Page 6 of Has Anyone Seen My Sex Life?
‘Y’alright there Lemon Drop?’
Polly is Lemon Drop for no other reason than she has blonde hair and Danny is terrible with names. Yes, even with his own kids. I hand her over, slightly smug to know her bottom area is damp and fragrant. He sits up, putting a hand to her back and does that thing where he beats out a rhythm from a song in his head on her ribs. The dog pokes his head around the door to let us know he needs a whizz. The house awakens like a grizzly bear from hibernation except it’s cold, it’s always cold because I live in the North of England now and the version of cold up here is something my Southern bones have never quite got used to. Downstairs, I hear footsteps and the murmur of voices. The television? Eve is talking to someone. On the phone? To the cat?
‘You see, Polly has croup,’ she says. ‘So it’s probably why they’ve slept in and forgotten to feed me…’
‘Oh dear, Princess Polly’s not well?’
Bollocks. She’s actually let someone in the house. I arch my head over the landing. It’s Patrick.
‘I’m sorry, Patrick. I’ll be down in a minute,’ I call out.
Danny is the one who’s grinning now. I hope Polly pees on him. I tighten the sash of my dressing gown around my midriff and gallop down the stairs to find Patrick propped against the front door as Eve fills him in on the small injustices of her life. He smiles at me, as he always does. You see, our postman is a man called Patrick so essentially, we have a Postman Pat. I kid you not. When we moved up here, away from London and all that I’d ever known, it was the first thing that tickled me, making me think I’d like my new life in the Lake District. When my sisters would text me, cajoling at how I was miles away from the nearest revolving sushi bar, swapping the capital city for cowpats, sensible wellies and people who wore tweed without irony, I would throw Pat in their faces. Look at you with your toxic urban lives and your postmen who change every week and put junk menus through your door. I’m running around green hills like Maria frigging von Trapp. My postman isactuallycalled Pat. He wears knee high socks and shorts, in mid-winter! And because the joke is also not lost on him, his wife has made him a stuffed black-and-white cat for his cherry red van window. I officially love Pat.
However, the unfortunate way in which our living room window is right next to the front door means that Pat often gets more than he bargained for when he delivers the mail to our house. The girls will answer the door when they see him trudging up the driveway so we never have any warning he’s here, and he’ll get to see me with a towelling dressing gown draped over my shoulders, Danny in his pants (the man feels no cold or shame) or a young daughter of ours screaming that we’ve given them the wrong colour bowl.
I’ve shared minimal conversation with Pat but in my head, he’s lived in the Lakes all his life and comes from a family of ginger postmen. At Christmas, the girls always make him a card and we give him homemade shortbread. I like to think he eats them by the fire with tea served to him by a wife who likes a heavy wool skirt. I approach the front door trying to protect my modesty, knowing that Pat has seen me in worse states of undress, possibly at one time with a child still attached to my breast. It means there’s always a lot of winking and mild innuendo with him – something I’ve tried to ignore so it won’t spoil the image of him living his Lakeland shortbread idyll.
‘Morning Mrs Morton. How do?’ Wink.
Pat says this a lot and even after having quizzed Danny on what ‘how do’ means, I still never know how to respond to this.
‘Oh, you know…this and that…’
The dog, Mr T (don’t ask) comes over to observe. There was a time he used to launch himself at the postman but old age means he’s far more chilled these days. I’m all too aware though that he could very well unload his old dog bladder on him if I’m not quick. Pat pets him on the head.
‘Shouldn’t you lassies be getting ready for school? Tick tock…how’s little Princess Polly’s croup? You manage to get some of that Olbas Oil?’
The trouble with a provincial postman is that they also know far more about your life than a normal one would. Pat has been witness to all our family dramas.
‘She’s not a real princess, you know,’ pipes up Tess behind me.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, because we’re not royalty. We wouldn’t be living in Kendal otherwise or be driving a Volvo.’
Tess is the eldest daughter, and there’s a dryness to her sense of humour that feels more than a little familiar. Pat laughs, winks and hands me a pile of mail, including a plain cardboard box.
‘And big day today,’ he says. ‘You wish ol’ Bob a Happy Birthday from me, June and the kids.’
That’s the other thing about Kendal, everyone knows everyone. Bob, my father-in-law, is part of the Kendal Golf Club mafia, which means if you drew some sort of Venn diagram, he was connected to literally everyone in this place. I once argued it was all a bit incestuous at which Danny kicked me under a dinner table.
‘I will do,’ I reply.
‘IS THERE ANY BREAD THAT ISN’T 50/50?’ Eve pipes up from the kitchen.
‘And that is my cue to go! You don’t happen to have any bread on you, do you?’ I say to Pat.
‘Only meat and two veg I’m afraid.’ And there’s your innuendo. I do believe my postie just offered up his member for breakfast. He guffaws and winks again. ‘You have a good day now, Mrs Morton.’ Oh dear, Pat.
‘You too, Pat.’ Are we talking chipolatas or a decent-sized Cumberland?
Tess is looking curiously at both of us. ‘What sort of postman carries meat around?’ she asks. She gives me her father’s look; the one he gives me when I attempt to make popular culture references that he simply doesn’t understand.
‘It was a joke.’
‘Who jokes about meat?’
‘Postmen.’ Mr T sidles up next to me doing his old dog sway. Poor Mr T. ‘C’mon, dogface.’
