Hawthorne Heights Chronicle

Thursday morning is ‘pensioner’s discount’ at Hawthorne Heights Hairdressers. Although Dotty abhors been referred as a pensioner, she has no qualms accepting ‘pensioner’ offerings.  Today is her turn to drive Nora and Wilma to the village for their hair appointments, although she’s flummoxed why Wilma’s going; she had her hair done yesterday. But Wilma treats her crowning glory like gold dust. Her peroxide blonde curls are never out of place except on rare occasions and then she’s unbearable. How can someone have such a ridiculous fetish, Dotty wondered? “One day she’ll wake up bald,” Dotty said aloud and chuckled. Nora on the other hand, was easy going with her grey haired bob which is easily tied into a pony tail on bad hair days. Dotty’s long, silver hair is worn in a French twist – so much more manageable.

Dotty arrived at Wilma’s cottage and noticed her at the gate tapping her wrist watch for emphasis. “Morning Dotty, late again!” She raised her brow.

“Bollocks, ” she glanced at her wrist watch,  “I’m timed to the BBC.”

Wilma grabbed her right wrist and checked the time. “You need your eyes re-tested – it’s the same time as mine.” She buckled her seat belt as Dotty did a wheelie from the curb, giving Wilma whiplash.

“One day the residents are going to complain about your wheelies.”

“Bollocks, these vehicles are made for them.”

“Not when old granny is behind the wheel.”

Dotty came to an abrupt halt at Nora’s gate and pitched Wilma forward before her seat belt locked.
Nora rushed out and climbed in the back of the sleek Mercedes.  “Is it a good day or do I sense atmospheric pressure?” she asked.

“Oh for sure it’s a good day, Nora. It’s your turn to pay for lunch. Hope you haven’t forgotten,” Dotty answered.

“My turn again. Are you sure?” she frowned and whinged. “I paid last time.”

“Noo Nora, I paid. When Dotty drives it’s your turn. When I drive, Dotty pays and when you drive, I pay,” Wilma clarified. Nora never got it right.

They arrived at the hairdresser fifteen minutes late. Wilma dashed in, apologetic. Nellie, who styles her hair, gave a knowing look.

Hairdos and manicures done, they walked two blocks to Blue Bells Restaurant. Just inside the door the Hawthorne Heights monthly chronicle was displayed on the news stand. They took one each and headed for the table next to the window.  The waiter took their order – which he knew off by heart. The three were so predictable. Shepherd’s pie for Dotty; beef and ale pie for Wilma and Cornish pasty and salad for Nora. (Nora is always on diet but never loses weight – so her thighs tell her!). And three gin and tonics.

Nora glimpsed through the chronicle and burst into laughter. She told the other two to go to page three and pointed out The Wise Owl advert.


New! New! Starting in the next  edition.  The Wise    Owl Columnist will advise you on the following:
   Ø  Marital Problems
   Ø  Love Life
   Ø  Financial Matters
   Ø  Ageing
   Ø  Health and Sex Issues
   Ø  Any Other Problems
The Wise Owl is a psychic and psychologist with years of experience. Don’t be shy – ask your question and have your problem solved.

“Well I am damned. I wonder who the Wise Owl is,” Wilma puckered her brow. Dotty silently read the advert. Her impish face contained her smile.

“Dotty, what do you say? Who do you think it is? Hawthorne Heights isn’t a big village; it must be someone we know.” Nora pyramided her brows. “Who would publicise their sex problems or love life in a chronicle?”

“I think it’s a wonderful idea. The community requires a column like this and about time too. Everyone needs sound advice once in a while,” Dotty blasé, replied.

Wilma stared at her. “It’s you!” she accused. “This is typical of you. You always had a penchant for Ann Landers. ”

“Me!” Dotty squealed. “That’s absurd Wilma,” she protested. “Eat before your lunch gets cold.”

Nora, in a high pitched voice pointed to Dotty, “It is you.” Then she re-read the advert  and shook her head. “No it can’t be. You’re not a psychologist and your psychic abilities are crap. It’s got us into humungous trouble in the past.” She shuffled in her chair and blurted, “I know, it’s Mrs. Frizby – she lives at No. 21. A nosy old bag who delves into everyone’s business.”

“That solves the mystery now you’ve ascertained it’s not me,” Dotty grinned.

“I know, let’s email and ask a question,” suggested Wilma, tapping her fingers on the table.

Dotty chuckled, “Dear Wise Owl, I peroxide my hair once a month. Do you think I’ll go bald?”

“Funny ha, ha.” Wilma wasn’t amused.

Nora and Wilma ordered a second gin and tonic. Much to Dotty’s disdain, she had to suffice with a glass of water  because she was driving.


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