Phyllis McKenna

SUMMER

For some reason, which became clear later on, I was really not looking forward to this holiday in Turkey. There would be sun, sand

sea and if I clicked maybe sex! You never can tell, even at my age. Cocktails, tasty food, a pool, getting served by handsome waiters straight to your sunbed. With some misgivings I boarded the flight and hoped to regain that holiday mood. So right was I to be doubtful.

The hotel was superb, the pool big enough and plenty of sunbeds to go around. No getting up at ungodly hours to place your towel on a free one. Never did it, never will, don’t understand it. After a few days I got friendly with staff and holidaymakers at the resort. People from home as well. The real heart and craic of Belfast in Dalaman, Turkey.

I discovered a great little venue with entertainment just down the street from the hotel. Two really welcoming drag artists. Loved it so went back the following night. And was rewarded with a kiss on the cheek from one of the performers.

“Welcome back, Love!!

Although they did sort of insult me a little.

“Show us your dentures, Love!”

“What age are you?”

“37”, I whispered.

“What kind of a plastic surgeon did you have?”

All in good fun. No offence taken. Everyone got it in some form or other. At least the manicurist in the spa reckoned I was ten years younger than what I revealed. Result!

The Spa!! Wow! Turkish bath, head massage, full body massage,  face mask – hmm! Maybe I should have kept that on for a little bit longer. I came out feeling like a million dollars!

I have to tell you about the wonderful surprise which awaited me when I came back from one of my wee shopping trips. On entering my hotel room I just stood there admiring  my bed. That may sound a bit strange but it was a work of art. Flower petals and leaves had been arranged on top of my bed in a large heart shape in the middle and various flowery designs surrounding it. I had never seen anything so beautiful and I was the only one who received this. I could’ve cried. As it turned out the lovely cleaners were responsible and I still don’t really know why they picked me. Maybe because I was on my own or else a premonition of what was waiting for me over the rest of my holiday. I brought all the flowers and stems home and dried them. Pride of place now in my bedroom. So thoughtful a gesture.

Now that’s the end of the good bits of my Summer holiday. Now, the holiday I doubted began. First of all my money Travel card got swallowed by the ATM. I watched in horror as that little plastic part of my life slowly entered the vast cavern behind the tiny slot. Tried to grab it but to no avail. It slithered and slid away from my grabbing hands. Probably self satisfied.

“Huh! You’ll not swipe me any more against those awful machines. That hurts , you know. Card pride and all that I was becoming tattered, not fit for public view.” Sorry, I’m rambling. I was just so shocked, standing there, thinking that didn’t just happen. But it did. Thankfully I had my Santander bank card with me.

Next calamity of Summer. I decided to book a lovely night of Turkish dancing, good food and delicious cocktails. I used to perform belly dancing myself. I can see you all looking a bit dubious but I did. I wasn’t very good at it  but I tried much to the dismay of my teacher. So there was I, standing outside the hotel, waiting on my lift to the venue. Eight o’ clock I was told. Pick up at eight. Five past, still standing. Quarter past, getting a bit worried.  Receptionist came out to check on me and he very kindly rang the travel company to discover they had written the wrong night on my ticket. He had written Sunday instead of Thursday. Again devastated! I was now nearing the pinnacle of my tragedy filled holiday and what a pinnacle it was.

Now, I had been told before flying that there were wild boars running round Marmaris. It seems they had a dog cull and when most canines had departed in came the boars. I took all this with a pinch of salt and up to near the end of my holiday I certainly hadn’t seen any. In the early hours of this particular morning I was disturbed by something really sinister, something thundering across the bottom of my bed. Of course my first thought was “Wild boars!”

Did I panic? Heck as like! I should have. All normal people would have.

Did I run for the door to get out? No! This idiotic woman glanced over the side of her bed and decides that the space between floor and sleeping quarters was too small for a big animal to climb under. What?? Then I put my head back on the pillow and tried to attain again my sleep. What? What about the rest of the room! I blame the cocktails. So strong they knocked the fear out of me or else I was totally used to things going wrong on this holiday. My fearlessness was short lived however, as a few minutes later my whole bed began to shake up and down.

I’ve heard of the earth moving but not in that particular way. It moved for me without a partner. Again my addled brain came up with a ludicrous explanation. I had a poltergeist! I was thrilled to bits!! I’d go home and tell my Kids and Grandkids I had a Turkish poltergeist! I mean how stupid could I really get. Again blame the cocktails. Anyway with that idea stuck in my head I lay down and had the greatest sleep I’ve had for years. Really! I need locked up. Preferably not with the poltergeist. I should have been screaming, running for my life out of my room. It wasn’t bravery on my part. I don’t know what the hell it was. Turkish sun, too much alcohol!

Next day, feeling fully rested I was lounging round the pool and happened to say to a friend about the strange happenings in my room the night before.

“Phyllis,” she said. “It was an earthquake.”

“What?”

Shocked to the core I thought to myself – that’s twice the earth has moved for me and twice I’ve slept through it. One in Australia and one in Turkey. Couldn’t have been very orgasmic, could they?

Well, that not so enjoyable Summer holiday was coming to an end. I just wanted home. Nothing else could happen to me. Or could it?

On arrival at the airport Easyjet decided that my carry on luggage was too big and fined me forty eight pounds. I’ve taken that case on all my travels. The puzzling thing about it was after I’d paid the extortionate amount my case was then permitted on the flight. If it was too big in the first place why didn’t it go in the hold?? 

Mysteries of the various airlines are not for us mere mortals to fathom. I should have followed the example of a lady I’d heard about. When asked for the payment for oversized luggage, she promptly produced a black trash bag, put all her stuff in and pushed it into the size scale. Voila! Problem solved! Good on her!

An eventful Summer holiday. Yes!

An enjoyable one.

NO!                                                                                                                

NATURAL
The teens are a great time for finding out about yourself, partying, meeting the opposite sex and of course exams. Not so nice. I had a little of that but it was the sixties – “Boys don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses”. “Judy in Disguise – with glasses.”
And the name calling, Specky, Specky four eyes! Very hurtful. Unfortunately I was one of those glasses girls. Milk bottle thick. No streamline lenses or contacts then. I really didn’t attract many handsome fellows but the odd one that I did was pretty nice My confidence was at an all-time low and perhaps that’s what instigated the depression at such an early age.
I suffered from OCD very badly and underwent a lot of stress and worry over nothing really. It affected most of my life, even now I have to be careful not to fall into that black hole again. But at that time I was fifteen and suffering. I didn’t tell anyone as they would have thought I was crazy, which I suppose I was in a way. The result of that intense pressure on me was unfortunately my hair started to go grey. I t was jet black so the shiny strands showed through very easily. A teenager with greying hair was not going to be very popular with the male population, especially when you include the glasses.
For a while it wasn’t very noticeable and I remembered the old maxim: “never pluck out a grey hair or a lot more will appear.” I didn’t pull any out. Well, maybe just one or two!
For a time I could live with it. But soon my thoughts turned to colours and dyes. Now Folks , in the sixties hair colourants were not the same as now. No tidy squeezy tubes. No mess, no hassle. Squeeze on, leave for a few minutes, rinse off! Result! Nice shiny hair the colour you’ve always wanted to be. No!
Mikx together powder and cream, layer on , making sure all strands covered and wait for half an hour. I coloured the bathroom walls, sink, a lot of towels, my hands and even some of the tiled floor. Then when I went outside in the rain I resembled Dracula’s daughter, black streaks running down my face, frightening all the kiddies and the adults too probably.. I was a disaster and to cap it all, because my hair had been jet black, my legs were too, shaving every day. I was the hairiest female in Andersonstown Park West. I was a freak. I should join a circus. No hope had I of a beau. Perhaps I could become a nun or join the Foreign Legion. My despair increased the depression and I spent a lot of time in my room, reading and listening to Elvis.
But miracles sure do happen. I was sixteen and three of my friends decided to rent a house in Omeath, lying to our families.
“ I’m staying in Phyllis house.”
“I’m staying in Anne’s house.” Etc.,
To cut a long story short that’s where I met my husband, Seamus. He didn’t seem to care about my faults. Well, maybe that’s because I didn’t tell him. We were married at nineteen, emigrated to Australia and returned home with a brand new baby boy for the Grandparents. The colouring continued in Australia and at home. My poor Hubbie. Ever suffering. Having to listen to my moans and groans about my barnet. Trying to comfort me, stating he didn’t care what colour my hair was. He loved me anyway. Anyway! Hmmm! Anyway??? That’s not good enough! It should have been something like:
Oh my Darling, I love your grey hair> You wouldn’t be you without it. You’re unique!!” Something like that anyway.
So I decided after so many botched attempts at hair colouring and having to paint the bathroom 140 thousand times, I would splash out and make an appointment with a real, professional hairdresser. Money no object. Well, four kids, a mortgage and a husband it really is. But I was desperate. I came out of that salon more depressed than I went in. Not just about the price of the treatment but the statement issued to me by the coiffeur.
“Now Phyllis, your hair really is going very grey. About 60 or 70 per cent. The black is too harsh now. Too false looking. You need to go lighter.”
What! Lighter!” I was born dark, grew into my teens dark and now she was trying to turn me into Madonna or Marilyn Monroe. Yeah right. More like a blond Lassie. More tears on my poor husband’s shoulder. I think he was getting pissed off. He might just have loved me for the raven haired beauty that I never was. So as Buck’s Fizz once said:
“Making my mind up!”
I was going natural. Brave woman. Desperate woman more like.
It was hard at first. Thought people were staring at me and my changing appearance. Well, I’d never been stared at before so that was a bonus. But I felt free. I had been chained to those boxes of dye nearly my whole life. No more. Suddenly I began to see other people, some younger than me, with greying locks without shame. They looked amazing. I began to get compliments I never expected and envy even. I was on a high and my loving husband got peace.
Now I’m 73 with a head of pure white hair, all natural and I love it. Proud of it. I was called The Silver Fox in work.
I feel a little sorry for those who have to fork out reams of money to cover their grey locks. So ladies and Gentlemen grow old gracefully and enjoy it. I know men seem to improve with age like an expensive wine but women do too. So let it all out! Well, maybe not all. Just the hair bit. No more messy bathrooms, or expensive treatments. Au Naturelle ladies! It’s a real weight off my mind or my bonce I should say and my husband stayed with me.
Naturelle! Au Naturelle! Go to a nudist beach. I did! But that’s another story for another TenX9!!

What is Sin? Mortal sin, venial sin. How do you differentiate? Mortal sin is if you kill someone, rob a bank or listen to Daniel O’ Donnell songs. Venial sin is if you fall out with your friends, cheat on an exam or listen to Daniel O’ Donnell songs. I mean, a new baby is lumbered with original sin before they draw their first breath. What’s that all about?
I don’t know what mine might be called. If a venial sin I’ll still get to Heaven with maybe a reprimand. Although why I’d want to go there I don’t know. I’d like to be drinking Harp not playing it.
Anyway, I was sixteen, working in Hughes bakery on the Springfield Road. Loved it , made lots of friends inside and out. Two of my best friends, who shall be nameless, in case they ae picked up after all these years for instigating a crime. They dared me to steal a lipstick from the chemist on the Springfield Road. Not just any lipstick, mind you. Strawberry Meringue, the lippie of the sixties. Pink, shiny, glittering, tasting wonderful. Hence the name. My boyfriend would love it!
“I can’t do that!” I protested, me being a strictly brought up Catholic girl. Thankfully not now.
“G’wan! G’wan! They encouraged. I must admit I didn’t take much persuasion. It would be an adventure, something I’d never attempted before and let me tell you, never would again. A one off! My nose up to Catholicism!
The day of the heist arrived and I have to admit I tried to get out of it, adventure or no adventure. Even though my boyfriend would love the taste and feel of the super duper strawberry, he would be horrified if he knew what I was about to do. I hadn’t yet allowed him to get to second base. Didn’t realise how good it would be. He might even drop me. Oh no! I couldn’t have that.
My two so called friends were adamant.
“I just can’t do it!” I pleaded.
Ah! G’wan! G’Wan!”
I can’t remember the name of the chemist but it was looming closer as we walked down the street. Three would -be criminals, laughing and joking. Well, I wasn’t, although my tears could have been mistaken for laughter. I was shoved in the door and just stood there like a statue. Suspicious looking or what.
Whispers behind me.
“Get in. You look stupid.”
I tried the old “couldn’t care less sway, you know, I’m just here for a nosy, then I’ll be on my way sway. But then I saw it. Glinting, sparkling, calling to me.
“Take me. I’m yours.”
Oh! I could picture it now. Screwing from the bottom, the tip glistening as it rose and rose – to the top. Hard and strong, offering joy and ecstasy , this solid organism excites! Sorry, sorry!! A bit of the old Fifty shades there. Just one shade for me. Strawberry Meringue. An organism so sweet. Sorry folks. I’m off again.
Seamus would love it. The taste I mean as we kissed and he’d be getting fed as well. A bonus!
I glanced around like a real pro, eyes darting everywhere, making sure no store detectives, or eagle eyed staff and shoppers were aware of my intentions. Did I look like a lipstick snatcher? No balaclava on me. Oh wait. That was for those other people in the sixties. I meandered as innocently as I could get over to the make up stand, picking things up, hmming and haaing, then putting the items back. I’d make a pretty good actress, I don’t think.
I could feel the draw of that sweet smelling tube. Without being obvious about it I reached out and lifted it, swivelled it open and sighed. I grabbed another lipstick, just for show, then deviously slid my prize into my trouser pocket. It really was very light, but not in my pocket. It felt like a rock ,pushing me down on one side. I’d be walking funny. People would notice. I could see my two friends out the window, waving wildly and urging me to get out of the shop.
“Don’t run!” they mouthed
“Walk normally.”
How could I with a heavy weight in my pocket and in my heart. I was a thief . My other half wouldn’t want to know me. So disappointed in me. No going back. The deed was done. I was a dirty criminal. My prize was precious but I never ever did it again. I lived like a good girl, sin free life from then on. That’s a lie. Another sin. And another one is the fact that this story is only partially true. Due to the fact that it happened a long, long time ago, the details are a little hazy. I was sixteen! Now, I did steal the lipstick, that’s true but the actual events leading up to the deed are lost in the realms of time. I did work in Hughes bakery on the Springfield Road and loved it. I did make two special friends, still nameless.
So sorry Folks, I committed the biggest sin of all. Lying to this wonderful audience. Well, no not lying as such, just a faded memory of an event which did happen. I wish I had that lipstick now but unfortunately Max Factor ceased to produce it. Sometimes I’ll see it for sale on the Internet at an exorbitant price because it’s now rare.
So that’s two sins in my life. No, three. I forgot about that original sin that’s bestowed on innocent babies. Lying to one’s spouse is not considered a sin, venial or mortal. It’s just a way of life. Everyone does it.
“Is that a new dress, coat, shoes etc.,?”
“No! Been in my wardrobe for years. You just didn’t notice me wearing it. But then you never do.”
Wife to husband.
Husband to wife.
“Where are you ? Dinner’s on the table.”
Just working a little overtime to buy you something nice,Dear.”
Yeah! Right!
Apologies Folks. Hope y’all forgive me. Now I’ll hang my head in shame and slink back to my seat.