Annemarie's story
It’s What's Inside that Counts.I can think of many occasions when what is inside is what counts: the spy and the resistance worker with the cyanide pill, what's inside the small print of all those documents we sign, the sudden kindness in someone unexpected and, of course, all those ingredients in the stuff we put into our mouths.
With it being near Christmas I have two family stories regarding 'it's what inside that counts'. My first thought was about Christmas pudding, never much appreciated in our family.Christmas puddings originated in the 14th century contained beef, mutton, raisins, wines, spices and among other ingredients, suet, which we still have in today's puddings (don't tell your French friends!).
Over the centuries it became less savoury and much fruitier with the addition of a hidden coin, the finder of which was ensured luck for the year (- as long as he didn't swallow it!)The puddings must have been very rich because in 1664 the Puritans outlawed the 'sinfully rich dessert' - along with a long list of other pleasures. We usually have quite a houseful at Christmas and I remember one particular year when we had two very young lads from Belarus staying. Time for the pudding and we all sat round the table paper hats on and inside surprises of crackers strewn; the lights were turned out and their eyes widened as the pudding was carried in, clothed in its brandy-burning, blue cloak, followed by the crackle and flames of the holly sprig catching fire. Anticipation as the pudding was doled out followed by great excitement when coins clinked onto the their plates amid the debris of currants. Then wonderment and laughter as our son 'magicked' a silver fork, silver napkin ring and finally a small silver teapot seemingly from his mouth. Eventually the boys tried a spoonful of the pudding - a simultaneous screwing up of faces and shaking of heads ensued. Fortunately I had made a frozen ice cream Christmas pudding as well - and no it had no secrets inside.
My second story is about my mother, known to everybody as Omie. When she was 90 she spent her Christmas with us and my sister and family. We were nine around the table and the youngsters were bored as there was no dessert after the Boxing Day meal and they were ready to leave the table until THE BOX OF CHOCOLATES was mentioned. These were Russian Roulette chocolates. Thirty six luscious chocolates, each nestling in its crinkly golden bed, eighteen in the top layer and eighteen below. Innocent - but delicious- looking chocolates. Ha ha! One hid a secret within! One chocolate contained a whole, small, spicy-hot chilli inside. The warning was announced in fairly large, red letters underneath a Russian snow scene, on the cover of the octagonal box, “Yes! Yes! We won't mind,” said the children.”It's only one chocolate and we can spit it out!”The box was duly passed around the table starting with Omie. Silence reigned as we watched - hopefully on the children's (and my) side. Eyes closed, Omie enjoyed the velvety unctuousness of her chocolate. The box was passed reverently round the table. Each child screwed up his or her face as he or she bit tentatively into the chocolate then relaxed and savoured the mouthful. Three circuits of the box, ever lighter and ever more crackly with its empty gold cases; then the final round had arrived; the suspense was tangible as we all sat, elbows on the table watching for the unlucky victim. One grandchild was ready to quit but greed overcame fear and he grabbed a chocolate, stuffed it bravely in his mouth and, barely chewing, swallowed it. Relief spread on his face. Then John eeny-meeny-moed his fingers over the remaining eight amid cries of “Hurry up, grandad!”. Seven chocolates - Omie slipped her last one in her mouth - “ Ooh, delicious!” she sighed. Another screwed-up face as another grandchild bit into her chocolate, then relief as she savoured it and glee as she watched the next three chocolates being carefully selected. Eventually the box sat on the table between my sister and myself, the last two chocolates winking invitingly at us. My sister looked at me ( what long-awakened thoughts of sibling rivalry lay in that look!) and closed her eyes, her hand hovered over the box and she picked the one hopefully innocent chocolate. A huge smile spread from ear to ear as she luxuriated in all its lush creaminess and anticipated my next mouthful. Now, I like curry but not very hot, certainly not a whole chilli and what's more I like my chocolates with something sweet inside; but a glass of cold milk at the ready I popped the last chocolate into my mouth and bit. A smile spread over MY face as I tasted the praline-popping inside that dark chocolate coat. Everybody looked at me; surprise on all their faces; where was the chilli? Omie smiled. “I had it - in the very first chocolate,” said Omie, “ I didn't want to spoil the game. And yes I can still feel the heat of the chilli despite three more chocolates!”My wonderful mum! Now there is always a thought amongst the younger members of the family that at family Christmas that it might just be worth staying to the very end of the meal.
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Jackie's contribution:
"It’s what’s inside that counts"
Dear Abby,
I have been reading your column in the Chicago Post for years and have laughed out loud at some of the ridiculous things people ask. Now it’s is my turn to ask a silly question and get your advice. I recently had a row with my boyfriend - we were going out to a party you see and I got all dressed up and felt like a Barbie doll in its packaging. I literally spent my last dime on this new dress with plunging neckline, had my hair done and even my nails were painted to match my outfit. I’d opened that bottle of body lotion that I’d got for Christmas a few years ago.
I felt so cool I felt like Madonna a showgirl ready to affront the public and show the man I loved I was still sexy, glamorous and wantable – so different from my everyday outfit of jeans, trainers and bomber jacket . oh yes I put on my 5inch gold sandals too. Hee hee
I set the scene to come down the stairs putting on some dramatic music and as I slowly drifted down – taking one stair at a time very slowly I watched my boyfriends (now ex) face I wanted to see his amazement and desire shine through again like it was at the beginning of our relationship.
To be honest we haven’t been having good times for the last month or so – he always seems to be out with the boys (or so he says) and when we go on the high street he’s turning his head at all the pretty girls. So you see this was my last chance to make him fall in love with me all over again.
Well, I can tell you when he saw me coming down those stairs in my outfit his eyes popped out of his head – I promise he became google eyed. But not in a good way. He didn’t smile, just looked disgusted, then went back to playing Fornite on his phone.
Then he was shouting, how can you go out like that, you look like a tart – all dressed up - who are you trying to seduce now. Trying to get the attention of all the boys at the party heh … well I don’t like it and I won’t have it – he went on and on just like my Mum used to when I was 14 and wanted to out for the night.
I was crying by now and wished that I hadn’t put on the false eyelashes and had perhaps exaggerated the blush and mascara which was smudging everywhere.
Perhaps I had overplayed the short dress with sequins and leopard skin stockings …
Well you know what he did Dear Abby, I just can’t believe it. He said he was going to the party by himself cause he didn’t want to be seen with a tart that people would think he’d picked up on a street corner (yes he called me that – a tart. Unbelievable ).
So there I am all by myself sitting in the armchair with the cat in arms and crying over the latest episode of the Archers on a Saturday night – the dress crumpled up in a heap on the floor. He didn’t come back that night and we haven’t spoken since. I’m beside myself with jealousy that he’s with another girl – tell me dear Abby what should I say to him when he comes over to fetch his things tonight –
Oh yes, you’re so right and thanks dear Abby for your help I shall indeed tell him just that .
I shall tell him “It’s what ‘s inside that counts.”
Sarah's story.
(it’s what's inside that counts) Chrissy makes up her mind – 1-act play – to send
Characters:
wife
husband
two boys around 8 or 10: Anthony & Arthur
daughter, around 17, Chrissy
Time & place: here and now
Set: what is going to be the sitting room of a house, a few odd pieces of furniture scattered here and there, several cartons, most as yet unopened, one piece of furniture only is already set up: the television on its rectangular stand. No bookshelves, no books. One door to the outside. The walls are a sort of pea-green.
The parents come in through the door, carrying still more cartons, followed by the boys, both tugging at the same one, and lastly Chrissy carrying a large carton. The parents put down theirs. During the following exchange, the boys continue to tussle, then put down the box and begin to open it. The husband stands there listening to his wife, but she begins tranquilly opening hers. Chrissy stands there at first lost in her thoughts, then watching and listening.
Wife: What a horrible colour!
Husb.: What? What’s a horrible colour?
Wife: The walls.
Husb.: The walls? We chose it together.
Wife: You chose it.
Husb.: I did not. We chose it together.
Wife: Your pressured me. As usual.
Husb.: (growing more and more irritated) Then why didn’t you say so before we painted it? (No answer) Just stirring up a spat again, eh? That’s what you want.
Wife: That’s what you want. Now I’ll have to look at that colour day in and day out.
Husb.: You won’t be looking at it. The only thing you ever look at is the telly.
Wife: How do you know? The little you’re here!
Husb.: Still griping? That’s all you’ve done since we got up this morning. Had a bad night?
Wife: You should know
Husb.: Bitch!
Wife: Oh, shut up and get out!
Husb.: All right, then! I will! (He storms out the door, slamming it.)
Wife: (who has by now taken a framed photopgraph out of the carton and fetched a hammer and a nail) Bastard!
(The boys have by now taken a largish toy figurine, eg. Darth Vader from Star Wars or Son-Goku or whatever, out of the carton and are both tugging at it.)
Anth.: It’s mine!
Arthur: No, it’s mine!
Anth.: You lost yours!
Arthur: I did not! You broke it! So this is mine now
Anth.: It is not! (They begin to scuffle physically)
Wife: Anthony! Arthur! Stop it!
Arthur: He’s taking my Darth Vader (or whatever the name of the figurine is)!
Anth.: No, it’s mine!
Wife: I don’t care whose it is. Cut it out and start helping.
Arthur: I want my Darth Vader! (gives Arthur a kick)
Anth.: He kicked me!
Wife: Shut up! Put that down and go bring in some boxes!
Arthur: No!
Wife: What did you say?
Arthur: I’m not going to.
Anth.: Me neither!
Wife: (growing more and more angry) And why not?
Arthur: ’Cuz I don’t want to!
Anth.: Me neither! (and the two run out the door, forgetting the toy)
Wife: Come back here! (turns and sees Chrissy standing there) And you, Chrissy, stop dreaming!
Chris.: I’m not dreaming. I’m thinking.
Wife: Well, stop thinking. Get busy and do something. Put down that box.
Chris.: It’s mine.
Wife: And what if it is? Go and bring in something else. (as she turns back to her job and gives a finishing blow of the hammer to the nail but hits her finger at the same time) God dammit! (stands back and admires the photograph now in place) That’s done! All of us at Disneyland Paris!
Chris.: (shudderng) God, what a day!
Wife: What did you say?
Chris.: Nothing. It’s just not a very good memory for me.
Wife: Well, go and get Arthur and Anthony. I want them back in here. (Chrissy puts down her box and goes out, as her mother takes out other items, rather awful, most of them, and puts them here and there)
Chris.: (coming back in) They won’t. They don’t want to come in.
Wife: Those good-for-nothings? Good riddance, then.
Chris.: Where’s Dad gone?
Wife: To the pub, most likely. If there is one in this neighbourhood, he’ll find it.
Chris.: (picking up her box again) Why do you provoke him like that?
Wife: Me? Taking your father’s side again? And put down that box!
Chris.: No. It’s my things. Not a whole lot of stuff, but what counts. My computer, some books and a few clothes and things. That’s all I need.
Wife: All you need for what? Going somewhere?
Chris.: Yes.
Wife: And where are you going?
Chris.: To Madge’s.
Wife: That’s nice! Everybody going off and leaving me with everything.
Chris.: No, I’m going for good.
Wife: (visibly somewhat stunned and bewildered) For good? But when we’ve just got this nice house in a nice neighbourhood … ?
Chris.: It’s not the house or the neighbourhood, it’s the mess inside.
Wife: That’s just temporary. A place is always disorderly when you’re moving in.
Chris.: No, I mean us. All of us.
Wife: Us! Your own family!
Chris.: Yes, us. It’s … unbearable.
Wife: (taken aback, she says nothing for a moment; then:) But you can’t stay at Madge’s!
Chris.: Yes, I can. She proposed it, a few weeks ago. But I wasn’t sure.
Wife: You’re really moving out?
Chris.: Yes. Yes, I am. To Madge’s for a start. Then my own place, as soon as I can.
Wife: You won’t have more than a rented room.
Chris.: A little room, with just me in it. And peace and quiet.
Wife: Chrissy, you can’t go!
Chris.: Sorry, Mum. I am sorry. (Puts down the box, goes over and givers her mother a brief hug.) But I have to. ’Bye. (She goes out, carrying the box).
(The door is not slammed but the picture falls off the wall and the glass shatters.)
Wife: (sitting down on one of the chairs or boxes, her head in her hands) Bloody family! What’s the matter with them all anyway?
Dialogues: + 535 wds
(takes about 4 mins probably)
