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Mrs. Overall's Story (Version 2)
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Mrs .Overall has always been a Yorkshire tyke and a Whitby one at that. Born to Al and Vera Padgett high up on Danby Moor, above Goathland, on a wet morning (it was always wet even when it was dry and there was still t’precipitation in t’air), she was a reight bonny baby, wrapped in her tarpaulins and hessian sack, once lost until her old man realised that he had used her “parcel” as a doorstop to the barn. Age 4, her Mam and Pa moved to ther’ big city, Whitby being the chosen new home as Al took a job as a winkle-picker, Ma as a fish descaler and hair remover for the local Chippie, Magpies. She had a happy childhood, faffin’ around the town, chucking rocks at the seagulls, turning crabs on their backs and pouring milk in the rock-pools “to blind” the fish. It was at this age she discovered marigolds, walking into St Mary’s Church looking for a quick mash or communion grape-juice, her throat parched, when she saw the sunlight streaming through on the flowers on the altar. They ended up in her bedroom, vase and all, proudly displayed, marigolds then begged, borrowed or stolen. Mrs. O always with marigolds sprouting from her pinafore, her kerchief tied around her head, something her Ma had done on her birthday to keep her bonce warm. She and her mates were reight bairns, spinning yarns that Captain Cook had won Masterchef and terrorising the visitors on the pretence of being Dracula, paid for by the Town Council as they became a tourist attraction in their own way. It was in Whitby she went courtin’ her hubbie-to-be, one Oliver Poteringthon-Dorman-Batley, a “reight moufful”, so she decided on taking a composite name, “Mrs. Overall” made from Ol of Ollie, Al, her Dad, and the Ver from her Mam. Mrs. O progressed to working for the Royal Mail, selling stamps around the town and leaving letters in waste-bins, having stripped out any notes to pay for her flowers, but really she made her money by spendin’ hours on cut, paste, and a reassemble of all the white sticky edges of the stamp sheets to sell ‘em as “Whitby Stamps”. On the demise of Ol, worth a fair fortune as he was a real tight Tyke git, she decided to move to Answerbank, living in the album of a closet above the Post Office, marigolds ablaze. She was a reight sight, marigolds sprouting everywhere, pinny and ‘kerchief, walking the village with a survey-pole, jabbing at birds with it as, in her childhood, a seagull had bit her on her lug’ole, she had “‘ated lisle bastadds”. The one talent Mrs. O discovered that she had, other than making a gud brew and cigar rolling, was that she could write. She was first employed as a girl writing gravestone epitaphs, such as “Jack is dead, Thank God he is dead, Tight bugger, he ne’er gae me any bread.” From this she moved onto greeting cards and Valentines, “Whitby is gray, Jet is black, I’m a reight bobby dazzler, Rub my back.” Her real reason for coming to Answerbank Village, now twinned with Pekin, Illinois, because of their Marigold Fest, (and who drove that one through the Mayor), was that the job as Editor of that wonderful tome, the Answerbank Argus, was vacant and she thought it worth “a wang to addle some brass”. Comprising just of adverts and the Rev Venator’s bans (not marriages), Mrs. Overall soon had dreams of becoming Rupert Murdoch, Bob Woodward and Charles Dickens all rolled into one. The citizens of Answerbank would tremble in their beds as the forthcoming issues of the Argus revealed their foibles, their perversions and crimes. That is until a big arsed man with hairy chops and six goats arrived that fateful morning on the Village Green….
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