Boxing robots and the shunned spaghetti

“Alright man, how’s it going?” Chaz stopped to shake hands with a bloke pushing a buggy of two small children, his wife looking on, sunglasses perched on her brow.
“Alright Charlie!” the man smiled back, as Chaz brought Pauline, Ka and myself to a halt outside the Holiday Inn’s front doors, on our way down to the cinema.
We were running late. We had finally managed to park the car, up outside the Station Bar, and were rushing down to the cinema to see the latest Hugh Jackman movie, a very silly affair, set in the future, involving boxing robots and a strained father/son relationship.

The charismatic Jackman is the struggling ex-boxer Dad, fighting to earn a living as a robot boxer fight promoter, who’d given his wife and son up at a younger, more foolish age, and now had to cope with a disgruntled youngster after his mother’s passing.
Good grief. Fighting robots, Hugh Jackman and father/son relationships? Sounds awful doesn’t it? And it probably was, but we didn’t care.
Silly, escapist fun. Especially for the likes of us, wishing to take a break from the real world for a couple of hours.
Chaz had text me on Friday to see if I fancied seeing the pic, just for a laugh, and had been surprised to receive a text back from me saying Ka had wanted to see it too. A few hours later he got another informing him that Pauline had also said yes, and on Sunday afternoon we were all in the Toyota, racing into town, discussing the price of toilet roll and washing powder.
What is it with women and toilet roll? We bought a large 18 or 16 pack just over two weeks ago and I thought that would do us until Christmas. Apparently not. It lasted two weeks and, before I knew it I was back in another supermarket buying more at the end of last week.
What do women do with it? Eat it? Anyway, I told Ka last week that if this trend was to continue we'd be buying the Asda's own sandpaper loo roll, a threat which quickly quietened her complaints of my moaning.
Another thing I've been moaning about is the kitchen tap. Our kitchen tap has been making a horrendous squawking noise everytime we’ve been pouring water from it’s innards for the past few months which I have now resolved to attempt to fix with my limited DIY skills. Over the weekend I replaced the tap's washers which, thankfully, seemed to solve the problem. The noise had gone and the water was running, but now bleeding a worrying, constant dribble.
Anyway, back to Glasgow, and, as Chaz chatted, not only were we late for the movie, but the ladies were in need of a loo, so I was trying to politely edge away from the unexpected reunion. The bloke with the buggy of two had obviously been a former work colleague of Chaz’s, and even though he had a couple of cute kids waving at us from their buggy, showing us their lizard and the blokes' conversation seemed like a pleasant surprise for Chaz, we were in a hurry.
Edging at first, then meandering, and then, as politely as I could, striding off determinedly, I led the girls onwards, away from Chaz’s fascinating conversation, which he eventually finished, and to the cinema queue,. Fortunately it wasn’t as busy as predicted and we just had the simple obstacle of a wee old lady and her grandson to make it to the front. With a quick bodyswerve upon entering the giant, glass building I dived around the wee old lady, ducked under the queue's cords and then turned to wait patiently for the others.
It was now ten or fifteen minutes past the showtime. We swiped our cards, took our tickets and raced back across the road to the small convenience store to buy some popcorn. We followed Chaz into the shop, only to stumble as he stopped dead before us and turned around.
“Wrong one!” he stated flatly and led us back out, leaving a shopkeeper frowning after us, and three doors up the street we entered the right one were we purchased our crisps and drinks from a smiling shopkeeper. Ka and myself, even at the age of thirty plus, are still wary of the old myth of cinema staff, when feeling particularly vigilant, swiping any shop bought goods off you, so we quickly hid our crisps in her handbag, whilst Chaz, who bought the kingsize bag of silver Butterkist and a massive litre and a half bottle of water, merely filled a blue carrier bag and shrugged something about taking his shopping home. Before we knew it we were back in the cinema, I was buying the coffee, the girls were doing the loo and Chaz was handing the tickets over, before we finally got seated and enjoyed the crazy, feelgood, family film.
The girls waited patiently and expectantly for Hugh Jackman’s bare torso, which he eventually presented at the side of a boxing ring. Chaz and myself didn’t particularly mind, however, as Kate from Lost was in the movie, acting as his stressed but highly intelligent, robot building, girl. So, everyone was happy.
At least for a time, anyway. I’d said yes to my Mum’s offer for Sunday spaghetti, which, needless to say, we did not make, so I was in trouble for that one. I phoned Mum up, half an hour before we were expected and explained that we were still in Glasgow and had a change of plan for dinner and thusly would now, not make it. Unfortunately, Mum wasn’t happy.
Dejected, disappointed, and in a huff, my Mum said her goodbyes over the phone and apparently went to bed at nine o'clock. Ravaged with guilt I drove Ka, Pauline and Chaz to dinner. With Mum's grumpy goodbye alone she made, what would have usually been a lovely piece of Salmon, taste rotten and cold. Salmon stuffed with scorn and betrayal.
As it turned out my Mum and Dad had been writing my Aunt Maureen’s eulogy and were in need of some cheering up. Thankfully Kenny phoned from Australia yesterday and sweetened them up sufficiently, just in time for me to phone after I got home from work and apologise once more for not going up for Spaghetti (Thanks for that Kenny!).
What made matters worse was that, before I plucked up the courage to phone them, I had arrived home to find the kitchen tap unable to run any form of cold water. So my limited DIY skills are even more limited than I had originally thought.
Still, that's all minor concerns, considering what's happening tomorrow.

Aunt Maureen

My Aunt Maureen passed away on Monday night. She was 59. A few weeks ago we were discussing what we were going to do for her 60th and now, suddenly, we're discussing where her funeral is to take place.
It's feels like it has been one thing after another, this year.
Life just seems crazily unfair sometimes.
It's only been a few weeks since my last conversation with Maureen over the phone.
Recently Maureen had been living in Knowle, the small village on the outskirts of Solihull, in the West Midlands, where I started my first design/publishing job, all those years ago in March 2001. Early on in my four years living and working in the West Midlands, Maureen moved down south to Redditch, a new town to the south of Birmingham, through work, keen for a new start with different surroundings.
Before long, and once she was settled, Maureen and myself were meeting up for Sunday dinners, hooking up for the occasional drink and catch up, shopping trip or just a day out. Obviously, I wasn’t so keen on the shopping, but somehow I felt Maureen appreciated the trips in the car. Maureen was company for me too, as I struggled to settle in with only odd flatmates for company. I'd jump in the car and take a drive over to Redditch to take Maureen out for a jaunt around the countryside hitting the surrounding towns, exploring this fantastic section of England. Stratford-Upon-Avon, Great Malvern, Warwick, Leamington Spa and Kenilworth (that name’s vaguely familiar...) were all towns Maureen and myself visited on our various weekend meetings. My first car, that wee clio, also came in handy for when Maureen flitted. She flitted around three times whilst living in the West Midlands and on all occasions, bar the last, it was the wee clio that acted as the removal van.
During Maureen’s time in Redditch relations were soon dropping by to visit, jumping on trains, planes or into automobiles. Most of them primarily visiting Maureen but probably more than aware that there was always the risk of me turning up on the door, looking for company in my lonely West Midlands existence.
Scott, Maureen’s son and my older cousin, who was living in Dundee at the time, would visit, always busy with his job, which called for much travelling up and down the country.
Gran and Granpa, Great Aunt Mina, Mum and Dad, Anne and Ian, and even Donald from Australia, all visited the wonderful West Midlands. During their stay Maureen and I would give them a guided tour in the wee red clio, my Auntie acting as navigator, as we swerved around the countryside.
Great Malvern and Stratford-Upon-Avon were always popular with the visitors. Stratford-Upon-Avon being a favourite of mine too, with it’s Shakepearian themed streets, medieval architecture, barges, canal gates, eclectic mix of pubs and shops, pleasant parks, theatres and the Avon itself.
We had some good days out in Stratford, most of them in the summertime, when the skies were blue and the streets and parks were busier with families, tourist crowds and theatre goers, looking forward to the evening’s performance. During the summertime the town centre’s parks were always colourful, filled with plants and flowers around which street performers would entertain in the sunshine, the Avon sparkling in the summer light, it’s surface littered by the swans, geese, ducks, boats and barges which populated it’s waters, gliding up and down the river, under the arches of the various bridges which crossed over.
We took Aunt Mina out on to the Avon on a barge, we drove Gran and Granpa out for dinner with Frank Sinatra blaring out on the car stereo as we sped up the country roads and we took Donald out for dinner at which he tried to talk me into moving to Oz and courting his architect/scientist daughter.
When Maureen hit the big 5-0 Mum, Dad, Gran and Granpa invaded at the same time which called for another Stratford visit. After a few hours of walking around the bustling town we had lunch in a small tearoom and inadvertently left without paying, us all believing that someone else had paid. That same night we had a drunken night in at Maureen’s flat in Redditch, which I remember turned into a fairly entertaining night, considering I was sober and the allocated driver for Mum and Dad who had taken up residence at a small B&B in Solihull.
Maureen was a gentle, kind, relaxed, quiet, generous lady who shrugged at a difference of opinion, laughed at a good joke and enjoyed a party or two. Maureen was also a proud lady, not afraid to stand on her own two feet, but unwilling to admit troubles, or the lend of a helping hand, which, unfortunately led to her untimely death.
In my ‘wildnerness years’ down in the West Midlands, when I was occasionally feeling down or lonely, Maureen helped me with good advice and friendship, something I will never forget. An Auntie and a friend.
Maureen McNeill (Reid) 26.02.1952 – 10.10.2011