‘Mustafa’s dead,’ said Chair. No idea how his name is spelt, but it sounds like chair, so chair it is.
Partner had bumped into him down Main Street, as you do.
He came back from Morocco, was rushed into hospital in Spain, and died there after not very long at all.
Later Partner bumped into someone else from the previous firm. ‘Mustafa’s dead. He died in hospital in Gib.’
‘No he didn’t, it was in Spain,’ contradicted Partner confidently. Chair rents a flat underneath the deceased Mustafa so Partner was pretty sure about the authenticity of his information.
Mustafa was a painter (sort of) on the firm, pretty scruffy, smoked dope, had a finca a hundred kilometres or so outside Rabat (Morocco) and had a few girlfriends in Gib, as well as a wife and family in Morocco.
He’s worked all his life in Gib, and at 62, was planning to retire in three years and spend his retirement at home in Morocco.
Bullying and internet-bashing is a rather nasty phenomenon. Very playground and equally if not more damaging.
I’ve read a few blog posts with authors complaining about bad reviews. Six and two threes sweethearts. Not everyone will like your books. A reasoned critical review is valid, and maybe it might help. When you put yourself in print you need to acquire thick skin. Rule number one.
What is really annoying me though, are the comments and posts from British authors who are getting criticised for their faulty spelling by Americans because they have not written in Americanese. They are seriously telling British authors that their books are full of spelling errors because they are correctly, note correctly, written in English.
In which our heroine wastes half a day to be told the blatantly obvious.
Three health appointments in a week is no fun. It disrupts me from my idle sofa routine, it disrupts my dogs – Snowy doesn’t like to see me being taken away by the ambulance crew – and it most definitely disrupts my partner.
The first appt was physio. Despite his somewhat straight face and quietly insistent manner, I think he is OK. Patient Transport came to collect me. They were annoyed. I had been seen walking around Morrisons. We thought they were joking. Partner and I both came out with the same comment. ‘I/She hate/s going to Morrisons even when she can walk.’
It was laughable but they were deadly serious. ‘People take the piss out of us,’ said one still muttering about it as they carried me up the street. I wondered how my doppelgänger managed to wield two wobbly crutches and a basket or a trolley and get on the bus? Of course not, my partner would have driven me there. Given that – like me on the rare occasion I go – he walks and buses there, the last thing he would do would be to waste fuel to drive me to the shops for a non-pleasure trip.
Perhaps it is their standard catch-someone-out line. Oh, she’s a woman, she’s British, bet she’s been to Morrisons shopping, let’s see if she blushes and looks embarrassed. In fact it plunged me into a fit of depression and I had such a sad face one of them asked me if I was all right. Sure, I’m good. You’ve just accused me of waltzing around Morrisons. I did ask if I should contact their manager. ‘It’s his word against yours.’ Of course. Guilty until proved innocent. It’s not as though Morrisons don’t have CCTV. They could find pictures of my alleged shopping escapade.
But first, the dreaded frontier queue. For some reason we’d set off later that morning. I’d decided to attempt the stairs by foot rather than the favoured and much easier backside bumpety bump.
With Partner in front to steady me in case I started to lose my balance – or alternatively, both tumble down together like Jack and Jill – I started the long descent. All of twenty steps. And to our mutual surprise, I made it in one piece.
As I negotiated the steps at the block entrance, a loud cheer and applause came from my neighbour over the road who was leaning out of his window watching.
Hobbling down the street, which is downhill, so tricky, Partner put his hand on my arm. ‘Wait, our neighbour’s coming out to speak to us.’
‘I don’t want to interfere,’ said our neighbour (which always means someone is going to do just that), ‘but I noticed you putting your bad leg first. My wife was told to put her good leg first.
‘The good go to heaven,’ he added. And then realised his mistake. Not literally about whether the good go to heaven or not, but rather, that he was confusing walking on the level with going up and down steps.
An excellent post from Vicky summing up the sense of Yorkshire pride in our home county.
I too rebelled against the 1974 Local Govt Act that took away our precious Ridings and always addressed mail to my parents in the West Riding. Not West Yorkshire. It was a very big issue. It still is.
So this reblog, thanks to Vicky, is not just for her, but also for Dawn in Queensland, Aus; Sandra in Spain up the road from me, and Kev who is actually in ‘Ull. The only one of us in Yorkshire. Like Vicky they are all from the East Riding, whereas I’m from t’ mill towns in t’ West Riding.
And to everyone who supported the Yorkshire start to the Tour de France, you did our county proud.
HAPPY YORKSHIRE DAY to all Yorkshire folk wherever you may be living :-)
Very patriotic us Tykes!
I don’t think there is another county in the UK that has a special day.
Yorkshire Day was initially celebrated in 1975 by the Yorkshire Ridings Society, as a protest to the local government re-organsations of 1974.
I had been living in Worcestershire since 1969, but I remember how incensed I felt when suddenly Beverley (my birthplace) Hornsea (where both maternal and paternal grandparents lived) and Bridlington (where my uncle lived) had suddenly been moved from the East Riding of Yorkshire to North Humberside.
How dare someone, sat in a government office mess with ‘Gods Own County!’ ……….so I set about my own little protest (not alone I doubt) and made a point of addressing any correspondence to my family, in bold, underlined, capital letters EAST RIDING OF YORKSHIRE.