Frogs, leopards and pisps
(Frogg Manor: somewhere near Chester, England)
This weekend was a brutal one; traveling to Carlisle, then on to Chester to visit family friends – one of whom would be turning twenty-one. I thought it might be a relaxing break, but it turned out to be more hectic than I might have liked. Starting with Friday when I left Glasgow much more frazzled and much later than expected. To expand, late on Thursday, despite that being the very last day that my builder planned to complete the bathroom work, it was still unfinished. To be fair to my builder, he is relatively blameless, further complications were holding us back. Brace yourself. Firstly, the shower leaked as I was cleaning it. A small section of sealant had been missed and was allowing water across the floor. He came back to attend to that issue. Then, the door was being re-hung to open outwards, leaving us more room to alter the bathroom layout – how could we possibly know that the slope on my hallway floor is so severe that it is completely impossible to hang the door without it opening only twenty centimetres or so? And then, to compound the issue, how were we to make provision for the door being steel framed and therefore render the solution of shaving a wedge out of the bottom of it untenable? And then (yes, there’s more) how could we have known that the door was taller and narrower than any standard sizes found in any shop? I mean, of course it isn’t. It’s fate that work on this tiny room would be as obscenely difficult to finish as it was to start. I finally sourced a door close to home in a reclamation warehouse a few blocks away. I had my amused eye on a white Mackintosh style one that looked tall enough to fit, but when I asked the price, the gaze of the manager was intense, “That’s gonna be at least five thousand pound, hen. It’s original – from the Art School.” Slightly out of the price range for my bathroom door. The only one he has that will remotely fit is an old church door, handsome with brass handles and a matching lock– it is also beyond my financial capabilities, but just now, we need a door on the bathroom before my flatmates and I see rather too much of each other.
After racing around locally for this door, cleaning the flat and the close top to bottom of dust, wood shavings and dropped screws fighting off the positively harsh complaints of my immediate neighbours and packing for the weekend, I was dog tired. By the evening when I arrived in Carlisle, I was ready to drop. Good thing I had a restful and indulgent weekend unfolding, thought I. We arrived in Chester late due to traffic hold ups and poor driving conditions and my sister and I stayed out late on Saturday (or early on Sunday), dodging the rampant pisps* and scant leopardo** outfits of Liverpool, dancing with the birthday girl and her friends. By the time Sunday morning came around, I had used all my reserves of energy and after another day of celebration meals and game playing, I am ending the weekend more exhausted than when I began – a feat I hadn’t believed possible. I love exceeding my own expectations. This photograph was taken after the sumptuous meal we shared with the birthday girl and her family and friends, sitting in a lounge akin to that of a batty old aunt. My sister is in the armchair in the centre, flanked by the birthday girl’s parents. The entire building is filled with frog figurines, kitsch upholstered furniture and intriguing antiques. A tiny pug dog has a house on the back bar and runs up and down it when he thinks no one is looking. Frogg Manor is a hotel and restaurant owned and managed by a true old school English eccentric. The man himself reminds me of a Quentin Blake illustration; twiggy, scraggly hair under a crumpled hat, sporting a white apron and gangly limbs that he waves over tables and directs with. His character is legendary – apparently one evening during dinner, he fired every single member of kitchen staff in a rage and continued to cook all his patrons their dinners single-handed. Despite his alleged volcanic tempers, he is a jocular character whose warm and direct manner wins me over instantly.
*Pisps: A word created by myself and some friends after I mistakenly said ‘cracket of pisps’ instead of ‘packet of crisps’. It was decided that the new phrase should have a meaning, and we collectively decided that there was currently no way to express the portion of bare buttock exposed when a lady is wearing hot-pants, very short shorts or similar. Specifically it is the part of rump on show in public, usually more widespread at night or in the summer. The word ‘pasps’ is a variation of the word, used to denote a larger size, often squeezed into a garment regarded as too tight for the wearer. It is an ambition of mine to extend use of the word ‘pisp’ across the country and for it to eventually (potentially) be recognised as a real word by the Oxford dictionary.
**Leopardo (said ‘lep-ardo’) Another word for leopard print, a currently prevalent style in Liverpool’s clubs, amongst other places.
