New Balls Please (Ball Games #3)
Read New Balls Please (Ball Games #3) Online
Authors: Andie M. Long
NEW BALLS PLEASE
Ball Games Book Three
by
Andie M. Long
COPYRIGHT
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Copyright (c) 2016 by Andrea Long
All rights reserved.
Cover photo from One Dollar Photo.
DEDICATION
To the staff at Center Parcs Sherwood Forest who helped a woman out of a drainage ditch…
Yorkshire Slang Guide
Dear Reader,
Welcome to the third novella in the Ball Games Series. You may be reading this novella from outside of South Yorkshire, England. This story is centred around the Turner family, who I hope you will become familiar with as I write further novellas in the series, all complete stand-alone stories. While I refrained from writing in the broad Yorkshire style of ‘Where’s tha bin?’ (Where have you been), I did want to leave in some British and Yorkshire words as I love providing an opportunity to learn new rude words, (I’m naughty like that.) So what follows is a list of what you will come across in the novella. If I’ve missed any feel free to contact me and I’ll teach you what they mean.
Love Andie
13 February 2016
British/Yorkshire Slang.
Bingo
- result. Said when you’ve found something.
Brew
- hot beverage, usually tea.
Bloke
- man.
Bollocking
- telling off.
Brood
- family.
Budge
- give up.
Built like a brick shithouse
- really wide and strong.
Clobber
- clothes. Also used as an expression for hitting someone, E.g.
I clobbered them round the head.
Cuppa
- cup of tea.
Dick
- idiot.
Dickhead
- stronger use of idiot, used with disdain when you really want to insult someone
Do one
- Go away or fuck off.
Fair enough
- okay.
Fucker
- utter bastard.
Fuck me
- as well as the obvious it can also mean goodness me.
Full whack
- top speed.
Gear
- clothes.
Get the sack
- fired from a job.
Got the face on
- sulking.
Grand
- a thousand pounds (money).
Knackered
- tired.
Knobhead
- idiot. Can be used jokily or to be awful. If you’re joking, laugh as you say it,
*chuckle* You knobhead.
To be rude, dangle your little finger near your forehead to indicate a tiny penis and say it.
Lass
- see
Love.
Loo
- toilet.
Love
- term of endearment. E.g.
Are you okay love?
To confuse matters, you can be called it by someone you’ve never met before in your life. It’s a Yorkshire thing. Ps Yorkshire is pronounced York-sher.
Manic
- busy.
Meat and Two veg
- penis and balls.
Mop
- hair on head.
Necking
- drinking.
Nursing a sore head
- feeling delicate because you’ve been drunk.
Piss
- urine.
Pissing it down
- raining heavily.
Poorly
- ill.
Pop to
- go to quickly.
Shit
- as well as excrement it’s a word for when you think something’s rubbish, E.g.
this song is shit
.
Starving
- very hungry.
Swanned off
- if you go somewhere and people resent/dislike it. E.g.
Oh she’s swanned off for a week in Benidorm with the window cleaner.
Threads
- clothes.
Twat
- idiot.
Vino
- wine.
Wagging it
- playing truant.
Wanker
- idiot.
Chapter One
Tim
I used to call my other half Dora the Explorer because her hand was always down my trousers fondling my meat and two veg. I might need to rethink that now. She's gone missing, along with a small suitcase, some money, and the credit cards. I rub my chin. What do you do when your partner goes AWOL? I try to recall what happens on TV. I guess I should start by searching for a note? There’s nothing on the pillows or the dressing table. There was nothing on the kitchen table either. The bed’s not made, but that’s nothing new for Dora. It doesn’t mean she’s left in a hurry. I shake out the duvet. Oh, here we go. There's a piece of paper under it. I consider the folded paper that’s now held between my fingers. It’s a ripped page from a jotter. I bet she's arranged a raunchy weekend away after reading one of her bloody books. I read:
Tim. I've gone to Center Parcs for the week to learn how to play tennis. Don't ring me. I won't answer. You and the kids can cook your own fucking Sunday lunch. Yes, I'm feeling a lot better not that any of you asked. D.
Oh shit. It would seem it's new balls, please, for Dora.
***
A few days earlier...
Dora
Discover the New You?
What, from behind the clump of tissue held in front of my ever spluttering mouth? Nowhere in this goddamn book by the uber-famous Tatiana Patrick does it say anything about bringing the spark back to your marriage during a bout of tonsillitis. I throw the book, attempting to shout fuck it, but I have no voice so all I get for the effort is more pain. I've been in my cesspit of a bedroom for two days now. Fuck, I smell. For the last twenty-four hours, I've sweated the cold out of me and two sets of pyjamas lie discarded on the floor. Tim is at work. My days have been filled browsing my Facebook news feed, watching Jessica Jones on Netflix (I want to be that kick-ass, but am I supposed to feel sorry for her being mind controlled by David Tennant? He can order me into his bed anytime he likes), and sleeping. The only time I've surfaced is to make the evening meal. Tim's good and would fix his own but he'd never think to check if I wanted anything, so I may as well get up or starve to death. Personally, I wouldn't want a meal prepared by a woman with the plague but that's a partner for you.
I ring the kids on a Thursday night. Well, I say kids - Tyler is twenty-five and Camille twenty-one. They both live away from home. They come round every Sunday for lunch and I call them every Thursday night. Tim can answer when they ring later. They'll wonder what's wrong as I always call them between eight and nine pm. With luck, they’ll give their dad some grief about looking after me.
9.25pm
- Little fuckers. Not one call. Not one.
Saturday
. Well, my darling children never called - and still haven't. I could be dead. The ignorant brats are supposed to be coming for lunch tomorrow and I'm still bedridden. Well, I could get up because I'm a lot less poorly but I'd have to do housework then, and I’ve more Jessica Jones episodes to watch yet. If they turn up tomorrow, they can view my half-dead, unwashed corpse. I will stagger from my bed looking like Cathy from Wuthering Heights, hand to my forehead. They deserve to feel guilty. I grab my Kindle and start a search. There must be a book on here about how to be respected by others.
Bingo. Tatiana's therapist, Tess, from her Reality Show,
Love is All Around,
has a book out:
How to reclaim Visibility in a world that makes you feel invisible.
Tess Emerald will save me.
I one-click and start reading...
Chapter One - show them a world without you.
'Dora? Dora. I'm off to the local for a couple of hours. Is that alright?' Tim's voice booms up the stairs.
I try to answer but my voice disappears on me.
The door bangs. He hasn't even made sure I'm okay before leaving me home alone.
That's it. I'm heeding Tess' advice. They can try a world without me in it. First stop the shower, second stop Center Parcs. It's only an hour’s drive to Sherwood Forest. I've been saving up for Tim and me to enjoy a few romantic weekends away but he can do one. Thoughts flick through my mind. Spa, fresh air, someone else cleaning. Sheer bliss.
I turn off the book I’ve been reading and tap the internet icon on my Kindle Fire. Oh, what's that on the website? Tennis lessons with ex-pro Cole Grant. I've always wanted to learn how to play tennis. Well, at least, I do every June when Wimbledon is on.
With the credit card payment made, a one-bedroom comfort villa is mine for the week. Now to pack.
The first thing I put in my handbag is my Kindle and charger. I may need Tatiana and Tess' advice this week. As I rifle through the wardrobe, deciding what to pack, I spy a cellophane-wrapped packet lurking somewhere near the back and reach in for it. Hmmm, you never know. I might use them. The unopened package is tossed in my suitcase.
I have to sit on the case to fasten it. Maybe I've overdone the packing but you never know what you'll need. I haven't had time to prepare my body for the trip so I've thrown a lot of things in the case like fake tan. A woman my age has to make an effort to look good.
I write Tim a quick note and stick it under the duvet. He might notice it when he climbs into bed.
I’ll show my brood. No-one messes with The Mother.
I close the door behind me, my temper means there’s a bit of a slam, then I get behind the wheel of my Ford Fiesta. In an hour or so I’ll be enjoying the comforts of my villa. Feeling centred in Center Parcs.
Chapter Two
Dora
Center Parcs, Sherwood Forest, should take between fifty minutes to an hour from my house. Well, it would have done if I’d put the Sat Nav on and followed it. Instead, I figured I'd know where to turn off. That was until I saw the signs for Twycross Zoo and knew I'd gone too far. It's also been pissing down with rain for four consecutive days so the potholed ground is full of overflowing puddles. The windscreen wipers are at full whack and sending me dizzy. A U-turn and several swear words get me back on track. You’re allowed to access your villa from four pm, and with it being eight pm, I drive straight up to one of the little kiosks. I receive leaflets, a car park sticker, and keys. I thank the woman who lets me through the barrier and follow the signs to my comfort villa. At first, the navigation is easy, but I have to keep stopping for pedestrians and cyclists. I struggle to find out where my allocated villa is on the signs. It's a quarter past eight now and I'm ready for my villa, unpacked and necking a cuppa.
'Oh, at last,' I mutter as I drive right past it. There's a little parking bay where I'm allowed to stay while I unpack. I park up my Fiesta and lug my case into the villa. While I gaze longingly at the kettle, I decide it's best if I get the car returned to the car park before it goes dark. Then I can forget about it for the week and chill the fuck out.
Back behind the wheel, I reverse to do a three-point turn. Then I realise what else I can do. Swear my head off. There’s no-one to say
Dora!
or
Mum!
Is there a law somewhere that says Dora can't swear? Am I Snow White? Fuck that shit. I sit in the car and let it all out.
Fuck.
Twat.
Knobhead.
Dick.
Fucktwatknobheaddick. Fucktwatknobheaddick.
My window taps and an angry mother glares at me. Oops, my window was down a bit. I apologise profusely and wind my window up. When she's safely in the distance, I shout, ‘Piss off you fucktwatknobheaddick. Holier than thou prissypussiedwankstain.’
