MPs, The Queen, Boobs, Snoop Dog & Hugs

Today, despite the earlier rain, has been a good day, albeit full of the usual twists and turns that make up the normality of Landladyship. I Woke up early, from a dream I can no longer remember, and having woken The Boy (I wonder if my son will still hold this title when he is in his 60s?) I wandered back to my bed, one of my cats and some early morning TV. I do tend to watch TV at silly o clock, as that is the only time of day/night I usually get time to do so.

I did, however, manage to catch the State Opening of Parliament this morning too. The Queen, for whom I have respect (Oh, come on, how many other women are still working at 90? Especially when they have had to contend with divorces, affairs, deaths, re-marriages and other family embarrassments that have threatened the very fabric of a British Institution. She is switched on, knowledgeable, and has presence too.), looked resplendent in her finery, and given that she has had to contend with twelve Prime Ministers, various governments, a World War and various other disasters, is probably better equipped to run this country than all of the peers, lords and MPs whom she addressed at Westminster, during the parliamentary opening. Britain not only loves its own history, but it repeats it. (Apologies to the venerable Bede and the innumerable generations of historians who have walked the path of the past. I am conversant with the whole 'History cannot repeat itself' theory, it is salient and I subscribe to it, however, whilst the unique, particular, era and people of each event will either be kaleidoscopically or minutely different, there are similarities, as witnessed in this morning's state occasion.) For hundreds of years Parliament has been opened in the SAME way - it's just the major players and their words that alter. As my heir apparent commented whilst watching part of this spectacle with me, "It's 2016, you'd think they'd jazz it up a bit".

Yes, Sadie you would think so, but that would smite the years of historical tradition of which we Brits are so proud. Whilst Sadie thought that The Black Rod, who had the door ceremoniously slammed in his face, should have raised his middle finger , said "Sod you then" and buggered off to the nearest pub, that really isn't the way we do things in this country. As for the MPs, I was reminded of the Reptonian school boys I knew in my youth. Gathered as the MPs were on the benches of their 'common room', in their suits (uniforms) excitedly waiting to be called to 'assembly', be addressed by The Queen (Headmistress) and learn what the (academic) year ahead held for them. The MPs looked as though they were passing the time spent waiting postulating what the Head (of State) would impart, whilst also exchanging 'dirty' jokes.

I did look out for Andrew Griffiths (he often pops in for a pint of our finest ale) but failed to spot him. I did, however, among the suited, booted, clean MPs spot one who would have looked at home, leather clad, on a Harley. With his long, pony-tailed hair, he looked to be far to 'maverick' and modern to be part of such a political and historical event. If anyone knows his name or constituency, I would love to know.

A thought that occurred to me as I watched the government and monarchs, apart from how far they are removed from the reality of the people they govern and rule, was this: If all the factories, pubs, shops and offices were to begin work by opening like our Parliament does, we'd get very little done. Sadie and I joked that on Tutbury Day (Yes, our village has it's own day, in August) we should have a state opening of The Leopard, to which Sadie replied "You just want to wear a crown and cloak". And why not? My generation of women grew up being fed Cinderella propaganda. We expected, until Germaine Greer intervened, to be rescued (from what, was never made clear) by Knights or Princes, be gifted with 'freedom' from drudgery, jewels, fine clothes and to receive our 'Happy Ever After'. In return all that would be expected from us was the production and mothering of children, the cleaning of our man's castle, to have dinner on his table and be available in his bed. As I played my part in this fairy tale for a while, the way I see it, I have earned my crown and cloak.

After the pomp and circumstance, I (unlike those I had been watching) crashed into normality like a whirling dervish. Jobs on my mental to-do list crossed off, I headed out, into the village to keep my appointment with the hairdressers. Yes, it's an indulgence, but for me it's a chance to chat, drink lots of coffee and be pampered. I am not a 'girlie' woman (I detest shopping, spas etc.,) but I do look forward to my time at the hairdressers - it's a break from the pub, the hospitality industry and being a mum. For two hours a month, I am just, well... me.

I returned to The Leopard, to retake the reins and complete some more jobs on that long to-do list, before taking my rightful place on the bar this evening. It was, at this point (and I have to say in part due to me) that things went from the sublime to the ridiculous. Not that I take the blame for all that came to pass, tonight, I had several partners in crime!

Last night I watched a programme (again at silly o clock) about High Class Hookers. Now, there was so much in that programme that could have been intellectually debated with my customers (the moral and legal issues, the social issues, societal need for such services and the like), but no, what did I choose to explore. Boobs. One of the aforementioned 'Ladies of the Night' had the most gravity defying and globe like orbs I have ever seen. They were huge, perfectly round and obviously not real. This got me thinking as to whether men actually find this kind of 'aesthetic' breast augmentation attractive. Given that the pub was, aside from myself and one other female, peopled by men, I decided to ask the question. (Actually, I should probably take some of the blame for the evening's conversation!) All of the respondents said that they didn't find boob implants attractive. A discussion then ensued about boobs in general, with much hilarity. I did remark that a high percentage of women who underwent breast implant surgery did so to please their man, or to attract men/male attention. (Yes, I will take some blame for the nature of tonight's chat) I also said that if a man was to undergo similar surgery in his 'nether regions', I doubted if it would please he woman they were with or indeed attract one. (Ok, probably a high proportion of 'blame' could be laid at my feet!)

My only female companion took things a stage further (for which I am grateful, now I can share the blame) and talk turned to the size of men's 'wedding tackle'. Much laughter followed as we joked, chatted, explained the 'tip of thumb to the tip of forefinger - outstretched, rule' and the 'tip of middle finger to wrist rule'. (This being a makeshift indication of size). The usual jokes raised their heads (no pun intended) as did the usual male banter and female quips. Fortunately, only regulars were present, God knows what a stranger ambling into the pub would have thought. But, to be honest, it was but innocent and trivial banter, but it did entertain and amuse us!

As the night progressed, so did the merriment, and we were joined by a few more customers. Two of whom booked a taxi to take them home. When the taxi pulled up I recognised the driver as being a friend of another customer, and pointed this out to her. She waved to him through the window and having spotted his friend the taxi driver made his way into the pub. When he walked in he was greeted by my now very excited, previously only female companion, who exclaimed that he looked like Snoop Dog, stated that her life was complete and proceeded to take numerous selfies with him, much to the bemusement of his waiting fares. Snoop Dog, it has to be said, willing indulged his fan, and the other customers (some of whom also posed for pictures with him). When the excitement and giggling died down and the photographic session was concluded, Snoop Dog The Taxi Driver, took his fares home.

Last orders followed not long after and as I went about 'close down' and clearing up, whilst the assembled group 'drank up' I remarked that I wasn't sure how we'd gone from Boobs to Snoop Dog, but reflected that it had been a good night, with an equally good time being had by all.

As people departed, each indulged in what I can only describe as a lovely tradition that takes place every night in The Leopard, after the bell has been rung and the last drinks have been drunk - the 'good night hug'. (You see Mr Bede, history can and does often repeat itself - not unlike the author of this blog!). Such is the closeness of the people of community in which my business is happily situated, and I like to think that, as myself and my family are included in this ritualistic farewell, our customers feel both 'at home' and reluctant to leave us. Therefore, simply saying 'good night', 'bye' or 'see you later' isn't enough of a gesture to end an evening with friends in The Leopard. So, many of our customers hug each other, my family and me, before leaving.

These hugs are a little like The Queen receiving flowers from well-wishers in the crowd during a walk about: they happen a lot, but never fail to make me smile and feel appreciated. Our Leopard hugs are a great way to end a great night. In receiving a hug it hopefully shows people they are part of our extended family, just as giving them shows they are welcome here and that we are sorry to see them leave. The humble hug: it denotes friendship and is a lovely way to say a temporary 'tarra' to lovely people, who we really hope will join us for more fun at The Leopard tomorrow.

And the day after.

Having written this blog, I know how we went from Boobs to Snoop Dog - This is The Leopard, and that's how we roll.