I was at the doctors earlier today. I’ve had to wait nearly three weeks for an appointment. If it wasn’t for the fact that the receptionist is only in her early thirties, I’d have sworn she used to be one of the guards in ‘Tenko’.
She was going on about me being a few minutes late for my appointment but I wasn’t having any of her nonsense so I gave her a piece of my mind. I think she muttered something under her breath but I didn’t wait to find out what it was, there weren’t many seats left in the waiting area and I wanted one near to the facilities, just in case the doctor was running late. My bowels can’t face a backlog.
Ooh, don’t get me started on the trouble I’ve been having downstairs, I haven’t had any ‘movement’ for weeks and the pain in my back, well you’d think I was giving birth.
My friend Cynthia said it was wind but I told her, there’s nothing coming out; solid, liquid or gas. It’s all blocked up. I’ve tried everything, syrup of figs, liquid paraffin, I even tried to get it moving with a warm sponge but it wasn’t budging.
It’s all a bit embarrassing really. I’m a proud woman, always have been. There are bits that can go on show and others which I’d rather keep hidden, even as a woman of my age and experiences.
I’ve always advocated that what goes on behind closed doors is no one’s business but your own, but in public, you need to exercise a modicum of decency. ‘Paddling in your stockings, wearing gloves to match your hat and controlling the noises which are trying to escape your nether regions.’
All I can say is, it’s a good job the Doctor and I are well-acquainted. He’s been my physician for years, there’s nothing he hasn’t seen already.
Nursed me through my fibroids and the gallbladder incident – he used to call in for a slice of Jamaican Ginger cake and a bit of light refreshment back in the day, only in-between his visits – he never shirked his responsibilities. Sometimes, he even popped in, in the evenings if his wife was away.
I had a smashing place back then. A lovely big Georgian house on the outskirts of town – it was a perfect spot for my business.
It had six rooms upstairs, all en-suite (and that was before it became fashionable) and there were a further two rooms downstairs, plus all the usual: kitchen, lounge etc. Oh, we had some lovely times in that house – me and the girls.
The place was always busy. And I like to think that’s because we provided such a good service. I only employed the best well-mannered staff you see, with impeccable cleanliness and good breeding. It’s important in the ‘hospitality’ industry, you need to set the tone if you are going to run a respectable establishment. And I took great pride in my work and demanded the same from my girls.
All the big shot judges from the Crown court used to visit, whilst they were presiding over one of their long cases – they’d stop for months sometimes.
Course, many of my suites were themed back then. I had one done out in fawn buckskin leather, cost me a fortune it did, headboard, chairs, wall panels, there was even a full buck throw on the bed. People said it had quite a unique aroma; it’s the leather see.
As I recall, it was one of the most popular rooms, although that may have had more to do with the special cabinet I kept in there. You wouldn’t believe the gadgets I stored in it, some dating back to the Jacobean period.
It was a favourite of old Stan’s from the nursing home – he used to teach Modern History at the grammar school before his dementia set in. He was always partial to a bit of James l erotic memorabilia as I recall. His wife was chairwoman of the WI, had a look of Hattie Jacques about her, although unfortunately for him, she didn’t share any of his unique interests.
One fella stayed with us for almost a year; cost him a fortune poor love. Mind you, he wasn’t short of a penny or two – had one leg shorter than the other and a hump on his back. Big in artificial ceilings, if I remember right. We didn’t know it at the time, but it turned out he had a large house which is now owned by the National Trust. The obituary in the paper said it sold for over two million. I’ve always said, money doesn’t always bring you happiness.
We all went to his funeral, I even shut the house down for the afternoon – the girls had become very fond of him see. That’s the thing people didn’t get about my business. It was more than just a room for the night, it was a place to relax; a space to get away from the hustle and bustle. Me and the girls did our best to make our guests feel contented and relieve their tensions and I made sure all their appetites were seen to.
I took great pride in the service we offered and I’d never let any of the girls feel ashamed of what they were doing. We were a respectable house. Whatever people thought about what we did, I know that the service we provided was of a very high standard and I would not hear otherwise.
All the regulars were devastated when we had to close-down due to the misunderstanding with the Ash Smacker and thigh restraints. Some low-life newspaper reporter from one of the red tops, claiming he hadn’t signed the disclaimer.
I knew he was lying. Elsie was pedantic about that sort of thing, but it turned out he’d purposefully smudged his signature with grape butt plug lubricant so that you couldn’t make out the lettering.
When the two-page spread appeared in the paper the next day, it was enough to get us closed down. I heard that he’s an MP now, up in the Midlands.
A couple of the regulars put themselves out on a limb and tried to block it, but it’s a funny old business. Most folk like to keep quiet about their sexual preferences. I lost everything. The house was repossessed and I had to sell all the furnishings to keep my head above water. I made sure the girls were all alright though.
Fortunately, Mike from the council owed me a few favours and managed to wangle me a place in the new assisted living block down by the canal. I don’t know how he did it.
He pops in from time to time and we have a good old chat about the old days; he fills me in about what everyone’s up to whilst I rub cream on his cracked heels – he says I’ve always been good with my hands.
I’m off to meet him now, he’s been rummaging through his old photos and found a few from that party we had just before we closed. He reckons he has one of the gob-shite MP who wrote the story, wearing a ladies Basque and stilettos, by all accounts. Course he’s bound to have aged since then, but Mike reckons, you can still tell that it’s him.
He thought it would make a great poster for the forthcoming elections.
Jules Garvey Welch for Pf Magazine