Back again. . .

Hello,

I know.  I know.  It's been too long. Shall we just pretend that I didn't take an abrupt, 6-month blogging sabbatical? I really didn't plan to abandon you all.  I just had nothing to say.  Nothing. That is all.  I would love to be able tell you that I'd used the time productively.  That I could return, after a mysterious absence, and smugly proclaim that I'd:

• found love with some rugged, pipe-smoking Tony Benn* sort and was now blissfully shacked up in a Northumbrian seaside cottage, surrounded by hollyhocks, lurchers and potted shrimp sandwiches. 
• completed (or even started) my great Sunderland novel (like the great American novel, only with added chip fat, scrunchies and whippets.  Similar to The Great Gatsby, but set in Gala Bingo).

To be honest, I'd even have settled for lowlier, less ambitious goals, like defrosting the fridge, or mastering a passable Welsh Rarebit.  I've done fuck all.  FUCK ALL, I tell you. Just work.  It feels strange to be back, you know.  But a heartfelt 'thank you' to everyone who commented or emailed. Some of you were concerned, I know.  My lifeless, pale and bloated corpse was not festering in front of ITV3, betwixt candy-stripe bed linen, whilst being nibbled by lurchers.  Well, no more than it usually is (essentially, that grisly tableau-vivant depicts a typical weekend at Chez Underscore, you see). 

So, I am easing myself in to blogging gently.  Please, set expectations to 'rock bottom'; for the last 6 months my writing has been limited to a terse 'see me!' at the bottom of Year 6 exercise books.

Introducing Bubble, like
I vowed never to write again about the School of Hard Knocks , but I do feel I should mention Bubble.  Bubble is my new teaching assistant.  Indeed, Bubble is actually a qualified teacher herself (albeit one who, unsurprisingly, has never found gainful employment as a teacher).  Pompous Pilate (dastardly despot of The School of Hard Knocks) felt that, as I was now in Year 6, I required a higher calibre of support than  the foul-mouthed, illiterate and toothless crone Doreen.  Doreen has been moved on to pastures new (probably knitting by a guillotine somewhere).

I've named Bubble after Jane Horrocks' 'Ab Fab' character.  They are very similar.  Although, to be fair, Ab Fab Bubble is a much more sober, sophisticated and intellectual creature. She's a veritable Joan Bakewell/Angela Merkel when compared to SOHK Bubble.   SOHK Bubble is 95% Towie, 5% Penelope Pitstop. My new teaching assistant is, to all intents and purposes, a bird-brained flibbertigibbet.

During Bubble's inaugural week at the SOHK, we had to attend an anti-racism shindig at our local football stadium. My kids were cock-a-hoop at the possibility of meeting some real footballers (well, the handful who were not currently on remand for date-rape or drink-driving).  I could tell that Bubble was even more excited than the children at the prospect.  There can't be many qualified teachers who actually OWN a salmon-pink, lycra boob-tube, or a tulle ra ra skirt, let alone sport them on a bleak January morning.

'Why, oh why,' I remember thinking at the time, 'have teacher training courses removed 'Cardigan Wearing 101' from their syllabuses?'  Bastard education cuts.  I am telling you, THE GIRL DOESN'T EVEN OWN A PAIR OF BALLET PUMPS.  I wish I could apply Cillit Bang to my brain, to erase the image of Bubble tottering down the SOHK mini-bus steps that day, in leopard-print stilettos, the icy Wearside wind whipping at the ruffles of her Primark ra ra skirt. Miss Jean Brodie would never have exposed her 'prime' in such an eye-poppingly, undignified way.

Anyway, Bubble (and my class) were disappointed that morning.  The racism workshop was actually facilitated by 4 middle-class, white girls from the mean streets of Jesmond**.  There was a notable absence of footballers.  And black people.   The day was saturated with an atmosphere of suffocating worthiness, as heavy and lumpen as week-old baba ghanoush.  Those skinny, vegan Jesmond lassies, with their unstructured green-cotton t-shirts and Converse sneakers had met their match with my class of sink-estate reprobates though. I was rather proud of them, that day.

Tabitha:  Right guys.  Now then, I'm a little bit concerned. I have a friend, let's just call him Sebastian. . .

Blade: (under his breath)  Stupid name.  Miss Underscore, I feel sorry for him like, being called Sebastian and that.  I bet he gets teased, like.

Miss U:  (whispering)  Shhhhh Blade, not everyone has as impressive a name as you.  Listen.

Tabitha:  . . . and Sebastian sometimes uses a really bad word. . . sometimes he says the word  (she pauses for dramatic effect and steels herself with a deep, cleansing breath) . . sometimes he says the word  CHINKY.

Tabitha stands with her hands on her hips, looking shamefully at the floor, shaking her head in abject shame and horror at even repeating such a word.

Blade:  (to Miss U)  I don't like the sound of Sebastian, Miss.  He's like, racist, like.  When can we have our packed lunch?

Tabitha:  Let's just chat about this shall we.  What other words can we say that we shouldn't?

Bobbi-Jo-Tanishqua: (confidently counting insults on her fingers) Aye, why like, Chinky is a rude way of saying Chinese person.  Paki, like,  is a racist way of saying Pakistani, Chippy is a rude way of saying Chip Shop (although Miss Underscore is always gannin' on about having a chippy supper, so I dinnit think it can be that bad).

Tabitha:  Well done, Bobbi-Jo-Tanishqua.  Any other words that we should rap about?  Come on guys!

My class look uneasily at each other.  There is a long pause.

Blade: (uneasily) Aye, well like,  there's that word Miss Underscore always tells us off for.  She gans proper mental like, whenever we say it. Like, totally bonkers.

The whole class groans in agreement and shuffles uncomfortably in their seats.

Tabitha:  Well guys, why don't you tell me what it is and then we can talk about it.  Don't be shy,  I'm sure Miss Underscore won't mind just this once.  Just let it out. We're going to be totally open today. So, everyone say it on the count of three. OK guys,  one. . .two. . . three!

Children: (in unison)  LIKE!

Blade:  (shrugging, as he explains) Aye.  Miss Underscore, she's like. .. . . BANNED us from using the word LIKE.  She's proper, like, strict, like.

***

Anyway, I shall blog again tomorrow.  I suppose I should update you on the situation with Rochester, the flakiest of all fanny rats.  And  I want to share my thoughts about turning into a Barbara Pym heroine, living a spinsterish existence of tweed jackets and genteel poverty.   (See, essentially I have nothing for you, I've been gone 6 months and NOTHING HAS CHANGED.)

In the meantime, can I share with you some of my favourite things?

The Tortoise and the Hare by Elizabeth Jenkins ( which has a brilliant introduction by Hilary Mantel).   A beautifully written, terribly poignant domestic novel written in the 1950s.  This book has sentences that are just so exquisitely crafted that I found myself reading them over and over again in wonder.

Alex Monroe's new British themed collection.  I adore this boat necklace,

and this crafty fox necklace.  Can't afford either though. 

Oh, and my new retro sandals.  I had these when I was a young 'un.  They are an original 1970s design, re-issued by Clarks (Kestral Soar).  When I wear these I am aspiring to be a bronzed, tousled-of-hair, jean-wearing goddess.  I secretly fear I am more hairy-legged lesbian at Greenham Common.  

* I have decided that Tony Benn is my ideal man: a robust, serious, idealistic, ethical, corduroy wearing, pipe-smoking GOD.
**The Guardian-reading, hummus-eating capital of the North.

Scene 23: December 2011

A Christmas special.  This will bring the Rochester story bang up to date.  Mind you, be warned, dearest reader, Christmas does not bring out the best in me.  If I were you, before starting on this torpid tale, I'd have a snifter of Tio Pepe and a couple of Ferraro Rocher.  They will serve to take the edge off the seasonal misery.


MAUDLIN KLAXON:  This  blog post is rated XXX:  expect several sexual swear words and immoderate and gratuitous scenes of gloomy introspection.

It is Christmas Eve as I type this. I did get up this morning wondering if Rochester could possibly have sent me something for Christmas.  Yesterday he spoiled me by emailing a copy of Splendour in the Glass*, the trade paper for window salesmen everywhere.  (I can't help but think Spendour in the Crass would be a much more appropriate title.)  Anyway, the rogue, becufflinked and silken of tie, was the publication's rather funereal and frowning cover star.

"He looks rather sinister, with that scowl and thicket of eyebrows. I am not sure whether he is planning on selling me a conservatory or defiling me on a UPVC alter." was Madam Noir's observation.

"His eyes seem to follow you around the room.  If he grew a beard he'd be the Charles Manson of home improvements."  

But there was nothing from him, of course, no Christmas card or gift.  There never is. So, I shall tell you the rest of our sorry tale.  And, as ever, I shall try to make it funny and sweet and charming. Without funny and sweet and charming I would just weep and weep and never stop.   I will try to airbrush the pain and the strangling loneliness out of this story.  Holy fuck.  Rochester and me.  Our so-called relationship.  It puts me in mind of Eric Morecambe.  We seem to hit all the right notes, just not necessarily in the right order.

The truth is I haven't seen Rochester since last Christmas.  So, this is yet another Pillow Talk, split-scene telephone call.  It takes place on a darkening midwinter Sunday afternoon.  Miss Underscore is on the sofa, sandwiched betwixt snoring lurchers and dreaming kittens.  The wind rages furiously outside.  Tree branches, like twisted witch's fingers, claw at the rattling window panes.

Rochester:  Flower, I am literally leaving now to go to the Grotto*.  How long will it take you to get there?  It's half past two now, so I know for a fact you're probably already in your pyjamas.

Miss U: Are you at your mam's?

Rochester: Aye, I'm in Shields.  I've got to get out of here.  Granny's high on sherry, nougart and Endomorph.  She's reminiscing about the halcyon days at the abattoir and tap-dancing to show tunes.  I've tried to coax her back into bed but she battered me with her walking stick and told me to fuck off.  She's been gannin' on about black people all afternoon. Telling me if I ever bring a black lass home she'll batter me.  She seems to forget I'm married.

Miss U:  She's not the only one.  Must run in the family.

Rochester:  I need a fucking drink. I need a conversation with someone pretty, charming and sane.  That bird couldn't make it, so I'm asking you.

Miss U: There you go with the David Niven charm again.  Your Granny.  She truly is  50% Magda Goebbels and 60% Bull Mastiff.

Rochester:  That makes 110%. I can't believe you're teaching Year 6 maths flower.  God help them bairns.  They'll never have the skills to put together a coherent double glazing quotation when they grow up.  I'm setting off now, just putting me overcoat on. What are you drinking flower?  I'll get you one in. . . .

Miss U: Oh Rochester, I'm not coming. You know that.

Rochester:  Why?

Miss U: We've had this conversation.  You know why.

Rochester:  I don't know why.  Run it past me again flower.

Miss U:  You DO know why.  (valiantly trying to change the subject) Your poor granny. Aunty Margaret has a walking stick now too, you know.  She's pretty much tied to the sofa with her rumbling ovaries these days.  Oooo, speaking of ovaries, have I told you, Noir is dating a teacher.  A female teacher.  A teacheress.  Of the lesbian persuasion.

Rochester: Hang on, stop it right there Underscore! Don't try and banjax this conversation with talk of Aunty Margaret and moss mumblers.  We can discuss both in detail over gin. Why are you not coming to the Grotto?

Miss U: We have this conversation endlessly.  By phone.  By text.  Every time you tell me you're coming North.

Rochester: Aye.  And?

Miss U: I always say the same.  I want to see you.  I can't see you. I won't see you.

Rochester: Because I'm married.

Miss U: Because you're married.

Rochester: (sighing)  I think your cunting lesbian blog followers are getting pretty hacked off with scenes that are just us TALKING.  On the phone like.  I want to see you.

Miss U: I can't. That's all.  

Rochester: You know, maybe we could have some fun?  Maybe it would actually be FUN.  When was the last time you had fun?

Miss U:  Fun?  I'm not sure I DO fun. Possibly 1984.  Easington Colliery fair.  Power cut. I got stuck in the Ghost Train with a lad from the hoopla stall and a 4-pack of Babycham.

Rochester: Gosh. Is that a true story?

Miss U:  No.  Even as  14 year old I preferred a night in with Kate Bush and Daphne du Maurier to wayward fumblings with a sinewy youth who smelled of candyfloss and bonfires.

Rochester:   Kate Bush and Daphne du Maurier, and so we are back to lesbians.  We're getting off the subject here.  I quite fancy seeing your hair. I've not seen you since you went blonde.  I am picturing you as a quite tousled, barefoot Brigitte Bardot. 

Miss U:  You can picture it all you like.  I expect I actually resemble one her bedraggled, arthritic rescued mutts.  The label on the L'Oreal packet says 'Sun-kissed California Blonde'.  On me it is more 'Gone-to-Seed Albanian Labrador'.

Rochester:  I was hoping to see your new blonde look in that bedroom film you sent me the other month.

Miss U:  You were disappointed in that film, I could tell.

Rochester:  Any red blooded male would be flower.  You promised me a boudoir film, it was just a shots of your lipstick collection, your vinatge 1930s eiderdown and your art deco prints.  (pause)  You're really not coming, are you.

Miss U:  No Rochester.  I'm not.

Rochester:  (frustrated) So this is it?  You're happy with things they way they are?  

Miss U: What do you mean?

Rochester:  The phone calls, the texts.  This suits you quite well doesn't it?  A relationship that actually isn't a relationship.

Miss U: What on earth do you mean?  Of course this doesn't suit me well.  It's not what I want at all.

Rochester:  So, come and meet me.  

Miss U: You're married.  You have more children than Baron Van Trapp.  You've just had another baby a couple of months ago.

Rochester: I was married last Christmas. You met me then.  I had children last Christmas.  Nowt's changed.  (exuberant singing is heard in the background)

Miss U:  Is that your granny?

Rochester:  Aye, she's singing  Puttin' on the Ritz to a packet of corn plasters.  I've retreated to the conservatory.  What's changed? 

Miss U: Well, I guess I've learnt that I can't cope with it.  I can't cope with random days or nights together and then you leaving to go back home.  It's fine for you.  You get the best of both worlds.  It's agony for me.  I don't think you see that. 

Rochester: Well, what DO you want?

Miss U: Not to have to talk about this.  I am going to go Rochester now.  Go check on your granny. 

Rochester: Don't go. What DO you want to happen?  Howay. Tell me.

Miss U: (long pause) I don't know.  I don't know what to say, Rochester. I'm hanging up.

Rochester: Don't hang up.  Don't say anything then.  Just stay there. I don't mind pet.  Let's just sit.

(A long silence on the line is eventually broken by a slurring Scottish lady cawing her way through New York, New York.)

Miss U: I wonder if, when we're in our nineties, we'll still be having this conversation.  I wonder if you'll still be sending me filthy texts about my arse.  I expect you'll have retired on your peg millions by then.  You'll have built Rochester Towers, assuming you haven't frittered your double-glazing riches on cocaine and pie and chips.

Rochester: You know, the thought of getting old terrifies me.

Miss U: I plan on being madly eccentric. 

Rochester: You do surprise me.

Miss U: I expect I'll only wear black lace, like a Sicilian widow.   I'll smoke cigarettes, made from violet petals, from a long, tapering silver cigarette holder.

Rochester:  You'd suit a pipe, actually.

Miss U: In my fridge I'll keep only gin, Chanel scarlet lipstick and erotica by Anais Nin.

Rochester: Who are you kidding? No Mr Kipling French Fancies?

Miss U:  When I am out and about I'll prod grubby or ill-mannered children with a sharpened ivory-handled walking stick.  I'll be terrifying. I'll grow only black dahlias in my garden. I'll wear wide-brimmed sun hats. I'll drink tea from delicate china teacups, painted with forget me nots.  The house will be full of hazy sunlight, yellowing paperbacks, dust, faded velvet and taxidermy lurchers.

Rochester: Will you still be harassing me then?

Miss U:  You'll be too old for me by then.  I'll only have dalliances with wildly inappropriate younger men.  I'll never remember their names.  I'll just click my gnarled, bejeweled fingers and snap 'Young Man, I'm feeling a chill, bring me my fox fur'  I'm not scared of getting old.  I'm scared of NOT getting old.  I am precisely the age my mum was when she died.  

Rochester: Aye, I know. I know how much you miss your parents.   

Miss U: I've been missing my mum all my life.

Rochester:  What are we going to do flower?

Miss U:  What do YOU want?

Rochester:  I want to be able to come up, spend time with you, sleep with you.

Miss U:  Oh.

Rochester:  I would like some tenderness, some gentleness in my life.  My life is just compromise, noise and resentment.  I can't take much more of it, to be honest.  I'm close to walking away.

Miss U: It's not a very edifying thought Rochester, that you only see me as some sort of extra-curricular trifle.  A North East tourist attraction.  Like Beamish Open Air Museum or . . . . fuck, I can't think of another one.  Durham Cathedral.  Craster kippers.

Rochester:  That is not what I mean.  We both know that you deserve much better than this.  Well, I know it. I'd be happy if you met someone.  I think. 

Miss U: Really?

Rochester: Well.  I'd understand.  You know, I think you're beautiful.  You are.  Sexy.  You ARE you know.  You don't know it, but you are.  Bonkers mind.  Cunting bonkers.  I expect you know that bit. You make me smile.  There's a quiet, a peace about you.   

Miss U: Oh.

Rochester: I AM leaving flower. Home, I mean. I think I am.  I have to. 

* Not its real name, like, obviously.
* *The Grotto, famous pub built into the cliffs by the North Sea. Suicide-hot spot of the North East.  Scene of many a Rochester/ Underscore date.

Scene 22: June (Evil Under the Sun)

A telephone call.

Rochester:  You OK petal?

Miss U: (haughtily, think Penelope Keith crossed with Patricia Routledge) WHO IS THIS?

Rochester: Aye, I know.  Don't get uppity.  Keep your pants on.  I know I've been rather quiet of late. I've got a good reason though flower.

Miss U: (yawning theatrically, think Larry Olivier crossed with John Gielgud)  Really?  Do tell . . . who have you impregnated this time, fanny rat?

Rochester:  No one.  Not that I know of anyway.  No.  I've just got back from my holidays pet.  I've been in . . . drumroll. . . Mauritius!

Miss U: (incredulously) Where?

Rochester:  Aye.  All paid for.  It was my prize for being the South West's most tenacious door to door peg salesman.  I was awarded it at the Peg Oscars.  Holiday for two.  Back of the net.

Miss U: (wearily) Oh Rochester, I am not sure I even want to hear about this.  You know, it's bad enough that you earn four times my salary, but you're showered with glittering prizes like i-pads, cases of champagne and holidays in tropical paradises as well. It truly is too much for this impoverished public servant to bear.

Rochester:  Christ you're so fucking selfish. Get over yourself!  Howay flower, can't you just be happy for me?  If there was a Pulitzer Prize for pegs, I would fucking win it you know.

Miss U:  If there was a Pulitzer Prize for overbearing hubris then you'd certainly win that.  But, you know Rochester, I really don't want to hear about you frolicking in the waves with your glowingly pregnant wife.  Shall we move on to a more comfortable topic.  Shall we discuss lesbianism?  Or smoked mackerel pate?

Rochester:  You know what, the holiday wasn't what you think.  It was, in many ways, THE SEVENTH CIRCLE OF CUNTING HELL.  You know me, I'd have preferred a solitary week walking on the moors in the drizzle.

Miss U:  Aww, in a chunky knit?

Rochester:  Aye. In a chunky knit. And for your information Miss Underscore, I didn't go with the missus.

Miss U:  Oh dear God.  Is there a girlfriend?  There is isn't there?

Rochester:  Nah. I went with me brother in law.  Don't ask why, I'd rather not discuss logistics. Also, what they don't tell you about these island paradises is THERE IS FUCK ALL TO DO THERE.

Miss U:  I wouldn't know.  The closest I've ever been to a tropical beach experience is eating a battered pineapple ring from a Scarborough chip shop in 1983.

Rochester:  And we were surrounded by cunting honeymooners.  Waifish lasses in string bikinis canoodling with limp, bookish James Blunt twats in three quarter length trousers.  Walking hand in hand on the beach at sunset. Sipping cocktails from coconut shells.   CUNTING ARSEHOLES. They boiled my piss.  But that wasn't the worst part.

Miss U: (fascinated) Go on

Rochester:  You knaa, when you're a UPVC Messiah they don't just award you a free holiday.  Oh no. That would be too easy.  They give the same holiday to twenty other salesmen too.  There was a whole posse of double glazing salemen on the island. Nah, it wasn't a posse. There must be a better collective noun.  There was a TEDIUM of double glazing salesmen on the island.  There were fucking conferences and seminars laid on for us and everything.  We had to sit through workshops about weatherproofing conservatories.  Can you believe that?  And all these other salesmen,  they were all cunting cockneys.   Every one of 'em. There I was, in the middle of a tropical island, surrounded by loved-up newlyweds and a 20, drunken Sid James cockney cunts crowing about their best sales and how criminal it was that we're not allowed to forge signatures on contracts any more.  Oh, and I'm there WITH MY FUCKING BROTHER IN LAW, so any indiscretion of any kind would be immediately called in to the missus. Jesus Christ.  Two days in and I was wishing I'd won the runner up prize instead.

Miss U: What was the runner up prize?

Rochester:  A gift voucher for Tie Rack and a year's supply of viagra I think.

Miss U:  So, let me get this straight.  You were in one of the most romantic places on earth, surrounded by cockney salesmen.

Rochester: Aye.   

Miss U: And AT NO POINT were you frolicking in the surf with a voluptuous Ursula Andress sort?

Rochester:  Nope.  Tragically not.  There was no frolicking of any kind.  The holiday was devoid of frolicking.  It was entirely frolick-free.  I did walk along the shore with Trevor from the Slough office.  He does have quite big knockers mind.  Does that count? We were discussing fascias. 

Miss U: "And behold I saw a pale horse, and he that sat upon him was named Trevor from the Slough office." No. That doesn't count.  I'll let you have your tender moment with Trevor. (brightly)  I am feeling better about this holiday, you know.  I approve after all.   Good for you Rochester!  You deserved it!

Rochester: (sorrowfully)  I was pissed by lunchtime every day.  A week of twatting tropical fruit baskets for breakfast.  I would have killed for a fried egg sandwich.  Or a bit of marmite on toast.  Fruit for breakfast.  Fuckwits.  What kind of deviant eats fruit for breakfast? 

Miss U: What on earth did you wear? Did you wear your Edwardian funeral director's overcoat on the beach?

Rochester: I should have done. It was a week-long funeral for the soul. Hey, by the way, have I told you, I always wear that overcoat when I am doing my stand-up?  That overcoat has become my trademark.

Miss U:  Stand-up?  I thought you were performing poetry?

Rochester:  Aye well, it is poetry.  But, I do it standing up like.  Anyway flower, that overcoat is becoming iconic.  

Miss U: Like Rigsby's cardigan?  Bobby Thompson's flat cap?

Rochester:  Aye,  like Tommy Cooper's fez.  

Miss U:  Like Fred West's acrylic jumper?  

Rochester: EXACTLY.  Just like Fred West's acrylic jumper.  Iconic. (pause)  Mauritius was not good flower.  I am deeply serious.  I think I'd have rather spent a week in a tawdry Scarborough guest house, rolling around with you and your white cotton knickers on a stained candlewick bedspread.   Especially if there were pineapple fritters involved.  

Miss U:  That's encouraging to hear. Oh Rochester,  I am COCK A HOOP that the whole adventure was chaperoned by your brother in law.  That was a stroke of genius from Mrs Rochester, I presume.

Rochester:  Aye, trappist monks have experienced more debauchery.  Anyway, I returned home and checked out your blog.  Your screenplay flower. 'Parma Violet Tea The Movie'. I notice you've moved on from the tragi-comedy of your dates with my brother,  and you are now documenting 'us'.

Miss U:  And?  Are you enjoying our scenes?

Rochester: I am. I am fucked if anyone I know reads it.  You do realise that?

Miss U:  What are the chances of that happening Rochester?  No one reads my blog.

Rochester:  I LOVED your depiction of Senor Boldon .  You captured my brother's crippling social anxiety and misanthropy perfectly.  That did make me laugh.  I'm glad you've got a strong  Church of England streak and the movie's all PG rated.  I don't think I could have handled a scene with him bearing down on you mind. Christ.

Miss U:  Oh heavens.  I couldn't write a sex scene.  I tried.  I just couldn't do it. What about our scenes?  You and me?  How are they playing out, do you think?

Rochester:  You know flower, you've actually made me cry on a couple of occasions.  Honestly.

Miss U:  Fury?

Rochester:  Nah, not that.  Just how it was, when we met.  Boo.  The North Sea.  How much we liked each other.  How it was all fucked, before we even started, by circumstance.  Aye. Something like that pet.

Miss U:  Hmmm.

Rochester:  If I came up North, would you see me petal? I'd like to see you, you know.

Miss U:  Only if you're chaperoned by your brother in law Rochester.  Only then. 

Scene 21: May (a telephone conversation)

Rochester:  Isn't it your birthday this month flower?


Miss U:  Hmmm.  It is.


Rochester:  What day?


Miss U: (vaguely) Oh, it's in a week or so.


Rochester:  Howay, what is your exact date of birth?  I'll take your full address too please, while I'm on,  including postcode petal.


Miss U:  What?  What the fuck do you need to know these things for? Is this identity theft? Are you filling in a UPVC finance form in my name? 


Rochester:  I'm going to send you something.  It IS your 40th isn't it?


Miss U:  I am outraged!  It is not my 40th.  Cunt. Fucking King Cunt of the Kingdom of Cuntopia.   (reader:  it was actually my 41st, but hush, let us glide over that troubling fact).


Rochester: Is it not?  Oh.  I thought it was. What's the date then? 


Miss U:  It's on the 18th.  Why?


Rochester:  Hang on a minute petal, I'm just totting up my earnings this month. I'm doing it on my i-pad.  Did I tell you I won an i-pad?  Aye, got it for being the most successful window salesman in the South West.  It's called the Dick Turpin Award.  Do teachers ever get bonuses?


Miss U:  Yes, we get threadworm, occasionally.  Does that count?


Rochester:  OK, I have figured out, once I have deducted essential expenses (cocaine, steak and chips and Razzle) I'll have earned £6000 this month.  I should be able to get you one of them decent birthday cards like.  An arty one maybe.  Some pale, flat-chested pre-raphaelite lesbian with a pot of parsley.  You love all that poncey Laing Gallery shit, don't you?


Miss U:  You truly are an oaf. The painting is ACTUALLY Isabella and the Pot of Basil. She is hiding the severed head of her lover in that pot, you know, not making fucking pesto for her girlfriend.  That painting depicts the decapitation of a fanny rat. Anyway, do you have to brag about your income constantly? It's rather wearing. Socrates once said 'He who is richest is content with least'. 


Rochester:  Aye well, Greek tosser. I'd like to see him sell a cunting conservatory.  How old are you going to be on the 18th then?  I know you're a couple of years younger than me.  Is that right?


Miss U: No comment. Do you know, Doris Day once said, 'the true tragedy of middle age is that you grow out of it'.


Rochester: I've never had a bird quote Doris Day AND Socrates to me in the same conversation. You're a bit bonkers, do you know that.  Do you like birthdays?


Miss U: No, they're laden with disappointments and stricken with regrets. I'll spend the day consumed with the feeling I should be sipping champagne cocktails, barefoot, with daisies in my hair, on the Cote D 'Azur.  


Rochester: Aye, birthdays are shit, generally, I find.


Miss U: When I was young my dad and I would take an evening walk through Hawthorne Dene on my birthday.  I used to love that.  It was just magical.   May is the most beautiful month, don't you think?  The dene was lush and green and sun-dappled, there were carpets of lily of the valley and frothy white garlic flowers.  Have you ever been?  It opens out to the coast, huge, jagged cliffs cutting down to the North Sea.  


Rochester:  Don't think I have been flower.


Miss U:  On the way back we'd stop off for a blackcurrant and lemonade in the village pub.  It would be dusk by then, and I would feel so fucking sophisticated, like blackcurrant and lemonade was the most chic cocktail in the whole world.  Then get a bag of chips on the way home. I liked those birthdays Rochester.


Rochester:  Sounds rather lovely pet.  Better than hanging out on the Cote D'Azur with a load of cheese eating surrender monkeys. What are you having for Sunday lunch today?


Miss U:  Hmmm.  I don't know yet.  What about you?  Quorn?


Rochester:  Don't mention the fucking Quorn. (sighing) I am sick of cunting quorn. Living with a vegetarian is no fun. (pause) You know what I really fancy?


Miss U:  Oh God.  I am not sure I dare ask?


Rochester: What I REALLY fancy this Sunday, flower, is pork belly for lunch (pause) and then to fall asleep on your tits.


Miss U: (wincing)  NO!  I hate that word.  You know I hate that word Rochester, you. . .you Daily Star reading bounder.


Rochester: I didn't forget petal, although how the fuck can you object to the word 'tits', when you bandy 'cunt' about like a rum-soaked navvy. To be fair, I considered using the word 'breasts' but I thought it sounded a bit Oedipal in that context.  


Miss U:  Twat.  How is all your. . . . baby stuff? August, isn't it?


Rochester:  Aye, I think so.  I'm in denial about it all.  It's difficult. Things at home are . . .difficult.  I'd better be going in a minute flower. 


Miss U:  OK. Are you really going to send me something Rochester?  I am rather thrilled. Is it a poem?  There is a distinct lack of poems about me on your blog.


Rochester:  Aye well, I can never work out whether to fit you into the 'suicide', 'death', 'depair', 'cancer', 'futility of life'  or 'double glazing' section.  I'm planning on sending you something flower.  You'll have to wait and see what it is.   


Later that month.  It is Miss Underscore's birthday.  It is lunchtime.  Miss Underscore is rushing out of the School of Hard Knocks' playground. Ruddy faced and harassed  Headteacher Pompous Pilate is wobbling past, blustering into his walkie talkie.

Pompous Pilate:  Norman, Norman!  Code red!  Code red!  Riot on the Year 6 yard.  Teaching assistant down.

Miss Underscore stops good friend and teaching assistant, Eeeee Hun.

Miss U:  What's going on with Pompous?

Eeeee Hun:   Eeeee hun,  apparently Forrest Chesterfield been garroted with a skipping rope and Rainbeaux-Tanishqua-Ebonia-Grace has been picking on children without hyphens again.  (conspiratorially) Anyway, where are you off to?  Are you going to Greggs hun? Another peach melba eh?

Miss U:  (outraged)  NO!  I am not going to Greggs.  I had to get out of that staffroom.  There's three pregnant teachers in there and Miss Hapless has brought her baby in.   If I'd hung around I'd have been expected to hold it and coo. I can't stand another lunch blighted by pelvic floor chat and baby sick.  (whispering)  Plus, Rochester has sent me something for my birthday.  I am dying to see what it is.  I'm rushing home to check.

Eeeee Hun:   Eeeeeee hun, how romantic.  You'd better hurry up, you've got to be back in half an hour.

Later.  Miss Underscore unlocks her front door and fights her way past two crazed lurchers.  She picks up a pile of letters and intently flicks through them.  She looks utterly crestfallen.  Her phone trills.  A message.  It is from the rogue.

'Sorry and all that pet, I didn't have a chance to send owt. Too busy doing my window rounds in the fanny wagon. Happy birthday.  Enjoy your peach melba in the staffroom.  Rochester x.'

Scene 20: The scene with no name

In our last scene, which took place on a desolate and snowy midwinter night, Miss Underscore and Rochester were reunited after 2 long years apart.   It was a rather sweet and tender reunion, despite being blighted by IBS, UPVC and headlice.  So, it does appear rather inconceivable that Rochester should then spend the next 4/5 months ignobly ignoring Miss Underscore.  In the vernacular of the North East 'like, what a cunt'.   I am not going subject movie viewers to torpid scenes depicting the abject misery of that time. Maybe there could be some sort of fleeting montage showing Miss Underscore at her lowest: whole weekends lost in an orgy of elasticated waist leisure pants, buttered crumpets and misanthropy. Oh, and texting. Hours . . .days . . . weeks of futile texting.  A lot of texting.  And then, just when Miss Underscore's dignity was lower than a duck's instep, more texting. Yes, a montage is just the ticket, set to a suitably dark and emotionally intense soundtrack.  Possibly by Gracie Fields.

We move forward to Spring. A season of verdant hope and new beginnings.  Wobbly, licorice-legged lambs are in the fields, pastel pink ballet pumps are in M&S, Easter eggs as big as the Ritz are in Fenwicks Food Hall.  It should be a joyful time.  Miss Underscore is on holiday from the School of Hard Knocks. She is in the garden.  The phone rings.  It is the rogue.  The first contact in an eternity.

Rochester: So, petal,  as I was saying, I am in the kraut fanny wagon, just finished my peg-rounds. You're on hands free, so don't start getting uppity. I am cuff-linked.  I am bryl-creamed.  I look fucking great. Don's got me into pink silk ties, I wasn't sure at first (being from South Shields) but you know, they work.  I MAKE THEM WORK.  Anyway, I have just sold £18,000 of UPVC shit to a pair of cunting lezzas.  Two grand commission. Thirty minutes work.


Miss U: Errr. . .


Rochester: I tell you what flower, Don is going to be like a dog with two dicks after this.  He is talking of celebrating with cocaine and lapdancing.  Personally, I'm not even sure he'll be able to get up on that pole and I really dinnit want to see him in a thong.

Miss U: . .  .


Rochester: Are you still there? How's the IBS?


Miss U:  . . . .


Rochester:  So, how are you spending your Easter holidays?  Come on, you're quiet petal.  What have you been up to?

Miss U:  (incredulously)  Rochester . . . . .  You . . . . I don't. . .

Rochester:  Aye, it's me. Get a grip.  Howay,  you need to up your game with this conversation pet, this is worse than talking to Senor Boldon. And we both know what torture that is.  Your ex  is a Swami of silences: excruciating uncomfortable, socially gauche silences.  I expect better from you.  You're usually more sparkling: Dorothy Parker crossed with Bobby Thompson.  Christ, imagine Dorothy Parker crossed with Bobby Thompson!  That would be one ugly lass. (musing) I'd possibly still go for her like.  I'd never be out of fags.  I once dated a lass who wore a flat cap.  It was the 80s mind.

Miss U:  But . . . . I haven't heard from you since . . .

Rochester:  (brusquely cutting her off)  I know.  I know. Fucking hell, no need to bleat on and on about it.  You're giving me ear-ache. Howay, shall we have a bit of our Noel Coward-esque banter.  I've missed it you know. There are no birds down here you have your mixture of gentility and profanity.

Miss U:  You're such an arrogant, insensitive cunt.

Rochester:  See what I mean?  I knew you wouldn't let me down.  Howay, what have you been up to? How are you spending your holiday?  Napping no doubt. Owt else?


Miss U:  (imperiously)  No napping actually, I've been reading and critiquing all the Booker prize winning novels from the last 10 years.


Rochester:  OK.  Any good?

Miss U:  Bloody awful. None of them a patch on Miss Marple.  I've been visiting National Trust properties of course.  Dressed in a linen palazzo pants and a wide-brimmed sun hat.


Rochester:  Goes without saying.  What else?


Miss U: I've built a Victorian folly in the garden.  It is made entirely from empty Chappie tins. I've been whittling mini statues of Patricia Routledge from Coal Tar soap, to sell at the church jumble sale.


Rochester:  Interesting.


Miss U:  I've learnt how to play Symphony in Blue on the flugelhorn.  I've seen dozens of art house films at the Tyneside Cinema.


Rochester: Aye.


Miss U: Busy, you see, terribly busy.  And it would be crass of me to mention my tireless charity work, wouldn't it?

Rochester: Your selfless work on behalf of lesbians and lurchers will undoubtedly get you an OBE one day petal. Lesbian rehoming!  Fuck.  Imagine the TV ads. 'One day Veronica's partner ran off with a dental hygienist from Doncaster.  Now homeless, Veronica sleeps in a piss-stained underpass in a shack made from old Timberland shoe boxes and tattered Socialist Worker newspapers.   Can you give Veronica the loving home she deserves?  Remember, a lesbian is for life, not just for Christmas.'

Miss U: Hmmm.  .  . 

Rochester: How are you really though?  What are you doing right now?  Working on your Nobel prize application?  Howay, paint us a picture pet.  Where are you?  On the sofa?  Are you on YOUR CHAISE?  I LOVE that you have a chaise pet.  Even if it is always covered with cat hair and curry sauce.

Miss U: I am sitting in the garden with a M&S cherry bakewell trifle and a Swedish crime novel. I am watching one of the lurchers bury my last decent ballet pump under a dead hydrangea bush.  Glamour. I am all about glamour. . . . When did you get out of hospital?

Rochester:  (perplexed) Hospital pet?  I haven't been in hospital?

Miss U: Really?

Rochester:  Errr. . . . no.

Miss U: Oh, I just assumed.  Assumed there had been some awful, fanny-wagon death crash.  That you'd totally lost your memory.  That you were swathed in bandages and wired up to beeping and flashing machines. That every now and then, despite being in the shadowy, twilight world betwixtlife and death, you kept weakly muttering the words 'Miss Underscore'.  This would be much to the bewilderment of your family, obviously, who were keeping a candlelit vigil by your bedside. That you were being sponged down daily by some Nurse Gladys Emmanuel type, you know a bosomy matron with a saucy glint in her eye.  Anyway, what other plausible explanation could there be for almost FIVE months of silence?

Rochester: Aye, I know flower, I know.  I've been . . . . thinking. . . just thinking, you know?

Miss U: THINKING!  THINKING!  Who the fuck are you PROFESSOR STEPHEN HAWKING?  I've known you for years Rochester.  Never, EVER have you bothered with THINKING before.  Why start now?

Rochester:  I am thinking right now petal.  I am thinking about that hospital scenario you've just painted.  You know what. . .it's having quite an effect on me.

Miss U: Oh GOD!  Say no more Rochester.  I KNOW what you're thinking about.  You are so bloody predictable!

Rochester:  (laughing) You know what, it's a turn on, I'm deeply serious.

Miss U:  Nurse Gladys Emmanuel's bosom.

Rochester: Aye. And a soapy sponge. But,  I don't think I'd trust my family around my bedside if I was in a coma, you know.  Senor Boldon, for one, would probably switch my life support off just so he could plug in the telly to watch Top Gear.   .   .   .Have you really been visiting National Trust properties?

Miss U: (sighing)  No.  Just the tea rooms.  That counts doesn't it? 

Rochester: Of course that counts. They'd all close down tomorrow if it wasn't for the cream teas. But when you say art house films at the Tyneside Cinema you really just mean. . .

Miss U: (crossly)  Well, yes, yes, I mean I've had cheese on toast a few times at the cinema tea rooms. (sighing)  I just can't comfortably watch a film whilst surrounded by that many corduroy wearing liberals. The steam from their orange pekoe tea turns my hair to frizz. 

Rochester: I got your texts. They do make me smile.  How is school?  Are you fucking Pompous Pilate yet?  There is something between you, I just know it.

Miss U:  Eughh!  Me and the beetrooty buffoon?  Never. The thought is vomitrocious to me.

Rochester:   Have any School of Hard Knocks parents complained about your teaching of the Tudors yet?

Miss U: (indignantly)  No.  Not yet.  Why should they?

Rochester: Why, you know, not many 7 year olds get to make their own miniature Tudor torture devices.  

Miss U: They LOVED stretching those plasticine traitors on their mini racks.  There were some terribly sophisticated design and technology skills being honed there you know.

Rochester: I have missed you, you know.

Miss U: Oh? (long, long.................long pause). I am thinking of going blonde.

Rochester:  I like big-arsed blondes.

Miss U:  What, like Boris Johnson?

Rochester:  You know, the last time I saw you we spent the night together at your house.  Memorable for many reasons petal.  Astonishing in fact. It was the first time I've had a lurcher pounce on me whilst I was. . . you know. . .performing.

Miss U:  Ha!  Oh God, I know.  I was mortified.  It did put you off your stroke somewhat.

Rochester:  I think I coped with it quite manfully actually.

Miss U:  Well, it can't have been the first time you'd found yourself in bed with a dog.

Rochester:  Aye, very true flower,  but why does it always seem to happen in Sunderland (present company excepted, like, obviously)?  How have you been really pet? Truthfully.

Miss U: Truthfully? A wreck.  Lost. Devastated. Why did you do it, you swore you wouldn't?  Why were you such a twat?

Rochester:  I know.  I know.  I'm sorry.  I am.  Truly.  Truly petal.

Miss U: So. . . . why? Whatever it is, then I wish you'd just tell me.  Just say it.  It's the silence I can't bear. 

Rochester:  I know. . . . 

Miss U: If all you'd wanted was a fuck in a hotel room you really should have found someone else. 

Rochester: That's not what it was about.  Fucking hell.  How can you even think that?

Miss U: Five months Rochester.  

Rochester: Aye.

Miss U: There's something you're not saying.  I don't understand. 

Rochester: It was lovely seeing you.  

Miss U: But?

Rochester:  But. . . . yes, there is something.

Miss U:   I knew it.

Rochester:  When I got back home something happened. It was, well, it was unexpected.  It's all been a bit of a head-fuck.

Miss U:  Oh God.  Did your wife find out? I thought you had an 'understanding'?

Rochester:  We do. No, she didn't find out.  She doesn't know. 

Miss U:  So . . . 

Rochester:  I got back home, she asked me to sit down.  This was the day I left you.  It's all such a mess.

Miss U:  What is?

Rochester: Well, she's pregnant petal.  She's pregnant. Baby's due in August.



(Sorry for the delay in posting.  School is terribly hard and exhuasting at the moment and, well, some posts are more difficult than others.)

Scene 19: Of Lice and Men (Part 2)

Later that night Miss Underscore and Rochester are canoodling in a bed the size of a small island in Rochester's luxurious hotel suite. 

Miss U: I can’t get over this suite Rochester. I feel like Sue Ellen in Dallas.


Rochester:  Does that make me JR? 


Miss U:  Dallas would have been great set in the North East.  Can you imagine? The Ewings could have made their fortune with coal rather than oil.  There could have been an annual Coal Barons' Ball.  


Rochester:  Serving brown ale and pickled eggs.  


Miss U:  Arthur Scargill as the wispy-haired, blundering, embittered drunk Cliff Barnes.


Rochester:  Aye.  This room is a million miles away from the pig sty, isn't it?  Our last night together.


Miss U: (pointing)  I am not sure about having a roll-top bath in the middle of a room though. Especially when it is in front of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Tyne.  And the hotel car park.


Rochester: Probably gives tourists a more thrilling vista than anything in the Baltic. Why don’t you hop in the bath over there Miss Underscore? Give us all a thrill.


Miss U: (sighing) Too comfortable here Rochester.  Do you not like the Baltic? I thought you wanky Bristol sorts would love a bit of modern art. I am sure on the mantelpiece of Peg Towers you’ve got a used crack pipe, festooned with crime scene tape set on top of an empty Findus Crispy Pancake packet, communicating the random barbarism of life in a godless universe. Oh, and a couple of hard boiled, battery-farmed eggs in formaldehyde framed above your water-bed, representing the emotional castration of men in these gender confused times.

Rochester: Nah, totally wrong pet. I’ve got my Golden Peg award on my mantelpiece, for being the region’s top performing peg salesman.

Miss U: Seriously?  Oh dear God.  What does it look like?


Rochester: Well, it’s like an Oscar really. It’s a golden figure of a man wrangling a UPVC window out of the back of a BMW.


Miss U: I am nauseated at the thought of your fanny wagon, you know.


Rochester: You say that, but you’d fucking love it really.  You know you would.


Miss U:  I HATE BMWs. Brash, boorish middle-aged men drive them. (Miss Underscore looks accusingly at Rochester) How come they cost, like, £30,000 but don't even come with indicators.

Rochester: They’ve got indicators. What are you talking about?


Miss U:  NO BMW DRIVER EVER USES THEIR INDICATORS!!!  Also, have you seen that INFURIATING new BMW advert about how they don't make cars, they manufacture ‘joy’? Surely that is not very ‘you’? You’re a surly, death-obsessed misanthrope.


Rochester: I’ve told you before, the fanny wagon was Don’s choice. It's out of my hands really. What would you suggest I drive? You’re going to say a cunting Volvo aren’t you? I am NOT driving a Volvo.

Miss U: A Volvo is the perfect choice for a world-weary, mortality-obsessed salesman. The brand is much more in tune with your core values. It’s a much better fit than BMW and their ridiculously jolly ‘joy’  concept.


Rochester: (wearily)  Howay then, enlighten me.


Miss U:  It’s the whole Swedish thing. Those suicidal Swedes, they love wallowing in murky gloom and nihilistic despair. With a Volvo all the accessories you need to gas yourself in your garage are fitted AS STANDARD.  And you get a free Sylvia Plath anthology with every purchase. With a BMW you just get a cup holder for your Starbucks Americano, an air-con system that sprays Hai Karate aftershave and a free Dad Rocks! CD.


Rochester: I am not buying a Volvo. Anyway, you don’t even have a Volvo. You have a shitty cunting Ford Focus!

Miss U: (sulkily) I would have a Volvo if I could afford it. (Pause) You could put a dog-guard up at the back.


Rochester: (exasperated) I haven't got a fucking dog!


Miss U: You don’t need a dog!  That is the beauty of it.  A Volvo with a dog guard, and maybe a RSPCA bumper sticker, would be so reassuring to potential customers. It says 'I may be a tawdry salesman, but I am a caring and trustworthy sort.  I would jump in a polluted canal to rescue a sack of drowning puppies.  Your conservatory is safe in my hands.'

Rochester:  I'm not sure I would jump in a polluted canal petal.  What type of puppies are we talking about here? I wouldn't do it for lurchers.  They're ten a penny.  I quite like a weimaraner though. Don't look at me like that.  I'm only messing pet.

Miss U:  Well, I would totally buy windows from a man in a Volvo with a dog guard. I would NEVER buy from a be-cufflinked cad in a kraut fanny wagon. Don would crash and burn with me.

Rochester:  You are SO WRONG flower. You would wet your white cotton knickers if Don tried to sell to you. You’d be handing over a cheque to him within 20 minutes. 30 minutes tops.  Seriously. He’s good. A fucking twat. But good.


Miss U: (resolutely) No way. His sort would get NOWHERE with me.


Rochester: Is that right?  I think the bedroom activities of the last hour or so have just proven that statement to be utterly false. But let's put this to the test. (Sitting up) Right Miss Underscore, shall we do some role-play? Howay, sit up. Don is going to sell you some windows.


Miss U: I am not averse to a bit of role-play in the bedroom Rochester, but does it have to involve double glazing? It’s not a scenario that does much for me. 

Rochester: Aye, you’re probably right. (Pause, lying back down) Christ. In bed with Miss Underscore. Cunting hell.


Miss U: (getting up, putting on cardigan and walking to the window) It’s snowing again. It is so beautiful out there: the lights, the bridges, the river. It’s completely silent. I love the silence of a snowy winter's night.  It's magical. This room is bigger than my house.


Rochester: Come back to bed flower.


Miss U: (climbing back into bed) This is the most comfortable bed I have ever not slept in. I am not even missing my electric blanket. Have you been visiting the family today?


Rochester: Aye. Saw my granny in the hospice. Went with your ex actually, Senor Boldon.


Miss U: How is your granny doing?


Rochester: Still alive, incredibly. Deaf as a post mind. I had to write her little notes to communicate with her. I wrote her one saying ‘Just thought you might like to know, Senor Boldon is a puff. Don’t let on though. He is still coming to terms with it himself.’ She thought it was fucking hysterical.


Miss U: Ha! Dear God.


Rochester: She’s still pretty fearsome mind. In a battle between her and your Aunty Margaret, my money would be on my granny.


Miss U: Dear God, it’s like picturing a fight between Godzilla and King Kong, only with shopping trolleys and knitting needles. And witheringly disapproving glares. And scornfully pursed lips.  Your granny probably would win.  Aunty Margaret is marshmallow soft really. She's a sensitive soul under all those prickles.


Rochester:. More family stuff tomorrow. Out for drinks with Senor Boldon tomorrow night. I may come over to your place afterwards, if that’s OK. I’d like to, it'll be my last night up North. I’m probably going to be pissed though, and it will be very late.


Miss U: Does Senor Boldon know about us. . . about this?


Rochester: Does he fuck.


Miss U: That’s because this is wrong, isn’t it?


Rochester: It doesn’t feel wrong though. It just feels incredibly natural.


Miss U: (sighing) I know.


Rochester: I tell you what. I’d have been devastated if you hadn’t wanted to meet up.


Miss U: Aww, Rochester, that is almost a compliment, are you feeling OK? That’s a sweet thing to say.  It's so unlike you.


Rochester: Aye, devastated. Honestly, if I hadn’t got to see your big arse and breasts again it would have ruined my Christmas.


Miss U: Oh fuck. You had to spoil it, didn’t you?


Rochester: Not at all! It IS a compliment! You do it for me pet. That’s the point I’m making. Oh fuck, will you be writing about this on your blog?


Miss U: Of course! I’ve even thought of the PERFECT title for my next post. How about ‘Of Lice and Men’?


Rochester: Cunting hell! You think you’re so fucking funny, don’t you?


Miss U: Or, if you make any more quips about my arse it could well be The Death of a Salesman. You don’t mind featuring in my blog do you?


Rochester: You know what petal, I think I come across quite well. Rochester is quite a charming character really. You make me sound too Geordie though.  I'm really more of a David Niven type.

Miss U:  Hardly!  I think I capture you remarkably well.

Rochester:  You can write what you like. I quite like your blog, you’re developing an interesting persona with Miss Underscore; witty but poignant.  I do worry slightly whether anyone I know will stumble across it.

Miss U: You needn’t fret about that, Rochester. No one reads it. I’ll crack on with my next post tomorrow, while you’re writing more scurrilous notes to your dying granny.


Rochester: Aye, then, you can read it to me when I come over tomorrow night. I’d fucking love that!


Miss U: ‘Read it to you?’ For fuck’s sake Rochester, you and I both know that you’ve been doing all your own reading since you were 35. You can read it yourself!


Rochester: That’s a shame pet.  I quite like the idea of you putting on a performance for me in the bedroom.


Miss U: I’d better be going soon. I can’t stay. I left the dogs home alone watching QVC. They’ve probably ordered themselves a solar powered Uri Geller crystal blamange frother or some such nonsense.


Rochester: Are you happy now? Is this one of your moments of happiness.


Miss U: Yes. Yes. It is. This is lovely. It is heaven. You are an oaf, but I always feel totally at ease with you. I don’t want to go. I must though. . .

Rochester: I know. I’ll book you a taxi (reaching for his phone).

Miss U: I can’t afford. . .

Rochester: I’ll pay. There are no buses or trains at this time of night anyway pet. (He mumbles into the phone). They’ll be here soon. (He gets up and counts out notes on the bedside table). There’s money for the fare flower. Don’t argue. Just take it.

Miss U: (Opening her mouth to speak)

Rochester: (putting his hand up to silence forthcoming objections) No! Just take it. I’m not having you roaming the city streets at 2 o’clock in the morning. What with your wellies, M&S cardigan and woolly hat, fellas’ll think you’re the most disappointingly dressed prostitute in Newcastle.

Miss U: (Still trying to speak)


Rochester: (assertively) No. Just take it pet. I’ll hear no more about it. Fucking feminists. (silence)

Miss U: Actually, I was just going to make the point that you looked remarkably comfortable handing over a pile of £20 notes to a naked woman in a hotel room. I expect this is not the first time, is it?


Rochester: Probably won’t be the last either. (The phone rings. Rochester mumbles into it while Miss Underscore gets dressed.) Petal, the taxi is outside. It’s a woman driver. Tread carefully flower. Sounds like a lesbian to me. A slightly pissed, post-coital school teacher in floral wellies will be like catnip to a dyke in a Vauxhall Vectra.

Miss U: (Dressed now but curling up into Rochester for a moment) OK. I’m off. I’ll see you tomorrow night then?

Rochester: Aye. (gently) You OK?

Miss U: Yes, of course. You?


Rochester: Aye. Definitely.


Miss U: What’s going to happen? To us? When you go home?


Rochester: Well, life will go on. Don will be packing his handkerchief full of pegs each morning and not returning till they’re all sold.  You'll be terrifying your class of mackem ne're do wells with Tudor ghost stories.  You know the situation. It’ll be OK pet. I’m not going to act like a twat. I don’t want you to get hurt. I know you’re a little bit. . . delicate.

Miss U:  I am not sure that's realistic.  Tsunamis cause damage.  Hurricanes cause damage.  Affairs cause damage.  That's just how it is. I don't regret coming.  I had to come. This just feels terrifyingly .  .  .doomed.

Rochester:   It'll be fine petal.  Wait up for me tomorrow night.


Miss U: (Getting up and gathering her things, with false brightness) Oooooh. I’ve got another blog title Rochester! How about Don of Iniquity?


Rochester: Genius pet. Utter genius.

Scene 18: Of Lice and Men (Part 1)

We move forward to the dreary, no man's land between Christmas and New Year.  It is 2010. Britain is in the grips of a mini-ice age.  Miss Underscore is curled on the sofa, sipping ginger wine, nibbling Frazzles and watching Miss Marple. (Joan Hickson OF COURSE). The lurchers are stretched, snoring and snorting, in front of a glowing coal fire.  Their legs twitch as they chase rabbits in their dreams. The telephone rings.  It is Rochester.

Rochester:   I've arrived pet.  I'm at the Newcastle hotel.  Just dropped the kids at me mother's. Get over here.

Miss Underscore (in flannel pyjama bottoms, a threadbare cashmere jumper and bed socks) shuffles to the sitting room window and peers into the darkening afternoon.  The street is blanketed in thick snow.  Lacy snowflakes are falling silently through an inky sky.

Miss U:  Have you seen the weather Rochester?  It's like Narnia out there.  Shouldn't you be the one battling through the elements to get to me?

Rochester: Aye, I know flower.  I'm ill though.  I feel like shit actually.  I've barely got the energy to make it to the bathroom.

Miss U: That is hardly a good sign for our first meeting in 2 years.  (rather relieved) Let's postpone eh?

Rochester: Nope.  Nope.  Nice try. Definitely not.  You're not getting let off the hook that easily.   I'll have a little nap.  I'll raise my game.  How long will it take you to get here?

Miss U: Oh God.  I don't know how long this will take.  I'm going to have to trudge to the bus stop, get the bus to the Metro station, get the Metro through to Newcastle and then get a taxi to the hotel.  Fucking hell.  Tyne and Wear transport at Christmas-time.  During the worst winter in 100 years.  Honestly Rochester, I hope you appreciate this.  Great love has no woman.

Rochester: Aye well,  no need to whine on about it petal.  No one likes a martyr. Just get to it.

Miss U: Where are we going?  What will we be doing?  (looking down at mismatched bed socks) What should I wear?

Rochester: Fuck, I don't know.  We'll be drinking gin and eating steak probably. You know, we'll be doing . . . stuff.

Miss U: (pause, with one eye on Miss Marple)  Would a fox fur be too much?

Rochester: (disinterested) Aye, sounds perfect.  Don't go out in ballet pumps mind.  You'll break your neck.

Several hours later.  Our star-crossed protagonists have retreated to a cosy, riverside pub. Rochester returns from the bar with two large G&Ts.  He shrugs out of his dark woolen overcoat and scowls at Miss Underscore.  They look at each other intently.  The air crackles and sparks with unspoken sexual tension.

Rochester: (leaning in close)  Listen pet,   there's something I need to say straight off.  This is difficult.  (looking her straight in the eye and taking a deep breath).  Ok.  Right. . . . . . . there is a small possibility .  .  .  . just a small possibility mind . .oh fuck. . .

Miss U:  (nervously) What Rochester. . . . just say it . . .

Rochester: OK. There is a small possibility that I've got nits.  (sitting back) I'm not sure.  The bairn has them mind.  Just so you know.

Miss U: Oh.

Rochester:  You'll get them all the time, I'm sure, being a teacher.

Miss U: (huffily) What, actually I've NEVER  . . .

Rochester: Alright, alright, no need to get uppity pet.  Keep your cardigan on.  .  .  .(grinning)  It's nice to see you flower. Does this seem odd?  Is this OK?

Miss U:  It feels. . . . it feels strangely fluid and natural.  Like I just saw you last week.  You look thin mind. Oh my God, have you a terminal disease? Is that why you've been angling for a meeting after all this time.  

Rochester: Aye well, there IS a story there.  I have another confession, of sorts, about why I'm so skinny.

Miss U: Oh God.  What?

Rochester: My job.  I don't sell pegs pet.

Miss U: I knew it!  Pegs wouldn't pay for a BMW.  Pegs wouldn't pay for Hotel du fucking Vin.  What is it?  What do you sell?  Is it drugs?

Rochester: No, it's not drugs.  Aw fuck.  I don't know how to tell you this.  

Miss U: Are you a Geordie gigalo?  OH MY GOD.  You did say you worked at night.  Are you providing some sort of down-market, rough-trade sexual service for uptight Bristol ladies?  Chips and curry sauce, inept sex up with an unshaven, vest-wearing Geordie against a vomit stained wheelie bin. All watched by a world-weary whippet? 

Rochester: What do you mean inept sex?  Fuck off.  No.  It's not sex.

Miss U: Ok.  Go on then.

Rochester: I hope this doesn't change things between us.   (pause) I think it might. (pause)  It's double glazing.  I sell fucking double glazing. I am a cunting DOUBLE GLAZING SALESMAN.  

Miss U: WHAT!  I GUESSED double glazing right at the beginning.  Double glazing and conservatories.  That was my first guess and you denied it!

Rochester:  Aye well.  I don't sell conservatories.  I haven't had the conservatory training yet.  (unsurely) How do you feel about this pet? 

Miss U: I don't know. You earn thousands every week Rochester.  Can you truly earn that much money from windows?

Rochester:  You can. You're taking this very well.  

Miss U: Hmmmm.  But, what has this got to do with you being so scrawny?

Rochester:  Scrawny?  Nice. Why, it's the pressure like.  I'm out on the road all hours. UPVC can be a cruel and unyielding mistress.

Miss U: Fuck. (sniggering)  Rochester the dour, sardonic, poetry-writing malcontent as a be-cufflinked double glazing salesman. It's a shock.  Is this why you've invented 'Don'?  You've developed an alter-ego to distance yourself from your abjectly ridiculous career choice.

Rochester: Don is difficult company at times.  His bullshit sickens me.  He's a fucking great salesman mind. He could sell cock to a lesbian.  Fuck, he HAS sold cock to a lesbian.   The thing is, he's a bit of a twat. The cufflinks, the flash suits. . .

Miss U: . . the BMW fanny wagon?

Rochester:  Aye, that too . . all Don's doing (sighing)  It's no life.

Miss U: (shaking her head)  The world has gone mad.  There's you, an oaf, practically a UPVC millionaire and me, slaving at the coal face of sink-estate education, having to sell all my jewellery on EBAY just to pay the mortgage.

Rochester: I don't disagree petal.  Teachers do the most important job in the country. (pause)  Well, secondary school teachers do.  You just hand out poster paint and lego.  

Miss U: Fuck off.

Rochester:  (rolling a cigarette) No, I know you're amazing at what you do.  You are in the right job petal.  Your kids are lucky to have you.  The only way I get through the day is pretending my suit, the fanny wagon, the awful sales patter,  I just have to tell myself it's a form of performance art. Tell myself it's Don.  I'm going out for a smoke.  I'll get you another gin on the way back.

Later.

Rochester: Petal, why are you squirming.  You don't look well.

Miss U: It's nerves.  I've been TERRIFIED about seeing you.  I've got a really bad stomach cramp.  It's agony.  I've not been able to eat anything but Frazzles since Christmas day. 

Rochester:  Fucking hell.  I thought you said being here felt OK?

Miss U:  It does.  I've just worked myself into a frenzy of anxiety over the last few days.  Dear God.   (almost doubled over, hands on stomach)

Rochester:  Could be IBS flower.  (stage whisper)  Do you need the toilet?

Miss U: Oh Lord,  it's torture. Our reconciliation blighted by head lice, IBS and double glazing.  This wasn't exactly what I had in mind.

Rochester: (standing up and holding out his hand) Howay petal, we'll have a walk back to the hotel.  You probably just need something to eat.  

Later Miss Underscore and Rochester are sitting in a sumptuous, candlelit restaurant overlooking the River Tyne.  There is steak.  There are chips. And bearnaise sauce.

Miss U:  Oh this is so pretty.  I can't even remember how long it's been since I've been anywhere this lovely.  Thank you.

Rochester: Thank Don.  We are harnessing the power of his American Express. 

Miss U:  (raising her glass)  To Don!   May God bless him and all who buy cheap plastic windows from him.

Rochester:  I wish you'd stop selling your stuff on EBAY pet.  It depresses me to think of it.  I almost bought that black pearl necklace.  Thought it would have helped you out a bit.

Miss U:  Oh, I hated having to sell that necklace.  I loved it.  I'm not after your money Rochester.  I know you've offered before but I will never, ever accept it.  I'll accept steak and gin though.

Rochester: Last time I saw you, when you came down to Bristol, I was really at the bottom.  No job, no money, a pig sty full of garden furniture.  I was the lowest I'd probably ever been.  One thing that sticks with me is that, well, you thought I was OK despite all that, even at my worst.

Miss U: (quietly) I thought you were more than OK.   

Rochester: Aye. I know. Are you happy, Miss Underscore?

Miss U: Oh God.  No.  Well, I don't think about it.  I just try to get through each day.  Life is so hard.  It's exhausting.  I don't think about the future.  Don't bother with dreams or goals.  I have no expectations.  Of anything.  I just try to muddle through from one day to the next.  There are moments of happiness.  I think that is all anyone can expect.  'Keep passing the open windows'.  That's my goal. 

Rochester: What's that from?

Miss U: John Irving.  The Hotel New Hampshire.  I should be happier.  I wish I was happier.  I wish my dad hadn't died at a time when I was desperately unhappy.  He worried about that I know.  That I wasn't settled. 

Rochester: Settled?

Miss U: You know, wasn't so alone.  Wasn't married with half a dozen children.

Rochester: Is that what you would have wanted?

Miss U: (sighing) Oh, once yes, more than anything.  Let's change the subject.  Please.

Rochester: OK.  

Miss U: The kids are at your mum's?

Rochester:  Aye.

Miss U:  Why are you here then?  Why a hotel rather than your mum's box room, flicking through your teenage copies of Razzle?

Rochester: I just needed a bit of space I suppose.  Some peace. Desperately in need of it. 

Miss U: You were going to tell me about your marriage Rochester.

Rochester: Aye, I know.  You know I'm back home, with the missus.

Miss U: How is that going?

Rochester: I'm back with the kids. That's just . . . well it's fucking wonderful.  They are the most beautiful children.

Miss U: So, why are you here?  What are we doing?

Rochester: I've missed this.  You.  Our nonsense.  I have been looking forward to seeing you.  I've missed being with someone that I feel just gets me, and accepts me for who I am.  That's all.  I'm staying with my wife.  I want that to be clear.  I don't want to mislead you.  I don't want to hurt you.  This next part is going to make me sound like a complete cunt.  I expect that I'll have affairs, discreet affairs, every now and then.  She knows that.  We've discussed it. But I'll stay.  That's the situation, staying means I get to see my kids and take them to school, be part of their lives.  I'm not risking losing that.

Miss U: You've had that discussion?  Christ.  .  .  .  . (silence)

Rochester: Say something.

Miss U: I don't know what to say.  It's all terribly sad really.  For everyone.

Rochester: I know.  .   .   .   .   (silence)

Miss U: Why do you need affairs?  Why can't you just commit to your wife, without the fanny ratting.


Rochester: Because something's missing.  I'm not a fanny rat.  .  .  .  (silence)


Miss U: Rochester, maybe you should marinate yourself in Don's overbearing aftershave and just find yourself a one-night stand.  It would be less messy than this.


Rochester: Aye, maybe. But that's not what I want either.  You should run a mile really.

Miss U:  Is that what you want?

Rochester: No. . . .  .Well, you know what?  You have to take some responsibility for this situation flower. This whole thing is your fault really.  You started it.  In that field.  In your knickers.

Miss U:  What on earth are you talking about?

Rochester: You, prancing around that meadow in the summer,  in white cotton knickers and a snug fitting t-shirt.  Do you not remember it?  

Miss U: Errr. . . .

Rochester: Ah, well, no, you wouldn't remember it.  It was a dream I had.  It was a fucking FANTASTIC dream.  The most lucid dream I've ever had.

Miss U: And I was prancing?

Rochester:  Aye, through a meadow of flowers.  It was all very blurry, soft-focus 1970s. I was there too.  You were in white cotton knickers. It was the knickers that did it really.  I've not been able to think of much else since.

Miss U: Did anything happen between us, in the dream?  Or did I just prance off into the horizon.


Rochester: Whoa bonny lass, stuff happened.  PLENTY of stuff happened. I may tell you later.  (whispering and nodding to the party of 4 sat at the next table) It was fucking filthy.

Miss U:  I see. . . 

Rochester:  You could be on to something with the white cotton thing.  Here's a thought, a way for  a bookish primary school teacher to boost her income without selling her niknaks on EBAY, how's about a lap-dancing club where the birds wear white cotton pants, big ones.  Ideally they'd have reading glasses on too.   They'd perform to a sedate, arthouse movie soundtrack, possibly Michael Nyman.  It could work.  I think it has legs.

Miss U: You know, there'd be PLENTY of room down a pair of M&S midi briefs for weary window salesmen to slip their £100 notes.  I tell you what, some of my more granny-esque pants would be perfect.  I could fit millions of pounds worth of tips in them.  Those girls in thongs are missing a trick. Do you think a seductive strip-tease could start with the removal of a cashmere cardigan?

Rochester: Aye, whilst you recite poetry of Dorothy Parker.  

Miss U: YES!  There could be exorbitantly marked-up pots of Yorkshire tea for sale too.  And crumpets.

Rochester:  What would you call the place though?

Miss U: Hmmm.  How about The Bungalow of the Rising Sun?  

Rochester: Perfect.  Sounds very wholesome. And British.  .  .  .So petal, tell me, have you got your white cotton knickers on tonight? (there is a clattering noise from the next table, where a party of 4 have just downed cutlery in eager anticipation of a response).

Miss U:  Shhhhh. 

Rochester: Are you coming up to bed?  Are you staying?

Miss U:  Who's asking?  You?  Or Don?

Rochester:  Maybe both.  Although no, scrap that, I really don't like the idea of going twos-up with Don.

Miss U:  I don't even want to think about what going 'twos-up' entails. (shuddering) And I imagine Don would have a whole toolkit of eye-watering UPVC sex toys.  Christ, just think of it, a double-glazed dildo. Let's leave him out of it.

Rochester:   Is that a yes then petal?  You're staying?