Open Writing

I resolutely believe we all have a unique talent for something. Sometimes these gifts lay deeply hidden and are only revealed in unusual circumstances.

For instance it took the boxer, Richard Dunn a trip to Munich and a heavy bashing to realise what a great talent he had for scaffolding.

Noele Gordon, who stood stoically at the ‘Crossroads’ four times week, didn’t know it but she turned our garden into a showpiece. It took only one sentence of her windy consonants ‘Whhhere is Hhhugh and Whhhy?’ and our reluctant gardener was enthusiastically weeding out the bones from under the rhododendrons.

I seem to have a highly developed dexterity for doing and saying the ‘wrong thing.’ Well, it’s more of a gift really. It isn’t something I consciously work at but seems to occur naturally. Without any premeditation, clumsy clangers fall like misjudged cricket balls from my innocent lips. One minute I’m chatting gaily to a receptive friend, next minute she is preparing to leave.

Like the time a pregnant woman and I were awaiting our weekly prod at the maternity hospital. We were soon deeply engrossed in intellectual baby talk. ‘We don’t seem to be able to decide on a girl’s name this time,’ I confided, leaving out the fact that this was our fifth time round and suitable names were becoming a bit scarce.

She helpfully suggested a few which included the name of a relative’s slobbery-mouthed dog. ‘I wouldn’t even insult our dog with that name,’ I laughed, appreciating her sense of humour. My smile soon disintegrated, how-ever when she called her small daughter over using the same name.

Sometimes I commit these endearing faux pas with faces. I once greeted an acquaintance in a cloakroom at a dance and playfully patted her mother’s rear as she bent down to adjust her evening shoes. Image my surprise when she straightened up into an unknown teenager, with a red unfriendly face.

My mumbled apology, ‘Oops, sorry love, I thought you were her mother,’ had little effect on her hostile expression. But let’s be honest, we all make similar mistakes, don’t we.’

When we read the newspaper write-up of our wedding I discovered my blunderous ability was obviously shared.

There was our photograph, immediately recognisable. We had just survived an aggressive confetti battle. My head-dress was poised at an unusual angle and my husband was the only bridegroom on the page without eyes, his hair covered two-thirds of his face. Looking back I wonder if this image was purposefully contrived as living proof to our generation that, contrary to the sparse display of today, at least father did enjoy the luxury of pre-marital hair. Underneath all the Swiss lace and roses there it was for all to see – and remember for a long time to come – ‘The bride went away on her honeymoon in a petrel-blue coat with . . . the organist.’ He was most displeased and wrote in and complained to the newspaper. I preferred the ‘tan accessories’ which were supposed to accompany my petrel-blue coat.

The following morning as we started our life together in scintillating Slaithwaite, our friends and relatives popped in and out, probably curious to see if we were still together. It was then I dropped my first wifely clanger. I told my father-in-law I had hardly slept a wink all night.

Everyone sniggered and spelled out the old cliches so vigorously no-one heard the rest of my sentence referring to the resounding church bells at the end of our street and their quarterly chimes.

Most of us has carried on a personal conversation with what we believed was our beloved, only to discover, in an intimate confession later, that a stranger stands beside us with baited breath waiting for the final details, while husband is looking in the next door shop window.

Once I took the arm of a complete stranger and pressed him hard against a jeweller’s window, ‘That’s the one I want,’ I demanded, pointing to a diamond engagement ring. When I eventually saw the poor chap’s frightened expression, I realised my prospective fiance had done his usual bunk at the sight of the black velvet pads.

Unless I am sporting my spectacles, I have stopped using my favourite surprise greeting ‘OK lady I am a store detective, you are under arrest,’ I said to the back view of a friend, who unfortunately turned out to be a complete stranger.

But it happens to the best of us. The other day Margaret Thatcher arrived at Liverpool FC’s clubhouse wearing Everton colours, and ignoring advice, lifted the heavy cup they had just won and damaged the base. I am learning though, she had the sense to cover her colour error with a red scarf tied neatly round her neck. That’s the secret folks, it’s not the mistakes you make, but the way you cover them up that counts.