Open Writing

We have just received a disturbing school circular. Not only is the annual bulb show evening to be held in two weeks (just when one of our hyacinths has developed a hump), but an epidemic of nail nibbling is sweeping through the school.

The eyes are considered to be the ‘windows of the soul’ but always in my opinion hands can reveal all. That’s why I always wear gloves.

Whenever I am introduced to strangers my eyes go first to teeth, then to nails. You don’t need Romany connections to read between the lines. Jagged nails and washday reds tell their own story. During a recent TV play I noticed with disappointment that Julie Covington has a set of fingernails to match her hairstyle.

It’s a constant battle to keep my nails on at the moment. I have two bendy thumbnails and four fingers that are presentable; the others are still recovering from detergents. My daughters have spent hours searching the vac bag for their false variety, an expensive menace for busy mothers who let their vacuums eat anything they can get hold of. These flyaway pieces of plastic are useless anyway – they either come off with your gloves or lean back with a huff if you touch them. The viscid stuff provided to glue them on sticks like chewing gum long after the nails have died. Apparently it will stick to anything except plastic.

It’s a well-publicised fact; all nervous habits can be traced back to either parents or teachers. Naturally adult stress signs – denture rolling, sniffing, trouser hitching – can be traced back to children, which proves we all get on each other’s nerves. I try hard to subscribe to the maxim it will go away if you ignore it, which is easier said than done.

One of our children has a mind-shattering pre-exam habit of clearing her throat every few minutes. Listening to what sounds like a spade being dragged intermittently over gravel all evening can have a diabolical effect on the other family traits.

‘We all have nervous habits,’ pointed out my smiling doctor, when I mentioned some of ours that were fit to repeat. ‘I have one or two myself.’ When I drew my chair up eagerly to enquire for more details, he reached for his prescription pad and clammed up – ours is such a one-sided relationship. I am expected to confide my most intimate secrets to him, but mention his and I’m pointed towards the door.

Children are avid twitch collectors. My one aim in primary school life was to acquire one. Spasmodic winks and jerks seemed a definite asset in my opinion, but unfortunately they only appeared to infect the intelligent. I had one friend with a particularly studious-looking habit of pulling her top lip down - she topped all the exam lists. I practised various nose-screwings and eye fluttering until I found one that suited me and probably would have become quite adept if my mother’s right hand had not intervened just as I was almost jerk perfect. In those days the psychiatrists couch was reserved for film stars; a short swipe to my left ear worked just as well.

One afternoon we had a visit from an old family acquaintance whom I soon realised had a magnificent action, which far out-twitched anything featured in our schoolyard. He gave the impression of being worked by hidden wires. Every so often his head would jerk to his shoulder (and he could do it equally well either side), then he would climax the whole fascinating performance with a neck-stretch, chin-up movement. I could see famous potential in any of these actions. But as usual my mother was one step ahead. More furtive side-swipes quashed that idea permanently.

Of course I developed other nasty habits that I try to keep a secret, here’s a disquieting thought, though – do I? Clicking my one denture in and out of position is so relaxing – when I’m unobserved – but am I?

‘Have I any irritating habits you can’t stand?’ I asked my husband who is sitting at my side for the first time this week. ‘Of course not, love,’ he replies, one eye on the clock. ‘By the way – er sorry but - I’m off again tonight – another meeting, won’t be late.’

Perhaps my son who can afford to be truthful on pay night will be more forthcoming? He says ‘Lots’ but thinks the most aggravating is my ignorance and the way I stare dreamily into space when asked a question. And I’m not too wild about his perceptiveness either.

Even the best of us have them, some endearing, others exasperating. What may be a loveable trait to one, may spell ‘taboo’ to another. I know a couple who are afraid to eat in a hotel because of the husband’s eating habits. ‘He always puts sugar on his lettuce’ she sighs. It would take more than that to make me forfeit a meal out.

Our youngest daughter has an aversion to greens. As tact and persuasion yielded no result, I resorted to my secret weapon – force. Spoon by spoon I cleared her plate. Her cries and chokes were heartbreaking to behold, but more upsetting were the full plates left behind by the rest of the family, who were too sickened by my efforts to face their own dinners.

The loveable traits that originally evoked the passion in our beloved breast can often become the characteristic that crushes it. ‘Darling I love the funny way you wrinkle your nose’ often deteriorates to ‘For God’s sake straighten that face,’ after twenty years. Like the amorous husband who welcomes his wife into his bed with an affectionate ‘What is it my petal?’ when she stumbles over his shoes, then brands her a ‘Clumsy idiot’ when she does the same on leaving it in the morning.

It always brings out my nervous tic when people say one thing and mean another. The ‘Can I help you?’ which thinly disguises a ‘Take your filthy paws of my merchandise’ attitude and teachers who say ‘Your daughter is a very popular member of the class’ meaning ‘She’s a damn nuisance and never stops talking.’ Certain white-coated assistants who are consumed by the conviction that patients should only be ill during surgery hours.

In our village we have a shopkeeper who labours under the misapprehension that he is the world’s greatest comedian; that his cheeky little gimmicks make him a bundle of fun. But I’m pleased to his wallet about his latest jokey ploy – I loved the way he surreptitiously sneaked my full purse from my basket only returning it when I raced out in a panic, with knees like cotton wool screaming ‘My purse . . .’

‘I just wanted you to see how easy it is to pick pockets,’ he explained. Thanks for pointing it out. If ever I take up burglary as a career, yours will be the first shop on my list . . see how you feel.

‘If my dad was a vicar – would it change your life?’ asks my youngest – now you know why I stare into space before answering!