Hope and Greenwood

I like Valentine’s Day.

After a corset busting Christmas and the lull that is January, when all good folk are OD-ing on Muller Light, Valentine’s peeps her curls coquettishly around the corner of Love Walk. She flashes her can-can petticoats revealing the thrill of pink net beneath, blows giggling kisses in your face, floating around in a joyous cloud of candy floss.

I am squeezed into the very narrow window at our North Cross Road shop installing our Love Letter window display. My ample derrière is pressed up against the window like an over filled panini in a Breville.

An emergency call has been placed to Rosemary Conley and she is standing on the pavement with a hastily rigged Karaoke system, ‘Buy more Ryvita, Lard Arse,’ she sings to the tune of Demis Roussos’s, Kaftans, Forever and Ever, ‘Eat Cottage Cheese, Wide Load.’

Mr G pulls up outside, too late, obviously, to be of any use to man or beast.

‘Kitten,’ he says, ‘Let’s run away to a remote house in the country where, with the light on and the curtains open, you can practise your Isadora Duncan moves stark bollock naked, high kicking to your heart’s content. It will be so isolated that no one will be able to see you, not even Pervy Derek from next door.’

‘But Pervy Derek,’ I purr, ‘is such a good tipper and I am saving up for lipo.’

It is time for bed in the Greenwood home, I am wearing my new PJs, they are warm and comforting, my hot water bottle is filled, steaming water bubbling over its neck with excitement.  It smells like my childhood.

‘Look,’ Mr G,’ I swoon, pulling back the curtains, ‘it is snowing.
Winter has reached the ice edged, fish freezing pond, the headlong moon beams over the patchwork garden, white as snow, feather white, Daz white. Tomorrow the children will plunge their mittens into the sticky backed snow, laughing in the crisp, bell-pealing air of carol singing, small cats will walk the back garden fjord, print making with their velvet feet. And look there is Mrs Prothero cuckooing towards her ice stiff, cold snapped, frozen Findus Pancake washing, wreaths of breath mist around her curlers, calling for her cats.’

Mr G rattles his Bravissimo catalogue, ‘I hate snow,’ he says.

His majesty Mr. Grumpy show-me-yer-tits Greenwood is on jury service, in December I ask you, for at least 4 weeks, I ask you.

Miss Rosey Apple and I are running the business like a pair of lesbians, no box is unliftable, no pallet truck unpushable and no courier unpunchable.

We are doing pretty well too.

Mr. Greenwood has conveniently forgotten the stresses of Christmas retail. Selfridges last minute plea for help, Fortnum’s errant hamper orders, the packing team pandemic of Tuckyitus (an odious virus caused by packing too many Tuck Shop Jars).

He sallies forth like Reginald Perrin every morning with a copy of The Metro, a tuna baguette and the gait of a man with no commitments, except perhaps the hanging of criminals.

Resentful, me? Never.

Last night he was full of nervous excitement. His fellow jurors (read ‘new best friends’) have decided to bring in Christmas lunch.

Margery from Surrey is bringing a cheese and pineapple hedgehog, Joyce from Hounslow is offering a Tupperware Heat ‘n’ Serve dish of Ye Olde Oak Hot Dogs and John is volunteering an Iceland King Prawn Ring.

I am just hanging his Primark pants on the radiator, cooking his tea and planning a night of passionate rumpy pumpy (he is going out) when he pipes up,

‘Can you pick me up some chocolate from HQ for the jurors Christmas party, princess?’

‘Sure,’ I say sarcastically, giving his crème brulée the once over with my Jamie Oliver blow torch and arranging his string beans into parallel lines, ‘I could pop to Sainsbury’s and pick up some party hats and a few tooters if you like?’

‘That would be smashing, angel face’, he says, ‘and some of those sour cream and chive Pringles would be nice too’.

Yesterday I saw Nigella and Charles in Selfridges.

‘I just want to go shopping Charles,’ she snapped.

‘But I want to go home, put the telly on, and snuggle you.’ says he.
Nigella’s voluptuous arse presses on towards Lola’s cupcakes, swinging majestically.

True, all true.

The sweet spotters amongst you will find your favourite chubby confectioner on The One Show on Friday October 9th waxing lyrical to Jay Rayner about E numbers.

Just to get the record straight E stands for European. E numbering is an international numbers system. If there is an E then this has been passed as entirely safe by the European Union. Yes I know it’s all a bit serious and has nothing to do with shoes, knickers or other flotsam.

At H & G we are on the look out for clever people who make sweets without E numbers, because this makes you and your children happy. So you will find our Sugar Mice are made with natural beetroot (E163), our Bobbing Apples and Rosey Apples are chlorophyll (E142) our Smarties from spirulina, a lake algae, our Humbugs are caramel (E150) our Bull’s Eyes are natural carbon black (E153) and our Bonfire Toffee has nothing in it at all but sugar, glucose syrup, treacle, salt and pixie magic (ELF).

By the end of the year Swizzles Matlow who make lots of your favourite nostalgic sweets, such as Love Hearts, Refreshers, Swizzler Lollies, Drumsticks and Parma Violets will all be free from E numbers too.

So you see we do try very hard, we haven’t got it all right yet but we are on the way.

So, if want to hear me say all of that to Jay Rayner, while you are eating an Ocean Pie, just pop the telly on. The bit where I tongue a pink mouse, stand on a suitcase a la dominatrix, force feed Mr.Rayner blue Smarties, and marvel at his carved, penis-in-the-post anecdote will probably be cut out and revived for the Christmas Blunders Compilation.

He tasted of beasts, pork chops and a good Burgundy, and I demand seconds.

Currently Miss Cherry Lips (the foxy red head who looks after our website fulfilment) is using part of her precious lunch hour to teach me Tai Chi.

This week I have rolled some small balls, rolled some large balls, ‘walked the panda’, ‘photocopied a brochure’, and have now graduated to ‘repulse monkey’ a complicated Strictly Come Dancing manoeuvre requiring an extra portion of Kung Po Prawns, Chinese chips, a 2 litre bottle of knock off pop and the alacrity of Topsy Mitchell the Human Pipe Cleaner.

Last night, in the confectioners’ boudoir the following rapport ensues.

‘Husband of my dreams, would you care for a demonstration of my new Tai Chi skills?’ I offer gaily, keenly relinquishing my cocoa.

‘If I must,’ mumbles Mr Grumpy-eye-bags over the top of his Big Naturals Annual.
.
‘Ta-da!’ I trumpet, jumping on the bed, poised, pink knickers and marshmallows akimbo, ‘let me perform for you, at no extra cost, for one night only, before your own eyes. . . my sensational ‘repulse monkey’! ’

‘Is that anything like ‘reverse cowboy?’ says Mr G, hopefully.

I deserve a treat, I still have my own teeth and retain a mediocre amount of bladder control (adios pogo stick, welcome Tena Lady). Thus I popped along to my beloved Selfridges last week in search of a tub of slap which would knock off ten years and 2 stone.

I circumnavigate the Chanel counter like a feral thing, my heart beat is up and my palms are damp.

‘Hello!’ smiles Ms. Mercedes from the Chanel counter. She is thin and young and beautiful and can wear ruffles.
‘You really remind me of someone. . .’
I am willing her to stop.
‘Now who is it?’ she taps her Orange Fizz nails on the polished chrome counter.
Stop, please stop, I am wrinkly, old and chubby. I try to close my shell likes to the oncoming insult.
‘Mm . . . I know who you look like . . . Victoria Wood!’

Well I’m glad she got that off her cheese board chest.

Coco my love, whilst I adore Ms Wood, to avoid more fragile customers taking a nose dive into a abyss of self doubt, staying at home indefinitely with the curtains drawn, wearing 5 day old pissy pants, with nowt but cats and gin for company, please train your retail army to pluck customer looky-likeys from the following beauties; Isabella, Demi, Keira, Kate or Angelina.

Even if the customer resembles Janet Cranky, The Wicked Witch of the West or John Sergeant, best not to mention it.

Toodle Pip,

Miss Hope

PS The foundation I wanted makes me look like Joan Rivers.

Dear Johnnie Boden,

Imagine my excitement when my denim clamdiggers arrived! I poured myself into them without hesitation and pranced about my boudoir like a show pony.

Tragically I discover that the seam hugging my lady garden is askew, once aligned at the rear it is a good few inches west of central up front. I confess that I am usually a symmetrical lady, dressing neither to the left or right but straight down the middle.

I wonder if my spaniels have shifted with age, perhaps it is a direct result of too much testosterone in the water? I confess I have left the seat up lately and have taken to watching documentaries about super structures.

Clearly I am an anatomical freak, and I apologise for letting you down.

Thank goodness, Mr Boden, that you are practically perfect in every way.

Kind regards,

Miss Hope

‘Harumph,’ mumbles Mr. Same as-it-ever-was, as he emerges from the bathroom with Barges for Beginners tucked under his arm and his specs on the end of his nose, ‘I have just seen my back the mirror, I hadn’t realised I was so hairy.’

‘Indeed yes,’ I concur, ‘you are reminiscent of a silverback’.

‘Harumph.’

‘Shall I Veet you?’ I says.

‘How will you know where to stop?’ says monkey man.

Politeness overwhelms me and I don’t say, ‘When I get to your bald patch.’

‘Well, I could Veet you all over, whip you up like a pavlova?’

‘Bollocks,’ he grumbles.

‘Priority,’ says I.

We are in Norfolk and I am trapped with Mr Grumpytits, in a lovely cottage with a 14 person cheesecake, Brigadoon and a plastic tray of out of date Morrisons’ cheapo langoustines, ready to dance their lickle, pink legs all the way to the dustbin, high kicking on the acrid waves of their Best Before.

I am bored to death but I have options. I could watch Flog it/Cash in the Attic or text an answer to the This Morning quiz.

In a moment of desperation, I slam my bowl of coconut ice on the pouffe and suggest we go skinny dipping. When Mr.It-looks-like-rain-again, says, ‘yes’, I wonder if he has misheard, perhaps he thinks I have invited him to take a front row seat while I play squeal-piggy-squeal with the Deliverance halfwit, last spotted warming her spots by the local Spa hot pie cabinet.

We arrive at the beach and flip flop about 87 grillion miles along the shore. We whip off our cagoules and pose, unashamedly in the buff, save for our plimsolls.

I am star jumping on the shingle thrilled by the waft of cold air on my spaniels. Mr.G is running about like a big, pink baby, all fluff and turkey giblets.

We dash head long into the water, it is freezing.  Mr G’s 50% extra free Lion Bar shrivels to the size of a Walnut Whip and my lips are blue. He is screeching like a granny at the front door, discovering that the postman has stuffed more than the Readers Digest through her letterbox.

We turn and pelt back up the shore, leaping about for warmth, jumping up and down, our two tone, crab stickesque gooseflesh, blubbering about freely. Whose stupid idea was this anyway?

Suddenly Mr.Greenwood stiffens and points out to sea. There, bobbing no more that 100 yards away, is a Bean’s Seal Trips boat. Full of tourists, poised, their voyeur binoculars glinting in the sunlight.

Mr.G cups his manhood, waggles his whiskers and waves a friendly flipper, and I cannot think of more opportune moment to tie up my shoe laces.