The Secret Life of Bambi Fancipants - A Resurrection Story?

A couple of years ago, I launched a small experiment on MySpace inviting others to contribute to the story of a certain Miss Bambi Fancipants. Sadly, after an encouraging start, she died of neglect (but in a most spectacular and tabloid-worthy way).

Now, ever the optimist, I am trying again in the hope that she will have a better fate at the hands of my friends at Facebook, Twitter and http://shemeanswellbut.blogspot.com

It's easy to be part of Bambi's story - just send your suggestions for the next episode following on from the ones given below (the authors of any contributions will be - of course - be given due credit, as they were below):


The Secret Life of Ms. B. Fancipants

[Mandi]
As she closed the church door after tweaking the flowers for the Sunday morning service, Bambi Fancipants - spinster of the parish - smoothed out the wrinkles in her tweed skirt and straightened her twin-set as she prepared to face the world.
As she did, her hand brushed against the outline of the suspender belt of the black & scarlet feather-trimmed basque beneath her schoolmarmish apparel. She smiled secretly to herself as she considered how very different she was to the meek and modest librarian that everyone in Holthorne-by-Sea thought they knew...

[Rob]
As she turned to leave, a shout startled her.
"Tart!" cried the vicar.
Bambi pulled herself upright, perfectly still. A thousand thoughts tumbled through her head.
"For the fete tomorrow," he continued. "Don't forget to bring one of your fabulous tarts."
Bambi relaxed and smiled.
"Of course, Reverend" she replied.
"I feat Mrs Miggins' baps will take a lot of beating this year," said the Reverend. "But your tarts should give her a run for thier money in the cooking contest."
As he mounted his bike, he gave her a heavy wink and added: "You provide a wonderful service to the village folk" and peddled off.
Bambi took motionless for a few seconds. A pensive look flitted across her face.
"Could he know?" she wondered.
She shook her head, dismissing the thought.
"No!" she said aloud. "How could he?"

[GeorgyGirl]
Walking down the High Street, Bambi paused at Barnabas' greengrocers. A prodigious grower, Barnabas was renowned thorughout the country for his massive cucumbers and juicy plums.
"Ah, Miss Fancipants," his eyes twinkled as she entered the shop. "You'll be after my prize fruit again, I'll warrant."
She hesitated a little, chewing on her bottom lip.
"Sunday's fete'll be a good'un" continued the grocer, licking his lips. "I've always been partial to your cherry offerings."
"Actually, I was thinking of strawberries this year," Bambi shyly ventured.
"Even better!" cried Barnabas with a whoop of delight. "There's nothing I like better than a pouty red fruit atop a tart!"
Bambi left the shop puzzled, her pace less brisk than usual. Was it her imagination, or were all the villagers beginning to sound like Sid James on an off day?
No matter. She patted her basket and sighed, absently fingering the punnet of strawberries and Barnanas' carrots and cauliflowers. It was true, the man was a magician with the soil - many was the time she had watched him getting stuck in at his allotment.

[Mandi]
As she opened the fornt door to the ivy-clad cottage she shared with her one-eyed cat madrigal, Bambi could barely contain her excitement at the thought of the coming village fete - the event of the decade as far as she was concerned. This year, there would be more than the usual array of home-baked goodies and tombolas to look forward to. This year would see the return of Holthorne-by-Sea's prodigal son - and her first love.
After years carving out a distinguished career in Tinsel Town, Rick River (a.k.a. little Dickie Pond) was returning to open the fete in true Hollywood style. And Bambi Fancipants would be there to welcome him home.
She sighed at the thought of their stolen kisses behind the bike-sheads all those years ago. They had sent a thrill through her that she had never experienced since - try as she might.
If only Dickie's lipstick hadn't clashed so violently with her own modest shade...


There was more, but I think I'll stop it there and see where you will take the saga. Over to you!

Eggs is eggs - or is they?

Today I stumbled across a piece of news that must be proof positive that is truly is time to 'get real'. You know that we've taken our worship at the altar of convenience too far when plans are announced to sell us pre-boiled, ready-shelled eggs.

Apparently, they are aimed at people who "don't have the time or knack" to boil an egg....

I'll say that again - they don't have the time or knack to boil an egg.

Apparently, there are people out there who's lives are so full with watching reality TV, texting badly spelled and ungrammatical messages, and following the antics of the latest celebrity nonentities to get off their backsides and waddle to the kitchen, put some water in a saucepan, wait for it to boil, drop an egg in it and wait for ANOTHER THREE WHOLE MINUTES. And then, they have to peel the darned thing!

Is it any wonder the marketing gurus spotted a gap in the market? And they're Free Range too, so I expect they'll be flogged as healthy eating.

Writing in today's Guardian, Oliver Thring of 'Thring for Your Supper' thinks it's the beginning of the end, and I'm inclined to agree.

The rot set in with the appearance of the first ready soup mixes and jars of pasta sauce (most of which are still largely inedible) on our supermarket shelves. Despite the fact that soups and sauces are among some of this quickest, easiest, cheapest and tastiest things to rustle up in the kitchen, there are legions of folk who have never experienced the real thing.

I wonder if their lives come pre-packaged too?

It didn't take long for fruit and veg to come in convenient sanitised form: string beans topped and tailed; salad greens cut, washed (how well I wonder?) and ready to chuck in a bowl with a splash of ready-made monosodium glutomate dressing; apples peeled, cored and quartered; grapefruit cut into bite-sized portions; ready-chopped garlic and onions. Do people realise that the food they eat actually originally came from the ground, caked in mud, fed by horse manure and not cut the size of our gobs?

No, it seems that we prefer the ready-to-eat version which has about as much to do with the vegetable garden as a saveloy does with a thoroughbred racehorse.

And the food industry happily obliges with an array of convenience foods for us to hoover up into our digestive tracts - so long as we have had our taste buds surgically removed (maybe at the same time as that lobotomy and tummy tuck) and don't mind paying through the nose for the priviledge of not wasting ten minutes of our precious time to boil, cut, wash or chop something real....

The ready-boiled egg is currently at the top of my list of ridiculous foodstuffs, but I'm sure there are plenty more - answers on a postcard please, folks.

Confessions of a Mercedist mind

(This has appeared elsewhere before, but a close encounter with a missing link moron between the wheel of a Kompressor this morning re-awoke my Mercedist sentiments....)

I have a confession to make – I am guilty of Mercedism.

Despite my good intentions and efforts to live a life of tolerance and political correctness, the word “dickhead” automatically pops into my head every time I’m cut up in traffic by some fat cat driving a Merc. Especially if it’s a Mercedes Kompressor and the driver is a cigar-chomping despot in his late middle-age.

I can’t help it – it's a gut reaction to the sight of these sleek sharks lurking in the seas of traffic of Greece.

They cruise through the congestion in search of minnows to chew up and spit out. Mere Fiats, Fords, and even VWs don’t even register on their radars. Like the sleek predators they are, the Mercs are disdainful of anything less than a fellow shark, or at least a Hummer (even a Merc has to respect the brute force of a Hummer).

Regardless of whether they weave in and out of the traffic at breakneck speed, or sedately tootle along at a pace that would frustrate a tortoise, all Mercedes Kompressor drivers seem to have attended the “Out of my way, peasant!” school of motoring.

It’s that same arrogance that declares to us mere mortals that they own the road - and we’d better not forget it. And, considering the prevalence of Mercedes Kompressors among Greek business moguls and politicians, maybe they DO own the road but – hey! – I pay road tax, sunshine, so gimme a break! You can kiss my lily white backside if you think I’m going to bow down and pay homage just because you’ve got me whipped in terms of horsepower and purchase price.

Anyway, haven’t you ever heard of a little thing called the environment?

Another thing - have you noticed that, almost without exception, the Mercs are driven by men? Usually self-important blokes caught up in the fray of a mid-life crisis and an ever-expanding waistline to match their rapidly receding hairline.

When will men wake up and realise that we girls are not fooled? We have never made the “big car = big willy” equation. In fact, many of us came to the conclusion that “big car = (huge inferiority complex + massive fuel bill)” years ago.
(Point me in the direction of a bloke in a Mini!).

So, Your Honour, that’s why I decorated the motors in the Ministry car park in a variety of pastel shades and psychadelic patterns.

I can't help it. It’s not my fault I’m a Mercedist. I’m a victim of society, honest. Maybe I need a little state-sponsored therapy to help me embrace the Mercedes-owner lurking within me?

Honest, Your Honour! It wasn’t me that sorted your Merc this morning. I know the colours are the same and my hands are smeared with paint, but it must have been a copy-cat vandal!

But, you know how it is when you spot a Kompressor, and your spray-can finger starts getting itchy…

…and I love the smell of spray paint in the morning!

The "We Hate Polyanna" Club

I have, on occasion, been accused of having a Polyanna Complex. It shouldn’t really bother me, bearing in mind that my accuser is usually my Other Half when he’s wearing his Grumpy Old Man hat. But it does…

My Grump usually makes this complaint when I’m trying to look on the bright side. Apparently, my determination to find something good in everything and to think positive wherever I can is irritating to the extreme.

The irony is that I have always had an abiding dislike for Polyanna, Little Orphan Annie, the girls from Little Women and their ilk.

I mean, really, no-one’s REALLY like that, are they?

And don’t even get me started on The Little House On The Prairie and the Ingles girls (I always wanted to give bloody Laura – complete with her flailing pigtails – a right royal slap as she came bounding down that hillside).

Why is it that the central characters in ‘girls’ books’ are all simpering morons, while the boys got all the good heroes to aspire to? I mean, honestly, given the choice between Huckleberry Finn and Laura Ingles, who would you choose?

I spent much more of my childhood up trees than I did cooing over dolls (though I was known to bury some in the garden and flush a few down the loo). And the thought of camping out overnight was far more exciting than a trip to the shops for a new dress (actually, that still applies). So, why did society expect me to plough through piles of books whose main characters delighted in all the things I couldn’t be bothered with?

I suspect it was a subtle (or not so subtle) form of brain-washing in preparation for a teenage era of devotion to ‘Jackie’ magazine (something else I never 'got'). But, I’m glad to say, my brain stayed stubbornly stained with the indelible marks of tomboyhood.

Luckily for me, my parents had no set ideas about what girls should or should not read, do, think or say (within reason). And apart from a few passionate arguments over a certain dark blue velvet party dress with a lace collar (the thought of which still makes me shudder), I was pretty much allowed to be myself rather than conforming to a predestined idea of what little girls with big blue eyes and long blonde hair should be. They let me be me.

So - any complaints to the manufacturers, please.

Athens Portraits: Beggar My Neighbour

They wait patiently at every traffic light, every shopping centre and every coffee shop.

Wearing their misfortune like a badge, they look at us with weary eyes and appeal to our kinder nature to help someone who's been dealt a much rawer deal than us. Some try to sell us goods we don't want or need, some try to clean our windscreens, some try to convince us that God will smile on us for helping them, and some blatantly accuse us for our inhumanity as they thrust their misery in our face and challenge us to respond.

They're that motley crew of beggars that have always populated the streets of Athens, but whose numbers have swelled considerably in the past few years. And with that surge has come a broadening of their diversity.

In the past couple of decades, the face of your average Athenian panhandler has changed from the cheeky yet pitiful gypsy children or the pathetic old hags that bemoan their fate as they rock back and forth on the pavement and offer you their blessing if you favour them with a few coins.

These days, they have been joined by a veritable United Nations of poverty and desperation in the shape of war-shattered refugees from the all-too-recent wars in the Balkans, some displaying horrific injuries in a bid to gain your sympathy, and a regular flotilla of hopefuls who have landed up in Greece after fleeing their homelands in Africa or Asia to escape tyranny or grinding poverty. Add to that an influx of new Athenians from the old Eastern Bloc and you will see that the face of the city's poor has witnessed some major changes in the space of two short decades.

When I first arrived in this bustling metropolis it was a huge culture shock to come face to face with such open misery and shameless begging (remember, I left the UK before the explosion of homeless on the city streets found a voice through "The Big Issue"). My finely-honed conscience made me want to empty my pockets for every beggar I came across, impossible though that was.

And it must have shown in my face, as I seemed to attract hopeful unfortunates like flies to a left-over lollipop on a hot day.

Even now, when you would have expected me to have toughened up, I'm still a soft touch. If I have spare change, I will usually cough up. But now and again, all I have on me is a 50 Euro note, which I can little afford to hand over, so I have to say "No". Unfortunately, the more insistent of the army of the unfortunate (and suspect the least needy) take one look my face, ignore my refusal, and start cleaning my windscreen or throwing little packs of tissues in my window.

Either I simply lack authority, or the bleeding heart hiding not too far from the surface is clearly visible to the trained eye.

Beggars of all shapes and sizes can be found everywhere you go in Athens , but there is one who stands out in my mind.I see him most mornings at the junction where I turn off from the main road to my office. There he stands, rain or shine, at the traffic lights, looking remarkably like a character from a Tolkein story. He's tall, thin to the point of emaciation, has a shock of wild greying hair and is dressed in rags. His left leg is misshapen and withered and he walks from car to car with the aid of battered old crutch. His slight accent brings me to the conclusion that he may be one of the legion of ordinary people who fled war-torn parts of the Balkans during the conflicts there in the 90s.

Yet, the most remarkable thing about him is the fact that he greets us all with a cheery "Kalimera!" (Good morning!) rather than the standard pathetic plea for help that most of his fellow panhandlers employ. And even on the days when I have nothing to give him, he responds with a smile and "Na'ste kala" (Be well) rather than a black glare of resentment and accusation. And for that reason alone, I am happy to hand over my paltry 50 cents whenever I can.

I know that he may well be a con artist, as many are, but - as a good friend once said when faced with a old-eyed child begging from table to table in a kafenion (coffee shop) - what if he's not?

Athens Portraits: Escape to Attica

Every Sunday from June to September, herds of seal-like heads can be seen bobbing up and down in the waters off the beaches around Attica.

But it's not an encouraging sign of a surge in the numbers of the protected Mediterranean Monk Seal. No, it's the legions of Athens shop assistants and other workers who have just one day a week to escape the scorching concrete and merciless steel-and-glass of the capital. They're not lucky enough to have a country base where they can retreat from the shimmering heat of the city and many don't have a car to make their escape easier.

So, bright and early every Sunday morning, Plateia Egyptou (Egypt Square) in downtown Athens sees a gathering of the clans with a difference.

Athenians of all shapes, sizes and nationalities form little groups of friends, families and assorted hangers-on loaded up with swimsuits, mats, parasols, beach balls and packed lunches, waiting for the coaches that represent an escape to the seaside and a few hours respite from the summer's heat.

They usually travel in family groups - sometimes spanning several generations - and they stake their claim on their patch as soon as they set foot on the sea-bleached pebbles. Beach mats are laid, folding chairs erected, towels spread, rubber rings and arm bands inflated for excited toddlers, and the air is filled with the scents of a thousand brands of sun cream (coconut, almond, carrot, fruit - even biscuit) as protection from the fierce sun is a must.

As the kids rush into the sea with a splash of impatience, anxious grandparents keep a wary eye out while many a mum and dad stretch out to work on their tans. Ancient, fragile aunts are led to their beach chairs and ever-so-gently sat down where they can enjoy the sight of their extended family splashing in the shallows for the next eight hours. A helpful uncle makes the trip across the road to the nearest shops to stock up on ridiculously over-priced cheese pies, bottles of water and cans of sugary pop.

By midday, harrassed mothers that have tried to think of everything start carefully unwrapping tin foil packages and opening up Tupperware holding anything from hastily assembled cheese and ham sandwiches to yesterday's left-over meatballs or moussaka. Fathers try (usually in vain) to persuade their offspring to come out of the water to sit in the shade and have a bite to eat.

Lunch over, and the air fills with a medley of sounds including Auntie's gentle snoring as the waves lap her ankles, the wailing of pre-schoolers worn out by too much sun and excitement, the soothing of parents trying to hush them (punctuated by occasional staccato screaches or slaps as they reach the end of their tether), and the tock-tock-tock of teenaged boys' after-lunch bout of beach tennis to show off their sun-kissed bods to any girls that that might be watching surreptiously from beneath their sunhats.

By the time the sun starts sinking towards the horizon and the coaches have arrived for the return trip, parasols and beach mats are gathered up, inflatables delated and rubbish discarded. Kids are dragged from the waves at the last minute to make the two-hour trip back to the sweaty city in their soggy, salty swimwear. And parents heave a sigh of relief that they at least managed to escape for a few brief hours before gathering their strength for the coming week of work.

For those of us lucky enough to have a country refuge - no matter how humble - and the means to escape to it, it's easy to moan and groan at the sight of the coaches arriving on Sunday mornings to spew out the hoardes of city-dwellers onto 'our' beach.

We lament the loss of our companionable solitude. We moan about the flotillas of bubbles floating on the surface of the sea by the end of the day (all that sun screen has to go somewhere). We whine about the noise of the intrusive hoardes that invade our peace and nab 'our' spot on the beach. We whinge about the rubbish overflowing from the bins. And we rant about the general disruption of our priviledged summer routine.

But we do it quietly.

For deep down, we know what it's like to be trapped in the city with only a weekly bus-strip promising any relief. After all, it wasn't so very long ago that most of the owners of seaside homes were themselves part of that breed of day trippers seeking an escape to Attica.

Balls!

The Other Half and I have an ongoing semi-serious spat about my use of the phrase "Football Widow" which he seems to take rather personally. No matter how much I try to explain that this is a phrase in common use (also for golf, rugby, pubs, etc.) and not one of my digs at "the beautiful game", he's adamant that I'm talking rubbish (again).

Bless 'im, I know he doesn't mean it. At least, I think so.

I just remind myself of the first rule of a peaceful marriage: some things are sacred - politics, religion, mothers, football (not necessarily in that order) - so hands off!

But the truth is that the thought of a bunch of men kicking a ball round an often muddy pitch just leaves me cold, despite the fact that the game has captured the hearts and minds of 99.9% of the population of Planet Earth. I just don't get why it excites such passion and devotion. It is - after all - just a game, isn't it?

I don't mind being in a minority - I'm used it actually, and it's OK (I'm also in the minority for my constant use of the word "actually"). But I do object when 'certain people' imply that I'm a freak and a traitor to my homeland. How is it possible, they wonder, to grow up in the land of Danny Blanchflower, Bobby Charlton and David Beckham and not bow down to the mighty ball? It's like an English woman not liking beer, they say. (Yep, that would be me again folks).

And now I can't even have a good natured moan about the game, 'cos my Dearly Beloved's job deals directly with it. So shtum is the order of the day if I value the source of half our family income.

Just don't expect me to get excited about it. There are some things I might fake, but many I won't and enthusiasm is one of them. If there's footy in the box when I get home tonight (and there always seems to be), I'll just zip my lip and retire with a nice cuppa to catch up on my reading.

But of course, I'm always delighted when the Other Half's favoured side wins... Life is so much easier when he's in a good mood!