Flashers and chips

I am gradually being denuded.

For as long as I can remember I've worn a chain around my neck. First it was a St. Christopher given me by Uncle then it was and has been for at least twenty years a Celtic Trinity Knot. The chain broke a few months ago and I bought a new one. That now has broken. 

Then last week my watch strap broke.

I'm really hoping my knicker elastic isn't the next thing to go. Actually it's more likely to be my hip.

Anyway, for reasons far too complicated to go into, this morning I was thinking about the saying 'cheap as chips.' The last chips we bought cost £2.50 a bag.

When I was a young girl my best friend, Maggie, and I used to visit the local chip shop at least once a week. This was in the evenings after we'd had our three meals in the day. We'd have sixpennorth of chips each and go and sit on the sea front and watch the world go by as we ate them from newspaper.

The chip shop was just around the corner from where we lived and was known as Johnnie's, after the man who ran it. His wife was lovely but Johnnie had his good days and his bad days. I remember him telling us off once for giggling of all things.

The chip shop was next door to Billie's, the corner newsagent - and Johnnie's brother. I was sent there several times a week to get my grandparents' cigarettes and heaven help me if I brought home the wrong change. I'd have to go back and tell Billie he'd mischanged me. Imagine me, a timid little thing having to do that. But I knew arguing with my gran or begging her to do it was no use. 

So, yes, once upon a time chips were cheap but not any more.

The other thing I was thinking about was flashers.

At the family barbecue we were discussing how old the children would have to be before they'd be allowed to walk to the playing field or the adventure playground on their own. I was of the opinion they could quite safely go to the adventure playground as it doesn't involves crossing any roads. I was outvoted but, to be fair, I think as a parent I'd have been less keen to let them go too.

Back to my childhood, my mother was very over-protective. She warned me about everything and everyone. To this day if I see a man walking alone without a dog I am suspicious, and I think it was because I'd been so fearful that when I was approached by a flasher I was traumatised (No, Lizzie, not traumatised. People who are raped or live through through bombings are traumatised. The sight of a man's dangly bits is not traumatic.) I was shaken and wouldn't walk along that stretch of beach again for a very long time.

I wish I could have been more like Auntie Maud who was flashed by a man in the park by the Guildhall. She looked him up and down and said, "Put it away! I've seen better in the butcher's window."

* * * * *

As George was barking at me relentlessly this afternoon I decided perhaps he was bored and that he needed to go for a walk. So we did. Less of a walk, more of a wander along the path next to the house. I thought he would like to catch up on his sniffing, find out which of his doggy pals had been past recently. He seemed to enjoy it. So much so he came home and started humping and then eating his bed. But at least he wasn't barking.

I don't think you can see it in this photo but he has a piece of grass dangling out of the side of his mouth. When he wasn't sniffing he was grazing.