Dolores and Ravel do TK Maxx
Poor Ravel, I know I probably shouldn't be lavishing sympathy on the lad in view of the recent shananigans with Miron but he really does need some help. Since Ravel arrived in Joseph's department I've been desperate to take him under my wing and give him a makeover (of sorts). He will insist upon wearing stone-washed jeans circa 1987 and godawful shell suit jackets. He's not a bad looking bloke in an Eastern-European-pasty-kind-of-way and I really think with a bit of tweeking he'd be fighting off the lasses. If Ravel got a girlfriend I think he would become more stable and less susceptible to the machinations of his rogue sibling.
Our morning went as follows:
9.00 Arrive at Ravel's flat. Find Ravel in kitchen eating remnants of boiled cabbage and tinned frankfurters off a paper plate. Advise Ravel that this is not an ideal breakfast meal.
9.20 Ravel is finally ready to leave. Ravel appears to have doused himself in some kind of aerosol aftershave. Have to drive with windows down despite the inclement Scottish weather.
9.45 Arrive at TK Maxx (as I am paying for Ravel's new wardrobe it has to be done on the cheap).
10.00 Ravel disappears.
10.05 Ravel returns with a fondue set, a wrought iron edged mirror and a faux leopard skin oven-glove set.
10.06 Remind Ravel that we're here on a clothing mission, not a household mission.
10.15 Locate some non-stonewashed jeans, a 3-pack polo shirts and 2 pairs of chinos.
10.16 Ravel insists that I enter changing room with him. Am a little concerned about this and even more concerned when I discover that Ravel is wearing paisley Y -fronts.
10.30 We leave TK Maxx with Ravel decked out in a pale blue polo shirt, a pair of chinos and a tasteful pair of brown leather brogues. Curiously, he looks kind of English foppish now but not unattractive.
The next day.
Joseph informs me that Ravel rolls into work 3 hours late. A bit of a gamble on Ravel's behalf considering the recent goings-on. Apparently, the night before, delighted with his new image, Ravel hits the town, discovers the Scottish drinking culture and ends up spending the night with Kara O'Mara (I kid you not, that's her name) the infamous town bike. I'm intruiged as to how the pair of them communicated, she's from the arse end of Wexford and his grasp of English is...er... limited. The mind boggles.
Anyway, I best toddle off. It's Thursday night and that's 'Telephone The Twins' night.