Tipping Point

(It helps if you know the format of the programme when reading this)

Florrie just managed to avoid spilling their teas on the table. She hoped he hadn’t noticed.

            ‘You’ve forgotten the Eccles cakes. It’ll be on in a minute.’

            ‘Stop mithering. I’ve only got two hands. I’m going back for them.’

            ‘Hurry up, then. Look, it’s coming on. Let’s see who we’ve got today. Oh, bloody hell, Florrie, look at this one. Is it a man, or a woman? Can’t tell with that hair.’

            She plonked herself down in that new armchair Susan, their daughter, had bought. If you pressed a button it helped you to stand up. She’d be up again once the adverts came on unless George didn’t notice she’d forgotten the sugar in his tea.

            ‘Oh, that woman contestant looks nice though. She’s got a look of our Susan and our Candice.’ Florrie bit into the Eccles cake and watched as the crumbs rolled down her cardi, and into the sides of the chair.

            ‘Bloody, Candice. I thought she said she’d come and do your ironing. She never even looked at an iron when she was here yesterday. You should have dropped a big hint. Look, woman, what on earth are you doing with that cake? Making a mess by the looks of it.’

            Florrie shook her cardi, knocking crumbs onto the floor. ‘It’s the cleaner’s day tomorrow. I might ask her to do that bit of ironing. Our Candice has got exams coming up, A levels. She told us, remember. She’s a good girl. Susan says they’re hoping for great things from her.’ Florrie watched as he bit his cake and sipped his tea. He was glued to the TV.

            ‘It’s a man. Thought it was. Deep voice and tattoos. Anyhow, it looks like our Susan’s getting more drops than he is. At least she looks like a woman.’ He tore his attention from the screen and nudged Florrie’s arm. It was a good job she wasn’t holding her mug. ‘Did you notice that tattoo on Candice’s neck yesterday? I’ll have words with our Susan about that. Fancy letting her get a tattoo. Whatever was she thinking of? Our Susan wouldn’t have dreamed of getting a tattoo.’

            Florrie knew about Susan’s tattoo, a rose on her shoulder. She’d been shocked when she saw it last year, but Susan explained it was to do with being an independent woman and having the right to do what she wanted with her own body. George would go nuts if he knew. ‘Susan knows about Candice’s tattoo. Anyhow, its different to when we were young. What’s that question? Seb Coe? What distance did he run to win his Olympic Gold?’ She wondered whether Seb Coe had any tattoos.

            George hunched forward. He’d be asking her to turn the volume up any minute.

            ‘I bet he doesn’t know. Too young. What did he say he was? A landscape gardener? He needs to landscape that hair. Tie it back. Better still, get it cut.’ He sipped his tea and replaced the mug. ‘Ahh, lovely. Any more in the pot? No, sit down, don’t press that bloody button. You’ll miss his answer.  Look, he’s got it right. Fifteen hundred meters. He’s not that daft. All that fresh air he gets. Good for the brain. Our Susan has a job on now.’

            He only looked to be in his late twenties, early thirties, perhaps. ‘I bet he has his own business. You can’t judge on looks, George. Not these days anyhow.’

            ‘Yes, I’ll give him his due. He’d do better if he cut his hair though. Our Susan’s beat him on that one. Look, Ben wants her to win. He’s nodding at her answer. She looks like she means business. Looks the part. Smart, that’s it.’

            George used to look smart, like he meant business. He wore that same jumper most days now. ‘Shall I ask the cleaner to iron that blue shirt of yours?’

            ‘Keep your eye on her tomorrow, Florrie. Make sure she moves your chair and gets those crumbs. She never moved any furniture last week. She needs proper lessons in how to clean. She’s a nice lass, but I bet her mother never showed her.’

            Florrie remembered the time she’d watched Candice with that vacuum cleaner. She didn’t have a clue. At least she visited, made them laugh with tales of her friends. So did the cleaner. As for Susan, well!

            ‘Florrie, no. I don’t want that young cleaner ironing my personal stuff. They don’t iron these days, anyhow. It’s all stuff that doesn’t need ironing. Our Susan irons; sharp work blouses for that job of hers. She might do it for me.’

            Florrie sighed, sat back, and rammed the rest of the Eccles cake in her mouth.

            ‘Wave, Florrie. Bye-bye Landscape hair. Come on, our Susan. Get that Jackpot Counter dropped.’