Bootees by Vivien Teasdale

 

“For Sale: baby bootees, never worn”

Attributed to Ernest Hemingway, this ‘short story’ in six words always brings a sigh of sadness as we think of the poor parents who have lost a baby.

But is this actually what it’s all about? Since the story is so vague, there are lots of other interpretations.

Imagine two sets of grandparents, each determined to outdo the other. Each buy baby bootees. One chooses blue, the other chooses pink. Baby finally arrives and is … well, you can see what might happen.

‘No, Douglas, we must be first with the bootees.’

‘But why pink ones, Mary? What if it’s –’

‘Our Sally is craving sweet things all the time and she’s carrying high. It will be a girl.’

‘Tom’s mother thinks –’

‘She has no idea what she’s talking about. She only has one child. I have had three! We will have a grandaughter, there’s no doubt about that.’

And so the bootees have to go, before Sally, Tom – and worst of all, his parents – find out the colour Mary has bought for little Ajax.

But what if both blue and pink bootees are presented, which will be useful since Sally is having twins, one boy, one girl?

‘I’m so glad we agreed, Mary, to buy different colours. So important to have that first set of bootees just right. Now they’ll be able to have them preserved forever.’

‘Oh, I quite agree, Denise. Traditions are essential in families, aren’t they?’

‘Well, it’s very nice of you, mums and dads.’ Tom stated firmly. ‘You’re very welcome to preserve them in aspic if you like.’

‘You might have noticed,’ Sally joined in, ‘that the nursery has been decorated in Jasmine White and Avocado Whip. We intend to bring up our children as gender neutral, so can only accept gifts in green, yellow, purple and so on. Not blue or pink.’

Of course, it’s a long time since grandparents had babies. They forget how quickly a tiny baby becomes a big baby and outgrows whatever was bought last week. Bootees bought to keep tiny tootsies warm in winter can easily be outgrown before the summer baby has reached September.

And there are other frictions:

‘Oh, mum, not those awful things. I thought I’d said –’

‘Sally, I’ve told you before, you must keep baby warm at all times. How is little Ajax to thrive if Mummy doesn’t wrap him up well?’

‘Nowadays—’

‘Oh, nowadays you young ones think you know it all. Just remember that I’ve brought up three babies! You were all healthy and –

‘Well, we all had measles, and Jack was forever getting colds and passing them on to the rest of us. And what about--’

‘That’s not the point. Those were just childish ailments. Everyone had them.’

‘Mum, the midwife and the doctor both said Ajax doesn’t need shoes of any sort until he starts walking. Socks will do just as well to keep him warm.’

‘Socks? They’ll get filthy.’

‘They are washable. And I can use whichever matches the colour of the babygrow I choose to put on him. And when he has to be changed. Much more practical, Mum. You can see for yourself. The babygrows are in that drawer, socks in the one below. I’ll put the kettle on while you sort out his nappy.’

Could the baby (or parents) have an allergy to the material the bootees are made of? Perhaps the parents have decided to go vegan and object to wool-based items, especially if the wool is mohair from the angora goat. Even worse if the fabric is angora wool, which is ripped from a rabbit’s back.

You can have fun imagining that there are secret messages within the phrase. Count up the number of each vowel and you might be meeting someone at 5 pm on the 2^nd of April. If you get it wrong, you’ll be standing there on the 4^th of February wondering where everyone has got to.

Try anagrams. It could be a rejection of a hopeful lover, because ‘Abbye Berton never woos.’. A secret rendezvous may have been discovered as ‘we observe Abbye Norton.’.

But not everyone thinks the same way. Picture the scene:

‘Hello, Aunty Jemima, how lovely to see you after all this time. Come in.’

‘Tom, how you’ve grown. And a father, now. How is the little one?

Tom laughs. ‘Ah, the secret’s out is it? She’s doing fine, quite a little roly-poly. Takes after her mum, I say.’

They both chuckle as Tom leads the way from the front door, through the house and out into the garden. Sally looks up and smiles. ‘Dear Aunty, have you come to see the baby? Here she is.’

She gathers up the bundle of a small tartan blanket and squirming legs. She holds it out towards the old lady. ‘She does wriggle a bit. That’s why we decided to call her Ziggy.’

Aunty Jemima’s face falls as she clutches the twisting torso of a tiny terrier. ‘Isn’t she gorgeous,’ she says, mentally consigning the blue bootees to the charity shop.

Lost - Part 2 by Dave Rigby

 

(Part 1 was on the Blog on the 10^th April)  

I wait a while and press the apartment bell again. The street is very quiet, apart from a man walking slowly along the opposite pavement, singing a Richard Anthony song, loudly and badly.

How come I can remember the song, but not my own name?

The door opens. A tall, slim woman stands there, long hair, long dress, long fingernails. A small tattoo on a bare forearm. It must be Simone, but the memory is hazy. She reaches out and kisses me on the cheek. Not on the lips. What does that mean?

    “You don’t look good Liam! Where have you been?”

Liam! That’s good to know. She makes no move to invite me inside. No lip-kissing, no invitation. There’s a message here.

    “I got lost and ended up sleeping at the bus station,” I lie. “I have your key and wanted to bring it back … and to see you, naturally.” I’m struggling to talk in sentences. “Could I perhaps come in?”

    “I don’t think that would be a good idea. I’m expecting The Brewer.”

    “Who?”

    “The man you upset yesterday.”

I have no idea who this man is, or how I upset him.

    “Is it money that you need?” Simone asks.

I have money, quite a lot. The money brought with it a problem. But I can’t remember what that is.

    “No thanks. I just want to talk.”

A ringtone. Simone reaches into a pocket and pulls out her phone. She says, hello, listens and looks worried. I stand there waiting.

A sudden memory.

I’m with Simone and a man with a big beard, in a café. He’s wagging his finger at me. There’s something I need to do, but my brain’s too fuzzy to work out what it is. The man stands up, pushes his chair back and strides round the table towards me. I rush out of the café and run to the river. The man follows me. I manage to hide. A small gap in the stone wall on the quayside. I stare at the Seine for ages and watch a passing pleasure boat, lights twinkling, passengers drinking, talking, laughing. I try to wish myself onto the boat.

Coast clear, I emerge from my hiding place and walk upstream. Two men are suddenly very close, either side of me. Neither is the man from the café, but they are not nice. ‘Wallet and phone,’ they demand. I hand them over. They don’t frisk me. They don’t find the envelope with the money.

I walk away from the river, very tired. Too tired to care about anything. On a quiet side street, there’s a patch of grass. I lie down to sleep.

Simone is shaking my shoulder.

    “Liam, you are not listening! You must go. That was The Brewer. He’s on his way. If he catches you here, it won’t end well.”

    “Who is this man!” I say, far too loudly. She retreats a few steps.

    “I want you to go Liam.” She closes the door.

I haven’t even given her the key. It goes through the letter box. I begin to walk back to the river. In the distance there’s a short stocky man walking towards me. A man with a large beer gut and a big beard. Shit! The Brewer.

The story comes back to me.

The money in the envelope was his. But he owed me. That’s why I took it. However, he’s unlikely to it see that way … or give me any time to explain. And despite the gut, he can move worryingly quickly.

Just as I’m beginning to panic, a car pulls up beside me, driver’s window down.

    “Do you want a lift? No charge.”

It takes me a few seconds to take in the taxi sign and to recognise Marcel. A few seconds during which The Brewer gets near enough to realise it’s me. He breaks into a run. A bit like a rhino. Fast and heavy. I jump into the back seat of the taxi.

    “Move!” I shout. Marcel grins in the mirror and the taxi shoots off down the street.

    “That man makes a bad enemy,” he says. “How about we head off somewhere nice and quiet?”

    “That sounds just right,” I say. “I’m Liam, by the way.”

    “So, you’ve remembered! That’s a good step forward. And what about the young lady? What did she say?”

I explain.

    “Not so good then. Are you staying in the city or moving on?” Marcel asks. “If you want to stay, I can get you work. You remind me of me when I first arrived here.”

I think about this and wonder if I’ll remember anything else that happened before today. Or failing that, anything that might explain why I can’t remember. It’s hard work thinking like this.

    “My passport was stolen last night. Would you be able to get me a carte de sejour?” That would at least allow me to stay in the country. Give me time to try and retrieve my past.

    “As long as you have money, I can get you most things,” Marcel says as we cross the Pont de Sully in the morning sun.

He pushes a cassette into the old deck. This time Richard Anthony sounds perfect.

A Big Plus by Owen Townend

The joke goes something like:

 

Q) What is so great about Sweden?

A) I don’t know but the flag is a big plus.

 

Gerrit? At first I laughed but then I realised that the same could be applied to the England flag. That’s a big red plus.

Doing a modicum of research then revealed that the flags of Denmark, Switzerland, Norway, Finland and Greece all feature a plus mark too. And thereby the novelty of the joke fades.

Assessing these flags though, there are a few that wouldn’t technically fit the joke. Switzerland’s flag is a small plus. Greece’s flag is a small plus hemmed in by five blue lines or four white lines depending on which colour you think most dominates the space. They wouldn’t fit as replacements for Sweden in the joke.

Denmark, Finland and Norway are all big pluses in the same way as Sweden but, let’s be honest here, are these actually plus signs? I would argue that they are crucifixes that have fallen to the left. The vertical line is not dead centre of the flag.

This would suggest that Sweden doesn’t even fit the joke. How then has it prevailed so long? Why is it so universally understood?

Now I try not to let my national pride take over my better senses but, speaking from a purely pragmatic understanding of what constitutes a big plus flag, I would have to say that England offers the one true punchline. The plus is in fact a plus sign with a centred vertical line and it fills up the whole space on the flag, thereby confirming it as ‘a big plus’.

For the record, I am not a flag enthusiast. I’m sure there is a reason why Denmark, Finland, Norway and Sweden’s flags are shaped the way they are. I’m sure there is an argument to be made about the importance of even lines on a plus sign. However, speaking as an outsider who likes to intellectualise when he is really bored, I now honestly believe that the joke should become:

 

Q) What is so great about England?

A) I don’t know but the flag is a big plus.

 

            That being said, this is not intended as a defence or brag about the country. I’m just retooling old dad jokes.