Feature

Haven’t You Heard?

© Lucia Foster-Found 2023 www.luciafosterfound.com

“I miss the old-fashioned January sales. In January.” They were trapped in traffic. Stationary, they looked through the rain-streaked glass at the blurry fairy lights of those still clinging to the festive season. “They were something to look forward to after Christmas. The silver lining of the big comedown.” She sighed. The windscreen wipers squeaked as they swooped intermittently over the windscreen in desultory fashion. “You think? Depressing seeing the gifts you bought in December at half price.” Himself turned on the heater as the windows started to steam up. “I suppose there was that,” she agreed and sighed again. Squeak squeak; the sound of the wipers was starting to irritate. “I’ll put the radio on,” they said in unison and reached as one for the button. “It’ll be Steve Wright.” Himself nodded as he looked at his watch. “Every time you go away, you take a piece of meat with you,” she warbled along with the radio, adding “and haven’t you heard – Steve’s been gone for months.” “What? Dead?” Himself was looking at her with an expression approaching horror. “No – not dead,” she reassured. “Just gone.” “Gone? Well, no-one asked me. And it’s not ‘meat’ you’re hearing, Darling - it’s ‘me’. The lyrics...” “Ah.. I thought it was weird,” she admitted. Himself was still shaking his head as the track changed and she broke into song once more. “See that girl, watch her scream, kicking the dancing queen.” She danced in her seat, concert stylie. The car inched forward a few feet and stopped again. “I’m pretty sure there’s no screaming or kicking in that one either.” Himself murmured as he gazed again out of the window at the lights strung around a conifer in a front garden. It was fully dark now and the wind had picked up – the illuminations were dancing as the tree thrashed about. “And I still miss Wogan.” He added quietly before listening as she joined in the next song with a soulful “young girls with eyes like potatoes…” “I don’t think you’re hearing Madonna singing about potatoes, darling,” he interrupted. “I mean, what sort? Jersey Royals? And even then those young girls would look... like the stuff of nightmares.” She felt, rather than saw him shudder in the darkness. The radio DJs changed shifts and they listened in thoughtful silence for a few minutes before another track came on that she thought she knew the words to... “She seems to have an in-vis-ible top shelf, she reaches in and grabs right hold of your tart.” She paused in her singing, “actually, that’d be so useful – an invisible top shelf! I could put the Christmas crockery up there,” she mused, thinking of those robin-infested, non-microwaveable, nondishwasher-safe dishes festooned with gold. Himself started to say “I’m not sure ‘ole Phil is singing about invisible top sh…” then exclaimed, “ooh… on the move at last,” as the traffic jam miraculously dispersed. A couple of days later on Sunday, Himself wandered into the kitchen. Her head and shoulders emerged from the depths of the freezer. “Could you face turkey soup again? We’ve rather a lot…” “Umm OK..” He hesitated and added “perhaps we could just have a few chips and maybe a bit of fish with it?” He looked so hopeful that she put the Tupperware tub back amongst identical siblings on its icy shelf. Best get January out of the way and tackle the soup lake again next month. A spaniel’s nose nudged her leg. “Do you want to go out?” she asked. The dog stayed put. No mad, Scooby-doo-esque running on the spot before careering towards the back door. A second spaniel arrived - positioned on her other side. They observed her with large and accusing eyes. “Can’t be dinner time,” she reassured them. “Paul O’Grady’s not on the radio yet.” As if to prove her point, she turned up the volume. “Ooh, I like this one…” She began to chant loudly “Marge! I just died in your barns tonight – mustard bin something you said..” Himself had to shout over the combination of the radio and her trilling. “It’s later than you think – haven’t you heard, Paul O’Grady’s been gone for months..” “No! Not Paul too…” Shocked, she dished up dog food to the partially mollified spaniels. “I’m afraid so. A sign of the times – or at least, a sign of the radio times..” He shrugged. Inconveniently though, she found the fryer was surrounded, hemmed in by gadgets; the gifts of Christmas past. It cowered in the corner of the cupboard, unable to escape the clutches of the juicer, the waffleiser, the electric pie press - and this Christmas’s hot favourite, the hot chocolate maker. More candidates for that invisible top shelf, she thought as she emerged, pink-cheeked and triumphant, fryer in arms. Himself, cheerful at the prospect of crispy, brown, fried food, delved into the freezer, happily retrieving fish fillets and home fries. “Hey – listen to this!” he chortled, before breaking into his own enthusiastic warbling, “Money for nothing - and your CHIPS for free...”