The Squashed Man Who Married a Dragon

by Anthony Blackie

  The Squashed Man Who Married a Dragon

  A True Story: Henpecked to Happiness

  Anthony Blackie

  Copyright © 2015 Anthony Blackie

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,

  or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents

  Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in

  any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the

  publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with

  the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries

  concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

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  ISBN 978 1785894 305

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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  Contents

  Cover

  Introduction.

  PREPARATION WORK

  ‘OUCH’

  WORDS OF WISDOM

  LOVEY DOVEY DAYS

  MORE LOVEY DOVEY

  HER FAMILY – The DNA

  YET MORE LOVEY DOVEY DAYS

  THE OPEN ROAD

  LAST OF THE LOVEY DOVEY

  NEARLY NORMAL

  FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE

  ANIMALS AT NOOKS

  HERO TO ZERO

  NOT NOW TIME

  SPARE OUR BLUSHES

  WHAT ON EARTH

  JUST LIFE

  SHADES OF THE DRAGON

  THE ULTIMATE SACRIFICE

  TRIALS & TRIBULATIONS

  PRE GIFT

  THE GIFT

  HELPFUL

  COUNTRYWAYS – SMELLING THE ROSES

  MOTHER IN LAW

  SPORT

  HOLIDAYS

  DEATH AT TEATIME

  CARS

  ON THE OTHER HAND

  SOME SOOTHSAYER

  LIFE’S LITTLE FOIBLES

  NOT MY BRIGHTEST HOUR

  SPAIN

  THE MARVELS OF MODERN BANKING

  ANDALUCIA

  MARLIN

  FUEGO

  A LITTLE DAYDREAMING………AFTER ALL THE TRAUMA.

  BJORN AND INGA

  BACK TO THE PLOT

  A & K

  ALL HEART

  JUST A MORPH

  DRAGON TIME

  SUPERMARKET

  THE WONDERFUL ONES

  MORE NEARLY WONDERFUL ONES

  MIRACLES TWO A PENNY

  TONY AND HELEN

  ME SEVENTY

  CLINIC

  PARTY TIME

  RON AND CLIVE

  AUNTY KAY…ANOTHER WORLD

  THE LAST POST

  THE VERY LAST WORD.

  Introduction.

  Wigan is the place, that garden city of the north, where romance can often catch you out. Nothing to do with Uncle Joe’s mint balls or the legendary Billy Boston. When its spring time here, and the Ancient and Loyal Borough rolls out its magic, take care!

  I cannot blame myself, my chosen one was gorgeous, really one of the most mouth watering, knee buckling beautiful girls around, yet not quite human, and with a fault that was so well hidden, until it was too late. It is true that in Wigan, many of the women are Goddesses, and that all the men are bigger, braver, and stronger than anywhere else.

  Unfortunately…, I was born in Blackburn, I always knew it should have been Wigan. So at the age of three, I set off walking to the land of cherry and white, towing my parents behind me.

  After many hard days on the road, we reached the market square of down town Wigan. Here we were absorbed, painlessly and completely until we became pie eaters with everyone else.

  Now my tale is a blow by blow account of how one man survived fifty years of married life……not only to the same woman……but managed to crawl away and tell his story. Perhaps the seven year age gap may be a factor in all this.

  My own Goddess, the one with the Andreas volcanic fault, was sixteen nearly seventeen when we first met. I was an immature twenty three year old. In those golden, halcyon days, she had not learnt to argue and had a sort of age related awe for her mature worldly man. Thinking to herself, this is ‘my man’, ‘how lucky I am’, ‘I must never upset him’!

  It is a great shame but this wonderful thinking, like believing in Father Christmas doesn’t last forever. Soon after our wedding, my world was shattered by the hints of what was lying in store. She can, and does, go from near normal to ballistic with no in-between stages, at the ‘drop of a hat’. Very often this can happen after my failing to keep one of her six hundred odd ‘golden’ house rules, like……. putting my dirty coffee mug on the wrong side of the sink.

  Let’s be honest, nobody, would knowingly marry a dragon, that’s not how it works at all. You set out aiming high, pulling the best that you can. Assuming your girl has all the ‘bits and bobs’ in all the right places, coupled with masses of the ‘wow’ factor, you marry the best that will have you. A quick look at the check list shows, top marks go to a nympho brewer’s daughter. Most of us never see such a creature. But I know a bookie’s daughter has to be high on the rankings. Then by and large most marriages descend to bumping along at the bottom of life. We all like to think we struck a little gold, but there is a lot of Pyrites out there.

  Without careful editing and showing only selected snap shots, my story would be just too painful too bear. So don’t expect a novel, a fast flowing easy read, this is real married life stuff. You may be fooled by the gentle, warm even loving way, it all starts out. Only when the young gorgeous wife finally morphs into a full blown ‘Dragon’ does the excruciating suffering become enjoyable.

  Best to keep handy a box of tissues, some aspirins, plenty of strong drink and a mojo if you have one. Read it in slow, sensuous sips, but be brave. The first section is ‘prep work’ for future life and then loads of lovey-dovey scenes of early married life,…..stick with it…..

  Anthony Blackie 2015

  A very young Dragonette

  PREPARATION WORK

  The first Mr & Mrs Sharrock knew about it was glancing up at a damp patch on their front room ceiling which had been growing at an alarming rate, seconds later water seeped through the cream textured ceiling paper and gently cascaded down onto their guests, in a cold and unwelcome way.

  That Sunday, Mr Sharrock, free from banking duties, had mowed the small patch of grass at the back, and was impressing friends with a quiet and genteel afternoon tea.

  Pamela and I had played outside rolling over and over on the pile of grass cuttings, covered from head to toe in green, and thinking it will be a good idea to go inside – sneak up to the bathroom and wash ourselves down. There we had filled the bath to the top, the surface was now covered with a blanket of cuttings. As soon as we stood up the floating grass bits jumped back onto our bodies and stuck like glue. We found the solution with the aid of a large jug, and both taps running at full belt, so there we were pouring jugs of water over each other.

  This was working really well – when Mrs Sharrock flew through the bathroom door, I was standing next to the bath in all the naked glory
of a six year old – shouting ‘more, Pamela, more’ – she happily throwing jug after jug of water over me.

  Now Pamela was my first ever girlfriend – not only was she a little older than me – and smarter. Everyone believes that girls are quicker than boys, I do now, so I reckon I was led astray. Something like this has got to be my excuse.

  Girls always bring trouble and disappointment or both. The second time I fell in love, I gave myself to Sylvia Garner – even the name was magical – I fell for this fair haired

  seven year old beauty. There was something about her teeth, I can’t remember exactly what – but true love overrides such irregularities. At seven, I was getting on and ready for romance and life in the fast lane.

  So I asked Sylvia out to the pictures, a normal and natural thing to do. I didn’t worry about the logistics of the adventure. The transport, the cost and buying admission to the cinema, were not considered. On Saturday afternoon, I was there at the rendezvous, – outside the Post Office on Wigan Lane, next to the tall gas lamp post, clean, changed, hair brushed all I needed now was Sylvia.

  I hadn’t given much thought to how this would take place either. I suppose I expected her to drop from the sky or appear as if by magic! Soon a car was approaching, it slowed down – in it I saw Sylvia – but to my growing alarm and panic – I realised the driver was her father, a grown-up.

  I hadn’t bargained for Mr Garner at all. Suddenly, I was overwhelmed by embarrassment – this nearly put an end to everything. There wasn’t a hole in the ground big enough to swallow me up.

  Luckily nature kicked in, I swarmed up the handy lamppost, near the top was a bar that stuck out at right angles, for supporting the service ladder. I hung down from this bar – my little skinny legs and bony knees dangling down to greet Sylvia’s father and the laughing Sylvia. Obviously it must have been the unique and correct way to introduce myself, as all passed off well, Sylvia and I enjoyed the pictures – sweets and crisps, as well as being chauffeured home afterwards.

  As I grew older and bolder – in the course of fumbling attempts to get to grips with girls – life with its hidden snares, came up with – hiding in the dark with Felicity, a friend of my cousins. We were sitting in silence – like statues – I knew something should eventually happen….. but what and when, like waiting for Christmas to come? Neither of us said a word, minutes like hours ticked by, slowly it dawned on me.

  I had recently learned a new word, a very, very naughty and secretive word – so wicked that I had never said it out loud anywhere, never mind in ‘public’. No-one even thought that I knew it – I had no idea what it did! or meant……..but so explosive was this powerful little word that I realised it was the key. By the way of an icebreaker and opening a conversation, I said ‘Do you know what F- – – means?’ She didn’t turn a hair, not a flicker of interest. I had expected mega reactions…….. turn backward somersaults or a flash of bright luminous green. Anything – but no – she was more interested in scratching away at a small scab on her knee!

  All this in preparation for the marriage of a lifetime – these are the ones who coloured my early life plus a few others! They all sharpened me up and taught me how to recognise the true gold icon – when I saw her!

  ‘OUCH’

  Three or four years before I married the bewitching one, when I was footloose and fancy free, I wanted almost more than anything else a suede jacket. There weren’t many casual clothes in those days, – only sweaters, formal blazers or cardigans, zipped or buttoned, something like Val Doonican wore on his TV shows – but a suede jacket was different. Earning four pounds and ten shillings per week, minus deductions, National Insurance, tax and some contribution to my mum didn’t leave a lot. The train fares, two shillings and four pence return ticket to Manchester, a packet of five Domino cigarettes, and a newspaper, about one shilling or less, with a lunchtime sandwich five days a week wiped me out.

  I’d checked out suede jackets, feeling the quality, trying the odd one on – but the price was prohibitive. One day in the Market Hall at the bargain stall. The one my grandmother would have called the cheap and nasty shop, I saw hanging up high on the outside of the stall ‘my jacket’. The woman hooked it down with a long pole – ‘its best suedette’ she said ‘one pound ten shillings – last one left, love’. On it felt like a second skin, very light and in a handsome warm brown colour. I coppered up all I had, every penny – and the jacket was mine. My own special thirty bob jacket – it didn’t quite cover my bum, and the sleeves were a little short, but with my quiff and in this I was a watered down James Dean. During the next few years we saw a lot of action together, a strong bond of affection grew between us.

  During work, which occupied most of the time dressed in a somber dark grey suit and black shoes, plain white shirt with a stiff cutaway collar, a dull tie and I was a clone like thousands of aspiring young men. I started work for the largest privately owned Danish Bacon importing house, in the UK, as a book clerk – soon moved to the sales side as a Junior Salesman, and not long after I was entrusted to drive new cars from Manchester to senior salesmen in different parts of the country.

  On a Friday night I might collect a Triumph Herald or Wolsey 1.5, maybe a Hillman Minx for delivery on Monday. The boss, Derek Lewin, who had been an Olympic footballer with an impressive and lifetime footballing career – purchased, organised and ran the fleet of cars. Instead of buying twenty dark blue Fords, our sales force enjoyed many different makes of cars – matched I imagine to how the boss appraised his men, what a great way. I once had custody of a pale blue Vauxhall Victor for a week – Paul Newman may have had a powder blue ‘T Bird in California – but in Lancs the American styled Victor with its wrapped round windscreen and strange cut out front doors was the bees knees.

  A little later I was dispatched to Newcastle on Tyne for six months, the great Geordie world. I walked about every inch of this corner of England from the villages of Pityme to Wideopen, or from the big lamp on Westgate Road to south of Felling. I must have earned my spurs, because at last on return to Lancashire, the modern and far-thinking boss, provided me with one of the first Mini’s in Lancashire, duck egg blue, reg. TVF something – a Blackpool registration, press start button on the floor with a wonderful crisp exhaust note, wire loops to pull down to open the doors and sliding windows. What a great car! – nippy, performance and cornering, out of this world. I drove this car with the pride and joy it deserved.

  The by-pass round Preston, which was the UK’s first motor way – like the Salt Lake flats of Utah – no speed limit – flat out, I’d pass some ‘old bod’ in a Morris Isis or Austin Hereford – they’d wake up in rage to be passed by a young tearaway in that funny little car – with their feet flat to the floor they’d try to catch or re-pass me, with no chance at all, their cars would glow red with rage. I’d let them get near then forge ahead leaving them in the dust! Sometimes in the rear view mirror I saw them dive into the emergency lane, blown up, clouds of steam coming from their bonnet.

  Sometime later, Mr Lewin tells me the car needs some new tyres and that normally this happens at around twenty thousand miles or more, but this car had only done a little over five thousand miles. I’m dumbfounded – until in a hopeful way – I suggest that the front wheel drive Mini which has very small 12” wheels and in the course of a mile its wheels rotate far more times than normal wheels, wearing the tyres out a lot faster. As an understanding and open-minded man he seemed to accept this, but said to try to make the new tyres last a little longer this time.

  Off I go to the garage at the top end of Cheatham Hill Road which the firm used for tyres and other work. There I’m parked outside, new tyres to be fitted all round. As I wait a small scruffy old scrap metal lorry in front of me, starts up and reverses straight back on to my ‘Mini’. It’s back end gouging deep into the car’s bonnet. I shouted out in shock and demented horror, the lorry stops and down jumps a tough looking Irish scrap metal man and his mate. Immediately his feet hit the ground
he says ‘Have you just run into the back of me, pal?’ in a challenging way. ‘Just look at this’ I croaked, when they stepped back far enough to see, there was the Mini – no wheels on at all, up in the air on four stands, awaiting its new tyres. ‘Game, set and match!’ I wrote down his registration number, the name and address from the side of his lorry and asked for his driving licence and insurance document details. Only the Irish have the presence of mind and the gift of words to attempt to turn an absolute rout into an almost guilt free Act of God, but the garage staff rescued me and witnessed the situation, excuses melted and the necessary details were eventually forthcoming. My accident report absolved me from all blame, and any lack of care of the company car.