as work is concerned the main fly in the ointment, aside from having to be there at an uncivilised hour, is the new staff member. Twinks loathes her. At first I thought he was simply annoyed because she’d replaced Barbara. I was of the opinion that he needed to give Pat a fair chance and himself some adjustment time. That said I haven’t warmed to her either. She’s one of those abrasive, critical, fault finding types that never seem to have a good or kind word for anyone and yet have a soaring opinion of their own rightness. She has a need to continually snipe and lecture, putting people right about their failings, as she perceives them. Even the customers don’t escape her need to impose her opinion, and I do mean impose. She doesn’t offer she forces it. She’s a verbal bully. I’ve watched people leave the shop looking like they’ve been mugged after being served by her. I can only think, in an effort to be charitable, that she maybe has some underlying insecurities that result in a desperate need to bolster her ego, even if it’s at the expense of other people’s feelings and needs. Really she ought to be working for a big company that can absorb her a bit. In a small environment she just overwhelms and demoralises, a bit like a crude oil slick…hmm, methinks I’m getting decidedly bitchy in my old age. Twinks has assigned her a drag nickname. He calls her Miss Chainsaw Mascara, the woman who can’t open her mouth without carving someone up. Work these days is like home used to be when he was a kid, a place where he feels guilty, ill at ease and all wrong about himself. That doesn’t mean that he sits there taking it as she dishes it. She told him she didn’t suffer fools lightly, so he said looking in mirrors must be a hell of a problem for her.

  He admitted that he’d got carried away with the notion of being Dominic’s childminder. He’d enjoyed playing with him so much that when Karen had mentioned she was looking for a carer, it just got stuck in his mind as a thing that he could do. He also admitted that it was probably his way of looking for an escape route because Miss Chainsaw was getting him down. She was getting everyone down, even the customers. Some had taken to phoning to check when her day off was, so they could enter the shop safe in the knowledge that they wouldn’t have to endure being corrected at every turn. Don is apparently building up the courage to have a word with her. I don’t envy him the task.

  He apologised about the paint and the liver, he knew he’d been deliberately naughty there and I could punish him if I liked. I said that was very gracious of him and promptly obliged by telling him that his outfit was totally banned. It was coming off and going in a charity bag. I’d gotten him down to just the frilly knickers, socks and hiking boots when the doorbell sounded heralding the arrival of sales lady Lulu. Considering he’s a stage artiste his timing is lousy. Looking Twinks up and down he said, ‘I hate to break it to you, old cock, but haven’t you heard, the Baby Jane look is dead.’ Twinks made a rude noise accompanied by an even ruder gesture and thudded upstairs to get a robe. Lulu grinned and licked his finger marking a score on the air, then, sensing a sales window, he opened his case and invited me to peruse his Christmas cards. A busy executive such as myself needed to be getting Christmas organised before the rush started. He’d give me ten percent discount if I purchased three packs or more and reminded me that he took cheques and all major credit cards. He has to the world’s first transvestite Spiv.

  I dutifully bought three packs of cards, plus a pretty bead and shell ankle bracelet and some sparkling nail polish to put away for Twinkles’ Christmas stocking. I make one up every year filling it with lots of silly, pretty things and he adores it. He never had one when he was little because his foul grandfather didn’t believe in such things.

  He spent a happy half hour or so discussing lipstick shades with Lu and I got drafted in to pay for the ones he chose, as he had no cash on him. He’d meant to pay a visit to the mini bank, but didn’t fancy being seen out with a lumpy lip.

  I reckon I’ve sated my journaling lust for one evening. I feel in need of some space, so I’ve arranged to go out for a quiet drink with Brian. I’ve told Twinkles that I expect the patches on the kitchen wall to be painted over by the time I get back. It shouldn’t take him long.

  12th November 2005:

  Father Christmas

  I enjoy my Saturdays. I can potter about the house or wander around the shops. I can read or watch television and all in glorious mundane peacefulness with no high or even medium and low drama. This morning I pottered and did my half of the ironing. I had a chat with Gabby who called round to see if she could borrow Twinkles’ pink fluffy mules because her friends were coming round to play drag queens with her and she wanted to look better than they did. Twinkle’s influence is certainly shining through there. I gently said no. I didn’t think it would be right for me to loan out Twinkles’ possessions without his say so. He is very possessive of his possessions, especially his beloved mules. He always hides them if he knows she’s coming around. She accepted my refusal, but looked so tragically crestfallen in the way that only children can that I felt sorry for her. I suddenly had an idea and hunted out the original pair of fluffy mules, the ones that had fallen victim to Twinkles’ temper
and suffered a broken heel as a result. I didn’t see any harm in her having them for her dressing up box. I managed to snap the good heel to match the broken one so that she could wear them. Her face was a picture of pure delight and I got a big hug, which made me suddenly appreciate what Father Christmas got out of giving gifts to children.

  I told Twinkles what I’d done when I met him for lunch. He had a bit of a grumble. I should only have given her the broken one to play with because he’d been keeping the good one as a spare. I told him not to be mean, she could hardly dress up with one shoe, unless she was playing a peg leg pirate drag queen. What he doesn’t know is that I’ve got him another pair ready to stand in should tragedy befall his current pair. He adopted a bit of an attitude and said he hoped I hadn’t been poking and snooping through his bloody wardrobe and drawers. I also adopted an attitude and told him to watch his attitude or I’d take him somewhere quiet and adjust it for him. I’d had no need to snoop, as he so rudely put it, because the mules had been under the dressing table where he’d shoved them in temper. He apologised for being grumpy saying Madam Chainsaw had droned all morning and he’d been fighting an impulse to jab a finger in her eye and tell her to shut her snide gob. He didn’t really mind Gabby having the mules and he hoped she had fun wearing them, just like he had fun wearing his.