Mist me??

Evangeline popped round this morning, with a message from Norman, her spirit guide. In between polishing off the last of my truffle Maltesers, and sploshing some of H's precious cognac into her coffee, she informed me (through a mouthful of chocolate) that Big Fergie (my father) is a 'restless spirit' whose 'troubled soul walks abroad, looking for solace.'

(For those of you who don't know, Big Fergie is my father. It's a long story, but Evangeline thinks he's dead, and is forever passing on messages about him from the 'other side'. Regular readers will know that the only other side he's on, is the Scottish/English border, and that far from having expired, he's living in Chorley with a woman called Chiquita.)

I decided to call him anyway, just to check that he hadn't shuffled off since last weekend. 

Chiquita answered the phone. "Digame?" she said. (Chiquita likes to pepper her conversations with Spanish words even though she's as English as a Lancashire hotpot. Her ancestors were Mexicans who migrated to England in the late 18th century, but the nearest she's ever got to visiting her 'homeland' as she likes to call it, was when she once bought a burrito in Blackburn, and everything she knows about Mexico is based on John Wayne's little disagreement in the Alamo.)

"Hola, chuck," she said, when she realised it was me. "Your dad's not in t' casa at moment, but I'll tell 'im to phone you after."

"Well actually, maybe you can help me." I said. "I was just wondering if dad's been....restless at the moment?  If he's been, ummm, wandering abroad, that sort of thing?"

"What the figgy puddin' are you on about, my preciosa? I'll admit 'e gets a bit restless in bed of an evenin', but I just 'ide 'is pills in me bedsocks, put me earplugs in, an' ignore 'im.  An' as for goin' abroad, well we 'aven't been away since we was in Benidorm three years ago. Dios mio, what an 'oliday that was.....we was at it every night!"

I may have made an involuntary retching sound at that point, but she continued anyway. "It's me fandango - 'e can't get enough of it. An' then 'e 'as to get 'is maracas out, an' we're off. You can't stop us 'til dawn!"

Trying to put the image of that out of my head, I persisted. "So he's not been looking for 'solace' then?"

"I don't think so, querida. Not unless she were the flamenco dancer in t' local? 'E were proper hypnotised by 'er an' 'er castanets."

I gave up at that point. There are only so many euphemisms I can cope with in one conversation......