What Not to Wear

Despite the Indian Summer we are currently experiencing, which technically isn’t anything of the sort as there needs to be a frost first before the warm weather, my mind has turned to the end of October and All Hallows Eve. There is a good reason for this; I have been invited to a Halloween party. 

It’s been organised by my employers and sounds like it will be a jolly jape, but the dress code troubles me a little, and I’ll explain why.

I have to say to my fellow colleagues, some of whom are regular visitors to this blog and read my incessant ramblings, although heaven knows why when they have to put up with me all day at work, that the dress code in itself is not a problem and covers all bases, but that’s where I’m most likely to slip up.

Let me share the dress code with you. It says something along the lines of, ‘fancy dress optional’. Yes, optional. Not essential but optional. Now I have read this clearly, fancy dress is allowed, but if you don’t fancy the fancy dress then you don’ t have to dress in a fancy way. 

Now, despite this party being a few weeks away, I’ve already started to think about what I can wear. I’ve been to previous Halloween parties organised by wife-in-waiting up in Lincoln but she has always been clear on the dress code and, quite frankly, unless you’re in fancy dress you can take a hike. 

When it comes to Halloween outfits I take a lateral thinking approach and have, in the past, chosen not to dress up in an obvious costume like a vampire or a werewolf. I haven’t put a sheet over my head and gone as a ghost or even donned a pointy hat and sat on a broomstick like some sort of transvestite witch. I have usually attended the Halloween party dressed as a dead celebrity, specifically ones that have met their maker unexpectedly or in unusual circumstances.

One year saw me in matching khaki shirt and shorts, a fetching blond wig on my head, and a giant rubber snake around my neck as I tried to resurrect within me the spirit of crocodile and stingray-agitating antipodean, Steve Irwin. Some may think that is thoroughly tasteless. Sorry about that but it did attract a little bit of attention and a lot of young (and some old) ladies were keen to stroke my snake, so to speak.

 The next year I stuck a tux on, whacked a fez on my head, and went as Tommy Cooper. Just like that.

I’m not sure why we weren’t able to go last year but I had plans to dress as Michael Jackson. Whilst I may have the moves (if you can imagine a middle aged man trying to do Thriller) I don’t really have the same body shape as the late Jacko so I’m not quite sure how that would have panned out, but I feel the moment has passed for that look now.

So I’m left to ponder who I should dress up as next, but let me get back to the main issue of the day, that vague dress code instruction.

You see my main worry stems from a party I was invited to by a couple of work colleagues at my previous employer, some years ago. They sent out invitations and stated the dress code was ‘black and white’. 

Now, our brains are all wired in different ways. Some people have brains that are very good at detail; some are more creative and focus on the bigger picture. Without immediately disclosing which neurological camp my flag has been planted in I think it is fair to say that I saw the word ‘party’ and my mind went into possibility overdrive.

For no explicable reason I had misunderstood the dress code as being fancy dress and so I started to exercise the old grey matter thinking of what I could go as given the black and white theme. My colleagues did nothing to correct my error of thinking although for some reason most of my immediate colleagues weren’t going to the party despite one of the organisers sharing an office with us, and maybe I should have followed their lead.

So, caught up in the fancy dress whirlwind, I didn’t notice the look of bemusement in the face of said organiser when I speculated that I might go to this party dressed as either a penguin or a panda. I think she thought it was just silly old Terry being silly old Terry. He comes out with funny things you know, just smile politely and back away.

In the end I followed my internal fancy dress rules. I went for something that I could pull off, given my shape and the general look of me, and in which I would still be able to hold and drink a pint of beer.

So, after a bit of ruminating, I came up with what I thought was a good idea. I would go to the party dressed as a football referee. OK, so it’s mostly a black outfit but with a few flourishes and the addition of a black and white football I had the perfect fancy dress costume. 

The present Mrs Hayward opted not to go in fancy dress, rather to wear a black and white frock, but even that didn’t ring any alarm bells with me.

We turned up at the venue that evening just as other party guests were arriving. As I parked in the car park I noticed immediately the distinct lack of anybody dressed as a zebra, a policeman, or a mint humbug, as I had expected. Instead men were wearing black suits and white shirts and the ladies were in black and white dresses, much like Mrs Hayward.

I was not unduly concerned. I figured that these were just the people who had chickened out, the real fancy dress people will be inside having a great time. Again, I didn’t notice the curious glances of my fellow partygoers as I got out of the car looking as if I was about to head out onto the football pitch to referee a Sunday pub league game. 

I guess I don’t need to tell you the rest. There was no-one else in fancy dress at the party, just me. Everyone else had not mis-read the invitation like I had and so I spent the whole evening self-consciously clamped to a seat with my bare knees hidden under a table. I gave my football to some kids so they could go and play in the car park and at no point did I need, or dare, to blow my whistle or show someone either a yellow or red card.

I felt like a bit of a fool although my fellow work colleagues didn’t appear to be at all phased by my bizarre interpretation of the dress code. I worry about my reputation sometimes.

Mind you it wasn’t the most bizarre thing that happened that evening. Later on the two organisers, both women in their fifties, got on to the dance floor and did a high energy rock and roll routine together, as a bit of entertainment for the crowd. That has burnt itself on to my synapses and still troubles me when I’m trying to get to sleep at night, but I think they were happy with it and everyone clapped politely. 

So, you can understand my problem. Do I go in fancy dress to a Halloween party where there’s a good chance that no-one else will dress up in a costume, whilst I arrive dressed as Rod Hull and Emu, or do I just risk being labelled as boring and go in my usual ‘going out clothes’? You see, the problem with me is that I prefer things a little more black and white.

Come on Emu, let’s get our coats. We’ve just got to sort out the picture on that TV first.

Driving in my Car

I think that I’ve mentioned before that I like cars but I know virtually nothing about them. Driving is still fun although I don’t go out driving for driving’s sake like I used to in the months after I passed my driving test. In those days a friend introduced me to a game where we would pick a colour and follow the next car of that colour for nine minutes, wherever it went. These days this would be considered stalking and even then it was frowned upon, particularly when I followed one such target into his own driveway.

These days driving a car is all about taking me from A to B as quickly as possible. I watch Top Gear on the TV but this really tells me nothing about cars. Yes, I can marvel at a Bugatti Veyron and wish that I owned one but in the real world it would be like me trying to open a can of baked beans with a pneumatic drill, it’s the wrong tool for the job. 

What would be more frustrating than sat in a Veyron, knowing that with a slight tap of the accelerator I could be launched on to the moon, when in fact I’m most likely going to be sat behind a tractor crawling along the A15 at 20mph? Despite the Veyron’s top speed of 253mph I won’t even be able to overtake as there’ll be too much traffic skulking behind another tractor coming in the opposite direction.

Did you know that tractors don’t have to have any road tax because they’re primarily off–road vehicles? I often ponder that peculiarity of the law when I’m slowly trundling along in a queue of traffic behind Farmer Barley Mow on his way home, and note that he could be making use of the empty fields either side of the road rather than holding up a mile of traffic. This is a pet hate of mine so don’t get me started.

I am left therefore with the choice of a normal run-of-the mill road car that’s efficient but has a little bit of poke to alarm the present Mrs Hayward with on the motorway, but not enough to have me pursued down the A1(M) by screaming squad cars. 

I do like an unusual looking car though. I put this down to the fact that the earliest car I remember my parents having was a Morris Traveller. Whoever thought of adding a large proportion of wood to the outer shell of the car was a genius and a madman in equal parts. It looked less like a car and more like a sideboard but as a small child I was fascinated with it. 

I convinced myself that when I was old enough to drive I too would have a funny looking car. As it was the first car I drove after passing my test was a beige Austin Maestro that you could only crank into fifth gear when the moon was in alignment with Neptune. It wasn’t funny looking, it just wasn’t very good but it got me about.

Now I drive a Vauxhall Astra. Not the most exciting or attractive car in the world but not the worst looking either. Most road cars blend into one amorphous mechanical blob to me but the Astra has that nice silver band across its rear that I quite like for some reason. Don’t get me wrong, I covet the Honda Civic, the new one with an interior like a spaceship, and in comparison the Astra is a cheap boiled sweet, charming but boring, whereas the Civic is the Malteser sweet out of a tin of Celebrations, all shiny and exciting and full of chocolately naughtiness.

I don’t know what it is about discussing cars that forces an individual into spouting clichés like they’ve been possessed by the agitated spirit of Jeremy Clarkson but I note that it’s happened to me here and I shall ride that wave until I crash face first on the jagged rock of unoriginality.

In the end it doesn’t matter. I’ll probably go and choose another Vauxhall next time because the people at the service centre are quite nice. Not that I intend to be visiting them that often but if something goes wrong I have no idea what to do. What goes on under the bonnet is a mystery to me. I’ve heard of the carburettor and the head gasket but I don’t really know what they are. I’m not bothered by this. People ride horses but I suspect that very few know how its respiratory system works. They just like riding them.

So that’s really where I came in. I have explained in a convoluted way that I like cars but I don’t understand them, and that I don’t like tractors. 

Mind you, give me a tractor and I’ll show you how it should be driven, at speed and in a field with ‘go faster’ stripes down the side. Tractor Drag Racing anyone?

No Heavy Petting

I’ve just had to look up the word ‘petting’. This is mostly because I entered into a discussion with some work colleagues today about what my understanding of ‘heavy petting’ was.  I’d assumed that it was snogging as there used to be a sign in the local swimming pool when I was about seven which declared that there should be ‘No Heavy Petting’ and this was illustrated with the crudely drawn picture of two swimmers puckering up with a little ‘x’ kiss sign above them. 

However the online Oxford Dictionary describes petting as to “engage in sexually stimulating caressing and touching” which has surprised me somewhat and puts an entirely different slant on a ‘petting zoo’. 

The reason that petting (heavy or otherwise) became of interest is that only the day before, whilst in a pool, I’d commented to the present Mrs Hayward that there was no such restriction. I read the signs, ‘No Jumping’, ‘No Running’, etc., all of which were being steadfastly ignored by the kids using the pool, but petting was in no way prohibited. 

That’s not to say there was any petting going on in the pool, that would just be wrong, and probably unhygienic given my new understanding of the words, but I guess it’s just become an unwritten rule. After all, if you had to have signs for everything you shouldn’t do in a pool then it would be a very long list indeed. 

‘No usage of Mobile Phones in the pool, ‘No Washing of Swine in the Pool’, ‘No Riding of Mopeds off the High Diving Board’, ‘No Re-enactment of Historical Naval Battles’, the list could go on and on. 

I suppose the point is that I have never encountered the phrase ‘No Heavy Petting’ anywhere else but in a swimming pool. Maybe that’s what put me off swimming pools during my formative years, it wasn’t the deep water and fear of drowning, it was the lack of opportunities for petting with girls.

Ah yes, the swimming. Unlike my new found running abilities the swimming has gone backwards a little since the lessons stopped. I’ve lost the confidence to actually put a few strokes together to swim. However this weekend, whilst we were staying in a Marriott Hotel (tres posh - it had an ironing board and a trouser press in the room so it gets the Terry Hayward seal of approval), was the first time in a while where I was happy to float in the pool without staying within grabbing distance of the edge. 

As I’ve mentioned before, the swimming instructors taught me the basics of how to swim assuming the confidence just  comes with this new found knowledge. Perhaps it does for normal folk but if you have a phobia of deep water then it takes a little more time. So, once I’ve found a quiet pool locally, I’ll go back and re-gain my confidence. At least I can say I have swam this year, and I am more confident now than I was six months ago, so I’ve achieved something, even if I’m not challenging for a place in the GB Olympic swimming team. 

So, it’s a phobia I am conquering slowly. Perhaps next year I’ll try to conquer my fear of spiders. Who knows, I could try to tackle both the same time and swim in a pool full of spiders.

Summertime Blues

Thank heavens for Friday. I have been rushed off my feet this week. There’s been no gentle easing back into work after our holiday, it’s been chaos from start to finish. 

Someone asked me why I was looking so wistful, and occasionally pained, on Monday. I replied that I was thinking and I hadn’t had to do much of that during the previous week. When I was laid on a sunbed in a charming resort in Majorca the only things I needed to really consider was whether I was going to go for a dip in the pool or have another drink. That kind of decision doesn’t take much in the way of serious thinking.

Consequently my brain has been slopping about my head this week like a congealed rice pudding. Staring blankly into space has become the norm and rudimentary thought processes have required me to self-flagellate my skull with a ball point pen to spark the old grey matter into life. 

It’s now the end of my first week back at work and already that sun lounger is becoming a distant memory. The heat of the Majorcan sun is fading (even if the present Mrs Hayward’s tan isn’t) and the taste of freshly cooked Tapas has been replaced by the taste of vending machine cardboard-flavoured tea.

My melancholy has come about because we had a really nice holiday. We’ve never been on holiday with friends before but it was a very nice experience. We laughed, we drank, we swam, we drank, we ate, we drank, we ran (you what?), we drank, you know how it is, all good fun. 

Well maybe apart from the running bit. That hurt. My lungs were at risk of exploding thanks to the humidity so I only did it the once, I was on holiday after all. Oh and my liver? Well, as we all know, it is evil and it must be punished.

So here’s to holidays and sunshine and fizzy Spanish beer. Oh, and cats. Many cats, although their presence hasn’t softened Mrs Hayward’s attitude to them, despite getting the chance to name one. She called it ‘Dog’. 

I will most likely regale more tales from the Balearics in the coming days and weeks, for a start I need to get your opinions on the unwritten rules of ‘I Spy’, but for now I shall turn my brain off until Monday morning.

Adios!