B. Johnson - House Mother Normal

aaaaaaachk! Yes it can!

But try again.

To walk. The pleasure of it. As

I stroll along the promenade. It must be a tidy

middling. The trouble

with business is that you can think you’re doing

so well and then you get caught for a tidy

packet. Right into the middling, right into the

fertilizer. It may be something to do

with the way I walk, of course. That may have

something to do with it.

Haemorrhoids or piles:

just as though you could

choose! aaaeh!

I shall try again to remember my first fuck.

The first is the one you never forget, they say.

They are not right in my case, not for the first

time, either. Yet I remember it was when I was

seventeen, because that was what I said when

questioned about it some time later. But who it

was is difficult to remember. Who did I

know at seventeen? It must have been someone from

the town, I would not have been stupid enough to

shit on my own village doorstep, as we say in the

trade. In that case, it might have — No, I can’t

walk any more, I must sit and be damned to her

and her dog.

If that seed had borne fruit, I should have a child

of over sixty now. It might have been a son, a

competitor. Tom was never a competitor, none of

them. I was their father, and I saw I remained so,

oh yes!

Who could it have been? My memory’s playing me up

again, so she was redhaired, ginger-eyed and had

a pair of tits on her like twin mountains and an

arse as broad as East Anglia. Her fanny was like

a red ravine, dry and dusty, not so dusty.

Her face?

I can’t remember her face.

Ah, yes,

that was fun last time, the tourney. I enjoyed

it. Wonder if I can get a bet on this time? Mrs

Bowen won easily, I’ll back her. Mrs Ridge,

I’ll bet you my breakfast milk that Mrs Bowen wins.

But what will you give me if I win?

Right, you’re on. Shake.

Now I’ve got a bet on.

They’re at the tapes!

Come on Mrs Bowen! Lot depends on Charlie pushing,

too. They’re

off!

Hooray! One up to me!

They're off

again! Come on Charlie!

Rah! Two up!I shall win!

They’re off! Last time, I must

win two-to-one at least!

Rah!

Cheers for Mrs Bowen and Charlie! You owe me a feel,

Mrs Ridge, a feel, tonight!

She gets it both ways, she does. If she’d’ve

won she’d’ve got my breakfast milk, as it is she

gets a feel she’ll enjoy just as much as I will,

more, probably, with my arse in this state. That’s

funny, forgot it during the tourney. Just goes

to show, just goes to show.

But it’s getting worse now, it’s

paying me back, aaaaoooh!

oooooooooh! aaOOh!

No, try to think of something to take my mind off

it, the feel, that’s something to look forward to,

ooooooooh, but it’s no help now,

what shall I do?

Started when I

was fifty-two, it’s a

punishment for tossing off

that little boy when I was

in the Navy, it’s a

punishment, be sure your sins

will find you out.

He asked for it, he was a saucy little sod, and I

paid him a few piastres.

aaaaooaoaoah!

aaaaaah!

oooooh!

oooaaaeh!

eaeaell!

ooooo ooh, oooh, aaaah!

eh!

ooooooooch!

oooooooooooeoeososoaoeo!

aaaaajjja!

we never did think we’d live to see him grow

up! I’ll force myself to think of something else.

we never did to see

think we never did

we’d live

a few piastres seemed

so little at the time, for what

it was

years after, that smell

City of galloping

knobrot

oooooh!

oooooooaoah!

this can’t go on surely

something must bust it must give the pain over

it must make me bust oooooooooh!

ooooooorh!

one two three four one two three four sheep over

the edge one three six ten fuck them all oooooo

nothing comes

of it, nothing seems to

help, you’d think they would

be able to do something

for you, people have been

suffering from sore arse-

holes since time began.

no, ooooooh!

ooooooooooooh!

Regular, it

comes in waves.

oooooooooooooooooooooh!

ooooooough!

oooodh!

OOOOOOOH!

Listen to her!

No, doesn’t matter

Gloria Ridge age 85 marital status not known sight 45 % hearing 55 % touch 30 % taste 20 % smell 60 % movement 45 % CQ count 6 pathology contractures; plantar fasciitis; mental confusion; progressive senile dementia; cholecystitis; osteoporosis; among others.

… me and then get this down me and

then I’ll be all right

spuds and mashed and with knees

try hard peas, peas, peas

shovel peas in, more then I’ll be all right

more?

more

general sold his cockerel

the meat is good, more meat, that’s

the thing, must eat to get right, get this down me and then

I’ll be all right, that’s it, ask for more meat. More meat?

He’s not going to eat his, no, I’ll have his, must eat, how he

can leave it I don’t know, here Oh! twitcher!

no… eee! my hands,

the backs of my hands! Hurts not for long, I’ve

got over worse, I’m the toughest.

They said it was just a craze,

wanting to eat, it would never catch on, la la la!

Catchy.

I always did believe

in ruining your own work, it was one of my fondest beliefs,

if you do that then you don’t have to beholden to somebody,

do you?

Scrape the plate, the mash off, mash off corners

Swinging on

ropes, nothing much on, just something round his

unmentionables, as we

used to call them, into all that mucky water and crawlies,

out in the bare colds or rocks was it,

only a picture after all.

Another one I saw had Charlie Chimpanzee

in it, when I was that high. Then we had Gilbert

Harding being rude, we enjoyed it! Diving into the

crawlies and the water all covered by scrum, those jungle

creepers! How we used to laugh!

She ought to show us films here,

though some would abuse the privilege, they never do.

It would never do

da-da, ma-ma

Brisket and taters, brisket, brisket

atrisket, my love bisquit, brown bread and waistcoat,

crumbs to his watch-piece.

My name’s Gloria, Glory

for short. It’s too far this time. May I never?

My true love went once round fingering, blue hair he

had with his long black eyes, four foot three

in his bloomers, I remember him so clearly, it was in

a pub we first met, I was with my mates at the time, he

was with his. Yellow jumper and pale skirt

This for two or more I was with him,

standing in the dark. Milk stout was all our tipple, then.

He was my first, it was raining at the time.

She’s in trouble this time, not me, House Mother’ll hit

her, not me, this time

No, she’s

not, that’s not fair, she’s only getting a tonguelashing,

not the twitcher, it’s not fair not fair!

me

me me me meeee mememememememememe! say it aloud

ME! The twitcher, lucky

she didn’t hear, lucky me!

A gallon of gin I must have