by Swan, Tarn
So loud was the music and so engrossed were they in the routine that none of then noticed me standing in the kitchen doorway. Kevin clocked me first and let out a yell, “oh my God, people, there's a real live man in the house!”
Twinks shrieked that I was his and abandoning Lulu bounced off the table, heading towards me. Holding him at arms length so he couldn’t get emulsion all over my best suit I requested an explanation.
Necessity rather than whim had brought about the decorating project. The kitchen had fallen foul of a freak accident. For once it wasn't Twinkles fault. It was Priscilla’s.
Twinks had put on a bit of a spread for the ladies attending the makeup and knicker party, booze and food make for more relaxed and inclined to spend guests. The buffet centrepiece was a chocolate fondue using the chocolate fountain mum bought him last Christmas. He'd set it up and had poured the luscious melted chocolate in the reservoir ready to be pumped up the central tube and cascade down the tiers, only nothing happened when he switched it on. Prissy had a look at it, tampered and adjusted and got it working to rounds of applause.
People were happily dipping their nibbles in the flow of warm chocolate when something went wrong with the mechanism again, only instead of not working at all it went into overdrive. Chocolate got pumped up the central channel at speed, exploding out of the top like molten lava. Everyone dived for cover as liquid chocolate filled the air. It hit the walls, the ceiling, the cupboards, the floor and the windows.
By the time the machine was brought under control the kitchen looked like a mudslide disaster area. Mum said she had warned Twinks not to let Priscilla near it, as he'd ruined her bloody toaster and kettle with his tampering. He was generally renowned for turning harmless kitchen appliances into lethal weapons.
Clean up operations were not completely successful, the molten chocolate left greasy stains on the walls and ceiling. Twinks decided a complete face-lift was required. He's been hankering after a kitchen colour change for a while so I suspect the catastrophe had a silver lining as far as he was concerned.
I could hardly be cross in the circumstances. I got changed, loaded a paint pad and joined in the Sha-la-la's. I must admit the kitchen does look nice and fresh in its new livery of lavender and soft cream.
Time to close the diary. Twinks has a headache and is heading upstairs for a lie down. He wants me to massage his feet and temples with aromatic oils to soothe him.
11th September 2006: Voodoo Barbie
The nights are drawing in, as my nana always used to say at this time of year. Early mornings and evenings have a cool autumnal edge to them. It was gorgeous yesterday though, very warm and bright and best of all, my eye had stopped twitching. What a relief.
Twinkles and I were invited over to Brian's house for Sunday lunch. The royal one and I had a bit of a contretemps before we set off when he broached the subject of alcohol. Brian, as well as being a great cook has a fine wine collection and always provides a delicious selection of wines along with dinner. Twinks wanted me to lift the alcohol ban I imposed on Saturday morning, so he could fully partake of the occasion.
I felt it would be mean to make him abstain altogether in the circumstances, but on the other hand I didn't want to capitulate on discipline. I made what I considered to be a fair compromise. He could have a glass of wine with dinner so he didn't feel at odds with everyone else, but after that he was to move onto mineral water or fruit juice. He tried to bump the quota up. I refused. In my opinion and taking into account the size of Brian's wine glasses I was being exceptionally generous. It was one or none. He wasn’t best suited, but didn’t argue the point.
Brian had a few other friends over. It was a pleasant afternoon. We got home around seven and this time our mutual friend Dick proved himself to be very much alive, willing and able.
I have to report that Twinks is a bit jittery at the moment on account of it being ‘daddy longlegs season’ again or to give them their proper name, crane fly season. My nerves are set and waiting for a higher incidence of insect alerts. They really freak him out. He can't stand the way they emerge out of the ground in clouds, or the noise they make as their long skinny legs rub together or the way they float and bob about, or really anything about them at all. They are dingly-dangly horrors as far as he’s concerned.
Gabby called by this evening and sat chatting with us as we were making dinner. She's back at school now and not at all keen on her new teacher who keeps telling her to chatter less and work more. Twinks scandalised me and delighted her by advising her to turn one of her Barbie dolls into a voodoo facsimile of the teacher. She could jab pins in it as a stress reliever. He said it had always worked for him.
I was in process of discouraging Miss Gabrielle from even thinking about taking his advice when a large crane fly flew into the kitchen via the open back door. Twinks promptly flew out to a place of safety, holing up in the living room. Deftly catching the insect in cupped hands Gabby offered to pull off its legs in order to appease Twinkles. I told her he would much prefer her to just put it outside and close the door on it.
Children can be so thoughtlessly cruel and girls are no exception. It’s a myth about them being the gentler sex. I remember my sister Maryann pulling wings and legs off crane flies. She also used to creep up on me and stuff them down the neck of my t-shirt, safe in the knowledge that should I do the same back to her, I'd get a rollicking from dad along with a clap on the behind. My dad was a strict parent with an old fashioned belief that girls were sugar and spice and all things nice and as such had to be treated with gentle respect.
I have to confess I'm not too keen on crane flies either, probably due to my wicked little sister and her antics. I was glad Gabby was on hand to evict the thing. It saved me a job I thoroughly dislike. When she went home I had stern words with him in frocks regarding encouraging little girls to take up pagan rituals and not very nice ones at that. It was a thoroughly irresponsible thing to say to a child even in jest. Such things could land her in serious bother if she tried them.
He took a huff and called me a strait-laced old woman, telling me to stop fussing, as it wasn't like he'd told her to start ripping the heads off cockerels and cursing folk.
I suppose I'd better go and see what I can do to de-huff him. He’s watching telly looking like he's just swallowed a cup of old sick.
14th September 2006: A Plague Upon Us
I spent most of last evening pirouetting and leaping around the living room and kitchen like a ballet dancer on ecstasy. No I haven't got the showbiz bug. I've got Twinkles and a plague of bloody daddy longlegs. I have never known there to be so many of the wretched things. Apparently there’s a nationwide epidemic of the creatures. You just have to open a window or door and clouds of them float in, drawn by the light. Hasn’t anyone told the daft creatures not to go into the light?
Twinkles huddled on the couch clutching a cushion with the air of a man under siege, his eyes and ears working like crane fly detectors. He'd give a shriek pointing dramatically, as he spotted one or more of them. “There’s one over there, Tarn, by the lamp, near the picture, on the ceiling, on the wall!”
The thing is he won’t let me swat and kill them with a rolled up newspaper. I have to put them outside, alive. They're hard to catch. I had to stretch and swoop, leap and jump. I was shattered and no sooner did I evict one group than another fleet would pull into port.
I had goosebumps on my goosebumps, because as I've said, while I don't get hysterical I don’t care for them either. I was all for plugging in the Dyson hoover and just sucking them up with the hose as and when.
He was appalled. "Tarn Swan! I never thought you could be so cruel." So, end of that plan. I had to carry on acting like a bouncer at the ugly bug ball chucking out unwelcome visitors.
The last straw came when we retired to bed. He walked into the bedroom ahead of me, turning on the light. He gave a gasp and immediately hurled himself backwards onto the landing, saying in an indignant voice that there wer
e two daddy long legs on the wall above the bed and they were shagging! They were too. I shuddered as I looked at them. They were definitely copulating.
He wanted me to shut the door and let them have their privacy until they were done. I said if he thought I was sitting on the landing waiting for two big flies to finish fucking, he could think again. I was tired. I wanted my bed. I bounced them, two for the price of one.
Once the deed was done I got into bed and barked at him to get his phobic little arse in beside me before he spotted any more bugs, as I'd had enough for one night.
I forgot how tired I was when he flung himself on top of me and said he loved it when I was ruthless. It really turned him on. We could have taught those daddy longlegs a thing or two about shagging.
15th September 2006: Fans and Fame
It was cool and misty first thing this morning, the air sulking against the windowpanes. The year is definitely turning. I experienced a twinge of sadness at the thought as I always do. There's something fearful in a primordial kind of way about the shortening of the days. It makes you aware of time passing and how you can't escape the oncoming darkness. My flash of seasonal depression was compounded when on descending the stairs I discovered a familiar envelope insulting the doormat. My heart sank at sight of it.
Our number one fan was obviously back in town and had paid us a stealthy early visit. It's been ages since we had any correspondence, if such poisonous little notes can be called correspondence. When they stop for a while we hope the matter has finally concluded. I always vow I'm not going to read the letter, that I'm going to shove it out of sight to be kept as evidence, but somehow I just can't resist opening the envelope to see what nastiness it contains.
This time to our great surprise the envelope contained an old page from a local free newspaper. It showed photographs of various happy couples on their wedding day, including us under the caption ‘gay couple tie the knot in colourful Civil Ceremony.’
Why did we have to be labelled as the ‘gay’ couple? The other couples weren't labelled as ‘heterosexual’ couples. They just had their names printed. Why couldn't our caption have read ‘Tarn Swan and Jonathan Lane tie the knot in colourful Civil Ceremony.’ I'm sure most folk could work out from the picture and names that we were gay. Such labelling serves to keep gay people segregated. I mean the paper wouldn’t be able to get away with pointing out the colour of people’s skin, so why should they be allowed to point out people’s sexuality. Anyway, I digress.
The page was a special feature to celebrate the centenary of the Registry Office building and to promote its recent extension and refurbishment. Neither Twinks nor I recalled sanctioning involvement in such a thing. I phoned the office as soon as it opened to ask what they knew about it. I was informed that everyone who had a civil union that day had been approached about being featured in the celebration article. We'd been given a leaflet along with our general information package and had given our consent to be featured.
It was news to me. My brain must have been out to lunch that day. Twinks said he had a vague recollection of something being said, but his mind was so busy with other things it hadn't really lodged. I suppose it solved the mystery of the wandering snap-happy photographer getting under everyone's feet. He must have been working for the paper.
Twinkles was gutted to think we'd been briefly famous and had missed it. He spent his lunch hour today trying to contact the Gazette Offices to track down a back copy of the paper. We seldom read the local freebie ad sponsored paper. More often than not it ends up pristine in the recycling box along with the plethora of other leaflets that arrive with it.
Of course I got the blame. Brownie points were deducted for my chucking things away before he had a chance to peruse them properly. I crisply pointed out that in this instance we were away on honeymoon when the paper was delivered, so if he should blame anyone, he should blame my mother. She must have chucked it in the recycling when she came by to pick up post and check the house.
He took me at my word and phoned her to give her an ear bashing. She told him she wasn't bloody psychic nor did she have x-ray vision, so how could she have known what was in the paper, seeing as she never looked through it.
She upset him further by sweetly informing him she hadn't actually chucked it in the recycling box. She had passed it to a neighbour who keeps ferrets. He lines the cages with newspapers. I was promptly reprimanded for having a mother who allowed her son's wedding photo to be shit on by frigging ferrets.
Mum then chewed my ear off and reprimanded me for not keeping my bitchy little wife in order. I reprimanded myself for being unfortunate and careless enough to be born to my mother and espoused to Twinkles. Honestly, they drive me mad sometimes.
Why bother seeking out the paper when we had the article courtesy of our kind friend? Well, they had kind of spoiled it by mutilating our faces and pasting words over it decreeing our union to be an insult to the decent people who had married that day. It was an affront to God for which we would pay a terrible price of suffering in hell.
I feel almost sorry for the perpetrator. What a terrifying, vicious, miserable view of God they have. They see no love, mercy or tenderness, just prejudice, hatred, judgement and painful tortures. Why do such people think they're right and moral? They don't seem to get that if God made all creation then he also made gay people. We are as much God's work as they are, only a damn sight more tolerant. People who hijack religion, in whatever form, to justify hateful persecution are the real affront to God.
We shoved the note in the drawer along with the others and tried to forget about it. We've stopped reporting them to the police now because all they do is refer us to the victim support people, who are very nice, but a sympathetic ear doesn't really solve the ongoing problem for us. What can't be cured must be endured, that's another saying my nana used to trot out on a regular basis, usually to me when I was moaning about being made to do something I didn't want to do by my parents.
It being Friday night Twinks is out. I stayed in as I had some work to finish up and also because my eyes are sore. I suspect another attack of conjunctivitis coming on. I've started on some drops to try and nip it in the bud. I told his ladyship to be home by one-thirty at the latest and not to drink too much. We had a bit of a rumpus before he went out because he wanted to wear his blonde Cher wig and I said not likely, not without me there to keep him in check. He’s always more bitchy when he's blonde and when he's long blonde he can be a right cow. He’d pick a fight with that other blonde fiend Natalie for sure. I didn’t want to take a phone call from Brian saying Twinks was engaged in some savage catfight again. We came to an amicable arrangement. He went out as a brunette and I didn't spank him.
19th September 2006: Bed Rest
We’re both on holiday from work this week. We planned to do a last minute bargain break abroad somewhere or maybe go to London for a theatre break, but it hasn't worked out. He woke up feeling decidedly out of sorts yesterday morning. By lunchtime he was feverish, nauseous and complaining of abdominal pain when he tried to pass water. I whisked him off to the doctor who diagnosed a bladder infection and prescribed antibiotics.
He's on bed rest and the only thing he's interested in is how far away I am. The only thing I'm interested in is getting his temperature down and seeing him without a look of pain on his face. Looks like being a quiet stay at home holiday for us.
21st September 2006: Hospital
Twinkles was admitted to hospital in the early hours of this morning. I’ve just got home from there now. The nurses shooed me away saying he was too sedated to miss me and I needed to have a rest too. I think basically I was getting under their feet and on their nerves with my constant questions. The bladder infection spread to his kidneys. He was too out of it to even be aware of the doctor putting IV tubes into the backs of his hands and taking blood. He's scheduled for a kidney x-ray some time this morning.
I was going to try for a nap, but I can't settle to it. I'm too worried.
I need to be doing something. I'm going to have a wash and shave, get changed and then I'll phone mum and dad to let them know about Twinks. I'd better call Lulu too and then I'm going back to the hospital. He’ll want me there.
26th September 2006: Near Death
They say that as you get older you attend more funerals than weddings and christenings and as far as this year is concerned the point seems proven. I think I've said before that I always feel it should rain for a funeral, as a matter of respect for those grieving. The sun shining from a clear blue sky and birds singing, as it was yesterday morning, seem almost a mockery. How dare life go brazenly on when for one soul it has quieted forever?
It's hard to put into words my emotions as I viewed Twinkles lying in the grave. Numbness, shock, horror, but uppermost I think was vexation, sheer pathological vexation coupled with excruciating embarrassment when he began floundering around shrieking my name in panic. I had to jump down on top of the coffin to help him out of the grave. I honestly wished the ground would just swallow us as I heaved and shoved him to the top and then clambered out after him under the stern and unforgiving eye of the Minister and other mourners.
I'd told Twinks to wear sensible shoes for the funeral, but did he listen? Did he heck! He teetered up the steep side of a Yorkshire hill wearing spindly heeled sandals and of course he had to get too close to the edge of the grave when he was tossing in his peck of dirt. He lost his balance when his heels snagged in the green cloth they put around an open grave.
You have no idea what it feels like seeing your partner plummet into a six-foot hole in the ground and land with a thud on top of your father's great uncle's coffin. Several of the mourners seemed more concerned for the brass plaque on the coffin lid than they were for poor Twinks, fearing he might have scratched it with his stiletto heels. I ask you! It’s not like the occupant of the coffin would notice.