Hetty's mum and dad -
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Saturday 11th August ‘01 - 21.24pm:
I’m a little bit worried about Hetty. She’s still in the lounge with the light off. I don’t know about politely just nipping in and putting the TV on while she sleeps. Her mum and dad have been on the phone. They demanded to talk to her and they said they haven’t spoken to her for over a month. Apparantly she left a message on their answerphone and they tracked it to my number using 1471, since she used my phone (without asking - another contravention of Mr Tideswell’s “Rules and Regulations” as he technically owns the phone socket - although he's leased me the phone).
Her mum’s name is Joanna, and she sounded really timid and quiet. I told her that Hetty was fast asleep curled up in my lounge, and then she wanted to know more about how she had got there, and why, and something about how the National Youth Jazz Band have been touring Scarborough recently and she wondered why Hetty hadn’t been in touch for so long. I said, “Look Mrs Roberts, I don’t know exactly what Hetty has told you, but she hasn’t been on tour with the National Youth Jazz Band.” Her mum burst into hysterics at this point and the phone was grappled off of her by her husband Ronnie. “Look,” he said - in a kind of more angry than I would have expected for a lifelong hippy tone of a voice - “We’re going spare with concern, man. Just tell us what have you done with our daughter, and where the heck she is.”
I could hear Hetty moaning (presumably in her sleep) as the lounge door was ajar, and the phone’s in the hall. I wanted to go and get her but I thought the sleep might do her good. I said, “I don’t think you understand. I’m friends with Hetty. I’m trying to explain that she’s OK but she hasn’t been on a jazz tour, and as far as I know has never been to Scarborough.”
“She has,” volleyed back Ronnie Roberts, “We took her there on a holiday in 1986 when she was only three years of age.”
“Look, I don’t want to get into an argument about whether your daughter has ever been to Scarborough,” I said.
“Well that’s just what you have got, young man,” replied Ronnie (who sounded as if he was sucking a fruit drop).
“Can I get her to call you later?” I said, really trying to bring the conversation to an amicable conclusion. Her dad seemed to calm down then, and he gave me the number on which to call them back. "We’ve been worried sick really," he told me, “Ever since her last phone call over a month ago. You don’t know what it’s been like.” I tried to sound sympathetic. I couldn’t stop myself from thinking about options of where Hetty could stay from now on. I don’t want her camping in my lounge. She might knock over an ornament with a stray arm movement in the night. Not saying she will of course, or that I’ve got many ornaments of much value. I do treasure the one my grandma gave me of an owl in flight though. I assured him that Hetty would phone them tonight, and I asked him, “Are you both still actively involved in the hippy movement?” I wondered if he might take offence but he seemed to welcome the change in conversation as if it were a breath of fresh air, and said, “I’m webmaster for an alternative lifestyles e-zine, and my wife Joanna makes nan bread which is given away at a free market every third Wednesday to like-minded people.” To be honest I felt my interest start to wane.
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Hetty's mum and dad -
Saturday 11th August ‘01 - 21.24pm: I’m a little bit worried about Hetty. She’s still in the lounge with the light off. I don’t know about politely just nipping in and putting the TV on while she sleeps. Her mum and dad have been on the phone. They demanded to talk to her and they said they haven’t spoken to her for over a month. Apparantly she left a message on their answerphone and they tracked it to my number using 1471, since she used my phone (without asking - another contravention of Mr Tideswell’s “Rules and Regulations” as he technically owns the phone socket - although he's leased me the phone). Her mum’s name is Joanna, and she sounded really timid and quiet. I told her that Hetty was fast asleep curled up in my lounge, and then she wanted to know more about how she had got there, and why, and something about how the National Youth Jazz Band have been touring Scarborough recently and she wondered why Hetty hadn’t been in touch for so long. I said, “Look Mrs Roberts, I don’t know exactly what Hetty has told you, but she hasn’t been on tour with the National Youth Jazz Band.” Her mum burst into hysterics at this point and the phone was grappled off of her by her husband Ronnie. “Look,” he said - in a kind of more angry than I would have expected for a lifelong hippy tone of a voice - “We’re going spare with concern, man. Just tell us what have you done with our daughter, and where the heck she is.” I could hear Hetty moaning (presumably in her sleep) as the lounge door was ajar, and the phone’s in the hall. I wanted to go and get her but I thought the sleep might do her good. I said, “I don’t think you understand. I’m friends with Hetty. I’m trying to explain that she’s OK but she hasn’t been on a jazz tour, and as far as I know has never been to Scarborough.” “She has,” volleyed back Ronnie Roberts, “We took her there on a holiday in 1986 when she was only three years of age.” “Look, I don’t want to get into an argument about whether your daughter has ever been to Scarborough,” I said. “Well that’s just what you have got, young man,” replied Ronnie (who sounded as if he was sucking a fruit drop). “Can I get her to call you later?” I said, really trying to bring the conversation to an amicable conclusion. Her dad seemed to calm down then, and he gave me the number on which to call them back. "We’ve been worried sick really," he told me, “Ever since her last phone call over a month ago. You don’t know what it’s been like.” I tried to sound sympathetic. I couldn’t stop myself from thinking about options of where Hetty could stay from now on. I don’t want her camping in my lounge. She might knock over an ornament with a stray arm movement in the night. Not saying she will of course, or that I’ve got many ornaments of much value. I do treasure the one my grandma gave me of an owl in flight though. I assured him that Hetty would phone them tonight, and I asked him, “Are you both still actively involved in the hippy movement?” I wondered if he might take offence but he seemed to welcome the change in conversation as if it were a breath of fresh air, and said, “I’m webmaster for an alternative lifestyles e-zine, and my wife Joanna makes nan bread which is given away at a free market every third Wednesday to like-minded people.” To be honest I felt my interest start to wane. |
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