Testing, Testing

The day of reckoning has arrived: the Granny-Okes have their first practice session tonight. I haven’t been able to concentrate all day and now, in precisely one hour, I will be humiliated beyond recovery. Let’s look on the bright side – there’s a good chance I might be dropped from the group when they hear me sing sober.

Nevertheless, I don’t want to be told that I’m awful; it’s one thing knowing but quite another to be informed of the fact. It would be like netball team selections during PE lessons all over again. A girl of my height had to be spectacularly dreadful not to get picked until they were dividing up the last resorts.

I’m not sure how to prepare, whether to take a lozenge or something. Maybe do some scales? I put on some music to get me in the mood; a little ‘Like a Virgin’ I think.

Now, I have never thought this a challenging track to sing; in fact in either the shower or the car, I manage a spectacular rendition. However, when I have to stay in tune for the duration, well let’s just say that even the X Factor singing coaches would have their work cut out for them. I will have that lozenge.

I arrive first, so get my excuses in early.

‘Patty,’ I whimper, ‘I do know that I can’t sing. You don’t have to protect me. I’ll go now.’

‘That’s utter rubbish, Bo,’ she replies.

She is incredibly officious tonight. There is no wine in sight; instead glasses of water and lyric sheets are neatly arranged on the table. Sheila and Kath arrive and the room is filled with an excited buzz – I feel such a fraud. Patty takes charge.

‘I think we need to start with a set list so that we’re only practising numbers that we’ll do.’

We all nod at the sensible suggestion; as long as Patty keeps talking, I delay the moment of humiliation.

‘I thought that we should have songs from throughout the decade so I’ve compiled this list of top 10 hits from every year.’

She hands out the lists and instantly we start reminiscing over each track.

‘Ah, “When Doves Cry”, I went camping with Peter Matthews to that one,’ says Sheila.

‘ “Ebony and Ivory”, the dullest song ever made,’ adds Kath.

‘ “Mull of Kintyre” is probably joint dullest; McCartney had a knack for them,’ I say.

‘There are some tracks we wouldn’t have thought of that might be good,’ suggests Patty.

We wait to hear...

‘Like The Clash.’

Our raised eyebrows prompt her on.

‘ “Should I Stay or Should I Go” would be a brilliant Granny-Oke song. We have to think about the whole performance and that could be our finale.’

Patty has been working on this quite seriously. When I have my day with Richard Branson, I imagine she’ll be having a similar session with Simon Cowell.

She then gives us her suggested shortlist:

My first thought was ‘I wonder how Joe Strummer feels being sandwiched between Cyndi and Dolly’, and the second was, ‘Yep, I’d listen to this set.’

‘No one wants to hear a pitch-perfect bore belting out power ballads time after time,’ Patty continues. ‘Anyone can do that. We’ve got to entertain, have some character, make people laugh without showing ourselves up. So I’ve got a few more ideas...’

Patty used to be in charge of the cabin crew and it shows now. She’s conducting her orchestra again and as I take a sideways glance at Sheila and Kath, I can see they’re enthralled.

‘I mean, if you were going to see the Granny-Okes, what would you expect?’ she asks.

‘Blue rinses and cardigans,’ suggests Kath.

I don’t counter that cardigans are perfectly stylish knitwear for any age group. I seem to be defending them too often.

‘They’d forget the words or be doing some knitting,’ adds Sheila

‘Precisely.’ Patty is triumphant. ‘We need a look, we need characters and we need to ham it up a bit. It’s not just about the singing.’

She puts a reassuring arm around me, which instantly has the opposite effect; what is she planning now?

‘Which is why we need you, Bo Peep.’

She’s thought it all through: while the trio carry the song, I carry the act with granny-isms to entertain the audience. I offer them boiled sweets, tell them they’ll catch their death of cold and occasionally do a granny dance to tunes that ‘take me back’.

‘You’ll be like Bez to our Happy Mondays.’

Oh Lord.

Having established the set list, Patty moves on to discuss costumes.

‘I have some ideas, just wait here,’ she says and leaves the room.

This week seems to have been all about clothes, from Granny-Oke costumes to Charlie’s dating outfits. Could there be a more diverse spectrum?

This is also the week of Charlie’s first dinner date and the debate with Josie has continued every day. I don’t know why there is a debate, as men always look the same: trousers and shirt. The colour might change but that’s about it. We used to have training days at the airline where the dress code was ‘smart casual’; for women this is impossible to interpret but for men? Trousers and shirt-top button undone. Formal occasions? Trousers and shirt-top button fastened and tie on top. Black tie? Well, that’s self-explanatory. I suppose they might think that we just throw on a black dress or a blue dress according to the event. They don’t, however, understand the complex underwear partnering with any outfit. I’ve never yet heard a man discuss the difficulty of getting out of Spanx when you desperately need to get to the loo.

Anyway, despite me thinking that there was an obvious solution for Charlie (and his eyes are a beautiful blue, so even the colour of shirt isn’t up for debate), I was happier discussing his outfit dilemma than I am sitting here waiting to see what Patty has conjured up for me.

‘You should wear a soft tactile fabric,’ Josie had enthused, ‘so that if he just brushes against you when he’s pouring wine or something, he’ll want to do it again.’

‘Great idea.’ Charlie was taking notes.

‘It has to be an expensive material,’ I’d added in jest. ‘You don’t want him getting an electric shock.’

‘No, that’s not the sort of memorable night I was aiming for,’ he laughed.

‘And no cheap nylon,’ warned Josie, ‘just in case the place is candle-lit.’

Then we were in free-flow imagining the disasters that could avail Charlie if he wore the wrong shirt. I thought I’d managed to keep the conversation away from me but no chance.

‘And then just as I’ve electrocuted my date with a nylon shirt, the Granny-Okes turn up and the sparks land on their blue-rinse wigs,’ said Charlie.

‘... and fire spreads to the cardigans and surgical stockings,’ from Josie.

‘... while they’re singing Eternal Flame!’ Charlie burst into song.

I cringed. ‘Please don’t make me dread this more than I already am.’

‘You’ll be great,’ Charlie wiped his eyes.

‘It’ll be too hilarious,’ added Josie.

‘I know it’ll be funny,’ I said, ‘but here’s the question: will people be laughing with me or at me?’

And by people, I meant Richard Branson of course.

But back to the current costume dilemma...

Patty brings out four suit bags and hangs them on the wall. The bags hang from the picture rail like the corpses of my entrepreneurial career as Patty builds up the tension for the grand-reveal.

As each bag opens, I can see that she’s done herself proud; she’s taken the costumes as seriously as the set list. I’d expected fancy-dress shop leg warmers and tutus, but Ms P has more ambitious plans.

‘We’re like the Spice Girls,’ she explains. ‘We each have our own character and personality.’

‘Kath – Granny Ant.’

There’s a military jacket and frilly shirt to go with Kath’s black curls and no doubt suitable face make-up.

‘Sheila, my little rock chick, Gran Bon Jovi’, and she pulls out ripped jeans, leather jacket, a big wig and a bandana. I hadn’t seen that coming but Sheila loves it.

‘Bo...’ It’s my turn, what on earth has she chosen for me? My heart is thumping as she opens the bag.

‘Granny goes to Hollywood.’ Inside the bag is a big white T-shirt with ‘GRANNY SAYS RELAX’ emblazoned across it. I’m quite relieved, it could have been much more embarrassing.

‘And what about yours?’ asks Kath, but I already know the answer.

With a delighted flourish, Patty unveils the final costume bag, and there they hang, the wig, the jewellery and the multi-coloured layers of lace that will transform one mid-fifties widow into the one and only Granny Lauper.

‘Nothing can stop us now,’ she declares.

That’s what I’m afraid of.