The Awkward Girl's Guide to the Week | In Which There Are Monkeys
Well, ONE monkey...
When I decided to quit Instagram last month, I had a vague idea that I’d take all of the photos I’d normally post there in the space of a month, and I’d publish them on the blog, instead. I’d call it ‘Instead of Instagram’ or something equally snappy, and it would be the perfect way to provide a roundup of my month, illustrated with photos you’d never have seen before.
As it turns out, though, it seems that quitting Instagram also made me more or less quit taking photos, unless I know I’m going to need them for the blog. So my camera roll now is about 80% videos of Max singing Dolly Parton songs, 10% screenshots of random stuff, and 10% photos that have been automatically downloaded from Whatsapp chats. Like this one, for instance:
This is three of my mum’s cousins with their pet monkey, Woolly.
Now, Woolly was not always a pet monkey, before you come at me about animal cruelty and such. I KNOW. But this was the 1950s. Back then, Woolly was a working monkey, who paid his way by standing around Blackpool promenade, having his photo taken with tourists. Any time I think of this, I always imagine him accompanied by an organ grinder, because, obviously, but I have no idea if that was the case or not. Or even if it was actually Blackpool, to be honest. It could have been some other English seaside resort, for all I know.
What I do know about Woolly’s genesis story is that, wherever it was, it was a place where, by rights, moneys should not be, and my mum’s Aunt Marion obviously thought so too, because, having noticed that Woolly looked rather thin and un-cared for when they’d seen him that day, as soon as they got back to their guest house, Aunt Marion sent her husband right back out, with instructions to find the organ grinder (or whoever it was) and ask him how much he’d take for his monkey.
£50 was the answer.
£50, of course, was quite a lot of money in those days, but Aunt Marion would not be budged on this, and so it was that Woolly returned with the family to Scotland (Which is arguably also a place monkeys should not be, but I’m just telling this story, okay…) where Aunt Marion would knit him little outfits to protect him from the harsh Scottish weather, and carry him around in her handbag. Apparently he was quite well known around the local cafes, where he would join Aunt Marion for tea, and peek out at unsuspecting diners.
In retrospect, it would probably have been kinder to send Woolly to a zoo or something, and I believe he did actually end up in an animal sanctuary of some sort, although it’s possible my mum was just told that as a child, in the same way Max’s class were told last week that the sick baby chick they’d hatched had “gone home”. But, as I said, this was a different age, as evidenced by the fact that when my mum sent me this photo on Whatsapp, she immediately followed it up with another message, saying, “At least, I think that’s Woolly. I can’t be sure.”
Me: Wh…who else could it be?
Mum: Some other monkey?
Me: Who ALSO happened to be hanging around a Scottish mining town and having his photos taken with random children?
Mum:
Ah, yes. This would be me and my mum, holding two random monkeys who were not Woolly. OK, ya got me there. Look, it was the olden days, okay, you were totally allowed to stand around clutching tiny clothed monkeys to your chest, so we totally did. I love the way my mum is cradling her monkey carefully, like the precious little living being it is, while I have just stuck mine under my arm with an “Are we done yet? I’m late for an important meeting..,” expression on my face.
Anyway, those were literally the only two things on my camera roll that weren’t videos of Max or screenshots from my Kindle Publishing Account, so here’s what else happened:
I had yet another birthday. Every freaking year this happens. HONESTLY. Now, if you know me at all, you know I hate birthdays any way, but this one was particularly grim in that we spent part of it in a restaurant where a child almost choked to to death. The little girl was fine, thank God, but the sound of the mother screaming for help will haunt me forever, and now I have to try really hard not to just snatch Max’s food away as soon as he’s given it. This parenting thing is so stressful, seriously.
Speaking of parenting, we had a parents’ evening at Max’s school, during which I had my photo taken for the “parent board” , which is a collection of photos of surprised-looking parents, with a little description of their job underneath it, to “inspire” the kids with. I haven’t actually seen mine yet, but when the headteacher asked me if I’d also like to come in and give some talks to the children, I was forced to admit that my anxiety around talking in front of people would not allow that to happen, so I’d imagine all the other parents blurbs will say stuff like, “Susan, Doctor” and stuff, and mine will just say something like, “Amber, Annoying.” Seriously, though, can you imagine me trying to talk to children about my job? “Well, kids, I write books about hot billionaires and movie stars who get with really quite ordinary girls, and I also write about my life on the internet. Any questions?”
While we’re on the subject of Max’s school, meanwhile, I’m pleased to report that The Chick That Went Home, did, in fact come back to school the next day, miraculously cured. I mean… I think we all know what happened there, don’t we? Yes. Max, however, was relieved to find that Fluffy the Chick (who Max refers to as “George”. Don’t ask.) had survived his ordeal, so I’m happy to believe it, too.
We went to the Museum of Flight, at East Fortune. It was oddly emotional.
I wore a coat. It was much less emotional. But warm. So that’s the main thing.
That’s literally it. Living the dream over here, for sure.
Randomly popular on the blog this month, even though I didn’t actually write them this month:
I thought I was an asshole: it turns out I just have misophonia
14 random things people have said about my red hair over the years
Reading Anne of Green Gables as an adult is weirder than you might expect
Coming up in April…
As this newsletter goes out I’ll be on my way to the Western Highlands, where we’ll be spending the first week of the Easter break. It’s not a sponsored stay, so I’m not obliged to post about it on Instagram — which means next month’s roundup might be a little more interesting than this one. I’m making no promises, though…