Friday, 18 May 2012

Not hearing my Pa on the phone


This morning I am tired and sofa shaped. And the reason for this is I fell asleep on my sofa and woke up at 4.40am this morning.

Now, this would be all well and good if my sofa was one of those DFS advert ones where people loll around all over them, limbs everywhere.

But my sofa isn't one of them.

It's a very beautiful, pale blue, high-armed 157cm long sofa that means my compact living room still has enough room for erm… living in.

So when I woke up in the first light of dawn, my neck was bent like a giraffe in the womb and my feet were resting on the window sill... and I'm not tall.

Groaning, I staggered to bed, for two hours with a hot water bottle on my neck and now here I am, sat on the bus, primed for a day at the office, with the mobility of a Thunderbird.

Marvellous.

But let's move on we, because today is thankful Friday.

And today, I'm thankful for my Pa.

Yesterday he was in town meeting up with some old friends of his. They're all record experts so went on a sort of shop-crawl around the best CD shops in the capital. (Ma, if you're reading this, I think Pa was just window shopping. There were NO CDs in any of his carrier bags).

Anyway after work I met him for an early supper before he was due to get the train home again. He rang me – something only The Rents do – and told me he was in a Costa on Regent Street.

'I know it' I said and dashed out of work. I arrived at Cafe Nero and rang him. 'Where are you?' I said.

'At the Costa on Regent Street' he said.

Deaf girl fail: 1

'There isn't a Costa on Regents Street,' I replied, barely able to hear him above the racket of the traffic.

'Upper Regent Street' he yelled.

And with a harrumph (sorry Pa) I hung up and strode/navigated/fought my way over Oxford Circus to get to Upper Regent Street.

No Costa.

Harrumph.

I rang him.

'There's no Costa on Upper Regent Street either,' I whined.

'It's opposite Miss Selfridge' he yelled.

'Miss Selfridge is on Oxford Street,' I pointed out. 'Are you in a Twighlight Zone, Pa?' I asked helpfully.

It turned out he wasn't. He was in fact in Great Portland Street, the next road along...

Pa fail: 1

So after eventually meeting up I took him for tea at Mother Mash in Ganton Street. It's a marvellous place... although I do wish they'd serve their sausages a bit crispier. We chatted and caught up and he gave me a present he'd got me that day – a mug with a very early London Tube Map on it, which as I am a bit of a Tube geek, I absolutely loved.

Pa is an excellent present buyer.

But what I was thankful for was my Pa's incredible patience with me shouting at him because I hadn't heard him on the phone. He took it all in his stride. He didn't once get mad at me and when we met up, my grumpiness wasn't even mentioned.

Pa is one of the most tolerant people of my deaf rants. He puts up with my impatience, my strops and my tantrums with a cool efficiency that is most impressive.

Although next time, I'm going to make him text me and perhaps send me a photo of where he is…

That way there will be no yelling.

And just for the record, THERE IS NO COSTA ON REGENT STREET…

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Poor Pa! The bags were frisked!

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