Claws

You simply would not believe the difficulties I experience when trying to groom my darling Freya’s hair! Lydia (my PA) was relatively successful yesterday morning and actually managed to construct two relatively symmetrical bunches. Naturally, she has not allowed us to come near her with the hair brush since and by this morning one of the bobbles had fallen out. Clearly the remaining hair accessory needed to be removed. There was a scuffle, screaming, nail involvement and even some spiting – I so hate to admit. I wonder if social services would become involved if they knew…

This afternoon I took my perfect Max to visit The National Lobster Hatchery in Padstow. The munchkin is a typical five year old boy and fascinated by anything with claws. The poppet was completely enthralled by the enormous crustaceans; to his complete disgust all had their claws tethered. Max wanted to see the lobsters lop off the odd tourist’s finger (although not his own – clearly).

I remember as a child my mother told us a funny story about a lobster – Max was completely tickled by it when I passed it on to him. Brenda was raised in Ireland, and she lived in a two up two down terraced house in Dublin with her parents, an unmarried aunt and thirteen brothers and sisters. A neighbour of theirs once gave them a lobster – I am afraid I cannot remember what had occasioned the highly unusual gift. The only instruction given to my grandma regarding its preparation was that it was to be plunged into a great pot of boiling water and left to simmer.

Apparently my grandma was horrified to observe that the lobster was in fact alive and had its claws tethered. “It must be a cheap lobster, as it hasn’t even been killed and gutted,” she concluded. My aunty Louise felt sorry for the beastie and decided to untie it while grandma decided what to do. By all accounts the crustacean was as big as the family cat.

Untied, the lobster ran amok in the kitchen causing havoc and behaving in a most threatening and ungrateful manner. It was impossible to gain access to the kitchen to so much as boil the kettle for a cup of tea, until my grandfather returned from work. He took a spade into the room and along with the lobster, destroyed Grandma’s favourite willow pattern serving plate.

Apparently my grandma didn’t speak to her unfortunate neighbours again, and the lobster was buried in an ornately decorated plot in the garden. This is true, I saw the grave.

On reflection, I am inspired by aunty Louise’s courageous removal of the restraints from the lobster’s claws, apparently ignoring the potential danger to herself. I must ask her how she did it…