P I G Y

PI GY 13 - Uncle Ted’s Big Balls and the Floral Floozie

2021-01-08T14:15:00.000+00:00

“I think your Uncle Ted is having an affair.”

I stared at my 83 year old Aunt Edie as she twiddled, sadly, with a potted primrose.

Uncle Ted was 93 and I, quite frankly, didn’t think he was up to much; never mind an affaire d’passion.

“We’re down to once a week now.” She said quietly, with some embarrassment.

“Oh,” I said with a lot of embarrassment and rapidly widening eyes. My eyebrows were in the position that I would presume them to be in if a facelift had been carried out, when all is yanked upwards and a big knot of skin was tied like a bun, at the back of the head.
I really, really didn’t want to be having this conversation but Edie continued.

“I don’t really want to be bothered with a divorce but if he was I’d have to. I know you’re good at these things. Can you find out for me please?”

Early evening and I was sitting in my car waiting for my uncle to emerge and ready to follow him.
Talk about it all feeling rather surreal. Uncle Ted? Affair? No! Surely not? No! Please NO!

I looked at my watch. Hurry up Ted, I thought. With that thought, the dull green door opened and out he came. I heard Aunt Edie’s cheerful “Bye” floating out behind him but he only grunted in return and waved his hand as though he was impatiently swotting something annoying away. The door closed softly behind him and he was off.

Not the fastest follow ever, I had to wait until he turned a corner before moving, as he took so long to shuffle down the road.
No way was this man capable of steamy afternoon sessions. Aunt Edie’s “Down to once a week” had the temerity to float through my mind and I shuddered before trying to slam the shutters down in my over imaginative imagination. Too late. The damage had already been done.

I suddenly realised that Ted had disappeared.

A slow drive saw him halfway up someone’s drive. A cherry red door opened and a woman, at least twenty years younger than Ted, stepped out. Okay, she was still in her 70s but it’s probably all relative if you’re 93.

Blowsy was the only word that sprang to mind. She had on a flowery dress which was so beautifully vintage looking I had to wonder if she’d bought it when it first hit the rails. Surprisingly trim, brown legs led down to a pair of gleaming white plimsolls. Her hair was practically yellow and a slash of red, the only added colour on her face, drew the eye, instantly, to a mouth which never seemed to keep still.

After a hug and a kiss - ON THE LIPS! – she turned away from Ted and they both disappeared into the house, the cherry red door creating an impenetrable barrier for my curiosity.

A few minutes later and a bedroom light went on and stayed on for the next 20 minutes.

I wasn’t sure what to make of 20 minutes. Was that an awfully long time or would it take Ted that long just to get his socks off? Did he even take his socks off? Oh God, please stop over thinking this.

Eventually, the cherry red door, once again, creaked open. It’s a good job it was noisy because I’d started to nod off. My senses, once again, were at full alert/disgust,

I watched, through narrowed eyes, as the Floral Floozy headed for the gate. Ted followed her and, behind her back, adjusted his undercarriage. OH GOD!

At the gate she waited for him and kept in pace with his shuffle as they went on their way.

I felt rather distraught for poor Aunt Edie. She was so lovely she didn’t deserve this. Bloody Ted. I’d kill him if he was having an affair. Oh God, Tracey. Don’t even think about it...

Too late. The image of her bouncing about on top of him (albeit still in the floral frock), was already there and primed to pump up the cringe-o-meter.

Shaking my head to attempt to dislodge the frightening image, I continued my stop, start, slow follow, until they turned into a passageway between two houses. The passageway opened into a large, concrete car park with a stark, utilitarian clubhouse at the far end.

I hadn’t seen this place before and had no idea it was even here, what it was used for and for whom.

I had a quick look around but, when a disloyal lurcher barked, when it saw me peering through the window at Ted, with a pint of stout (probably needed some fortification by that point), laughing with the Floral Floozy twirling her CherryB, I had to make an hasty retreat.
Yes, I know the Floral Floozy was probably lovely, but he was my 93 year old uncle, Ted, married to my lovely 83 year old Aunt Edie.

With an heavy heart I phoned Edie and reported back.

The next day, Edie called me and asked if I would go around for tea and cake. As much as I tried to avoid cake it always seemed to just fall into my expanding lap – at least the crumbs did.

Edie was already waiting by the open, dull green door.

“It’s alright, luv, he’s confessed all.”

I was fumbling around in my pocket for a clean-ish tissue to proffer but then wondered why was Edie looking so happy?

Edie bustled me in and a plate of cake was in my hand before my bum had even connected with the my-niece-bought-it-from-Shackleton's high chair, cosily situated by the electric bar fire.

“He’s been meeting a woman called Florrie. She’s married to the lovely Jim. You remember Jim? He was always running people over with his mobility scooter. Anyway, he’s now totally bedbound which quite frankly, is safer for everyone, including Jim. Going out with Ted, gives Florrie a lovely break from all the caring and gives Jim a lovely break from all the caring. A win win.”

I was thinking that was rather bohemian of Edie and Jim, when she continued; “Anyway, Ted picks up Florrie to walk her to the bowling club a couple of times a week. They are in the same team and found that he walked past her house, on the way.”

“But why the big secret and the sneaking around?” I queried, totally perplexed by this point.

“Apparently, the big lummox was embarrassed. He originally got dragged along by Burt and Banjo (Burt’s chilled out wiry lurcher) and found that he enjoyed it – the people and the playing – bowls not banjos.”

“But...but....why didn’t he say where he was going?”

Edie tutted. “He was embarrassed that, if he admitted to liking playing bowls, it would make him look old and ruin his street cred...” Edie raised her eyebrows to the same level that mine had already shot up to.

“Good grief, Ted – you nearly ruined your marriage never mind your street cred!”

Ted just looked sheepish, took a massive bite of Rocky Road and then gave Edie a great big wink. Edie gave Ted a rather wicked, little smile...

I looked horrified, made an hasty exit and ran for the hills.

PI GY 12 - Waving To Petunia, Wind In His Sails and a Lot of Devotion

2021-01-06T15:41:00.000+00:00

At the bottom of the steep, white, zig-zag, High Cliff steps, are two little shops, either side of the promenade exit.

The one on the right is a tasteful, contemporary satellite of the St. Peter’s Avenue, “Bend In The River” coffee shop. More kiosk than coffee shop, it does have some communal, polished wenge and stainless steel, skinny bench-tables on the pavement, in front. It has only been open a few weeks and probably kept going, up to now, by the owner of the left-hand unit.

In contrast to the coffee shop, “Wind In Your Sails” shouts a great big WHOOHOOYOO to passers-by.

Cleethorpes, very own, informal, information officer and promoter, and drag-artiste extraordinaire, Ian B. Devotion, filled the tiny space with both himself and Local Art and Craft contemporary versions of the traditional seaside souvenir shop. As well as an outlet for his own hand-carved, wooden windmills, (highly coveted and in several high end galleries as well as the thirty metre high one on the North Prom), the joyous, colourful, space somehow managed to contain Art postcards and greeting cards, badges, keyrings, mugs, original paintings and prints, jewellery, handmade flip-flops, sliders, hoodies and towels, seaside-based smellies. Anything and everything as long as it was made by local people, reflected the local area and, most importantly, fitted in with Ian’s tasteful, if somewhat eclectic, aesthetic. Not wanting to exclude the day trippers from the delights that Cleethorpes and Grimsby’s Artists and Creators could offer, prices ran from 50p (Badge or card bookmark) to £500 (paintings and sculptures). There was even a rack, squeezed in the corner, full of CDs and vinyl by local musicians of all genre.

Ian and I were perched upon wenge, freezing hands clasped around steaming mugs of rich, dark coffee, trying to fight off a biting cruel North Sea wind . We’d, somehow, managed to resist our usual oozing brownies. My, still dodgy knee, meant hobbling everywhere so walking a block, never mind fitness classes, were definitely out and trousers, and everything else, were definitely getting far too snug. Eurgh.

Ian, at 6’4”, an imposing chap at the best of times, ran on caffeine alone when he had an upcoming show and tonight was such a night. Ian B. Devotion was the host of The Estuary Elvis Talent Show and, as he proclaimed, rather loudly,

“White and rhinestones are not terribly flattering darling. They show up every crumb of brownie. At least, several good coffees will wee out a few unwanted undulations.”

Rick, the glossy-haired, surfer-dude, owner of Bend In The River, rolled his eyes and let out a big sigh.

“You’d be my best customer if I didn’t give you mate’s rates, mate.”

“Yeah, but that’s because you love me and I encourage everyone to come and see you after visiting me AND everyone else I ever meet.”

“Fair enough. Are you sure you don’t want a brownie? On the house...”

“Ooh you temptress,” Ian pouted. “You only said that because you know I won’t! Are you coming tonight?”

“Absolutely!” chortled Rick. “I’ve got my stripy Jailhouse outfit already made and ready to Rock The Kasbah, Rock The Kasbah. Hope we won’t Clash – haha!”

Kasbah Lumpers’ Kaff, was the unlikely venue for a, potentially, crazy Elvis night but the cosy cafe had a small stage, great sound system and, at night, no neighbours to disturb, even when the clientele spilled out onto the dockside frontage. They also did a mean cheese (or cheese-ish for the vegans) bun and pork dripping sandwich (no vegan alternative) as well as having a prized drinks licence. The licence was always under review as someone, inevitably, fell in the dock and had to be fished out, whenever there was a ‘Do’ on.

Other than cheese buns and the cafe itself, the other constant was Parfait Pete who had somehow transformed from the twenty year old, burly docker type, washer-upperer, to cafe owner and Parfait Petra, on certain nights (and some days, if he was feeling brave).

For some strange and inexplicable reason, a few decades ago, I’d spent my 18th birthday there eating cheese buns and drinking mugs of creamy cocoa, among burly dockers. I have absolutely no recollection of how I ended up there, or why, but, no doubt, copious amounts of snakebites were involved and not of the reptile variety – oops.

I’m not too sure how Elvis Drag Nights would have gone down in those days though and the odd snatches of music were only provided by a tinny radio, hidden in the greasy, depths of the kitchen. There is something to be said for the 21st Century.

Feeling a bit like I was ‘doing a deal’ I gave Ian another of my large paintings in exchange for a promise that my bank account would be a lot happier by the time that I got home. I clipped “Shaft”, the replacement for the sold “Slipways and Trails” in the coveted, blank space in the window of “Wind In Your Sails”.

Ian gave me a big hug. I’m not a hugger but there was no escape from his flapping, vintage, Afghan coat (which had never been cured properly and reeked to high Heaven) and Tom Baker-esque woolly scarf, which was almost big enough to wrap around The Point as a big tea cosy for the large shop and apartment block, at the top of the High Cliff steps. His favourite winter boots were Barbie Pink cowboy boots. This was his ‘restrained’ day wear. I was tempted to go to the Elvis night to see what his creation du couture would be for that – in fact, I may see if MarcieD or Ally fancy going. Thankfully, Elvis attire was optional.

It was getting on by the time I’d nipped down Seaview Street to grab some tester tins of posh paint and peered in all the shop windows, trying not to spend my portion of the recent painting sale before I’d even seen it sitting in my bank account.

It was only when I was driving down Grimsby Road, homeward bound, that I saw the box of postcards, bookmarks and badges, sticking out from under the passenger seat. Normally, I wouldn’t have bothered but Ian was having a small event the next day and had asked for more stock, specifically. I took a right turn, came back up the next street and started to crawl back, in the rush hour traffic. Oh joy...

Ian, knowing that he’d be short for time, had brought his night-time outfit to the shop and, after closing a little earlier than normal, somehow managed to change in the tiny toilet, at the back of the shop. Putting his slap on, using a large, hand-crafted, wooden mirror he looked with pride at his sequined, white feathered headdress, his matching sequined eye shadow, massive, jet black lashes, pouty, red, glossed lips, sparkly white, flared jumpsuit and, his signature, tulle tutu – baby pink, in this instance. In case of rain, and due to laziness, he’d kept the Barbie Pink cowboy boots on. All he had left to put on was the Ermine (faux, naturally), trimmed white cape.

Hoping he wouldn’t be too lonesome tonight and that plenty more Elvis’ would show up, despite the weather, he locked up and pulled the shutters down. Hearing the loud clunk, Rick, who was cleaning the small kitchen in his unit, turned around to give Ian a wave and mouth, “See you later”. He got two thumbs up, a curtsey and a big, red, glossy grin in reply.

Ian bounded up the steps, behind Wind In Your Sails and turned around to look at the tide which was on the way in.

Something caught his eye and he squinted into the wind to see better.

Amusing myself by blasting out Radio 1, I continued my car-crawl up Isaac’s Hill, along the High Street, down Sea Road and turned right, in front of The Pier, along the seafront. At this time I knew that I wouldn’t have any problem parking and I got right in front of the shops.

Damn, Ian had shut up shop early but, thankfully, although now closed for business, Rick was still to be seen, beavering away in the back of Bend In The River. He looked a little grumpy when I tapped on the window but, thank goodness, smiled when he saw that it was just me.

“Thank goodness, it’s just you.” He said. “Someone always wants a fancy coffee as soon as I’ve cleaned the machine up. Every.....single.....time....” He hit me when I asked him for a coconut milk, cappuccino.

“Ow! Actually, could you do me a favour please? I got stuck in traffic and have missed Ian. I’ve got this stock for his event tomorrow. Could I leave them here and ask you to give them to him in the morning?”

“Of course. No problem, at all. Look, I’m about to lock up but need a quick bite before I go to the Estuary Elvis Talent Show. Fancy joining me?”

“Yes please,” I salivated, “I haven’t even thought about dinner.”

Rick, locked up, pulled down his shutters and we greedily picnicked on leftovers, eyed by even greedier seagulls. Rick used me as a guinea pig to sample his new, bacon and asparagus, flavour coconut ice cream. It was surprisingly tasty and no pigs were harmed in the making. I had a goat cheese and roasted red pepper panini and Rick had some meaty version. I then caved and we gorged on three brownies between us. My clothes were shrinking by the moment.

“We probably should have saved one for Ian’s breakfast.” I said, wiping crumbs and chocolate sludge from the rather large area surrounding my mouth.

“Don’t worry. I won’t let him starve. Hey – what is that?”

I’d had my back to the murky brown sea, which was rushing in, and, being rather brick wall-like, had blocked Rick’s view, until he moved to throw a bit of crust to the nearest seagull, which shrieked with pleasure as it swooped to claim its prize.

“I think it’s Ian.” I frowned. “He looks like a massive seagull! What’s he doing out there – I thought he wanted to get to the Kasbah Kaff early?”

“Dunno. Must have fancied a walk first.”

Ian, aka the big flapping seagull, turned and waved at us.

“YooooHooooo!” we yelled and waved back.

“Do you think he’s enjoying himself, Petunia?” I laughed. Rick looked confused.

“Years ago there was a public information film featuring a married couple called Joe and Petunia. They were rather dense and thought that a man in a boat was waving at them but really he was in trouble and needed the coastguard to rescue him.”

Rick and I looked at each other and stopped laughing as we suddenly realised that we may have been rather dense ourselves. We looked at Ian again, who was waving frantically at us and mouthing something that we couldn’t hear. He started pointing at a small, black blob, just before the oncoming tide.

I grabbed my phone and used the camera to zoom in.

“Christ. There is a child stuck in the mud. Possibly a dog, as well and I don’t think that Ian can move.”

“Call the Coastguard on 999.” Rick yelled over his shoulder as he ran across Sea Road, practically vaulted the railings and landed on the beach, a considerable way below.

“Already on it.” I yelled back and hobbled towards the direction of the lifeboat station yelling both into my phone as well as to anyone else that could hear me.

Within minutes the Lifeboat people had managed to rescue a young boy, his equally young dog, and a very bedraggled seagull come Elvis come Drag Artiste, who had all got dragged down by the hidden, sneakily-shifting, quicksand and Rick had sullied his clean machine to revive everyone with hot coffee.

All that remained, as the angry North Sea claimed the sand, was a pair of Barbie Pink cowboy boots, rapidly filling up.

Albeit as snug as my clothes, I was able to lend Ian my wellies, which I kept in my car for emergencies. Being Ian he snorted at the boring blackness of them as he squeezed them on over his red, silver and sandy, striped long socks.

The hero of the hour, Ian found himself plastered all over the front of the next day’s Grimsby Telegraph. As well as rescue photos, the photographer had gone to the Elvis Event and the main photo was a delighted Ian B. Devotion holding his winner’s trophy aloft for his performance of “All Shook Up”. Even Parfait Petra, MarcieD, Ally and I ended up as Cover Girls with all the Drag-Elvis’. I really wished I hadn’t eaten those brownies!

When he had belted out “Well, my hands are shaky and my knees are weak.

I can't seem to stand on my own two feet. Who do you think of when you have such luck?”

The whole of the Lifeboat crew, who had turned out in force, responded with:

“I'm in love. He’s all shook up. Ha ha ha, Ha ha ha, YAY YAY...”

As well as Headlining the Estuary Elvis Talent Show, The Grimsby Telegraph and The Wind In Your Sails event, Ian found himself presented with his cleaned up and dried out cowboy boots, safely retrieved by one of the Lifeboat crew, when the tide went back out and they were still suckered in the mud, plus a whole brownie cake, made especially for his very favourite customer, by Rick.

Ian B. Devotion – Local legend.

PI GY 11 - Carlos Wildebeast, the Gold Lurex Trunks and a Tiny Hint of Tom Jones.

2013-05-02T17:08:00.000+01:00

Five minutes previously, Carlos Wildebeast had, rather hysterically, seen his gold lurex trunks being waved out of a pale green, ancient, Nissan Datsun Sunny's, window as they rapidly disappeared out of sight down North Sea Lane. The trunks were accompanied by hysterical drunken screeching, cackles and laughter and a lone, male, designated driver with a world-weary expression of resignation.

Carlos was used to ‘losing’ pairs of trunks and purchased them in bulk, but, throbbing head, in trembling hands, he pictured himself, all too clearly, folding up a sheet of paper and putting it ‘just for now’ in the back patch pocket. Ironically he had done this so he wouldn't lose it. Now it was gone. Honey-B was going to kill him.

Two months of phone calls had gone into that list. Two whole months. It was the last thing he’d printed out before his laptop hissed, spat, turned blue screen and died. He’d meant to photocopy it, just in case, but hadn't got around to it. Now he was stuffed. No gig list, no names, no phone numbers. Stuffed more than a vegetarian’s marrow.

He stared at the grubby, little dressing room in hope of inspiration but found none. To his horror he heard the clip-clop of high mules; the type that looked like they had a rabbit’s puff tail stuck on the front.

“Christ! OW!” yelled Honey-B as she coggled over on one. “Bloody floors.”

Funny how the floors in every club were the same ‘bloody floors’ thought Carlos. They always made her fall over. Why didn't she just say bloody stupid shoes or bloody stupid me for wearing bloody stupid shoes?

“Are you ok, Love?” he tried to sound sincere. “You’d think they’d sort the floors out just for you, wouldn't you?” As he was pulling a sympathetic face she only briefly wondered if he was being ‘funny.’

Carlos Wildebeast and Honey-B had an Act, somewhere between burlesque and sleaze, that appealed to women of a certain age that drank Cherry B, Babysham or Snowballs; reminding them of the good times had in the Toby Inn in the late 60s/early 70s.

The phone rang and I cursed not grabbing it before I had piled a dog and my dinner on top of me and getting all comfy in the comfy armchair. I had made sure the remotes were to hand but forgot the phone. Damn it. Plate crashed down onto the side table, nearly knocking over my steaming mug of Earl Grey. Dog then carefully ejected, I just made it before the answer machine kicked in. If there is one thing I hate more than answering the phone it is ringing people back who have left a message.

“Oh Hi MarcieD, how are you?”
“Fine, thanks,” She croaked. “Well, apart from this wretched cold that WILL NOT GO.” She tried to shout in frustration but croaked just marginally louder. “ I've got a job for you. Paul and Deirdre Crumpsall – you may know them better as Carlos Wildebeast and Honey-B – have got an urgent problem and I said I know just the woman to help: The PI from GY!”

“Great, thanks, MarcieD. I've just reunited yet another wandering dog and finished trailing yet another wandering husband so the diary is empty at the moment. “

Since Private Investigations Grimsby had been set up, my ramshackle team and I had managed to keep a good flow of cases coming in. Much to my surprise and to the relief of my bank balance. However, my team were still having to help out for mates rates. That basically meant the odd beer or sandwich here and there. Luckily they enjoyed it and luckily I had great friends who liked to see me pay my bills.

MarcieD filled me in. As a singer she travelled the same club circuit as the Crumpsalls and she knew how hard it was to set up gigs so she understood the hysteria. They remembered the details of the next two nights but nothing after that. They were so used to living day to day – or rather night to night. I arranged to meet them before their next gig.

Due to their act being a bit risqué they had to find venues that had a closed off room. Hotels were good for that and tonight they were booked for a hen party in the function room at the B&B-B&B. Bertie and Bill were always good for a laugh and always insisted on ‘feeding them up’ afterwards. Neither of them felt hungry though and they weren’t talking to each other either. Not great for rapport in their line of business.

I was meeting them at 7pm, just before their show, and it was now 12.30. I shovelled down my lunch and then shovelled lunch into the dogs who, annoyingly, seemed to be on a go-slow-chew followed by an interminable find-the-right-spot amble around the garden to swiftly get rid of the dinner. With the price of their food I didn't appreciate this for several reasons.

Time was pressing and I forced myself to drive to Cleethorpes and see the manager of The Beachcomber, the club where the gold lurex trunks had made their last appearance.

Luckily it had been sold out and no tickets were sold on the door. He agreed to give me the list of names he had. I'm sure data protection should have had something to say about this but he didn't say anything and neither did I. We both wanted to help out so discretion was assured.

The list wasn't very comprehensive but did comprise of a name and a town. Mostly Grimsby and Cleethorpes but with the odd Immingham, Tetney, Holton-le-Clay and, rather annoyingly one from Sheffield. That would just be my luck.

Actually, just for once – I actually had some good luck. This doesn't normally happen. I'm more the Sheffield-luck type. The further away and more awkward something is the more I'm likely to have to travel that particular route. I wasn't going to complain though and, have a break - have a Kit-Kat - was good enough for me, if not before time.

As I was passing the gatehouse to exit the Beachcomber, I saw a pale green, ancient, Nissan Datsun Sunny drive past the entrance. I got a move on and followed it. It drove through The Fitties, and parked up outside a ramshackle holiday chalet.

I parked up a bit behind it, waited until the world-weary man shuffled his way up the path and through the front door.

I strolled up to the car and peeked in. There they were. Glinting in the sunlight on the parcel shelf behind the back seat. Better still there was a hint of the gig sheet sticking out from the pocket.

Smug about my fantastic detecting skills, ok – luck, I carried on with my strolling and hammered on the chalet door.

“Yeah? Whaddya wont?” growled a scary woman with a voice as rough as a badger’s backside. I hastily explained and she, although complaining of a mega-hangover, was with it enough to realise that she was in possession of something important and I had to hand over £20 before she would unlock the car and give the list back to me.

She kept the gold lurex trunks to have a bit of fun with tonight.... That poor husband would probably have to perform an impression of Carlos-Not-So-Wilde or she’d eat him alive. Poor sod.

I called both MarcieD and Carlos to share the good news and they were both immensely impressed with my wonderful detecting skills. I wore my smug face for the rest of the afternoon.

As much as I wanted to, I just couldn't get away after presenting Carlos and Honey-B with their next 8 months of income. They wouldn't stop hugging me, while I did a good impression of an ironing board while trying to smile rather than grimace. I really can’t be doing with all this mwah mwah stuff. It didn't help that Carlos only had on his trademark, gold lurex trunks and Honey-B only had on some fuchsia pink, frilly knickers and a white feather boa. It had been raining and she was still wearing her green Hunter wellies, which I felt were just wrong – even though they were the only part of the ensemble I actually felt comfortable with.

Carlos and Honey-B insisted I stayed to watch the show for free as a present. Oh gawd – I really didn't want to but felt it was rude to refuse, especially as Bertie and Bill insisted I stay for the after show supper. Never one to resist the offer of free food, I fatally hesitated for too long and my fate was sealed.

I had an hour of sitting among the biggest concentration of animal print I had ever been in close proximity to. The bride, complete with feathered wings and crooked tiara, must have been on her fifth or sixth husband as the party all looked like they were going out on the razz because it was pension day.

As much as I looked at the tasteful prints on the wall, the carpet, the furniture, the back of my eyelids, there was no escape from the multiple dropping of the feather boa. Ooh dear.

Then it was the grand finale. They were off and flying through the air towards a multitude of hands. The gold lurex trunks were being fought over as I forgot myself and looked forward.

Oh my goodness!

Carlos Wildebeast certainly had something to hang his hat on!

PI GY 10 – The Relocation of Howard, The Bouncy-Bouncy and the Addicted Dick.

2012-09-17T13:30:00.000+01:00

There we were all a-walking down the street, but without the doo-waah-diddys.

Saying that, being between the Amazon and the Jamaican, I did feel like the diddy of the three of us.

MarcieD was wearing some weird blingy track suit type of get up but, somehow getting away with it. Oozing class, she could have walked into the Ritz for afternoon tea and looked perfectly acceptable. If I wore that I’d look like Waynetta Slob-on a bad day, so not fair. Hot Toddy was barely wearing a khaki linen skirt which was considerably shorter than her long, golden, athletic legs. If I could choose a decent pair of legs out of a catalogue they would be the ones. Once again, not fair.

The downside of having a lovely cool house, in summer, is that you are fooled. You think it is perfectly fine to pop on your coat to go out in but then find, after only a block , there it is. Tomato face. You’d think I’d learn, but, no.

So there I was, sandwiched between two stunners, bright red and sweaty and, just to make matters worse, carrying a grey bucket with a fish in it, while they had their designer handbags swinging from their beautifully manicured hands. I sighed and just got on with it. Resigned.

Up until yesterday, Howard, the large Shubunkin, had resided in splendid comfort. Then the tank blew up. Lots of bangs and pops and hisses and then it died. Fortunately, Howard had escaped being fried as he was swimming happily in a bowl while having his sheets changed. Tank cleaned, I mean. The sea may have a bed but the tank didn’t.

A quandary was then to be had. I was running my fish down by not replacing them as they ghost-swam off into the River Styx . Howard was big. Howard needed a big tank. Buying a big tank, with money I didn’t have, was silly for just one fish. With a very heavy heart I rang the Aquatic shop on Hainton Avenue and asked if they could possibly re-home Howard for me. Thankfully they could so now we were taking a fish for a walk. To his new home.

We spread across the width of the pavement, West Side Story fashion, or rather Welhome Road fashion, before cutting the corner off by single-filing it down a passage.

“Good God, MarcieD, what the hell was that for?” My heart was in my mouth and Howard was surfing the waves in his bucket after MarcieD’s screech-laugh-hysterical-very-loud-noise thing.

“Did you see that?” she said, mouth still wide open and lips trembling with laughter. “Oh my goodness. Scared the life out of me.”

I looked down, to check on Howard, mumbling negatives, just as Hot Toddy did exactly the same, louder, if at all possible and Howard, once again, rode the waves.

Hot Toddy and MarcieD were holding on to each other, jumping up and down and nearly weeing themselves laughing. I just tried not to frown.

“What, what what? WOAH!!! Oh my God.” I carefully put the sloshing Howard on the floor and joined in the rugby-team-scored-a-big-score-scrum-hug. “Oh that is hysterical,” I screamed, while holding onto my bladder as best as I could.

We strained, on tip-toes, to look over the garden wall of the passage house and boiiiing, there it was. Up and downing like a thing crazed, was a grinning English Bull Terrier. On a trampoline. It would jump off, run round, run up and onto the small round exercise trampoline and boiiiiiiing, look over the wall. Bounce off and repeat. Constantly. Even more hysterical, as it obviously wasn’t bothering him in the slightest, he had one front leg in plaster with a neon-pink bandage over the top. If dogs had their own Paralympics this 3-legged canine would have got gold in the Gymnastics. No problem.

We must have watched this live version of “You’ve Been Framed” for 10 minutes or more, before reluctantly dragging ourselves away.

With a mix of still giggling and trying not to sob, I handed over Howard to his protector (I hoped), while the three of us struggled but managed to get out what we had just seen.

“Oh that’s just Fred,” said Aquatic Man. “He actually broke his leg trampolining, in the first place. He gets bored though and they can’t stop him. They took it away and he just howled all day so they had to let him carry on. He’s bonkers, won’t touch a ball or a stick. They take him to agility classes once a week. He loves that. Wins everything.” Maybe he does have some Golds after all, we girly-giggled.

Over steaming mugs of builders tea in Yes Chef! Cafe, handily straight across the road from the Aquatic shop, we started to discuss ‘The Grubby Little Letter.’

“Any ideas?” I asked but Hot Toddy and MarcieD just shook their pretty little heads. I sighed. “C’mon girls we’re supposed to be detectives not a bunch of Charlies.” They just gazed angelically, but unhelpfully, at me while slurping their teas.

I took the single sheet of grubby paper out of its grubby envelope and for the hundredth time read the brief but menacing words:

“You’re on our patch. Get off....”

Once again my stomach flipped over. I detest confrontation. I would love to think I could always flourish the perfect riposte, whip it in the air and cut my opponent to shreds, but, in reality, it just does not happen and I burble some rubbish or other and run away as fast as I can.

“Okay, let’s think about this,” I said. “Why is it so mucky? Who would have such filthy fingers? A gardener? A Coalman? I don’t suppose refuse collectors have dirty hands now it’s all wheelie bins and recycle boxes. There’s a rag and bone man comes round on a horse and cart but would he have dirty hands?”

I shoved the letter back in my pocket as the glazed faces told me we wouldn’t get any further with this puzzle just at the moment.

“MarcieD, not sure if you’ll fancy this one and, quite frankly I’m not sure how we’ll make you look anything other than a classy bird anyway. Can you remember ages ago when Hot Toddy was delivering our flyers and that woman from Oxford Street was asking her all the questions about us?”

Before MarcieD had the chance to answer Hot Toddy rather wickedly interjected;

“Yes, she thinks her husband’s getting his ‘ego’ massaged at Nicorette’s Knocking Shop down Grimsby Road. Seems he’s a bit addicted and he’s having a problem giving up. Tracey wants you to pretend to be a Nymph of the Pave and haul him in in your nets. Your fishnets – Hahaha!”

MarcieD glared at me and then at Hot Toddy.

“Why not you, little Miss Hot Hot Hot?” she enquired with eyebrows raised so high they disappeared.

“He knows who I am,” she said. “He gets his papers from my Dad’s shop. Telegraph when he’s with her and Sun when he’s not.”

I could see MarcieD’s part-time Actress’ mind turning over and with each second her eyebrows slowly returned to their normal, perfectly plucked, position.

“I suppose I could think of it as researching a part,” she murmured out loud. “Can I be a high-class call girl?”

“Not on Grimsby Road, outside a Kebab Shop.” I said. “Look, it shouldn’t be for long. We’ll know when he goes out, as Jackie will ring us when he leaves. No way he’ll be able to resist you and as soon as you start to get in the car we’ll take photos and that will be that. Quick, easy and something for your CV.”

So, there we were. The sign was flickering for Nicolette’s Massage Parlour. How they got away with it I have no idea but it had been there for years. Flashing away at the weary traveller as they came into town. Grubby net curtains at the first floor windows floated between the fresh air outside and who knew what inside. A few policemen probably – to account for the longevity.

After a major grump, MarcieD hadn’t washed her hair for 3 days as it was the only way to mask her expensive haircut. We plastered her beautiful face with far too much make up, rubbed if off a bit and smeared it a little, adding a few shadows as we went. God that woman’s looks were hard to dumb down. When we’d finished though she did look a little more Grimsby than Hollywood Red Carpet.

Ally, was a few sizes smaller than MarcieD; flatter and a lot less curvy. We raided her wardrobe and found some far too short, far too tight, clashing clothes. MarcieD had her own fishnets and borrowed some killer heels from Hot Toddy. I was slightly peeved that I had absolutely nothing to offer from my own wardrobe to contribute.

We parked down a side street and waited for the call. Thankfully it wasn’t long in coming and MarcieD shrugged off her coat and slinked out of the car. She was already lost in her character and sashayed, sassily, to the corner. Within 5 minutes 3 cars had slowed to a halt and she’d Pretty-Womaned through their opened passenger windows before they’d hastily driven off. Afterwards, we’d found out she’d told them that she was undercover, on a mission, and they couldn’t accelerate fast enough out of the way.

Here it was, a red Honda en-route to Nicorettes. MarcieD stuck out her chest, which nearly blocked the road, and one hip. Feet planted apart with promise.

Mr Dick, (yes, seriously – you shouldn’t play away from home with a name like that), couldn’t resist the new girl on the block. He had intended to be thrashed a little by Darlia, but Wow, what the hell was this? No doubt she was out to make some money and no doubt he was prepared to give her some.

Just as he got within touching distance, two drunks staggered out of the Kebab Shop and leered at MarcieD. Damn she thought but they just offered her a chip. Realising they were far too gone to be any trouble she smiled lustily at them, but not for their benefit, and took a long chip. They carried on their zig-zag way home while MarcieD popped the long chip into her mouth and sucked it, pulling it out slowly and seductively before swiftly biting the end off. I cursed as I dropped my camera and Hot Toddy nearly peed herself laughing. Shaking as she silently rocked, desperately trying to control herself. I just knew that MarcieD would never, ever, be able to eat chips in front of us again without hysterical suggestiveness.

Darlia peeked out from behind the grubby curtain not sure whether she was relieved not to have to put up with Dick the Dick or cross at the loss of a precious hour’s pay. She pulled her robe tightly around her and, with a big sigh, went off to make a cup of tea.

We got our photographs. MarcieD got an expanded résumé, Mrs. Dick got a good settlement for her divorce and PI GY got handsomely paid. Another case closed. Now we just had to close our own grubby little case and all would be well.

PIGY 9 – The Human Sledge, The Big Girth and The Safety of Sand

2012-07-07T16:26:00.001+01:00

OOOF – AAARGH – OOOH – OW- OOOOOH

Don’t think I’ll be trying this again in a hurry. I lay there for a moment, flat out on my front, wondering if I could move and desperately trying not to cry with pain and frustration. I knew if I started I’d end up like Alice in a big pool and this was supposed to be beach not sea.

The realization that there may be people about, made me decide to try. Tentatively, I moved my foot. Phew – at least I hadn’t done that pathetic girly thing of twisting my ankle and the other one was okay too.

I was pleased about that as it meant I was less likely to be plucked up by a huge gorilla and be dangled from the top of the Empire State Building. Then again, as I wasn’t Jessica Lange, and I wasn’t in a film, it was fairly unlikely anyway. The air-sea rescue helicopter was circling in the blue sky above me. I wondered whether to wave for help but then got embarrassed at the thought they may have spotted me anyway.

A bit of a wiggle ascertained that my right knee worked but, oh crap, I’d landed on my useless knee that had just got better. NOOOOO, not again.

I had a slight panic then, really wondered how I could get up. Had to. No choice. I could hear voices. Luckily I had gone down on a dune track that was in a bit of a trench with high-ish maron grass either side. At least sand was the best to fall onto. You didn’t tend to get grazed knees on sand – not unless you landed on some sharp shells anyway.

I was hanging on to the three leads for dear life. The dogs looked bemused.

“What the hell are you doing down there?” They would have woofed at me but they knew I didn’t understand dog. Mabel stared at me with her blue eyes and looked upwards. I knew that meant “Get up, you look silly.”

Oh, slight problem. The leads had somehow twisted and tied my wrists together. Great.

A bit like an escapologist, but without the big tank of water, or strait-jacket, and, thankfully, without the audience, as long as I got a move on, I writhed and wriggled onto my good knee and then, sorry Maude, used Maude as a table to push myself up. She nearly crumpled but managed to stay upright and I was relieved that I hadn’t broken her back as well as actually managing to get up.

I had to bend over to un-twizzle the leads as I had kept them short while we walked from the car to the salt-marsh, where I had hoped to let them off for a good run.

A small terrier, not on a lead, and with no owner in sight, had come belting towards us. My three, obviously sensing a tiny dog as a massive threat to us all had gone pack-like and dived towards it. The problem was, I was attached to them and their combined might was far more than mine. They were the Huskies and I was the sledge – Whooooosh, off we all went. Splat, I went.

This was the very reason I didn’t normally take all three out on my own, but today everyone else was busy so I had no choice but to try. Unfortunately it turned out to be a big fail. Fraught and injured I turned round and hobbled, very painfully, back to the car. Luckily I wasn’t back to square one, knee-wise, but I certainly felt like I’d slid down a big snake. Don’t pass Go, don’t collect £200.

Sand had always been somewhat of a saviour to me. When I was still at school, every Saturday morning I would head off to Seaview Riding Stables on my ratty blue RSW 14 bike. Riding hat firmly on and crop in hand. It was inevitable that I always got some clown yelling at me;

“Lost yer ‘orse Luv?”

After dismounting from my bike I would mount my favourite horse, Bluebird. A massive White, as wide and as comfortable as an armchair.

I had a Polo the other day and all the old horsey memories came flooding back. The mingled aromas of steamy horse flesh and breath, manure, sweet hay and mint. The tickling by the bristles on my outstretched palm as he gently slobbered all over me to get his treat. The nuzzling at my pocket for “More please,” while I wiped my slimy hand on my jodhpurs.

My Grandfather had ordered me some jodhpurs from the back of a magazine. I excitedly ripped the packaging open only for the whole of the assembled family to fall about in stitches, clutching their sides in agony, wheezing with laughter. They were the really old-fashioned type with massive stiff, sticky out bits at the top of the legs. To my utter humiliation I was made to put them on and parade about. How anybody survived that performance I do not know. They were utterly hysterical. Needless to say they were sent back and I didn’t have to suffer humiliation in public – thank goodness.

The yard girls would always come round and make you sling one leg forward. They would then furtle about under the saddle to tighten the girth by pulling the double buckles tight before sticking a couple of fingers underneath to check it wasn’t too tight.

One day, I must have been too busy, patting Blackbird, feeding him Polos and twisting my fingers in his silky mane, to notice I had been missed out in the girth checking session.

All was fine as we clip clopped our way down the streets, leaning back in our saddles down the steep hill, before crossing King’s Road. Metal shoes slightly slipping on the cobbles, we filed down Brighton Slip, onto the soft, sandy beach.

Cleethorpes Beach ©Tracey Edges

We’d walk for a bit, then trot for a bit and then the lead group would break ahead from the rest and start cantering. Bluebird was perfect for a canter. His rolling gait and wide back just carried you along through the fresh, salty sea air.

That’s when I suddenly felt a bit odd, wrong even. Oh God – my saddle suddenly slipped to the side. Startled I moved against it and my foot shot straight through my stirrup, which ended up around my knee.

Feeling like I was in slow-motion, I disappeared slowly downwards until I was underneath a cantering horse, hanging on for dear life.

“Help,” I feebly croaked with shock. “HEEEEELLLLLP,” I yelled in fear of my life. Luckily, with Blackbird being a beast of massive proportions. My unfettered leg dangled a foot, or so, above the ground.

Eventually realising my not-terribly-small predicament. The two lead riders yelled for everyone to pull up and steer away from me and then they rode their horses to block Bluebird and slow him down. Not before time – I really don’t think that my white knuckles could have hung on for too much longer.

Just to add insult to injury. Blackbird had a massive pee. How it missed me I don’t really know. Rather needed one myself by that point.

I was thankful that I had forgiving sand to drop down onto and, momentarily, on my back, underneath Blackbird, I saw that he was, indeed, a horse of massive proportions.

“Do you want a wheelbarrow again?” snorted Gangly Ben.

“I most certainly do not,” I snarled down the phone. “Does Ally happen to be with you? I’ve tried her flat and her mobile, but no answer.” That was unusual for Ally as she usually had it either clasped to her ear or was madly texting or changing her online status. She was never hard to pinpoint so this was slightly disconcerting.

“Erm...” said Ben.

“Erm?” I questioned.

“Well she sort of is.”

“What do you mean she sort of is?”

I frowned. Oops. I stopped frowning.

“Well......she’s in, erm....the shower actually.....” he trailed off.

Well, what’s the problem with that? Why are you sounding odd? Oh No! Oh yes! You haven’t, have you? You have. Oh my goodness. Really? Yes! Thank god for that.”

It was about time that Ally and Ben, got around to ‘Doing It’. They were made for each other. I was laughing and Gangly Ben was on his third WHOOP when he went very very quiet.

Ally, wrapped in a big fluffy towel, was glaring at him for sharing. She of the share-everything mentality.

“I’d better go,” he whimpered. “Oh, did you want something?”

“No. No. It’s alright. I’ll see you both tomorrow at, 11-ish?”

“Yeah that’s fine,” he practically whispered. Used to his normal Great Dane like enthusiasm and deep voice. I felt his pain. Trust me to interfere at exactly the wrong moment. Well, it could have been a slightly worse moment, but even so...

I gathered a few bits around me; multiple remotes, a big glass of water and lemon juice, the Radio Times and a pen and crashed out on the sofa. I was just thinking how lovely it was when the girls all jumped on me, rearranged the cushions to suit, took over most of the sofa and snuggled down. Maude yapped softly in her sleep, Lucaya twitched away (probably dreaming of the run she very nearly got) and Mabel snored her head off. It wasn’t long before I joined her.

It is really embarrassing, never mind annoying, to be woken up by someone banging on the window, staring in at you, when you could lay bets that you probably had had your mouth wide open and were unlikely to be looking your glamorous best - not that I ever managed to achieve glamour when awake. Let’s be honest.

By the time that I had shook my head awake, squeezed out from under the hysterically barking dogs, who were happily trampling all over me, and hobbled to the door, the Peeping Tom had gone but there was an envelope sticking through the letterbox.

I like getting letters, as long as they’re not in brown envelopes, as that usually spells trouble. This one was long and white with grubby black marks all over it.

“Oooh, “ I said aloud. “Oh.”

On a single sheet of, also grubby, paper was very badly written:

“You’re on our patch. Get off....”

PIGY 8 – The Wrap-Dress, The Boors and Mel Brookes

2012-06-30T15:26:00.001+01:00

The White Hart had filled up and I didn’t want to lose my seat so, after a few self-conscious flappings of my hand, I caught the attention of the barman. With the universal sign for a drink you have to remember to twist your hand backwards and forwards and not go up and down or that would give out a whole different message, entirely, and probably cause you some trouble. After an enthusiastic, hopeful smile he brought me another pint. I do appreciate a bit of helpful service so bought him one too.

Mr. Blackwell and his three partners in crime, had, by this time, knocked back quite a few pints and were, rather usefully, getting louder. Rather un-usefully though they were being really boring and just bitching about what cars the accountancy partners had given themselves as that year’s bonus.

I switched off a little and listened to the sonorous tones drifting over me from the small stage in the back corner. The beautiful singer was of Jamaican descent and her long braided hair tumbled down to her amble bum which was ensconced in the tightest caramel-coloured, cashmere, wrap-dress, imaginable. She looked absolutely stunning and made the stage glow with her presence. When she opened her mouth, all around, melted into the music.

MarcieD was a good friend and I tried to melt into my booth and not attract attention to myself. I couldn’t help mouthing along to my favourite song though – ironically titled “Too Much War.” I wondered if I could get MarcieD on board to be part of the crew on the good ship PIGY. It may be worth an ask as she tended to be available in the daytimes, well afternoons anyway. She’d be no good for surveillance though – no way that MarcieD could ever blend in anywhere.

Just as they were getting too loud and utterly boorish, I heard;

“Come on, then – I’m bored here. Let’s find somewhere a bit livelier...” The implication hung in the air, on a pole. Three out of four were up for it but Mr. Blackwell had decided to stay.

“Miserable sod,” the others jostled him. “All too much for you mate – heh heh?!”

“Just go,” he said, “It’ll all be sorted soon and then I can breathe.”

They carried on waving and jeering and making the universal sign, that wasn’t asking for a drink, as they loudly crashed through the door onto Bethlehem Street in search of non-intellectual activity.

I saw Hot Toddy, quickly knock back what was left of her cocktail and swivel slowly on her stool so she was facing Mr. Blackwell.

“Ooh, you look miserable,” she purred. “I’m just about to have another one. Would you like one to cheer yourself up?” He briefly wondered if she was a prostitute but then received a blast of class and wealth and instantly dismissed that thought.

“Sorry,” he said

“Sorry?” she said. “Sorry for what?”

“Oh, erm nothing,” he spluttered. Realising, with horror, that his thoughts had slipped into his words. “Let me. What would you like?”

Drinks in hand, they got chatting about all and nothing. He was leaning towards her but not in a flirty way. Several drinks down the line and he was feeling the need to unburden. I saw Hot Toddy’s arm go round him and, in one way I was glad that he was getting stuck in but also sad that a lovely woman like Amanda was being treated quite so shabbily. Maybe he needed to change his friends. I couldn’t see the boy wonders being a great influence on anyone really.

Suddenly, Hot Toddy laughed, punched Mr. Blackwell, in a matey way and turned round to me with a massive gleaming white toothy smile and waved me over.

Ooh, that wasn’t what I was expecting, at all.

“Hey!” I smiled quizzically at her, glancing at him out of the corner of my eye. He was also laughing and looking concerned all at the same time.

“Bit of a mix up here,” she said.

“I feel terrible,” he said. “Poor Amanda.” “Oh God I hope she’ll forgive me.”

“What???! I practically screamed with frustration. “WHAT???”

“She means so much to me and we’re so busy I just thought it would be such a lovely surprise. I really didn’t know it would be so hard to lie to her though. It’s doing my head in.”

“WHAT???” I did yell this time. MarcieD glanced over with a bit of a fierce frown but when she saw it was only me and my big mouth, she gave me a big wave instead. I mouthed a silent, this time, “Sorry” in her direction.

Hot Toddy took over the conversation:

“Turns out, this chap here is a great big softie really.” I tried to instantly turn my opinion round of this ‘beast’. Nope, I needed more information first – I’d had to deal with the copious snotty tissues.

“The blonde in the car park. That was Mel Brookes.” No, not the old male version, (American film director, screenwriter, composer, lyricist, comedian, actor, producer), but the English Daytime TV presenter with the addition of an ‘e’ in Brookes. “She was picking up the house keys, while Amanda was at work, so they could do some secret filming for “We’ll Do Your New House Up”, a new programme where they decorate your new house and move you in without you knowing anything about it. Surprise Surprise!”

It was a surprise to me, I didn’t really know what to say for a second.

“What about your Dirty Weekend?” I asked.

“That was with Amanda,” he laughed. To get her out of the way while they did the work and moved us into the new house. I didn’t realise it would take so long to organize. It’s taken months and I hate lying to her. It’s been killing me.”

Houston, we have a problem. What to do about Amanda. I wanted to make her feel better. I knew how miserable she was feeling and didn’t want to prolong her agony for another second. On the other hand, I’d already shown her the footage, I’d taken, of Mel hugging her husband. Oh poo, what a to-do.

MarcieD finished her set and headed over to us. I sheepishly told her our tale of woe, after buying her a sorry-I-yelled-during-your-song drink.

When she finished bouncing her deep laughter, also sonorous, off all the walls, she did have the decency to cringe.

“How long is it for now?”

“Just a few days. I take her away on Friday evening and we come back Sunday teatime. Feels like forever though. How am I going to do this when she thinks I’m cheating on her?” He put his head in his hands, once more and we all dived in to pat him vigorously. Poor chap – in angst and being beaten to death.

“Damage limitation,” said MarcieD. “Tracey, you tell Amanda that he was morally upstanding and Hot Toddy couldn’t make him stick to her at all, however much honey she oozed. You,” she fixed her glare on him,” need to stop worrying, as that’s not helping anything.”

He looked sheepish, then at his feet, then in his drink then at us three.

“You’re right,” he acquiesced. “All this was supposed to be for Amanda and I’ve made it all about me and now I’ve upset her. Oh, God, I really didn’t mean to. I’ll take her a lovely bunch of flowers home.

Orange Flowers in Silver Vase ©Tracey Edges

“NO!” said MarcieD. “Do NOT go over the top or she’ll just wonder even more. Just be normally nice. Will you have to communicate any more with the production crew?”

“No. That’s it now. Giving the keys to Mel, was the last thing I really needed to do. We’re completing on the new house on Friday, Amanda thinks it’s all happening on Monday, but the crew will pick up the new house keys then, from the Estate Agents.”

“Good,” I said. “So no more texts, phone calls, nipping out. That will help. Does Amanda know she’s going away?”

“Yes, but she thinks we’re going to her sister’s. Just as a breather before next week. It’s her sister’s birthday on Sunday so that made me able to persuade her. The Television Company have actually paid for a lovely Country House Hotel, that part was going to be the surprise.” He looked crestfallen as it sunk in how dreadfully wrong it had all gone.

“Don’t worry you’ve got Grimsby’s answer to Charlie’s Angels on your side.” We all assumed a pose from the film poster. It was so smooth and slick you’d have thought we’d done it before. Oh, ok, maybe we had. He laughed.

“That’s better,” I smiled at him. “I’ll ring Amanda in a minute tell her the good news re Hot Toddy. We can’t really do anything about the Mel incident, except not mention it. Thank goodness she didn’t recognise her. Work on being as normally nice as you possibly can tonight and tomorrow. When you get to the hotel tomorrow evening you can blame any subterfuge on arranging that ‘romantic’ surprise for her and hopefully she will believe you. Make up something about it being complicated because you had some vouchers, or something, and they kept ringing you to sort it out. That should at least make her wonder if she was wrong. Flowers, and Champagne, in the room, there, may be a good idea though. Oh, and explain all to her sister and have her in on the surprise so she can laugh at any suspicions Amanda may confide to her. I think that’s covered everything. Good luck!”

Sunday teatime Hot Toddy, MarcieD and I were in the semi-circle mass of people surrounding the camera crew filming Amanda and, erm, Mr Blackwell’s house. I hadn’t realised that she hadn’t ever said his name. It was all ‘my husband’, either owning the connection or spitting it out.

Amanda loved the surprise. Even the somewhat dodgy wallpapers used. I think she loved the relief even more. Her sooty eyes, once again stood up to the tears. Thankfully, these were happier ones and thankfully she gave Mel the used tissues.

Mel, ever the consummate professional, managed to keep her didn’t-we-do-well, whiter-than-white smile.

PIGY 7 – The Torture Session, Mrs Blackwell and The Small Dilemma

2012-06-29T19:30:00.001+01:00

I stared at the ceiling, my mouth swollen and sore. So this is what torture was like then? You lay there helpless, pinned into submission, wanting to take flight but being unable to move. Wings clipped.

Someone grabbed my hand, as I moaned with the latest infliction of pain. The radio in the background suddenly started blaring out that annoying bright and breezy song;

“Enjoy yourself, it's later than you think. Enjoy yourself, while you're still in the pink.”

You’re taking the Mickey, I thought, with disgust.

“EEEEUUURRGHH,” I spluttered as the torture had obviously turned into water-boarding. I should think that there was a time, when if you said that, the first thought was surfing. Still spluttering I was pushed down and held firmly. I wanted to move away from the point of pain but I couldn’t – no wiggle room allowed.

“I’m about to die,” I screamed in my head.

Eventually I was released, they had got their information, and with shaky legs and a scarf clasped to my boxer’s lips, I staggered home, a bit all over the place. It wasn’t far but the soulless journey seemed to take me forever.

I leaned heavily against my front door for a minute or two while I gathered the strength to get my key out of my pocket and unlock the door. Normally, I cringe at the peeling paint and convince myself I will get it repainted before too long. It’s been like that for five years now. I really didn’t care what colour, or state it was in, today though.

Three furry beasts hurled themselves towards me, nearly sending me flying back through the way I had just struggled to come.

“Heeeeellllllppppp,” I whined and muffle-cried-out. “Get down, Mabel, Maude and Lucaya.” It would have been so much easier if I’d just had the one dog called Shep, but no – all was harder and tougher than it had been for John Noakes.

Waiting ©Tracey Edges

Greetings over, I shrugged off my coat and looked in the mirror. “Oh great,” I moaned out loud. “I look like I’ve been chomping on a raw mouse.”

My mouth was caked in blood, my face was deathly white and my hair, which thankfully had been stuffed under my hat, looked like Medusa on a bad-hair-day. I had walked home, in public, past rows of stationary rush hour cars and office workers clip-clopping their prim way home, while looking like a drunk that had been in a fight. “Marvellous,” I said to the dogs. They weren’t bothered about anything bar their bladders though.

I let them out, waited three years while they did the annoying hunt for the perfect spot thing, so much for desperation. Then I did the party trick of trying to get painkillers down me while at the same time pouring water straight out of the side of my mouth. My lips felt like they’d had several cows bottoms implanted in them and were just not doing their job, at all. I don’t know about ‘trout-pout’ I was more like ‘spout-pout’. Absolutely useless.

I just wanted to collapse. Perversely I was nauseous and starving at exactly the same time. I just hoped that I could ride out the former and forget the latter. Later, much later, it’d have to be tomato soup, courtesy of Mr Heinz, and a straw for me.

Heading for the comforting arms of the sofa I noticed the red light flashing on the answer machine. I stopped in my tracks, willing myself to pretend I hadn’t seen it....

“Hello, erm this is Mrs Blackwell, erm, Amanda Blackwell. Wondered if I could, erm, come and talk to you, about, erm,......something. Please could you give me a ring when you get back in. Thank you,” Click, went the end of the message. Great, I thought just as another message started playing. “Sorry, this is Amanda. Amanda Blackwell, that is. I’ve just, erm, erm, left you a message but I don’t, erm, think that I left you my phone number. It’s erm...” Oh God, I really couldn’t stand this any longer, it was worse than the girls on their perfect spot hunt. I grabbed a pen so I wouldn’t have to listen to all that again later. “01472 6670354. If you could ring me, that would be great. Thank you, erm, again, Erm, bye.”

Thankfully, that was it for messages but as my head was pounding a 21-gun salute and I wasn’t exactly able to talk clearly, I called Ally instead.

“Ally, could you please ring this woman for me and find out what she wants,” I mumbled-grumbled the full details to her. “I’ve just had a hell time at the dentist and I need to go and curl up in a corner, somewhere, and die quietly.”

It was never really going to happen that I did anything quietly and I flopped out on the sofa, surrounded by remotes and moaned a lot to the dogs, who at least, took it in turns to cuddle me. I really wished that someone would appear and make scrambled eggs for me. All I wanted, in life at that very moment, was scrambled-didn’t-have –the-strength-to-make-them, eggs. Bugger.

I started to wonder about a new bit-on-the-side business. It could be called; ‘A Little Bit Of What You Fancy’. A bit like a takeaway-delivery service but of comfort foods for when you were on your own, a bit poorly, and needed something simple that you weren’t up to doing yourself. There could be the scrambled eggs type basic menu and a dish of the day ready to dollop into bowls to whizz round to desperate souls. Chilli or stew and dumplings or a good hearty restorative broth.

Amanda Blackwell had big sooty eyes, ringed with eyeliner that made them look even bigger and sootier. Thankfully, she said ‘erm’ a lot less than she did on the telephone. I made us tea, in mugs not pretty vintage cups, and checked to make sure I had the box of tissues out of sight but within reach.

“I think my husband’s having an affair,” she eventually spat out. “He’s on the phone a lot and hangs up when I go into the room, he’s started turning his mobile off in the evenings – I think it’s so I don’t hear him getting messages and he’s always going out for silly things. Like he’s trying to think of some reason to go out. We’re about to move house and I don’t really want to go through with it if he is. That’s why I’m asking you if you can help. We’re supposed to complete next week and I don’t have the time to follow him or anything. Can you?”

Here it was, at last. A proper-job, Private Investigator job. I thought about dressing up to the nines in not very much and doing a bit of sultry enticing into my honey-trap. I then thought on a little and realised that that was probably best left to Hot Toddy, down to the very reason she was called Hot Toddy and I wasn’t called Hot Tracey. Damnit.

Mrs Blackwell was a very brave girl and didn’t need my tissues but did tell me her husband’s basic timetable, as much as she was aware of it. He always left home at 8.15am so that was the best place to start and I was there, on surveillance, when he left home the very next day.

Following someone wasn’t that easy in rush hour and I kept losing him. Luckily I knew where he worked; at a large Accountants based on Europarc. I pulled into the car park just as he was getting out of his car. Just before he got to the entrance he veered off to the left and from where I was parked I was able to see him go around a corner and stop next to a rather statuesque blonde. They hugged and mwah mwah’d and they had a hurried, intense conversation, which unfortunately I couldn’t hear, with lots of arm touching and head shaking and then vigorous nodding. Another hug and they scuttled off in different directions. He into the foyer and she into a rather flash BMW sports car, which was as shiny as her because-I’m-worth-it hair. All of this I recorded, for Mrs Blackwell, on my mobile.

This time I needed to offer tissues for Amanda’s crumpled face and she sat with her head in her hands and sobbed, fairly quietly, for a good five minutes. She then, had a quick wipe and a blow, handed me the used tissue to put in the bin (oh, lovely) and stood up extremely straight, chin in the air. I was very tempted to ask where she got her eye make-up as it hadn’t run at all but thought that this was probably not the best time.

“I need to know more. I don’t want to go flying in with accusations if he was just being nice because her cat had just died, or something. I need proper proof.”

She was prepared to pay us to continue and I was prepared to get proof.

Thursday nights were nights with the boys – allegedly. Thursday happened to be today. I rang Hot Toddy and briefed her on her mission. She said she would dress up to the nines in not very much and I must admit to feeling slightly wistful, but I knew my place in the ranks of sultry so went to hunt in my wardrobe for something smart but a bit more all-encompassing.

There was a newly refurbished pub in Grimsby, The White Hart, and this was where he was supposed to be going. This is where we arranged to go half an hour before, and hope that he would show up. The honey trap was primed and ready and we were determined to get evidence to make his guilt stick to it.

I melted into a booth with a pint of Doom Bar and pretended to be doing things on my mobile and Hot Toddy shimmied onto a bar stool, all clingy red silk and killer heels.

He arrived, looking guilty as sin, and leaned on the bar waiting for whoever was going to be his company for the night. I must admit to having wicked thoughts of him having an Only Fools and Horses moment and falling through the bar. Much to my disappointment though, it didn’t happen.

Two middle-aged men came in but, after getting drinks, got out their iPads and started doing business. A gaggle of giggling women stormed in, drove the barman mad by all wanting different faffy cocktails and then crashed into a booth, filling it with themselves and their massive handbags. Were they over-nighting somewhere? What did they keep in them? Actually looking at them again I realised it was probably a few trowels to layer their make-up on with.

The women had distracted me and, at the bar, he now had three friends with him. Maybe he was just having a night out with the boys and Hot Toddy would have to move in and do her thing. I know she was dying to.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he suddenly wailed. “I just can’t. It isn’t fair.”

“Sssssh, of course you can,” his tall dark friend said. “Hey, it’s worth it. SHE’s worth it.”

“Oh, God, I think Amanda suspects something.”

“Forget that,” said his shorter dark friend. “Just think of that mucky weekend you’ve got planned. You lucky boy you.”

“Crap,” I thought. That didn’t sound good at all. I had it on film as well. Good ol’ trusty mobile. I wondered what else this evening would reveal....”

PIGY 6 – The Crocodile, Dr Seuss and The Tricky Position

2012-06-26T22:30:00.001+01:00

The downpour had ceased, the bandstand was silent once more. The children trotted back to school in a crocodile but the tick-tock of Captain Hook’s clock was not to be heard. The black lab had licked the proffered hand of the cyclist, who then whizzed and whipped to the other side of the park in a second and disappeared from sight. The dogs that were on the beginning of their walks went for sniffs and wees and tried a bit of fruitless squirrel-sighting. The other dogs got off home.

I walked down the passage, from the park to Bargate. It wasn’t too busy, unlike the fume-filled, rush hours where cars and buses snailed nose to tail and the cyclists, eco and smug, got to work quicker, if not always drier.

I passed St. Martin’s prep school and slowed to enjoy its Victorian Gothic splendour – marred somewhat by the big blue vinyl banner proclaiming ‘Small Classes – Big Results’. As a child I always wanted to go here as they wore hats and it all felt very Enid Blyton (to whom I was totally addicted). The banner jarred my sensibilities and I quickened my pace.

Past the college, on my right, and straight on, I eventually got to the top end of Devonshire Avenue. Unfortunately, and typically, Gloria Wright lived right at the bottom of the wide leafy road.

I fiddled with the tall gates. Why wasn’t the catch obvious? Wretched things. I never was very good with locks and keys and the like.

When I was about nineteen, and living in Barton-Upon-Humber, I stayed with my grandparents for the night as I was going out with friends in Cleethorpes. I got a lift down to the seafront and intended to walk back after going to the nightclub on the Pier.

Of course, by the time I left, coherent thought or action was rather out of the window. I swayed my way back in about 25 minutes only to find that my front door key was the wrong one. At least it acted like it was the wrong one.

Now after a while you do need to get rid of all that you recklessly poured down your neck throughout the night. So there I was doing the really-need-to-go-jiffle, swearing at the recalcitrant key that wouldn’t work. The fuddled brain decided banging on the door at 2am wasn’t the best of ideas and the best idea was to walk round to my mother’s house and try to get in her door instead. So off I went.

The key I had for her house wouldn’t work either and I banged loudly on the door to wake her and all the neighbours up. No one stirred. The situation was getting critical so I jiffled, very urgently, down the passage, in the side gate and thanked all the Gods in the Heavens that she still had an outside loo. Oh the relief.

I went back round to the front door to see lights on and my mother wondering where the burglars were.

“Jusss me,” I carefully slurred, trying my best not to sound as ‘gone’ as I actually was. I don’t think I fooled her really.

“Oh for god’s sake, come in. What on earth are you doing?”

“I needed a wee and the key wouldn’t work. Sorry used the outside one but it wouldn’t flush.”

“That’s because it’s going to come out and it’s all disconnected,” she groaned. “Go on, get to bed. I’ll ring Nanny and Granddad in the morning and tell them where you are.”

I’m pleased she did as, in the morning, I felt hideous. I felt worse when we went to look at the loo and I saw the remnants of a broken vase dumped in the bowl. Nasty spikes and shards of glass thrust evilly upwards. That could so have been a rather nasty incident and I paled at the thought as I remembered how I plonked down hard with relief and unsteadiness. I still cringe at the thought of that far far too close incident, today.

Back to today and in Devonshire Avenue it took a whole 5 minutes of struggle before I eventually saw the intercom on the gatepost. It was placed very obviously and may as well have been laughing and waving at me. Damn thing.

“Hello. Is that you, Tracey? Come in Dear....” The gates creaked open before I could confirm it was actually me. The security round here was only as good as its operator so not very actually. I must have a word.

The strong tea was poured, with elegant ceremony, into beautiful vintage cups, nestling into beautiful vintage saucers, which would originally have been bought as beautiful cups and saucers and were still used daily instead of being turned into candle holders.

Vintage cup and saucer candle ©Tracey Edges

“Do you think you will be able to help me find Dr Seuss, Dear?” Gloria’s voice wavered and quivered with sadness. “I’ll pay you.”

Just in time I bit back the urge to wave goodbye to any offer of payment. The car tax was due and I needed more dog food, so I just shrugged and looked sheepish and muttered a quick, rather embarrassed “Thank you” instead.

Full of tea and Viennese Whirls, no wonder I have a weight problem when it just seems so rude to refuse, and armed with the daily rituals and itinerary of Dr Seuss I set off, block of his favourite cheese in pocket.

Apart from peering about, calling his name and waving smelly cheese around to tempt him to come out come out from wherever he was I couldn’t do much until I went home and printed some flyers off to distribute and show people. I had a few photos of Dr Seuss enjoying his privileged existence which made me wonder why he’d want to leave. If I couldn’t find him I’d move in in his place. I could do with a spot of pampering. Think Gloria may possibly notice the size differential and the lack of two legs. I could do a mean cat impression though, if I say so myself. It was good enough to confuse my dogs and drive them into a frenzy anyway.

I really prayed for Gloria’s sake, and Dr Seuss’, that he hadn’t been catnapped and was just stuck in a garage or something, hopefully somewhere close enough for me to find him.

I was just walking past St. Martin’s when something caught my ear and I stopped and listened. I was sure I had heard a mewl. Nothing. I waited for a couple of minutes and had just given up and started to walk off when I heard it again. It sounded plaintive and wrong and faint and I felt convinced that it was Dr Seuss. The problem was it was gone leaving time and the gates were closed and it was private property.

No, I couldn’t just leave it. If I got apprehended I would just have to explain that I wasn’t a burglar but a Private Investigator on the trail of a missing cat. Not quite Magnum is it? For a start he gets Hawaii and I get Grimsby <sigh>. The closest I’d ever get to Hawaii would be wearing a grass skirt made out of raffia at Skegness’ Butlin’s when I was 7.

Thankfully, the gate was only closed and not locked. After the customary fiddle with the catch, I crept in, which only made me look instantly suspicious. Down the side was a small, old fashioned wooden bike shed and I thought that the sound had probably come from under there. The racks were built into a wooden platform which sloped towards the front but from the rear there was a gap of about 2 feet (60 cm if you prefer metric). I managed to kneel down, with only a small yelp, and peered underneath.

There was Dr Seuss, caught by his collar, looking rangy and unhappy. Certainly not like the fluffy, contented and replete animal in the photographs. At least he had a bed as, very luckily for him, there was a lost child’s school hat, just where he had got hooked. I wondered if the child had been in trouble for losing it or even get the irony of Dr Seuss being ‘The Cat in the Hat'.

I squirmed and manoeuvred my way slowly towards him, truly thankful that I had refused the go-on-there’s-only-one-left-Dear Viennese Swirl as I could only just squeeze under as it was. I was nearly there. My outstretched hand could just touch him but I wasn’t quite close enough to reach his collar to 1. Unhook it and 2. Be able to grab him before he disappeared again.

Just a little bit more. Oh hell. I had stopped squirming forward. No. Oh please, NO. Unfortunately for me though the answer was clearly YES. Yes my bloody belt had caught on some bloody sticking out bit of wood and I was bloody well stuck under a bloody bike shed with no one bloody likely to come and rescue me for bloody hours.

I looked at Dr Seuss and Dr Seuss looked at me. I’m sure he rolled his eyes so I scowled at him before remembering my no-frown rule.

I then heard a rather scary rustling and snuffling noise. Why the thought of an escapee snake popped into my head just at that moment I do not know but I really, really wish it had stayed away.

I tightly closed my eyes and then quickly opened them after deciding that knowing what I was about to be killed by was probably the better of the limited options available to me.

“Awwwww,” I breathed softly as a little family of baby hedgehogs paraded under the bike shed followed by their mother. Judging by the pile of dried grass and leaves, Dr Seuss and I had inadvertently gate-crashed their home. They didn’t seem all that bothered. Maybe they knew we were both incapacitated and no threat whatsoever.

I remembered the cheese in my pocket, managed to just slide my hand in and brought it out along with my mobile phone – WHEYHEY. Feeling a bit stupid for not thinking about calling for assistance. I rang Ally and felt a bit stupid asking for assistance.

“You’re where? You’re doing what? Good grief, trust you! Okay, I’ll be there in ten.”

Ten minutes was plenty of time to make best of friends with Family Hedgehog and Dr Seuss. Cheese was the great unifier of species – all that was missing was the fondue set and chunks of bread. I have such wild(life) parties.

I may have been rather grubby by the point that Dr Seuss was reunited with a joyously-tearful Gloria, who insisted on generously paying me straightaway, but at least I would now be mobile for the next 6 months and the dogs would eat. Good result all round. PIGY was on its way and had its first paid job under its belt. Ooh do NOT mention belts...

PIGY 5 – The Dicks and the Traceys, The Mannequin and The Bandstand

2012-06-24T11:22:00.002+01:00

This was the first time we’d all been together and introductions needed to be made between myself and Ally Grace, my right-hand woe-man (actually she was generally rather cheerful), her not-boyfriend - Gangly Ben (with the deep voice), his friend, who was a girl friend (but not girlfriend), Susie Todd, aka Hot Toddy (even I found myself thinking PHRAW! when she walked into a room), and my Mother, June Hopkins, bit past it and accident prone who kindly let me inherit both of those negative traits.

We were all assembled in my front sitting room/Home Gallery. Look, if people can have home cinema rooms I can have a home Gallery room. After having to begrudgingly give up my proper Gallery studio at Grimsby’s Abbey Walk Gallery, I needed to hang my work somewhere so may as well hang it nicely in case anyone ever wanted to see it.

Halfway through my first hanging session some very nice people from the Grimsby Institute came and took rather a lot of paintings to exhibit in their Gallery Restaurant. That was rather a relief as I managed to fill the walls with what was left over, anyway.

So here we were, with notepads on knees and pens at the ready to have our first brainstorming session.

“Firstly, I’d like to thank everyone for coming today,” I said professionally, “Basically we need to generate some leads that will provide more income than a box of cupcakes. As scrumptious as they are I don’t know of any utilities barter system that will accept cupcakes as part payment. Apart from the small fact that we no longer actually have any left to barter with.” I felt those last couple of sentences were unlikely to be repeated in many boardrooms across the country and didn’t sound very professional at all, really.

“Ally. What are you scribbling away at?”

“I’m taking the minutes,” she said professionally.

“I wouldn’t bother,” I deflated her perky enthusiasm with 3 words. “The way we drivel on they will probably have to be called ‘hours’ rather than ‘minutes. Look what you’ve already got – a moan about cupcake-income.”

Ally put down her pen and looked like she was having to hang onto her bottom lip. I was quite surprised as it usually slips out more than easily.

I had placed what was left of our lovely new flyers on the coffee table and wondered aloud if we would have any comeback from the ones that Hot Toddy had already delivered when out on her paper round.

“There’s a woman down Oxford Street, Cleethorpes, that seemed rather interested. She asked lots of questions about the agency. I tried to make us sound better than we actually are,” she said proudly. Before realising what she had actually said and stuttered and fluttered various words of apology, mostly aimed in my direction.

“Great, Thanks, Susie,” I forced a forced grin below my frown. Do you know, it’s actually rather hard to both frown and grin at the same time. It seems to be an either/or situation. (I bet you’ve just tried that – haven’t you? Haven’t you? And you looked really silly doing it. Hope there was no one in the room/train/bus/office with you. Ha!)
I know Susie had been insulting with the best of intentions and, let’s face it, I could hardly disagree but it did make me think.

“Maybe we need a Team Corporate Identity. A Macintosh, with a collar large enough to turn up to hide behind and a Trilby Hat,” I was always partial to a big coat and a good hat, or two.

“Maybe we should just have T-shirts printed with ‘I’m a PI’ on them,” Ben said deeply and darkly.

“Okay, I see your point,” I acquiesced. “I agree I’m more of a Tracey that’s a dick than a Dick Tracey.” Get’s a tad confusing around here as there is a Grimsby band called DickTracey Duo as well, (I’ll leave you to work out their respective names and how many of them there are). So, probably best to avoid that even if the original police detective was missing the e out of Tracy. No one can spell my name with the e anyway so... Hmm... I’ll stop there – even I’m getting confused...

“I’ve got a paying job for us,” My Mother piped up. Everyone’s ears perked up. “My friend, down Devonshire Avenue, has lost her cat.” Everyone’s ears instantly fell down, shoulders and chins too.” Seriously, she’s worried sick about him as he’s old and needs medicine every day and he’s never been gone 3 days before. She’s really upset.”

I don’t think one person in this room could resist a sob animal story – especially one that didn’t involve payment in cupcakes.

“Give me her details then,” I said. “I’ll go round after we’ve finished here and distribute some flyers at the same time. At least it is in Grimsby so I can walk.”

Yes, I CAN WALK. It’s taken a while but the nightmare of the wheelbarrow incident had made me determined to get the cronky knee better and I was rattling with supplements-of-hope, had got through loads of TV programmes, while resting and then gently exercised in-between the glut of US Sci-Fi and UK house makeovers. Determination had won the day and I was relatively mobile, at long last.

For a floor-sprawler (why use a sofa when there’s a floor to lay about on), not being able to kneel was annoying but for now I’ll happily take being able to walk and drive. Two out of three aint bad – just ask Meatloaf. The singer, not the food. You wouldn’t get much of an answer from the food. Actually, you probably wouldn’t get much of an answer from the singer unless you knew him personally.

It was a beautiful day, in-between the heavy downpours that is. I chose an opportune in-between moment to leave the house and slowly wend my way to Devonshire Avenue.

I popped a couple of leaflets into houses on Abbey Road but didn’t bother putting one in the Co-op Funeral Parlour (No it wasn’t because I thought they wouldn’t need our services, and yes, it was because I was scared of zombies and one dead body in a week was my lifetime’s quota as far as I was concerned. If you can’t exactly admire me for my bravery, at least try to for my honesty).

I turned into Abbey Park Road next (Far too many Abbeys round here – utterly confusing). I did a few houses and then looked up.

In the landing window of one house there is always a mannequin. The same mannequin but the clothes change. I love to see what it has on. Some things are annually rotated. There is the Santa outfit, the bunny girl ears for Easter and the summer dress with the big floppy 1970’s sun hat with the massive brim. During the Diamond Jubilee celebrations the Union Jack flag dress came out and I think it will probably stay on while England play football in Europe and the Olympics are in London. Patriotism is ‘in’ this year and one’s mannequin should celebrate too.

They didn’t have a street party down there but if they did I expect she would have had pride of place at the head of the table. I’m sure she’d love to escape her window, once in a while.

The house sold and she disappeared for a disappointing while but she returned. I wonder if the new people had complaints and pleading and, if so, by whom? Judging by some of the outfits she’s been there a while. I wonder how many owners of the house have tried to resist but ended up displaying her anyway. Maybe she has persuasive ways in the manner of a spooky Tales of The Unexpected.

I carried on, having a lovely look at the beautiful big houses, mainly Victorian but all full of character and, at least, oozing faded elegance. Two looked like they were both about to slide into a big hole between them as they both leaned alarmingly towards each other. I prayed that they had been under-pinned. I should imagine that both houses had drawer problems. In my cottage in Cornwall nothing was straight, not a square room in sight and as for level floors...well... I had to resort to big blobs of Blu Tack to keep the filing cabinet drawers closed and the castors had to be angled so the whole didn’t roll across the room.

By the time I had reached People’s Park it had started to drizzle. I shoved a few flyers in the houses on Park Drive but the heavens then opened and I ran like hell, well, walked as fast as I could anyway, for the bandstand. I was not the only one.

In a fairly confined space (how does a whole band actually fit on here?), there was a party of very small schoolchildren plus 5 teachers, fussing about, putting hoods up and picking up dropped mittens, opening rustling packets of crisps and wiping noses.

Four separate dog owners were pressed, equidistantly, up against the railings while their respective dogs strained on their leads to get to the other dogs; either for bottom sniffs or snarls of dominance.

A cyclist had entered the mix, complete with his bike. Bit thoughtless considering the lack of space. Probably thinking about not getting a wet bottom.

The boisterous, but friendly, solid chunk of black lab thrust his shiny black nose right into the cyclist’s balls. He swore and clutched and the teachers glared. The lab’s owner got the giggles and the cyclist glared at everyone. The children started laughing and all of a sudden the bandstand was full of happy vocal music. After a bit of sensitive rubbing even the cyclist saw the funny side and joined in.

To celebrate the camaraderie-in-adversity, an intense rainbow split the dark blue-grey sky in half and the children started chanting Richard Of York Gained Battle In Vain, over and over.

It was certainly one of those moments.

PIGY 4 – The Return Visit, A Few Bruises and the Swimming Lesson

2012-06-22T11:32:00.000+01:00

I was beginning to wonder why I just didn't move to Cleethorpes and have done with it.

Maybe P I G Y should have been called P I C L P S, after all, as I didn’t seem to be spending much time in Grimsby – apart from living there. Hmm – ok – I was there quite a lot of the time then and P I C L P S was a bit of a mouthful stuffed with candy floss, a sugar dummy and a couple of doughnuts.

Needing to get around a bit I succumbed to the painful luxury of diesel consumption and parking machine feeding and took down the car keys, off the hook.

The dogs looked hopefully at their leads. Six big eyes pleaded “Beach...beach...beach...” but I couldn’t take them as it was far too hot to leave them in the car. I heard Maude loudly protesting as I drove away. I stopped out of sight but as soon as I was out of sight she stopped.

I picked up Ally, who was looking slightly hooker-ish in a short skirt and peeking out tummy button, posing on the corner by People’s Park.

“You looked slightly hooker-ish,” I said.

“You’re only jealous,” she said.

“I know,” I said and stuck my bottom lip out.

As I slowly drove along Alexandra Road, I looked up at Ron Gilbert’s drab flat. It didn’t look any different to the other day when we’d called round on our fruitless mission to introduce ourselves. The paint still peeled, the windows still needed a clean and the aroma was of tired, over-fried oil. It was so pungent it curled and wisped its way across the road and in through the open car window.

“If we have time, shall we have another go to see if he’s in? Doesn’t look like he is though,” Ally suggested.

“He could be lying on the floor, in his underpants and socks, with a big bag of Doritos, reading Dostoyevsky as far as we can tell from here,” I retorted.

“True,” she said and stuck her bottom lip out.

We nipped to the Boating Lake and said a quick hello to Jaime, in the Discovery Centre, where she said:

“Have a lovely, but monumentally huge and very pink cupcake oozing with calories.”

“No no,” we said

“Go on, go on,” she said

“Okaaay, okaaay. Yum yum,” we mumbled through exquisite crumbs and swirled icing.

While still wiping our mouths, our tops and broggling down our respective cleavages, with the odd yelp of pleasure when one or other of us found a piece of cake-treasure, we walked alongside the boating lake. Geese, ducks, coots and swans all parted to let us through, how polite of them, and we tried our best not to slip on the lethal white poo that plastered the pathways. I didn’t think that was very polite of them. Surely they could have gone and used a bush, as there were plenty about.

We found the poo-free bush-residence of George and his family and then, in the nearest part of the lake, the family themselves. It looked like it was swimming-lesson time. I wondered what they got for successfully accomplishing a lap or two. I shouldn’t think it was an oval, frog sew-on badge. I gave them all some seed and hoped they’d all done well enough to warrant the reward.

My Mother, had reached that age where she didn’t just fall over – no she had the far more dramatic, ‘HAD A FALL’ with its more dramatic guilt-inducing-overtones of; I could have broken something.../be in hospital now.../died... and I wouldn’t have done that if you visited me more than once a fortnight....Have you built that luxury Granny-annexe for me yet?

I made us all mugs of tea while she showed us her multifarious bruises. I’m sure going to the cinema would have been more visually gratifying, but unfortunately we had driven straight past the multiplex and came here instead. It was all played out in super Technicolor though.

Varying shades of yellow, red and blue snazzed up the mass of black on various body parts, which she insisted on revealing while we tried to pretend to sympathetically look and not too visibly shake with horror and disgust. You needed to be of stern stuff to come round here.

“Ooh June, they are really nasty,” Ally gurned sympathetically. It was always handy to know that Ally could pull a good face when the need arose. I speed-walked into the kitchen.

“Anyone for biscuits?” I yelled, usefully.

By the time I returned, snail-walking in this direction, all sleeves had been pulled down, trouser legs unfurled and tops smoothed down too. God, was I relieved. I was so relieved I ate 3 chocolate digestives I didn’t even want.

We were once again at the top of the rickety wooden stairs, peering through the grimy kitchen window of Ron Gilbert’s flat. We had steeled ourselves for the flying missile cat but this time she just sat in the middle of the kitchen floor, mewling plaintively and staring up at us with sad, big, green, eyes.

I think that we both felt that something was amiss and frowned at each other, wondering what to do next.

We had asked around a bit, both in this vicinity and among people we knew, but they had either never heard of him or not seen him for while.

“Go on – try the handle,” Ally suggested as she stood back and angled herself behind me.

“Thanks for that, Ally,” I snarled and frowned a bit more. I stopped frowning and hastily rubbed between my eyes. I may not think much to Botox or anything else that some people felt compelled to squeeze into themselves but it didn’t mean I actually wanted the Grand Canyon to appear on my forehead either. Really must remember not to frown.

It was a little stiff but the unlocked handle went down and I slowly opened the door a crack.

“Jesus Christ what the hell is that stink?” I cried, as I backed swiftly up and nearly sent Ally flying off the steps with my oversized arse.

“God knows,” she gasped as she clung onto the rail, desperately trying to find a pocket of seemingly elusive, fresh sea air to suck in.

The problem with hot weather is that you don’t tend to have useful items, like scarves, with you, so we both had to hitch up our tops to cover our noses. In Ally’s case that meant that barely (appropriate word that) anything else was covered now either and made the tummy button look seem almost demure. Thankfully my top was decently long so I wasn’t at risk at scarring the cat for life.

Bracing ourselves we tiptoed in. I had the urge to kick the door hard and jump in pretending I had a gun at arm’s length, prancing about from side to side looking for possible assailants. However, tip-toeing it was – more like giant church mice than Dempsey and Makepeace.

The door led straight into the unkempt kitchen and I looked for the source of the revolting smell. I presumed it was hot weather, un-emptied bin but it was a very sweet and sickly smell like nothing I’d ever smelled before. My tummy turned like it was going down a helter skelter without me.

The cat mewled and rubbed itself around our ankles before disappearing through the slightly open doorway to what I presumed must be the sitting room. Continuing in creeping slowly mode, we crept slowly towards the door. I pushed it open not at all expecting to see what lay on the other side.

It was a long, narrow, knocked-through room with the far end window framing an expansive, beautiful view of the pier Gardens, the Pier itself and the Humber Estuary. This side of the window was considerably less beautiful.

The room was full. Packed high with boxes of varying sizes, some shoe boxes and some appliance boxes and all sizes that came between. Scattered among them were hundreds of cheap whisky bottles. Gilbert certainly went for quantity over quality. Keeping up with the box theme were loads of used pizza boxes with green furry remnants of takeaways past clinging to them for dear multiplying life.

The mess spoke volumes to the sad, post pier-incident life of Gilbert and I very much doubted his tendency to read Dostoyevsky, but the interior design was certainly a crime that deserved a punishment.

Where was he though? He wasn’t in the small bedroom, which only contained a single, un-made bed as a relief against the same box and bottle accessorizing. Seriously – if you are going for a theme at least arrange it artistically.

The tiny, rhymes with grimy, shower-room was also empty except for a stub of deodorant stick, a sliver of cracked soap, a grey flannel and a toothbrush with splayed out brush. No toothpaste though.

“Tracey, come here, NOW!” Ally’s voice quivered from the sitting room. A few strides and I was there, next to her; also, looking down at the foot sticking out from the Candy Automatic Washing Machine box. It was ratty and old and frayed. The box that is, not the foot. Although I did feel that the description was possibly not that far removed from the reality of Gilbert, himself.

“Oh, shit!” I cried, forgetting to hold my top over my nose. The sweet stench of rotting body shot up my overly sensitive olfactory orifice just as Ally threw up. That did it – I also threw up and the two of us, rather noisily, heaved into a Weetabix outer. Why we were conscious of not making a mess I have no idea – too bloody polite for our own good. We even managed to puke as politely as possible.

Once our stomachs stopped behaving like we’d been on the Waltzers for three hours, being spun relentlessly by the obligatory manic, inevitably spotty, ego-enhanced, youth, I scooped up the cat and we backed out of the room and through the kitchen – just in case he’d turned into a zombie and would follow us if we turned our backs to him. Once outside, with the entrance door closed I gave Ally the too skinny cat and got my mobile out.

The police came speedily with blue lights ablaze and sirens screeching – presumably in case Gilbert had turned into that zombie and was going to try to escape.

It was supposed that the likely cause of death was nutritional self-abuse. The diet of whisky and pizza not being the best overall, for longevity. Why all the boxes? That was a mystery that even Scooby-Doo was unlikely to be able to solve.

PIGY had found its first missing person/body and, to be a teeny bit selfish about it, now had the monopoly on Investigations in Grimsby and Cleethorpes. We tried not to celebrate (as that would be very wrong) but did raise our nerve-quelling pints of Willy’s Best to poor old Gilbert and hoped that he was getting reacquainted with his prostitute lover, with the presumably ghostly-wobbly neck, wherever he had ended up.

Ally introduced the cat to Capt. PUGwash and, after a bit of power-circling, they snuggled together in his bed and instantly became best of friends. Out of respect for Gilbert and his lover, as well as Ally’s navel, the cat was affectionately named Hooker.

2012-06-14T22:29:00.001+01:00

PIGY 3 – Gilbert and George Go Missing

“I’ve got a bit of bad news,” Ally whispered.

Using a mental winch and pulley system to lift my throbbing head up from my lovely cool desk, I tried to focus my bloodshot eyes on her. I didn’t need to speak - my unfocused look said “What now?” all by itself.

“Apparently there already is a Private Investigator who is based in Cleethorpes. Not too sure that these two towns are big enough for the both of us.”

I frowned at Ally, quizzically. Surely she wasn’t referencing an old Sparks’ song, was she? The cringing countenance convinced me that she wasn’t.

“Oh, please stop doing that or I’ll have to enter you for a gurning competition,” I groaned. “Any chance of some painkillers and a huge glass of water please?”

I don’t drink much, or often, so when I do it doesn’t take much to render me incapable the next day. It’d been a good night though. We’d started off in Willy’s. I remember when it was all new and shiny in its industrial 80s incarnation with the addition of Wine Bar to its name. Full of the pretty posers all flounced up. Lesson was learnt, when in a club in a different town, I was having a screaming above the music conversation which ended with me yelling at the top of my voice, “I LOVE WILLY’S” just as the music broke between tracks. That got me some very funny looks, and comments, as well as a very red face. We’d pub-crawled our increasingly wending way along the front to the last bus stop and jolted our way back to Grimsby, somehow managing to squeeze in another couple of bars between the final stop and home.

“Apparently he’s an old Scouser called Ron Gilbert. Legend goes he came here on a day trip, lost his return ticket, was taken in by a friendly prostitute he ‘bumped into’ in the Sub and then lived with her until she died. You could say he came and stayed really.” She gave a little naughty giggle. “Seems she fell off the pier one day. The tide was out and she broke her neck. Bit sad really. Anyway, he lives in a flat on Alexandra Road, above the Hygienic Fish and Chip Shop.”

“Maybe we should go and say Hello”, I said, “and see if there is room in these towns for the two of us.” I sang that last bit in Sparks fashion with a rather wild grin and Ally’s eyes widened in confusion. I couldn’t be bothered to explain but at least the tablets were kicking in and I felt up to moving, thank goodness.

“I’ll let the dogs out – ooh ooh ooh ooh ooh,” I sang again. Really must stop that. It was becoming a bad habit. “You grab the coats. I’ll only be a minute.”

Fifteen minutes later, after Ally’s Captain PUGwash and my three furry monsters had sniffed all round the garden to find the perfect spots. Seriously girls and boy – if you need to go, just go – please. The silver change jar had been rifled for pound coins and we’d both gone upstairs to find our own perfect spot (at least we both knew where that was so were quicker than the dogs), we were off and heading for the station.

When we decanted off the train we turned right out of the station and headed away from the prom and into the town. Alexandra Road faced the sea and the sea views were only interrupted by the Pier Gardens and the prom. Flats balanced precariously above a myriad of fast food outlets, tacky gift shops and loud and garish amusement arcades with the odd good shop and cafe fed in along the way.

One part of the swathe of faded (very) elegance used to be the Empire Theatre. I would have loved to have seen it in its heyday before it became an arcade and Lazer Quest. I always wonder if any clues remain; boxed in behind panelling or some such.

I briefly had a summer job at The Winter Gardens, long before they pulled it down, much to everyone’s horror and disgust. Cleethorpes without the Winter Gardens was, well, like Cleethorpes without the Winter Gardens – just plain WRONG, in capital letters.

It was amazing behind the scenes. All corridors and ins and outs. I was a terrible waitress, complete with a silly little frilled French-Maid-like pinny, followed by being a terrible cloakroom girl a la Boy George but I never stole anything out of the pockets like he did. Although, I often got them mixed up.

On one infamous occasion, when it was silly busy, with queues out of the door, I thought it would be a great time-saving exercise to give out a ticket, lay the coat on a chair and put the stub on top, then the next coat, stub, and so on. I could then hang them up nicely when the humongous queue had gone off to have fun. The theory was fine – until I knocked the pile off the chair and the coats went one way and the stubs another. I can’t remember what I did. I probably didn’t work there for much longer after that incident.

Managing to resist the temptation of a bag of greasy chips, Ally and I went around the back of the Hygienic and up some rickety wooden stairs to the first floor flat. We banged on the door, after eventually realising that the bell didn’t work, but still no joy. We peered through the grimy window and then nearly fell backwards off the stairs as a hissing cat, all arched back and fur in spikes, hurled itself at the other side of the window to us.

“Shit-a-brick!” Ally screamed and, I must admit, my heart was racing madly towards the outstretched arms of Mr.Attack. Five minutes later we were downing a pint of Willy’s best brew from his own little on site brewery. My speeding heart winning over my hangover.

“Well, that was a pointless exercise...” I started to say, just as my for-business-only mobile rang out. “Hello, P I G Y can I help you?” I listened to the sobbing on the other end of the conversation. I was going to say the other end of the line but realised that was a phrase hungover, (ooh bad choice of word), from the days when phones actually were connected by those wire things. “We’ll be right there.”

"The Cupcake Girls Cafe"2011 @TraceyEdges

The Discovery Centre is by the boating lake. It has a cafe, two Galleries (I’ve exhibited my paintings in both spaces) and a craft shop. There is an Observatory which overlooks the lake, the miniature railway, the dunes and the sea. Plenty to do, even on a wet day. Fortunately today was coat-warm and sunny. This made a pleasant change from the rain, rain and yet more rain which had grimly imposed itself on us for weeks now. There were even people making a performance of badly rowing the boats around the islands on the lake. There were people on the outside cafe tables but we were sitting inside with Jaime, the Manager.

She gripped a soggy tissue in her hand but was no longer crying. Puffy red eyes and a nose like a clown gave her away though.

“We’ve not seen George for days now,” she whimpered, “and the Directors won’t let us look for him while we’re working. They all go to bed by the time we leave so we can’t see anything. He comes in every morning and nibbles the back of our knees until we give him some seed but he really loves cake. The last time I wouldn’t give him any and I’ve not seen him since.” Jaime’s lower lip was quivering madly and I took the, also quivering madly, postcard she was waving under my nose as soon as I could catch it. “George is a Muscovy Duck and this is him. He posed beautifully for this shot and it’s our best selling card. Everyone loves George.”

George had scared the life out of me when I was hanging my exhibition. I was bent over fiddling with a cord on the back of a painting and he jabbed me, bloody hard, right on my bum. Hadn’t really expected to be goosed by a duck but seems he couldn’t resist the temptation. Once I had recovered, I must admit I found him adorable too and, from then on, had always kept some seed in my pocket, just in case.

Jaime had pointed out some distinguishing features and with postcard in hand we went outside to start our search.

Two people were standing, at the side of the boating lake, with their mouths open.

“Shit there are hundreds of the little buggers,” I gasped. “It’s going to be like looking for a Muscovy in a MuscovyStack”. Ally gurned in agreement. Eventually we closed our mouths and went on a duck hunt.

“I really wish they’d keep still,” I groaned. We’d mentally sectioned off the area into sections and were working our way along and around. Some ducks were just not playing fair though and kept flying, waddling or swimming into different sections.

We even borrowed a boat from the George-loving boatman and worked our way around the islands. Three hours later we were about to give up but just decided on a quick wider search when, from a hollow under a bush, a Mummy Muscovy and twelve Baby Muscovies emerged, swiftly followed by Daddy George Muscovy – the proud protector of his new little family.

I threw a little seed on the floor and George emitted a croaky quack and his little family all abruptly halted, spun round and careered into the pile of seed. We took lots of very cute photos, as evidence, and started to head back to the Discovery Centre. George wasn’t daft though – he knew his big painter friend always had plenty of seed in her pocket and, in a very tidy line, headed by George, we got followed back and into the Centre.

I failed to quell the squeals of Jaime and the other members of staff but the little family were unperturbed as they solemnly marched behind the counter and into the office where they all got their first taste of cake.

With our payment of a box of extremely scrumptious cupcakes, made by the multi-talented Jaime, we left them to it.

We had managed to find George but where the hell was Gilbert....?

PIGY 2 – The Castle, the Wheelbarrow and the New Girl

2012-05-14T00:15:00.000+01:00

“What are you looking at?”

“I’m not looking, I’m thinking.” I opened my eyes and started looking.

From up here, I could see along the prom in both directions. Up to the Leisure Centre to the right and past the Big Wheel (which really, nowadays, should be called the considerably-smaller-than-proper-BIG-wheels-like-the-London-Eye, wheel), to the left.

The murky-brown sea was slowly lapping its way inwards and beginning to tickle the barnacled ankles of the pier – I kept waiting for it to giggle but it didn’t – or at least I didn’t hear it.

Children, like busy, little, non-stop ants, were running into the small waves, waving empty buckets to fill with murky-brown-seawater to pour in to the moats of their wonky sandcastles. Their parents stretched out on stiff, tense backs making the most of the rare sun on their faces and forcing themselves to try to relax.

Ally, and I, had hopped (literally in my case), onto a one carriage train that trundled us from Grimsby Station to Cleethorpes Station. It wasn’t far but I always had retained the same thrill, when chugging along the seafront, before pulling into the station and spilling out like excited children straight into the heady, noisy mix of the Amusement Arcades and Rock Shops.

The pungent aromas of doughnuts, deep fried in ancient fat, were whipped away by, but immediately re-mingled with, the fresh, salt-tinged, sea air and it all reeked of Cleethorpes’ nostalgia. Exactly the same evocative smell from my own early experiences and memories.

We’d crossed the prom and leant on the railings, breathing in the fresh air and watching the seagulls noisily squabbling around discarded, squashed, chips on the pavement.

Dragging ourselves away we walked up past the Pier and up through the Pier Gardens before snailing our way round, and up, Ross Castle to the top viewing level.

Ross Castle is a spiral stone folly named after, Ernest Ross, the secretary of the Manchester, Sheffield and Lincolnshire Railway, which, in the more Britain-positive Victorian era, brought the railway to Cleethorpes and thus kick-started a time of prosperity. Day trippers and tourists could easily flock to the seaside as respite from their industrial, smog-ridden Yorkshire, (mainly), lives.

“OUCH! OH GOD! My knee’s gone again.” I tentatively tried to put my left foot on the ground but couldn’t without screaming in agony. “Shit. What the hell do I do now?”

“Sit down,” suggested Ally. I looked at her with pained disgust.

“And how exactly would I ever get up again?” I looked at the rubbish which had blown into the corners. The cigarette wrappings, squashed boxes and stubbed out ends were prolific as well as discarded fast food, chocolate bar and crisp wrappers and several empty Stella cans. “Ugh. No way would I sit there anyway. Gross”.

Litter disgusts me. I’m always amazed how lazy people are. They always seem perfectly capable of carrying packets and bags full of food and drink but as soon as the packets etc are empty (and thus lighter, easier to carry and easily popped into a pocket or, gosh, what a concept, the bag they were brought in), they suddenly don’t seem to be able to manage to hold them. Do they suddenly get floppy fingers or something?

You bring it out with you, if you can’t find a bin (and there were plenty around her so no excuse at all), you TAKE IT HOME. Bloody hell – appreciate your green and pleasant land even if the bit you happen to be in is grey and concrete. It still looks better without your lazy rubbish strewn all over it. Yes, that is another of my pet hates.

“YOOOOHOOOOO! BEN!” Ally, suddenly, and loudly, screeched, making me jump, wobble, connect foot with floor and emit my own loud screech. I glared at her while she, oblivious to my momentary wish to throw her off the top of Ross Castle, waved her arms around like crazy windmills, attracting the attention of everyone in the vicinity, except Ben.

Ben was plugged into his iPod. You could tell as he, every few seconds, would wiggle his arse and then punch the air with his fist <Boom! Boom! Boom!>. I must remember to extract the urine out of him, later, about that. Idiot.

On his third arse wiggle/boom routine he happened to glance up as his eyes followed a hefty seagull which had swooped in front of him before heading in our direction. Maybe he was my guardian seagull trying to help me. Probably just a coincidence.

As Ben windmilled back to Ally, she thankfully stopped and I was able to stop singing “Tulips From Amsterdam” in my head – which, quite frankly, was a relief.

Ben ambled his way towards us but, when he was at the base of the castle, on the Gardens’ side, Ally leant over the wall and yelled:

“Tracey’s stuck. The silly old fart can’t walk!” Oh, great, thank you very much, Ally. I cringed, clinging on to the rough stone wall for support, as a gang of kids looked up and started laughing before, thankfully, moving along, en-masse, thumping and hugging each other as they went.

“Leave it to me.” Ben boomed. He was tall and gangly but with a massively deep voice which made it hard to compute him, as a whole. It would be easy to laugh. (I did the first time I heard it and instantly felt ashamed as it turned out he was the nicest, sensitive guy you could ever hope to have as a friend and was deeply (sorry), conscious about his voice).

I was just wondering where he’d gone when we heard a strange eek-creak-eek-creak-eek-creak noise just before Ben appeared with a great big cat’s-got-the-cream smile and a, Heavens-To-Murgatroyd, wheelbarrow.

“UH OH. NO WAY.” I wailed. “No No NO!” I put my foot down. I screeched. I wanted to cry with the frustration of it all.

“What have you done now?” boomed Ben.

“No idea.” I scowled. “Twisted my knee or something. It just gets better and I trip over something and nobble myself again. I’m not happy. Far too busy for this inconvenient crap.”

Ben, looked sympathetic.

“Shall we get you in then?”

“Oh, God. No.”

“Do you have a choice? How are you going to get down? Good job you saw me really. Wasn’t it?!” I frowned but knew, as pointed out to me, I didn’t really have a choice. Damnit. Just as I think my life can’t get worse. It does.

Getting in was a performance in its own right but between wiggles and screeches I made it. An undignified heap, in an undignified wheelbarrow, in a very undignified situation.

You would think that getting down a slope would be easy. Go on admit it you did, didn’t you? Not, however, when your weight wants to turn the wheelbarrow into a tea-tray on a Winter Olympics luge.

Thankfully, gangly Ben’s strength matched his voice rather than his body and he worked out a long-winded zig-zag system down to the bottom. All quite smooth really, except when he pretended to let me go and I let out a bloodcurdling scream, or two.

May as well have waved my hands in the air and pretended I was on a rollercoaster. My whole bloody life feels like it at times – may as well just walk around (when I can) doing that anyway.

So there we were at the bottom. Hmm – the bottom of some steps. Brilliant. Not exactly wheelchair/barrow friendly access was it? Actually...maybe that would not be such a great idea.

You can just imagine the carnage caused by little old ladies not being able to hold their little old husbands on the way down. No one would be able to get past the step-blocking, upturned wheelchair mountain to become King of the Castle, ever again. Not that there would be the steps, if it were wheelchair friendly, but you get the point.

I waited until no one was about and then bummed my way up the steps, got hauled to my foot by Ben and Ally and manhandled to the nearest bench, by the road.

Ben rang for a taxi, while I bemoaned the lack of use of our return train tickets.

Waiting, the instructed 20 mins, gave us time to discuss what we needed next for PIGY.

“Clients.” I said

“Flyers” said Ben and Ally, at the same time. They also giggled at the same time. Oh God, I thought – here we go again.

Ben and Ally had been not-going-out since school reception year when they were 5. Why? I never understood. They were my favourite people but never quite got past that really best mates, couldn’t do anything with anyone else, but, no, can’t go out with you stage. Just get a room. Get it over with. Have fun.

I groaned.

“I’ve got a pile already done but can’t exactly get out and about with them”, said Frustrated of Grimsby. I then noticed Ally, staring at Ben, staring at a tall blond girl on a very small bike. “Who’s that, Ben?”

“That’s Susie Todd. Her Dad owns the Newsagents down there,” he pointed along King’s Road. “She’s great. Really nice, I mean”, he added hastily as he saw Ally’s pouty lips tighten slightly. “I bet she’d help you, no problem – she’s always helping her Dad out when the paper boys don’t turn up.”HEY! HOT TODDY! OVER HERE!”

She looked up, smiled, a perfect-teeth smile (I was quite surprised a ring didn’t PING around her sparkling mouth). She waved, wobbled precariously, nearly ending up under a number 9 bus. I would have taken bets that she had on clean designer-frilly-undies. Just for the in-case occasion.

“Any chance you could help Knackered Old Fart Tracey out? I audibly groaned before giving her a sheepish grin and shrugging my shoulders dramatically. I knew I needed someone fit and this vision of loveliness was fit personified. She looked like she had just left a Tennis Tour – all bronzed and Amazon-Barbied. I resolved never to look in another mirror ever again.

Five minutes later I had a new recruit. A damn good one, this time. She was having a gap year from, well, doing anything really. She was pretty well loaded so didn’t need paying, (yippee – thank God for that), she had run for the County and had even done a spell as a Special Constable for some work experience thing. Best of all she was bored and fancied a challenge.

Oh yes! Hot Toddy would do very nicely thank you. Things were looking up and PIGY had staff. Now we just needed a case...

PIGY 1 – The Beginning

2012-05-01T21:45:00.001+01:00

“You can’t call it that. No Noo Nooooo”.

“Why not?”

“Because you is Fat”, Ally Grace, pulled a face and did her impression of Richard Madeley doing his impression of Ali G. She liked having the same name. Why? It perplexed me.

“Yeah, well. Sod that – it works and unless you can think of anything better; That Is What It Is. We need to get down to it and not waste any more time. Do you have any money? No? Neither do I.” Ally pulled another face and went to let Capt. PUGwash out for his millionth wee of the day and put the kettle on, also for the millionth time that day.

I reached for a fine-liner and started doodling different versions of our logo. Not too sure which way to go but soon plumped for simplicity with the Dock Tower as the letter ‘I’. I had done a painting called Dock Tower Plaza so it would be easy to use that and add some lettering. I had taken the photograph of the Dock Tower myself so no copyright issues there.

"DOCK TOWER PLAZA" 76x76cm Mixed media on stretched cotton canvas

It had started off as a joke on Facebook. I was bored and suddenly in need of a job and also been reading too many books; the latest being about a Private Investigator based in Hull. Hull is north of the River Humber and Grimsby is below it. It used to be fun travelling between the two via one of the two ferries rolling their lumbering way across the brown river that looked like home-made beer with scum on it. The ferries sometimes used to get stuck on a sandbank which was great fun if you were a kid but somehow annoying if you were an adult. I was a kid then so it was always an adventure.

Anyway, back to Grimsby. I now live there but I was born and brought up in Cleethorpes. Sometimes I say I’m from one place and sometimes the other. It doesn’t really matter as they are just two halves of the same sprawling splodge with no discernible gap in-between. Many roads have one side in one town and the other side in the other town. You could easily stand with a foot in both towns but you would risk death so probably not really worth it.

From the M180 coming into Grimsby you carry on straight down Cleethorpe Road (in Grimsby) – no idea why the ‘s’ was missing off the end – maybe the original sign wasn’t long enough – who knows. It then suddenly turns into Grimsby Road which is in Cleethorpes (which does still have its ‘s’, lucky thing). Grimsby used to have a thriving fishing industry and docks but that is mostly gone now leaving dereliction, chavs and apathy in its wake. Cleethorpes is a typical British seaside resort. It came to prominence when the Victorians built the railways. It’s a good place to travel to on a train as if you fall asleep you can’t go too far. Cleethorpes is at the end of the line. It is also now very faded compared to the pre-era of cheap package holidays abroad. It does have plenty of great beaches for dog walks though.

I can remember the beach and prom heaving with people but now you mainly get boy-racers who think it’s a big deal to rev and race their boy-racer cars like mad between the speed bumps. For Godssake – if you’re going to go for it – GO FOR IT and fly over the bloody bumps don’t prissy out in case you take your low front bumper out. YOU LOOK SILLY and are annoying in your silliness. Bit of a pet hate there – you may be able to tell.

It suddenly struck me that I would quite like to be a Private Investigator. You’re not stuck in an office all day. Each day should have an element of difference. You’re your own boss and you’ll get to meet loads of different people. Oh, yes – and I’m quite nosey too.

Back to the name. For this purpose I come from Grimsby and I am going to call my agency: PIGY which stands for Private Investigations Grimsby. PICLPS (Private Investigations Cleethorpes) doesn’t roll off the tongue quite so smoothly and I couldn’t really use the Grimsby Dock Tower as the ‘I’. I could use the Cleethorpes Pier as the ‘P’, I suppose, but let’s keep it as simple as possible. My house is in Grimsby and I can’t afford a separate office so that is that. PIGY it is (but please say it as individual letters in a drawling American accent).

I probably can’t run this agency on my own. Can’t afford to pay anyone either. I’ll have to work out some commission basis and a bit of ‘I’ll help you paint your sitting room if you’ll give me some free hours’. I can see me doing a lot of decorating...

Ally, is my first member of staff and, although a tad on the bananas-for-brains side of the intellectual fence, she is lovely and doesn’t mind answering the phone; which I don’t really like doing. Give me email any day. I suppose I picture myself as Sandra Bullock’s character in the film ‘The Net’ – well, apart from the looks and the equipment. (Just let me fantasise a little).

My second member of staff is, Heaven forbid, my Mother. I just didn’t have the heart to say no when she got all excited at the thought. She always wanted to be a policewoman but only grew to 5’2”, in the days where size mattered. She’s 70 and pretty well knackered. Bad back, always falling over (so that’s where i get that one from – cheers Mother), and couldn’t run for a bus never mind after a suspect. Come to that I probably wouldn’t be that much better. I better look out for someone fit.

After seeing her back her little car out of my drive, (good grief, is this really a good idea?), I heard her trying out names through her open window. June Cagney...Hotlips Hopkins....Mrs. Marples (after the Teashop down Seaview Street, nothing to do with Agatha Christie)...Mother Hari.... Thankfully she was soon out of hearing for any other suggestions she may be concocting.

HELP ME - WHAT HAVE I DONE???