Foggy's Blog

by Jo Edwards

“Desperate, aren’t they? Can’t get enough people for the cast so I said I’d do it for a couple of pints of snakebite. Get to grope Debbie Cleaver too, so I’m up for it. She won’t be able to do nothing, will she, not in front of an audience!”

  I looked over at pretty Debbie Cleaver who was playing Rizzo. She eyed Barry apprehensively. Tom snapped, “For Christ’s sake! If it’s too much to ask for a bit of hush, we may as well forget the whole bloody thing! We need discipline people, dis-ci-pline. Right. Let’s try another run through of Summer Nights. And I don’t want to see anyone texting during it this time.”

  I jumped up but Barry grabbed my arm. “I’m not hanging around for this shit, Fogster, I just need to borrow a couple of quid. Bit short this month and it’s my little sister’s birthday tomorrow. Got to get her a gift, haven’t I? I’ll feel like a prize wanker if I don’t.”

  “Oh, is she out of rehab now?” I asked, reaching into my trouser pocket for my wallet. Lucky I had been to the bank today!

  “Due out anytime now,” Barry plucked two tenners out of my wallet. “I’m going to get her a bottle of vodka to celebrate. Cheers mate. Laters!”

 

  Mum had gone to bed by the time I got home. There was an empty wine bottle and two glasses by the sink. That was good; she must have had a friend round. She needed cheering up. It was a shame she’d gone to bed already; I wanted to tell her about Dad and see what she thought. I re-read his letter for about the hundredth time. I’d decided I wasn’t going to wait for payday; I was going to send him the money tomorrow. How fortunate that Dazza had made a mistake and given me a loan as well as an overdraft! It must be fate.

  My back ached as I pedalled to work into a gale-force wind. I might have slept awkwardly, or possibly I’d aggravated it when I had to help Big Brenda up after she’d taken a tumble in the dance hall sequence. Luckily, she’d fallen on top of Little Chris, so she didn’t injure herself. Little Chris hadn’t wanted to be helped up. He groaned, “No, just let me lie here. My lungs will start working again soon.”

  Lucy looked lovely today. She had a sort of white crocheted dress on which was quite short and showed off her long brown legs. I tried not to stare but it was impossible not to look at her each time she passed by with George. She came over to speak to Jess and I heard them discussing fake tans while I was talking to a customer about their claim for a burst pipe. Jess said to Lucy, “You look gorgeous, Luce” but when Lucy had gone, I heard Jess mutter, “If you enjoy looking like a tangerine in a doily.” Jess was probably a tiny bit jealous; I couldn’t blame her, I expect she was regretting wearing her baggy black Nirvana sweatshirt when Lucy was looking so incredible. She walked past again. Gosh, her legs were so shapely, she must work out a lot and her arms were all smooth and golden, not at all hairy and no hint of the dreaded bingo wings that Myra was always flapping in my face… “It went off in my hands, it did! Spurted everywhere, up the walls, over the floor, drenched the cat … I just couldn’t control it at all! Mind of its own, exploding like that!” I reluctantly dragged my mind back to my customer and their plumbing problems.

  I spent lunchtime in Boots perusing their range of medications for aching backs. There was a massive selection! An assistant told me that a heat wrap would be the best thing – they were £19.99, but he assured me it would be worth it. I bought one and some Ibuprofen; that should knock the pain on the head. Back at my desk, I found a pencil drawing of a cartoon man with his eyes standing out on springs and his tongue hanging out. It was the character from The Mask! I loved that film. I looked around and saw Lucy watching me. Feeling my face turning red, I smiled at her and sat down, my heart suddenly racing. Was Lucy flirting with me? She was the only one who could draw like that and she knew I liked Jim Carrey films because I’d been so thrilled with my Secret Santa gift of a Dumb and Dumber DVD at Christmas.

  Lucy had done another drawing for me! What should I read into it? Was she waiting for me to make the first move? But I couldn’t - what about Myra? Gosh, it was such a dilemma. Perhaps I should ask Mum for advice, or better still, Auntie Trisha. She knew how women’s minds worked; she was about to marry one, after all. I’d give her a call. I stroked the cartoon drawing, knowing I’d keep it forever.

  Investment opportunity

  Hooray – it was the weekend and I wasn’t on the Saturday rota! I had gone to Myra’s to use her laptop so I could send Dad his money using Internet banking. I couldn’t use my phone because it needed topping up. We’d had a computer at home once but Mum had been forced to sell it to cover an unexpected maintenance fee from Unigate. She said it was compulsory, and was required to keep the Shodsworth milk float on the road. I thought it was scandalous how they could levy a huge fee on us just like that, completely out of the blue. Poor Mum was so upset she had to go away for a few days to get over the shock. It did the trick though; she looked all bronzed and glowing when she came back.

  I’d taken Dad’s letter with me to show Myra, hoping she’d be as excited as I was about the investment opportunity. However, she wasn’t in the best of moods. I arrived to find her in her bedroom, completely surrounded by clothes and shoes. “Look at this pile of bloody rags,” she snarled. “How do they expect anybody to actually live on Job Seekers? How? I’ve nothing to wear to Trisha’s civil partnership, nothing at all. Everyone else will be in new outfits and fancy hair-do’s and I’ll look like I’ve been let loose in the Rowan Hospice shop.”

  I tried to console her by telling her she always looked great but she wailed, “You just say that to shut me up! You never pay me any proper attention, never!”

  “What about your black tunic?” I ventured. “You look a million dollars in that-”

  “Wear a bloody tunic and leggings to a wedding? Are you mad? I’m not a bloody chav! What should we get them for a gift? A plastic gnome from the pound shop? And how are you planning on getting us there? I’m not turning up spread-eagled on your bloody cross bar!”

  I didn’t like to tell her that I had been considering going on my bike. Maybe we could take the bus instead; it was only three changes, after all. I tentatively suggested that she asked for her job back at Superdrug; I was sure the unfortunate incident with the rude customer and the heated curling irons had been forgotten by now.

  She started to cry. “It’s not fair! They’ve given my job to some skinny bitch. It’s typical; there’s so much prejudice against you these days if you’re even the tiniest bit overweight. You know how hard I try with my diet, all that effort I put in to eating healthily, counting my stupid bloody points religiously each day and what’s it all for? I’ve got nothing in my life, nothing. The only thing I had to live for was to play Sandy, and what happened? They gave the part to a toothpick. That Lizzie can never carry off Sandy! Imagine her in that black leather outfit - she’ll look like a piece of fucking thread!”

  I put my arm round her and fed her with fat-free Jaffa Cakes until she calmed down. I told her I had received a bonus at work so I could buy her a new dress. It wasn’t true but she’d get even more distressed if she knew the money was borrowed and anyway, Dad was going to double my investment, so it was a bonus of sorts. She cheered up considerably. “And new shoes and a handbag? And one of those feathery fascinating things that goes on your ‘ed?” I wasn’t sure how far the loan and the overdraft would stretch, but the credit card had arrived this morning so I nodded and said, “Of course!” She gave me a big kiss on the side of my head that almost knocked me off the bed and rushed next door to get the Evans catalogue from her neighbour.

  There was no way I could tell her about Dad and investing in his business now. I had to be quick. Her laptop was on. I minimised Holiday Showdown on ITV Player and logged into my Internet banking. With trembling fingers, I typed in Dad’s account details from his letter and sent him £600 from my current account. I’d been awake all night thinking about how much I should invest and £600 had seemed about right; more than the minimum but not too flashy. It took a matter of seconds. Just think! In
a few weeks I would have £1200 and I’d see Dad! I must be the luckiest person alive. I quickly closed down Internet banking and flicked back into Holiday Showdown. That was a thought; I’d go past the travel agents on the way home and pick up some brochures. Mum and Myra would be thrilled and perhaps Dad would come too; a proper family holiday!

  Mum was sitting at the kitchen table when I arrived home and she rolled her eyes at me. As she leaned over to reach the wine rack, she revealed a dark hunched figure sitting behind her on the rocking chair. Argh! Granny Pattern! She peered at me through bright piercing eyes, which were as black as coal. I shivered. “Well, don’t just stand there, boy! Come and give your Grandma a kiss.” I edged round the table towards her, trying hard to smile as I bent down, getting a strong whiff of Oxfam and feeling her prickly moustache on my cheek.

  “He looks very thin, Pam, haven’t you been feeding him properly? Never been much of a cook, have you? That’s why that husband of yours ran off, you know; went to find himself someone who’d take care of his needs. The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, so they say.”

  “Stick the kettle on Morto,”