Shrink Wrapped Scream

La Sauce

2012-01-28T17:17:00.006Z

La Sauce operated on a strictly reservation-only rule, and enjoyed a brisk lunchtime trade of mainly suited business exec's, mixed in with a Ladies-Who-Lunch set. The third and most recent restaurant acquisition of the celebrated T.V. chef, Monsieur Gicquel, Ellie heard it rumoured securing a table there generally required a week or two's prior notice, together with a hefty up-front, non-refundable deposit.

Seated there, it certainly looked to be a gastronomic step up from the usual pub-lunch of sausage, egg and chips she occasionally enjoyed, down at the Old Slug & Lettuce.

Suzanne delicately picked at her starter of terrine of veal and pork, as Julie continued prodding her chicken liver parfait around the plate. Ellie, having already wolfed down her entire fois gras salad in less than three fork-fulls, buttered a second roll of rustic bread, and tried to clarify. "Hang on, who's Pookie? I thought you said Gerrard was your husband?"

Julie dabs a napkin to her lip, "Mnnn, yes, of course he is - Gerrard is both my husband and my reality.  Pookie however, is my delicious little drop of sunshine, bless him, and it's all only just a silly bit of fun, that's all."

"Oh. But, doesn't it get, um, well - complicated? I mean, what if Gerrard were to find out?

Suzanne, food barely touched, rests her knife and fork together, "Gerrard loves her, but his train set ran out of steam years ago. Well, after all is said and done, he is more than twice her age, I mean, what can you expect?"

"He knows?"

"Certainly not. He chooses not to, and as his wife, I totally respect his wishes."

"And what about "Pookie", does he also have a wife.?"

"A queen bitch, treats him abysmally. And don't go all judgemental on me here, do you know she even refuses to bear him children"

"Crikey, didn't they think to discuss all that before marriage?"

"Okay, it's possible she didn't know she was barren at the time, but still.. she had ONE round of IVF, and then totally gave up, flatly refused any more treatment, nada, nothing - can you believe it?"

"IVF?"

"You know, the test-tube route, artificial insemination."

A waiter clears the plates, as another lays up cutlery for the next course. Julie enquires of them where the ladies room is, and clutching her handbag, excuses herself.

Watching her retreating back, Suzanne allows the waiting staff to clear before shooting Ellie a conspiratorial wink, "She's off to powder her nose - well, up it, to be more precise - feel free to join her if you like, she won't mind."

"Huh?"

"Do a line?"

"WHAT? Oh. Oh, thanks, no, I don't - " shrugging, "I left all that behind me years back, not since the kids, and I was never really all that into it, in the first place.  What about you, do you still..?"

"Heavens no, hardly ever now, no, not since the nose job, my surgeon would kill me."

"Eh?"

"The damage that stuff wreaks to the cartilage is criminal.." She pauses, "Don't take everything Julie says as gospel, 'tween you and me, I fear she's quite smitten with this new man of hers. I'm actually rather worried it may well end in tears."

"Why? You think it's more than a fling?"

"Mn-hnm. I hope she doesn't get careless. Gerrard's good at turning a blind eye, but he's not a one to have his nose rubbed in it. I wouldn't mind, but she's always so cautious as a rule - I've certainly never had to cover for her before - it's compromising, I don't like it."

"Ah."

They sip their wine.

"Is she happy? With Gerrard?"

"Happy? Of course. She can never leave him, he gives her everything, he absolutely adores her. Besides, there's the two girls to consider. She had Geraldine, her eldest, less than a week before I had Simon - now they both go to the same nursery together, "Flutter-bye's", do you know it?"

Yes, Ellie knew of it. Despite charging a veritable kings-ransom per term, apparently it still held a two-year waiting list for enrolment there.  They greet Julie as she returns and re-seats herself.

Three waiters arrive to the table, each carrying an elaborate, silver-domed dish. Placing one down before each of them, they synchronise together to simultaneously lift the polished covers up, and theatrically reveal the individually crafted masterpieces hidden beneath.

Suzanne raises a glass, "Bon appetite, everyone."

Glasses chink.

Ellie happily notes the fillet mignon aux oignons with gratin dauphinois, is little more than a rather poshly dressed pork and onion, served up with a creamy-type of spud. Thus relieved, she sets forth with gusto, and adds a healthy dollop of the side-serving of creamed spinach to her plate.

"Suzanne tells me it was at the gym that you two met up again, have you been a member there for long?"

Ellie makes herself a mental note to skip pudding. "Not really, I only joined up this month - "

The conversation moves to diet and baby-bellies, and of which Spa Ellie would really benefit the most from. By the time the bill rolls round to be split, Ellie finds she's only gone and accepted a dinner-invitation to Julie and Gerrard's up-coming annual charity May Ball.

Being hardly a one for this type of social scene, she rather doubts Peter will dress accordingly and play nice there, but then-again, she could always try blackmailing Paige in to joining her..?

Henry (Con'd)

2012-01-19T19:30:00.015Z

Reluctantly Paige snapped on her Marigolds, and set to work.

Dead as he may be, Henry is still as stubornly difficult to manipulate, and it takes several struggling attempts to secure his arms tightly to his torso.  At least the task of tethering his legs together spares her the odious ordeal of further gazing down upon the rim of his broken head.

Holding the sack-cloth up, she spreads and drapes it over his body. Wriggling around, she heaves and tugs at him 'til he finally flops, face down on the sacking. Breathless and sweating, she pulls the material together, securing it neatly with twine.

Standing up, she surveys her handiwork.

Never a very neat man in life, he sure makes an untidy bundle now. His fingers stick out on the left, and to her dismay, Paige sees that over the course of their wrestling, both the tips of his head and feet are now peeking out.

Shit.

Making a double-bag of bin liners, she encases the head and shoulders, sealing it round and round with gaffer-tape. She then repeats the process at the other end, and steps back.

Unhappily, Henry still leaves no doubt to the casual observer that he certainly is indeed a corpse, but as she has neither the time nor the stomach for dismemberment, she decides he'll have to do.

Dragging a muscular, six foot four cadaver over to, and through an adjoining garage/kitchen door isn't a particularly easy task, especially when the person dragging it is a slightly built, five foot two, knackered female. Paige has to pause several times before she is able to bump him down the two steps in to the garage.

Too late, she freezes, realising she's neglected to first swing the overhead outer door closed.

Oh My God.  What if the postie or a delivery guy had been coming down the drive? She scuttles over and clangs it shut.

Stepping over the body, she re-enters the house, and exits out through to the back-yard. A warm breeze tickles her cheek, as she cuts through the camomile lawn down to the bottom shed, where the garden trolley lies. Wheeling it back indoors, she re-enters the garage.

Fixing the old dog-ramp to the edge of the boot, she lays the seats flat inside the estate car, estimating there to be ample room enough to store him, plus whatever other sorry debris she might need to include, in there.

Just one gruesome trip, and hopefully he'd be gone.

Turning, she hit the brakes on the cart, and begun the nigh impossible chore of loading Henry up. Whilst thrusting and straining to raise his torso, his head flops backwards to bump up against her fanny.

Quit it Henry, let's go.

She thrusts her hips forward and continues pulling, feeling the wetness seep through the sacking and ooze down and over her inner-thigh. Staggering, she pulls to lift him with every sinew she owns, heaving for all she's worth. With a low, heartfelt groan, Paige watches helplessly, as a section of bin liner catches and snags on the corner at the edge of the cart. She continues, unable to stop, watching as it slides open, exposing more and more of Henry's mottled face.

Peek-a-boo!

Oh for the love of God, Henry, she prays, will you just bloody-well stay put?

One more last heroic thrust, and to Paige's eternal gratitude to every God in the Universe, he finally half loads. Wiping the sweat from her eyes, she scuttles round to swing his legs up over the side and in.

Once back in the kitchen she grabs more liners and tape, returning again to resume the gruesome process of patching him up.

Inside the hatchback, she leans down to carefully guide and tug the laden trolley slowly up the ramp.

Almost half-way there, with a sickening thump, Henry's body tips off the trolley and falls back down.

FUCK.

Maybe she should just give herself up?

How long before rigor mortis? A thorny question, didn't she read somewhere it occurs about three hours after death? What if when she finally does get him in there, she finds him wedged in, stiff as a board, at the other end?

She doesn't want to do this, she really doesn't.

She's not a bad person.

It's all proving a bit too much.

The thought of yanking your dead husband out of the boot to dump him on the tip behind B&Q, in broad daylight no less, is surely enough to cause anyone palpitations, but the very real and possible prospect of actually arriving there only to find he's turned too rigid to actually decant, is far too scary to contemplate.

How long does she have? It's hardly like she can ring anyone up to check, is it?

She should leave.

Fast.

Now.

No, bugger it, after all, she's come this far, hasn't she?

A new sense of urgency lends her the second wind to re-stuff Henry back in to the trolley, and in almost double-time, she has at last managed to negotiate him fully up the ramp and in to the hatchback.

Flooded with relief, she searches about by the corner wall, and finds what she seeks beneath a twisted pile of old cane chairs. Sliding it out, the tarpaulin smells of mould and has sure seen better days, but at least it's still intact. Lugging it to the car, she spreads it over the lump that once was Henry, pinning it down with remnants of brick and aluminium left over from when the patio was built.

Sadly, the lump still resembles a body, just one covered over with tarpaulin, but she's not quite done yet. Running back to the house, she plucks a couple of blankets out of the spare room. They've seen frequent use over the past few months, and, rather fittingly, Paige decides she may as well gift them back to him.

Bundling them loosely over his frame, with a sigh of relief, she observes the cargo to be now well and truly camouflaged. At last.

Time to scoot.

FuckFuckFuckStupidIdiotMoronFuuuuuuuuuk! She's drenched in blood and probably looks worse than even Henry. Okay. Strip.

She peels her soggy clothing off, undies n'all, sliding them into a black bin-liner. With a pang of regret, she slides her favourite comfy sandals in with them, too. Remembering the mallet, she pads back to the kitchen, returning to gingerly place it in with the rest of the evidence.

Wearing nothing save Henry's blood, she double, then triple bags the entire bundle, and carries the sack back over to join her lately departed husband, slamming the boot behind it.

Minutes later, under a near scalding hot shower, breathing deeply of the steam, Paige soaps, the jets blasting her tingling flesh from red to pink, cleansing her body, if not her soul.

Henry

2012-01-18T14:40:00.006Z

As a child would in a lucky dip, Paige gropes around deep down inside of herself, but only to come up surprisingly empty. She's lanced all emotion with the act of bludgeoning Henry to death.

The damn fool had walked into the mallet almost before she'd caught herself swinging it.

She probably had meant to do it, Lord knows, she'd certainly fantasised about it often enough, but it still came as a bit of a surprise when it actually played out that way.

Mind you, her surprise paled into a tiny, wee, small blip, on the measurement scale of caught-off-guardedness, compared to the complete and massive shock which must've greeted Henry. He'd literally just walked in through the door and wallop, there his nose up and disappeared.

The second blow had him staggering backwards in a drunken parody of the Quick-Step, catching him up against the sink, and splattering a curved arc of blood and bone across the ceiling. It was the third one that probably did for him, throwing him sideways to the floor as it had, and the fourth, fifth and twentieth were now, upon reflection, probably overkill, but at the time Paige had wanted to be thorough.

Now she felt quite certain he was completely dead. Just goes to show what a tragic waste of time, all this eternal fretting over getting old can turn out to be. And as for the vanity, humph, no amount of preening in the world looked ever likely to put that head back together again.

Sitting in the eerie aftermath, Paige stares for a while at the puddle of gore by her heel, noting bits of grayish flotsam speckling the crimson - pieces of Henry's brain. Paige wonders which part of him it recently controlled - perhaps the womanising, or possibly his sarcasm - maybe that particular globule dictated the mean streak? All moot of course, since most of what is left of Henry and his dubious personality, are now only strewn pieces of blood and tissue.

Carefully avoiding the piece of counter-top stuck with goo-of-Henry, Paige pulls herself upright by the overhead work-surface, and blinks, focusing on the reeking quagmire spread before her. The stench is unexpected, and makes her gag.

He's made an awful mess.

Still, it's hardly his fault. It is the last time she'll be cleaning up after him, and at least he'd had the good grace to be dispatched in the kitchen. Most of the surfaces should scrub down clean, and she notes even the spanking new Venetian blinds might still be salvaged with a little extra effort.

Her head throbbing and sinuses aching, she feels so bone-weary tired, all she wants to do is to curl up into a tight ball and close her eyes, but a sharp, inner voice, that of survival, is savagely shrieking at her to get moving, and to set about what needs to be done.

Her eye falls to Henry, lying slouched on his side, up against the cooker, and reality glumly rears it's unwelcome head. Before setting the kitchen to rights, she has to settle the awkward question of What The Fuck To do With Henry first.

She thinks it probably best just to take him to the tip, but how the hell will she ever manage to cart him up there? The bastard never could stick to a diet.

Fortunately, good under pressure, Paige's mind races to the dog-ramp for the car-boot, and links it to the garden trolley.

GOTCHA'!

She heads off in search of sack-cloth and twine.

Called to Answer

2012-01-15T16:19:00.017Z

(Please scroll down to read parts 1 & 2)

"Haa-py Birth-day dear Eye-sac, happy birthday to yooo!"

Catching sight of Molly's pudgy fingers about to lunge in for the pillage, Ellie swings the cake out of range. only to set it directly in the path of four-year old Daisy, who, not missing a beat, promptly blows out two of the seven candles.

Outraged, Isaac thumps her, and she starts screaming high, blue, bloody murder.

"Oiy-yoy-yoy, you, pack it in!"

Inhaling to maximum lung capacity, she hiccups between sobs,"He hiiiit me.."

Ellie nods, "I know - Isaac, be nice! Say sorry."

He glares, unrepentant. "Stupid."

"No, she's not stupid, but you are BOTH very silly, now say sorry, and Daisy, say sorry too, for blowing his candles out."

Molly feels cheated. "Meeee, Iwannablow!"

Candles re-lit, Isaac makes his wish and valiantly tries to puff them out. Dad finally steps in to help, freeing them up to repeat the process all over so Molly can have her turn.

"How about you, Max, you want a go, too?"

Proving even mature eight year old's are occasionally game for a laugh, he obligingly complies.

A brief respite follows as everyone tucks in. Henry asks Peter if he's up for the football training on Tuesday night, but he tells him no, he can't make it, as he's scheduled to be at a work meeting in Liverpool that day.

He interrupts himself to intercept the delinquent hound, who's about to wrap his jaws around the near-demolished remnants of left-over cake. Hoisting him out the door, he evicts him, mid-drool, into the yard, hopefully to sit and contemplate the error of his ways.

Unfortunately, seems all the neighbours must do so too, what with all his howling.

Ah, well, Ellie muses, at least he's stopped eating the presents, as she wearily plops herself down on the sofa next to Paige.

"Sometimes I feel like the old woman who lives in a shoe."

"I don't know how you do it."

"Me neither."

A spat starts to brew over the new toys, but she holds back, letting Peter intervene.

"Just how many cars can one child own?"

"I know, I wish I could wean him over on to something else, but he's completely obsessed."

Molly scrambles up for a cuddle, squelching her freshly-ish filled nappy down on Ellie's lap.

She looks up innocently at her, giggling, "Ut-oh!"

Wrinkling her nose, Ellie suppresses a laugh. "C'mon stinky-bum, up we go."

She makes to lead her upstairs, when the phone rings. Next to standing on the long-suffering mutt, Isaac's favourite past-time is to be the first one to reach any in-coming calls, so he can quickly slam the receiver back down. Blinkingly annoying, yes, but being over-sensitised to certain sounds, Ellie knows he often finds the ringing too alarming to deal with, which is why she sprints so quickly to answer it.

"Hello?"

"Ellie? Hi, it's Melissa - from the gym? How are you?"

"Oh gosh, yes, hello - how nice to hear from you."

"Yeah, well I was just thinking about you,the other day. I was talking to Suzanne, do you remember her?"

As if she could forget. "Suzanne? Goodness, yes, of course. How is she?"

"Oh, you know, same as ever. Anyways, we've decided it's high time we all got together, Julie too - er, you do remember Julie, don't you? Used to be in publishing, oh, what's the name of that firm..?"

"Brown & Mather."

"YES! I knew you knew her. She moved on from there yonks ago. Suzanne told her I'd bumped into you, and she said to tell you that we should do a lunch sometime."

"Really?" Maybe she'd mellowed.

Molly tries to wrench the phone from her ear to say hello, but Ellie holds fast. Much offended, she swings from Ellie's hair to inadvertently head-butt her.

"Owwww!"

"Sorry?"

"Um, nothing. What were you saying?"

"Yeah, I thought we might try out that new place, the French one on the corner of Holmes Street, I hear-tell the chef there is fab. Can you make it for the 20th? That's a Tuesday."

"Um, I dunno. Well, I guess so. Let me check and come back to you. What time?" Untangling Molly, she reaches for a nearby crayon to scrawl the details down on the side of a box of tissues.

"Fantastic, that's great! Well, unless I hear otherwise, we'll look forward to seeing you there, then."

And she's gone.

Recognising her bemused expression, Peter raises an eyebrow in askance.

"How extraordinary."

"What?"

"That was Melissa. She's asked me to lunch."

He shrugs, "Didn't you say she would?"

"Well, no, it's just.. I'm hardly what you might call pally with her, am I? We haven't spoken to each other in years, and even when we did, we weren't exactly bosom buddies."

"So? You should go. Be a laugh."

It might be fun to leave the t-shirt and jeans at home for a day, yeah, she thinks, why not? Maybe I just might, at that.

And so this is how Ellie takes that first, faltering step towards what will shortly unravel into a very fraught and fragile future indeed, both for her, and for all of those of whom she holds so dear.

Paige

2012-01-14T17:00:00.017Z

The following day, having dispatched both Isaac and Max to their respective schools, Ellie soaks up the morning sun with a walk on the common with Pony and the girls in tow. A tractor buzzes in the distance, and freshly mown grass scents the air.

Daisy and Molly race on up ahead, chasing butterflies and scaring the crows, their high pitched squeals startling squirrels to run for cover. Pony lollops and bounces around them in ever-widening circles.

Although she's lived on the edge of the common for years, it's only since acquiring Pony that Ellie has began to explore it in earnest. The mutt's proven too untrustworthy for the local park, raping as he does every dog in his wake (of either sex), and also, because he usually chases down and drenches any hapless joggers on the tow path down by the river, Ellie has reluctantly taken to using the safer, less populated option of the common.

Making in the general direction of the wooden bridge, where, if the trickle of water allows, the girls can play "Drop Sticks", Ellie helps to gather up some twigs and dandelions, and is just about to add a buttercup to their collection when her bag rings. Delving beneath the assortment of tissues, wipes, pull-up nappies and sweet wrappers, she turfs out her phone.

"Hi Paige, how's you?"

"Hey there, Ellie - yeah, I'm fine - are you busy?"

She's not fine. Ellie recognises the flat tone. "I'm just on the common, it's a beautiful day, where are you, are you at home?"

Paige spends most of her time free-lancing for a small design group in Fulham, dividing her days between working either at their office or from home.

"I'm at home. Actually, I'm meant to be on my way to see a client, but I cancelled. I'll see him tomorrow, he wasn't too bothered, and I just couldn't face it today. I wondered what you might be up to, are you around at all?"

"Well, yeah, sort of, why? What's up?"

"Give you three guesses."

Ellie sighs. Poor Paige, she's a darling and one of her dearest friends. They go back a long way. She's bright, she's pretty, she also has a fierce intellect, and a wonderfully sharp sense of humour. She could land virtually any man she wants. And then she has to go and marry Henry.

"You two have a row?"

"Not yet. He has to get home first."

"Sorry?"

"My beloved husband didn't come home last night."

"Oh, God Paige, why do you put up with it? Has he called?"

"No. And I'll be buggered if I'm about to call him."

"Are you okay?"

"I'm mad as hell, but yeah, I'm fine."

Of course she isn't.

Molly swings on Ellie's dress, "Mummy, mummy, come on - " She holds up a few fistfuls of grass, a slight diversification from the given spec. "Let's go!"

Daisy has already sped ahead, and is now gaily tossing her trophies over the wrong side of the bridge - she either doesn't seem to mind, or has entirely missed the whole point of the exercise.

"Listen Paige, I'll be home in another half-hour, tops. Have lunch with the girls and me, I'll toss a salad and open some wine, what do you say?"

"Sounds divine, but aren't you supposed to be doing something?"

"Only the ironing."

"Oh."

"Mmn."

"Be doing you a favour, then?"

"Yup."

"Okay. Can I bring anything?"

Ellie bends down to scoop Molly up, balancing her on her hip, "Yes please, a very, very strict nanny, and the meanest dog-catcher you can possibly chase down."

___________________

Paige pours out her troubles as Ellie pours more wine.

"Thanks, Ellie."

"What for?"

She shrugs. "Listening, putting up with me."

"Hey, it cuts both ways, kid."

"Yeah, yeah - it does." She smiles wanly. "All the same," She raises her glass, "To friendship."

"Friendship."

Up above their head, the thunder of Molly and Daisy's footfalls briefly subside, soon replaced by a rhythmic thump-cum-squeak. Ellie casts her eyes heavenwards, "They're jumping on our sodding bed again." Carrying the wine back to the fridge, she stops en route to yell threats of reprisal from the foot of the stair.

"What are you going to do?"

Paige shrinks into herself, and Ellie wishes she hadn't asked.

"I don't know. We'll have another screaming match, I guess, and not talk for days. I'll assume the role of the nagging wife, he'll turn himself into the injured party again. Same old, same old."

"Do you think he's seeing someone?"

"Don't know. Probably."

Shaking her head, "I don't get it Paige, you don't have any children - why stay?"

"Oh please don't, Ellie. I've no intentions of defending him, not to you, he's a selfish, manipulating bastard, I know. Just promise not to judge us, it's not all bad. I wouldn't be there if it was."

Reaching over, Ellie squeezes her friends hand, "Hey, it's okay."

The girls spin through the kitchen, and continue straight on, out the back door to join Pony in the yard. They both watch them through the window, as the girls unsuccessfully try to hoist him up the slide.

"Anyway, enough of me. Tell me, how's Isaac settling into his new school Does he like it?"

Gathering up the glasses to load in the dishwasher, Ellie notices Molly's shoes by the cloakroom, and raps on the window, beckoning for her to come back inside. "Fine, he loves it, but it's such a long day for him, he's the first pick up on the coach, and the last one dropped home. He's taking to falling asleep by around 6.30. Hang on.."

Marching out the back door, Ellie steers Molly indoors, chiding her to don her footwear.

"So it was a good move then, this new school?"

"I think so. At least he gets all his therapies there, speech, physio, occupational. And the classes are smaller. It makes life easier."

Daisy barrels in, in search of Molly, and decides on having juice, instead.

Pony yelps to be let in.

"Why do you call him Pony?"

"Huh? Oh. Well, Isaac didn't want a dog."

"Oh. Right."

"Hey, you haven't forgotten it's Isaac's birthday bash on Sunday?"

"What kind of a Godmother do you take me for?"

"Good. Jeez, oh heck, just look at the time - I need to go and pick Max up, fancy coming?"

Paige declines, she still has work to do, besides, she wants to be home for if Henry slinks back. Kissing the babies fondly, she embraces Ellie, and promises to keep her posted.

Waving her friend off, Ellie tries hard not to show the anxiety that grips her.

(More to follow, tomorrow.)

Marooned

2012-01-13T20:14:00.009Z

Time was once when Ellie felt perfectly happy to seen in the buff amongst good friends. Communal changing rooms, skinny-dipping, hell, even the odd shared shower didn't faze her. This here is the very woman who once spent several glorious weeks tanning it up on the nudist beaches of San Tropez.

However, having since accumulated several children, one badly botched tit-lift, and a lumpy duffel-bag where her belly used to lie, these days she much preferred to own a little privacy whilst disrobing.

Yes, of course she is all too aware of her flabby flesh, which is the obvious reason why she coughed up the certainly not insubstantial subscription to join with a sodding gym in the first place. How demoralising and cruel to be expected to undress before this plethora of bronzed, vitally young and svelte, anorexic/bulimic stick-insects.

Ellie continues to curse as she negotiates her sizable knickers off, ever straining to hold her towel together, whilst simultaneously darting the evil glare to anyone who may even be thinking to look her way.

It's all more than just a tad demeaning, especially when the mutinous towel goes and hits the friggin’ deck.

Thank God for the Prozac she thinks, scraping up the wretched rag, and re-winding it.

Finally, with jogging pants successfully donned, and hair scrunched back into her eldest daughter's elastic hair band, she steels herself ready to enter the ladies-only section of the gym.

Only to meet with further mortification.

The so-called “ladies only” section appears thickly populated with male fitness instructors, all there to helpfully assist the aforementioned Barbies to further stretch and tone their oh-so-supple torso’s.

What joy. Here she is in the middle of the set of Baywatch, and guess who the guest beached whale is?

Taking to the treadmill, she thumps around for a bit, belatedly realising what a sound investment a sports bra might be.

Red-faced and breathless, she tunes her earphones into The Jerry Springer Show, and tries to focus on the upset young man on screen who has just discovered his fiancé is not actually technically "one hundred per cent" female, after all, when she becomes vaguely aware of someone trying to attract her attention. Looking over, she recognises an old acquaintance from her pre-housefrau days.

Ellie hits the stop button and unplugs herself, sucking in her gut as she tries to look pleased.

“Ellie, my goodness, I don’t believe it - God, how long’s it been?” Her eyes do a quick stock-take, “You haven’t changed a bit!”

Slanderous bitch. Ellie opens her mouth to protest, but is cut short.

“So how have you been? It’s been a whole ’nother life-time, hasn’t it?”

“And some,” Ellie shrugs, “Where to start, eh? You’re looking well, though - good to see you, Melissa!”

“And you.”

Smiles all round.

“Well,”

“Yes,” Smile still fixed, “Must press on, eh? See you in the steam room, perhaps?”

Highly definitely unlikely. Nodding, “Sure, later maybe.”

Watching her iron bum effortlessly bound up the stairs, Ellie reflects upon the various injustices in life, and at how damn fine the skinny cow still manages to look. Resolving to add an extra vigour to her work out today, tomorrow, and to every other single day of her entire life, she replugs herself into Jerry Springer.

Ten minutes later, she’s ready for either a shower or an ambulance.

Later, dripping her way over to the private, if rather too cool sanctuary of a lockable toilet cubicle, she modestly towels off and dresses, allowing herself the virtuous and noble smugness that only a soon to be ex-fattie-thunder-thighs can feel.

Joining the hairdryer brigade at the mirrors, she’s surprisingly at peace with the world. Back on the street, and still enjoying the unexpected and novel surge of endorphin, she is even okay about bumping into Melissa again at the car park - whom she finds is now transformed from merely looking good into now looking simply and utterly stunning.

Nope, Ellie finds she bears her no grudge whatsoever, hardly.

In her current state of well-being, she doesn’t even resent Melissa’s Mercedes-Benz, greeting her with an almost genuine smile.

“Hey there, again!”

“Oh, hi!”

Fumbling for her keys, “So where are you living now, are you still at “The Oaks”?”

“God no! That was years ago - we’re still in Wimbledon though, Priory Avenue.”

That of the mansions and acres of lawn. Ellie should have guessed. She dimly recalls the husband is in something to do with venture capital - or assett stripping by any other name.

“How about you, you still have that flat above Allied Carpets?”

“No, no, I sold that after I married, we’ve a house in Eversham Road now.”

“That’s amazing, we’re practically neighbours - I can’t believe we haven’t met up sooner. Look,” She fumbles in her bag to produce a pen, “What’s your phone number? We must do lunch one day, what do you think?”

Ellie reels it off, semi-flattered, but doubting she’ll call. It’s a nice gesture. They say their goodbyes, and drive off. Barring any other chance meeting, it’s the last Ellie expects to hear from her.

Hindsight is a canny thing, but pretty darn useless when you come down to it. Neither Ellie nor Melissa have any idea of the life-altering encounter they’ve just had.

(More to come, tomorrow.)

And A Fine Time Was Had By All

2012-01-05T11:07:00.008Z

Jake is a tad disappointed.
"Catnip?? Bec, you grass me up to Santa about that steak I stole?"

Matt is delighted with his new Mac.
"Seriously? I let you snap me in the cruddy work outfit and with the bad hair, or I hand the entire laptop back?"

Camouflaged as a Christmas tree, this year neice Rosie hopes to pass off her brother as a present under her.

Abby-Red-Dress agrees, "Yup, it's a total mystery where that Biccardi went.."

"This makes my head dizzy!"

Shrinky demands a head-count.

"I did not birth all of these."

Finding the shed full, Shrinky takes off to hide in the woods.

Ahhhhh, it was proper luverly, so's it was, but I'm near about all blissed out by now.

A very belated Happy New year to you all, dearest friends. I still have a full house right now, but am hoping normal service will soon be resumed - once I ~~pack~~ wave Matt back to Uni, return the girls off to school, and manage to get Sam settled down into his usual old routine again.

So how was it for you?

A Christmas Carol

2011-12-16T13:11:00.003Z

Blimey, it's 51 Christmas' now, since Santa dragged me down the chimney, all covered in soot.

The folks claimed I was a huge surprise (yes, huge - I recall no mention of wonderful, wanted or beautiful in this conversation..). Like the ever increasingly bizarre knitwear my dear old gran loved to sic on us, seems Santa received a job-lot of babies in his cabbage patch that year. This sounded reasonably plausible to me. It certainly explained away those spells I often spent, bundled away at the back of the closet, along with those aforementioned sweaters from our gran. (Och no, dry your eyes, I'm only joking, we didn't own a closet, it was a coal bunker, and I went in voluntarily, much to my Ma's increasing consternation.. but I digress, my early taste for coal has little to do with this post.)

So yeah, Santa.

I swallowed that story whole.

Can you imagine the trauma caused when a couple of my so-called "mates" decided to break it to me Santa doesn't exist?

Proper upsetting it was.

Big sis' soon made them take it all back again, but by then the seeds of niggling doubt had sprouted. Too late to feed me the stork story, yet far too early to spell out the gritty truth, I was left to work it out on my own.

It wasn't so bad, favouring the adoption angle, I realised I'm actually a princess. At least now I had a kingdom to inherit, and the gleeful prospect of eventually lording it over the Sib's.

Delusions of grandeur provides certain comforts.

I adjusted.

The actual circumstances surrounding my birth were rather less romantic. Half a week well over-due, and a home-birth, it took a whole two days to persuade me from the womb, and even then it required the help of a set of forceps to drag me out. Maybe I sensed being born in to the thirteenth apartment on the block hardly heralded an auspicious start?

They had to send out for the Doc in the end. Rumour has it he was carving his roast at the time, and refused to budge until the last of the meal was through, so it fell to Carol (yeah, you read that right - Carol) the midwife, to mainly hold the fort until his almost too late arrival.

Da said I arrived looking like an angry old man, all red, wrinkled, and with this huge, pointy bald head. Ma told me straight up, Christmas turkey never quite tasted the same after that. I can't say as I blame her, she being only 4ft 10in, and with me weighing in at a hefty 10lb 10oz, it's little wonder she woke up in a cold sweat every Christmas thereafter. A full ten years on it took her, to brace herself to muster enough courage to complete our family.

Family legend has it that Neil Sedaka was belting out "Oh, Carol" on the radio, as my mother did likewise, but for different reason. Okay, I grudgingly admit it marginally beats being called Noel, but I still think my mother showed a stunning lack of imagination.

Still, that proved the least of my problems.

See, it's all fine and well to have a Christmas birthday, yes, granted, you are always guaranteed the day off school, and there is usually some bit of a party to be found - but even taking all that into count, it hardly takes the brain of Britain to fathom you sure could choose a better day to arrive in to the world.

Forgive me for being crass here, but what kind of a kid wants to share their big day being upstaged by someone ELSE'S birthday? Especially since half of it tends to be spent singing THEIR praises, sitting on a cold, hard pew, and in some old, draughty church?

And here's another thing - grown-ups are such fibbers, aren't they? "Oh, here, wee Carol, happy birthday! We've bought you a bigger present than the others, seeing as how it's your birthday and all.."

What a complete load of total and utter bollocks. Some people can make their mouths say just about anything!

Judging from what I found wrapped, thank God it actually was my birthday, otherwise I probably might've only been qualified to receive a wee lump of empty tin foil from under the tree!

And whilst we're on that subject, what is it with these cheapskates who think it's all right to scrawl "Happy Birthday" in my Christmas card? (No, it's okay, don't apologise, I'm over it now. Even though I do still know who each and every one you miserable sods are.)

Mind, if I thought I'd had it bad before, I soon reassessed once my own little brood happened by. Up until then, at least I could count on waking up to a cuppa' tea in bed. Having birthed four of our little darlings within the space of six years, can you imagine the Christmas/birthday mornings I spent when they were younger?

The cavalry charge started around 5am, and forget the "Happy Birthday's", I counted myself lucky to so much as escape for the luxury of a pee, before the morning ran through.

Every spare minute was turned over to slavishly consoling the kids, whilst loudly yelling at hubby to get a swift move on constructing that stupid pirate ship, why can't he? (Still having a dolls house, a monster garage set, and a full model kitchen in the queue to build, who needs a perfectionist? It's not as though they wouldn't all be bust by Boxing day anyway, is it?)

And what the hell is wrong with all these toy manufacturers, nowadays? Back in my time, when you bought a dolls house, you bought it expecting the picture on front to match up with the contents inside of that self-same bloomin' box. When you trustingly carted it home, you never expected some twenty-billion miniature bricks, a squeezee tube of glue, and a warning not to inhale until New Years Day, to spill out on to your lap, did you?

Nowadays, parenting classes should include a degree in construction, coupled with an option to take the, "How to get your money back from those no-good, thieving b*****d's who first saw you and your kids coming from a whole several miles down the road" course. I can't be the only one who doesn't read Chinese.

Now, just when the cherubs have grown big enough to turn their demands away from the more demanding, time-consuming of toys, to the more bankrupting and materialistic kind of gift, we find we have moved across to join my lil sis' and her family, over here on Craggy Island.

Woo-hoo, now we can have a PROPER FAMILY Christmas, all sitting together to pull a cracker over the communal turkey! Bliss, eh? Well, it would be if my lot weren't such utter carnivores, and my sister and her brood weren't all committed vegetarians.

Seeing as how my little sis' can't cook to save her life, I opt to host this jolly event, but since my lot steadfastly refuse to give up their roasted seasonal carcass, not for anyone - it involves us seated around two separate tables, and with two very different and individual menus a-piece.

It's sooooooooo hard to be a birthday girl whilst splattered in gravy, and with twenty pans all a-juggling.

What? Celebrate it on another day? Are you nuts? Don't be ridiculous, I love playing the martyr, besides, it wouldn't be my BIRTHDAY then, would it?

But we have reached a small, little compromise here. We all sit down to eat our traditional festive meal on the eve of Christmas now, it's far less fuss all round and everyone seems to be happy.

You see, it's a seriously bloomin' hard job being a Diva, I simply thank goodness my family appear to appreciate it.

(Wide beam to camera, slow curtsy, and quick exit.)

Okay, I'm a low-down sneaky cheat, we all know the only new part to this post is the up-date I made to my age. But hey, will ya' cut me some slack here? It's ~~my birthday~~ Christmas almost, I can't be hanging around in here inventing fresh new posts, there's s too much stuff to stuff, and people to do.. ya' know?

Okay, now I'm feeling guilty (insert deep, heartfelt sigh). Tell you what, next post I'll bring you up to date on all the Cassa Shrinky gossip - the eldest is back from Uni, he's in a house share with a guy whose mother manages The Rolling Stones - watch this space, I'll happily dish up all the dirt to you, okay? Soon.

The Further Fantasy Adventures of a Desperate(ly Bored) Housewife - #5

2011-12-14T23:38:00.003Z

Thing is, I've never been truly equipped for this rising at the crack of dawn lark.

Preparing breakfast at the struggle of morn, I sleepily contemplate the sizzling pan, as the aroma of frying bacon slowly wafts my taste buds awake - appears aromatherapy isn't all total bullshit, after all.

Shame I don't eat first thing.

Absently listening to the latest severe weather warning over the radio, I load up the toaster, switch the kettle on, and start laying up the kids vitamin pills out on the counter top, when the doorbell chimes.

Continuously.

Bugger. It's our psycho postie of course, hell-bent as usual upon finishing his route before sunrise. I hurriedly scuttle for the door, in hopes of reaching it in the three seconds before his boot puts it through again (he's never quite forgiven me for sealing up that cat flap of ours).

I'm quite taken aback to find it's not actually him there at all. A total stranger is perched out on my doorstep. Of course, ordinarily I'd be relieved, except there's something quite odd about this bloke standing before me. I don't know, maybe it's the serial-killer beard, or perhaps it's that dead stare of his, the one colder than Mengele's bed-side manner with twins, but suddenly I'm regretting flinging the door open so wide, and am wishing I'd had the foresight to keep a pack of slavering, trained to "savage, mutilate and swallow whole", Pit-Bull's around as pets, instead of a useless, sole, "pat me and I'm yours, I'm a lover, not a fighter" lump of Golden Retriever. (Sorry Jake, much as I love you, we both know this to be true).

Fixing my best fake bon-homme smile, I allow Jake to squeeze forward anyway, proffering his bribe of choice (Sam's sweaty sock), but his waggy tail soon freezes into a droop, and he fast scoots backwards, ears flat, whining.

Isn't it funny how your voice always comes out really, really squeaky when you find you have no spit left in your mouth?

"Can I help you?"

"You are not the nubile one."

And strange, isn't it, how easily the slap of an insult can snap one so instantly wide awake?

"You what? Er, sorry, come again?"

"I seek the supple female."

Well. How bloody rude is he? I'm speechless. Almost.

Straightening my spine, I lower my shoulders, nostrils flared, "'Scuoooose me, Mate, I'll have you know I'm double-jointed. I like to think I'm what would have happened if Marilyn Monroe had lived to discover cellulite and flat feet."

Then the light bulb pops.

"Hey, you that stinking streak of puss that's been stalking our Bec all week?"

(And here I'd thought she'd just invented him to secure my taxi services. Sheesh, let the guilt seep in.)

I make to slam the door, but too fast, his arm snakes out, clamping my shoulder in a tight, painful vice. I'm thinking nothing short of a field of garlic is likely to save me now, 'cos no way am I screaming (the last thing I need to fetch into the fray here, is the "Nubile One").

Oh great, now the feckin' burnt stench of soon to be alight bacon grabs my throat, and a screech of smoke-alarms kicks in. Oddly enough, this appears to work in my favour, as the lunatic loses his grip on me, and falls down flailing, squirming on the porch, his eyes scrunched tightly shut, he grinds his hands over his ears.

Yeah, I know - pretty weird. Quit complaining, you had to be there.

Losing no time, I sprint to the kitchen, lift the now spitting, crackling frying-pan up, and speed back with it, over to the prone numpty still writhing about on the floor.

"OUT," says I, "NOW! Or you'd best kiss your face a sweet goodbye!"

By now we have an audience of three very startled kids on the stair.  The fourth and eldest is obviously still blissfully snoring in his pit - dead to the entire kaffufle, no doubt sleeping off his hang-over. (Typical. Where's the men when you need them?)

"Mum..?"

"It's fine, Abby, go with the others back upstairs, and phone the police."

Ever obediant, no one moves.

Except Sam.

Nooooooooooooooooo!!!

From the corner of my eye, I see his hand reach up.  Trained by years of my cremated offerings, he is more than well versed in how to disable a smoke-detector, it's his job, this is what he does.

Shit.

(To be Continued..)

Keep Calm and Carry On

2011-12-08T19:00:00.002Z

Yikes, it's blowing a hurricane outside! Gales of 100mph are battering Scotland, schools are closed, buses overturned and trees are being tossed around like twigs. Power in 50,000 homes have gone down, and it's fast heading our way.

Bec is directing the school play, she's put hours of work in for months now, and the performance is set for tonight.

Call me silly, but I'd kinda' assumed all bets'd be off under the circumstances?

Silly me.

She had tea with the boarders this evening, in lieu of coming home - and this is the email I've just received:-

Message from the Bursar:

Dear Parents,

We have received a severe weather warning from the Met Office and the forecast for this evening is bad: high winds and rain - especially between 6 and 8pm.

We have decided that we will continue with House Drama this evening.

If you intend joining us for drinks at 6.30 pm followed by the performances at 7.00 pm we would ask that you take great care when parking your car, opening and closing your car doors and when collecting your children later in the evening.

Many thanks

Bonkers, or what? It's a 20 mile round trip there and back, down dark and twisty, unlit country lanes, through hail and rain, AND A HURRICANE.

I'm so darned glad hubby is the designated driver for tonight..(shudder)!

Cassa Shrinky

2011-11-29T18:47:00.000Z

Why do I need one of these, when I have..

One of these?

Jessie, cat-with-attitude, the best mouser in town, she who takes from the wild to release into captivity. Don't let her fool you, she's virtually toothless, she just refuses to give up the game. By the time she wraps her gums around any mouse and lugs it indoors, she's either too knackered to chase it, or her Alzheimer's has kicked in.

Add into the mix..

One of these

Beccy, girl-with-~~slave-~~boyfriend, bearing MacDonalds/Indian Take-Away/Chinese Carry-Out deliveries to her room on her whim.

Is it any wonder The Meeces have taken to frolicking wild with their all-night parties, tap-dancing across her floor to feast off those generously overflowing bins of hers?

Which is why, these past few mornings, I've found myself..

Here

Tossing the fat, noisy squatters reluctantly out of their ~~cozy, warm, cheese-carpeted den~~ traps, to go forth and multiply, as they say.

______________________

Island life is throwing out it's usual challenges as the weather turns. The faster Sea-Cat ferry to the mainland is made mostly redundant, unable as it is to navigate the increasingly choppy waters of the Irish Sea. So it's over to our old sloth, the lumbering "Ben-my-chree" (pronounced Ben McRee), which almost always appears to have one or the other of her engines out - not that it necessarily stops her making the crossing, but it does tend to make it so much more of a labour, adding as it does the odd extra hour (or two or three) on to the journey.

So it was, when Sweet Sam, hubby and I took the car over to Liverpool, last week, what should have been a two-and-a-half hour ride on the Sea-Cat, stretched out to a long five hours on the Ben-my-chree. We were headed for Newcastle, to visit our eldest in his University town (a further five hour drive on from Liverpool), and to drop him off a few "care-packages" for this new house-share of his.

In truth, we were lucky it sailed at all, we've recently had days where every crossing has been cancelled altogether. Only this morning I received a call from my beloved Tesco supermarket, telling me there are to be no groceries delivered to my door this week. My heart is in my boots, as I'll now have to battle the aisles in person tomorrow. When the ferries don't get in, neither do the food supplies; there'll be lean pickings on the shelves come the morn. I also hear there are more storms predicted for the morrow, and we are to be cut off for another day yet.

But I digress.

As luck would have it, Sam was well amused on both the journey out and on the crossing back - a bunch of his special-needs pals were on the ferry with us. All twelve, plus carers, were headed off overnight to watch the Liverpool v Wolves football match. Sam had also been invited along to this jaunt, but as it sadly clashed with our trip, he'd had to decline, so it was a pleasant coincidence he was still able to meet up with his friends, all the same. Actually, I hardly saw anything at all of him throughout the entire sailing!

Matt, our eldest, did us proud, giving us the grand tour of his new home town, and introducing us round to all nine of his house-mates. (They all met last year, in halls - now they and ten more others have elected to rent two houses next door to each other, this year - and yes, I would certainly hate to be one of those poor residents currently living on their street.. imagine having 20 students for neighbours - eeek!)

The lad appears to be thriving, he certainly seems happy enough. I had to laugh at the end of the meal we had, he doesn't eat out much these-days, and when the waiter came to clear off, he asked him to bag up our left-overs to take home. Waste not, want not - the sound motto of a starving student!

It's the first time we've ever left the girls home alone, and they truly lived to my expectations (sigh). Seems in our absence, they threw the bestest party in town.

Naturally, their allowances are frozen until the damages are paid.. soooooooooo, that'll probably be somewhere around mid, umm, lets see.. 2014? Och, don't worry, I'm only yanking their chain - truth be told, I actually expected to come home to a heck of a lot worse (but please don't go out and tell them that, okay?)!

_________________________________

I'm embarrassed to have three Christmas trees up before December - our main one is still to go up on the first. Don't blame me, you know what our Sweet Sam is like - I simply caved, I had to for a bit of peace. Wouldn't be so bad if we didn't also have the decorators in right now - as if they didn't already think this was a nut-house from the last time round.

Oh, and yeah, well when I say "we", that's the Royal "WE", of course - seeing as how hubby's craftily timed himself to be in London throughout their entire occupation - he's conveniently not coming back until they're all finished up and long gone.

Awwwwww, as I type, both Sweet Sam and Jake are sporting stripes of matching white gloss paint between them - how sweet is that, eh?

('Scuse me, just whizzing off to dig out my camera, a cloth, and a very large bottle of white spirit..)

Photo's from the bra

2011-11-25T18:37:00.011Z

The clock below reads 5.50am, and already the place is bustling with activity. If I recall rightly, I'd risen at three to arrive there, and the doors were open for trading from 5am. The Victorian building is located in the heart of the square mile of the City of London.

The wholesale fish market began trading here in 1875, but was scheduled to relocate later in 1982, to new premises at London's East End.

The lad above is a "Barrow-Boy", paid to lug pallets of freezing fish from a to b. Dozens of them darted to and fro as I continued to weave my way through the place.

Note the lit cigarette in the fishmonger's hand!

I have no idea why security took such umbrage to me snapping these shots, it was way before terrorism was seen as the daily threat it is now.

All eels are sold live.

As, of course, are the mussels and lobster (can't recall about the crab).

I knew I was being followed by two suited planks, and it was only a matter of time before I'd be stopped. Sure enough, they informed me photography was strictly prohibited. So I smiled sweetly and put my camera away.

For a bit.

(Don't you think this bloke in the centre, is a dead ringer for a young Lenny Henry?)

They soon re-appeared again to confiscate two reels of film from me and my trusty Kodak.

Gladly, by then I'd already had the wisdom to hide this third reel of precious gems well away and out of reach from their thieving, grasping mitts, stuffed firmly away as it was, way down deep inside my bra.

(Bloomin' Jobsworth's!)

The building still stands today, but reincarnated as an events arena, hosting such things as an MTV tribute to The Cure, and other likewise shenanigans.

I'm pleased I troubled to capture her in her older glory days.

Have Fun

2011-11-04T17:55:00.000Z

I'm taking a short blogging-break, but rest assured I'll still be visiting, so remember to behave! Back soon(ish). x

My Evil, Short-Arsed Twin

2011-10-31T14:12:00.001Z

Have you ever had your mug-shot taken, been finger-printed, and then found yourself banged up in a cold, dank, hard-benched cell to rot? It's not at all nice, you know.

Not to mention undignified.

Particularly when you are wearing nothing but a police jacket over your basque and fishnets.

Well I was innocent, of course. Seriously, I was (well, "ish", anyway)! Let's just say the crime didn't fit the time, okay? It was all merely a terrible mis-understanding.

(Honest Guv'!)

Oh, my cheeks still burn as I type!

Despite being in-between ~~Chauffeurs~~ boyfriends, I was sensible enough to leave the car at home that night, managing to hitch a lift from a friend. One of our mates had hired the back-room of Smolenski's Balloon, (a then trendy little London venue) to celebrate her twenty-fifth birthday bash in style. She'd themed the evening as a "Vicar's and Tart's night", and knowing most of the crowd she hung with, it promised to be quite a party.

And it was, except for the seating arrangements. At the sit down meal, good old Yve (the birthday girl) stuck me between this recently divorced, middle-aged woman and her son. I think they used to be her neighbours, or something. Oh, they were pleasant enough, I made nice. But he was nothing short of drippy, kept brushing up against my thigh whilst peering down my cleavage, and here, on the other side of me was his dear old ma, she who didn't stop to draw a gasp of breath, for all her talking at me. I guessed she didn't get out much, it was nerves that made her prattle, but that didn't make her any the less wearing to be lumbered with. Once the plates cleared I was happy to lose both to the dance floor, and mingle on.

Several hours, and more than a few glasses of wine down the line, I made to get ready to bid my goodbyes, the friend offering me a lift home had signaled she was set to depart. That's when Yve begged a favour of us. Jackie and her son were finding it difficult to find an available cab. If they could hitch a ride with us, would I mind letting them call a taxi from my place? It was on their way, and finding a cab would be easier once we were outside the West End.

It seemed the decent thing to do.

"Sure," says I, "Not a problem."

So off we hauled on our merry way. My friend duly deposited us outside my flat, and we waved her off with thanks.

You need to understand, it's now fast approaching 3am, and the buzz of the party is slowly wearing off. I am tired, a little parched, and can feel the faint promise of a pulsing hang-over starting to ferment. Jackie hadn't stopped jabbering her jaw from Piccadilly to Putney, and was showing little sign of letting up. Lurch had been copping a sly feel all the ride back, if I'd had found the energy I might have clocked him one. I simply couldn't wait to load them both off on their way.

However.

What the stupid woman had neglected to tell me (I didn't expect her son to, he obviously had much too much trouble tripping over his sticky, lecherous tongue to attempt burdening it with speech), was that she lived almost a further thirty miles on from me. That's why they couldn't get a taxi, no London cabbie wanted to touch the fare. I think I must have phoned through the entire telephone directory before I was done.

Forget sleeping over, no way was I waking up come the morn to face pervy Lurch-boy and this demented mother of his.

Shit.

There was nothing else for it. Kicking off my killer-high, shiny-red stilettos, I donned my fluffy slippers, grabbed my car keys and grudgingly marched them back down to the street. I had no idea where we were going, neither it appeared, did they. I only carried an A-Z of London in the car (even then it was only for show, I can't read a map to save my life), and as they lived somewhere in the depths of deepest Surrey, it proved little help.

After what had to be at least a year, and then some, of taking wrong turns, finally, that gormless lump of a son of hers proved worthy of not being drowned at birth, and spotted a recognisable landmark. He signaled by digging me hard in the back from behind. I bore no grudge, I knew it was the only way to alert me over the full blast roar of Jackie's (now near-hysterical) cackle. Catching on to his excitement, she followed his flapping arms and agreed.

"Oh, yes! Yes, Pete's right! Oh, clever boy, Pete!"

Thank God I had set off with a full tank of petrol, it had never occurred to me to take my purse along. By now, 5am, I am so relieved to get shut of them, I don't give a damn that it may take me a week to find my route back again. I cranked the music up and wound a window down, following my wheels for a sign of where to go.

Okay, I admit it, I may have taken my eye off the speedometer. But hey, the streets were deserted, and I just wanted to get home. Well, almost deserted, there seemed to be a plank behind me driving far too close up my bum for comfort. From the periphery of my eye, I saw him draw alongside me at the traffic lights. Oh, pul-eeeze, I am not in the mood here. He was obviously trying hard to attract my attention.

I darted a sideways scowl.

OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD - SHIT!!!!

I hadn't heard the sirens above the music, but I have no excuse for not recognising the fluorescent-striped Panda car.

He signaled me to pull over to the cemetery on our left.

"For a moment there, I thought you were trying to lose me, Miss." Said Mr. Smiley-Policeman.

"Uh, why would I want to do that?" Innocently said Ms. I-am-so-fucked-and-I-know-it.

"Because after chasing you for over ten minutes, you just took the last roundabout at over eighty miles an hour."

"Oh, surely not, officer? Really?"

"Would you mind stepping out of the car please, Miss?"

(Sure, I would just love to step out in broad daylight by these cemetery gates, freeze my arse off, and model my pointy little "raunchy-whore get up" for you, going so fetchingly as it does with my stare-of-the-art, Nora-Batty-style, fluffy slippers.. what's there to mind?)

"Have you been drinking at all, recently?"

"Oh, just a wee, small glass of wine.. or, er, maybe two."

I know, I know, I know, how daft can you get? I'd be useless under real interrogation, so's I would.

In actual fact, I felt as sober as a judge by now, so I wasn't in the least bit fazed when he pulled out his little Breathalyzer kit.

To my defence, even he said I was unlucky it chose to fall so marginally over the limit.

Unlucky?

Here I am at 5am, outside the cemetery gates in this ridiculous get-up, my fluffy slippers growing soggier by the minute in a puddle of rain (did I mention it's raining, now?), and despite being convinced I am as sober as a judge, I find myself arrested on the suspicion of drunk-driving.

Could life get any better?

As I didn't even know exactly where we were, I took great umbrage at having to leave my car behind, especially as I was forced to hand my keys over for the Mr. Smiley-Policeman to better park up.

I arrived at the little sub-station to be processed by my arresting officer and his desk Sargent. The first order of business was to hook me up to the big brother of the little breathalyser I'd just failed. Theory is this one gives out a more accurate reading.

"Awww, how unlucky is that, eh?"

"Yeah, it's the closest call I've ever seen.."

"Yup, me too."

I was starting to feel I'd gate-crashed a skit from out of "The Secret Policeman's Ball". Now, if their sympathy could only run to handing me my keys back, I'd be happy to up and leave without so much as a harsh word.

Truly.

Seems it doesn't work that way. Now they want to draw blood. My blood. Not only that, they want me to pay them for this privilege. Seriously.

"I strongly advise you allow us to call our duty doctor out for a blood sample."

"Why would I want do that?"

"Because between you and me, by the time he gets here, you'll almost certainly read under the limit again. If you don't give a sample, we'll have to accept the machine reading. It'll lose you your licence for a year, plus you'll be fined £200"

"Yeah, it's automatic, see.."

Oh, for the love of God. I needed a cup of tea. They made the phone-call, and Mr. Smiley-Policeman stuck the kettle on, as I allowed Mr. Less-Smiley-Policeman to take my fingerprints.

"Do you want to call anyone, let them know where you are?"

I explained I was still working on teaching my dog to pick up the phone. I imagined the poor mutt was probably evacuating her bowels as we spoke.

This opened the conversation to an exchange over our mutual pets, the breed, age, and names of which now escape me. I found myself peering at cute wallet photo's (is it just me, or is there something tragically sad about placing pictures of a dog in the space allocated for your nearest and dearest?). Once the pleasantries and tea were drained, I found myself ushered in front of a white backdrop.

"Can I brush my hair and apply a bit of lippie, first?"

"Aw, go on then, there's a mirror out the back."

Shit. What a time to remember you've left your lippie and all other worldly goods behind at the flat.

I wasn't allowed to give them my best side, they wanted my sunken sockets face on, then an equally unflattering shot of my pointy nose in profile. Thankfully, at least I was spared the indignity of holding out a number plate.

"Do you have any previous arrests?"

Bloody cheek! Who did they think they were dealing with here? I had them know I wouldn't receive the annual licence I needed to trade if I held any criminal record. Okay, it was perhaps an unfortunate wording in light of the fishnets and leather basque, but still, I didn't think it was that funny. I hurriedly explained that, no, I've never been arrested before.

I asked them where the loo was (the tea was taking it's toll).

"Er, I'm really sorry, you'll need to go in the cell for that."

I'm not proud. Well, I wasn't until I got there.

"You are having a laugh, aren't you? I'm not peeing in there!"

The loo faced straight on to the door, where a huge letterbox-shaped peep hole was in place.

"Oh, c'mon, we're not going to look."

Yeah, right. (I was not a happy bunny.)

The doctor finally turfed up to stab me. I was told I would be written with the lab results when they came through. I was offered a lift home, but opted for a taxi instead, knowing I could grab some cash from home to settle the fare. By now I was shivering, goosebumps had set over my flesh, I was cold, weary and just desperate to get myself away from there.

Mr. Not-So-Smiley policeman disappeared out the back, as Mr. Smiley-Policeman explained I could leave in a minute, they were just running my details through the computer. Ten minutes later, Mr. Not-So-Smiley-Policeman reappeared, except he had now turned into Mr. Frowning-Policeman.

Pulling Mr. Smiley-Policeman out of my earshot, they had a private word. Whispering together, they shook their heads and shot rather ominous looks in my direction .

Huh? (I wasn't daft, there was a definite shift in the atmosphere here.)

"Hmn, you've been a very naughty girl now, haven't you Shrinky?"

What?

"What are you talking about?"

"Scotland has several outstanding arrests out for you, seems you've led us a fine old chase, haven't you?"

I was last in Scotland when I was only sixteen, now although I confess to some fuzzy memories of the time, I do think I am pretty certain I was never that bad.

They checked my full name, birth place and date of birth again, and Mr. Frowning-Policeman instructed Mr. Now-Losing-The-Smiliness Policeman to return me to the cell I had just recently christened.

This was ludicrous. Surreal. Straight out of a George Orwell novel. I protested it was too bloomin' cold to freeze my arse off in there, and was granted the huge favour of a spare jacket to cover over my shivering frame.

The door clanged shut.

I considered yelling out for my Lawyer. I did have one. He managed the legal side of my business. But I had a feeling I might need a more specialist kind of a one for this. My brain was hurting too much by this point. I reckoned I'd figure it out soon enough, bugger the lot of them. Settling my head down, I laid me down to snooze.

I don't know quite how long passed, but it must have been a while. I woke to a mug of tea and a bacon buttie thrust under my nose. Like I say, I'm not proud, I was hungry and happy enough to scoff it down.

Between bites, I asked his retreating back, "What is it you think I've done?"

"How tall are you?" Said the Mr. New-Policeman (the shift had apparently changed).

"What?"

"What's your height?"

"Five foot, seven - why?"

"Hang on."

The door clanged shut. Two minutes later, it re-opened.

"Okay, you can go now. Sorry about that."

"What?"

"It was a case of mistaken identity, sorry about that. Er, 'fraid we're going to have to take the jacket back, Miss."

"Can't I just hang on to it for a bit, drop it back later?"

"Sorry."

As he dialed me a cab, I peeled it off. "So, what was I supposed to have done, then?"

"I'm not at liberty to say, miss, sorry. But you sure were unlucky, talk about a coincidence.. there is someone wanted out there for some pretty serious stuff, you know, and she has the exact same date of birth, place of birth and full name as you do! Amazing, isn't it? Mind, you are five inches taller. If you ever get arrested again, it might be worth you mentioning that the next time. Oh, that and your fingerprints don't match, a lucky break for you, eh."

He even had the temerity to wink at me as he said this.

Lucky? Lucky?

I'm nothing short of fuming.

The next day my arresting officer called asking for a date. I told him, if it was all the same with him, I'd sooner see him in court.

I didn't as it happened.

The blood results proved negative, and the charges were withdrawn.

A week later the bill for it landed up at my door. I paid, bearing no grudge, figured it was a fair enough trade for also losing the speeding charge.

In the cold light of day, I can't complain at my treatment. I didn't want the blood test, it was only down to their urging that I was persuaded to go for it. It could have turned out a whole lot worse.

I often wonder what ever became of my evil short-arsed twin.

Footnote: A few years back, my mate, Yve, invited me back to her fortieth. Guess who was there? You can rest assured, I kept well clear of both Jackie and of her (still tongue-tied and every bit as much as pervy) son that night.

I know, I know, I am such a lazy, crappy blogger, and YES the Re-Post Queen has only gone and struck yet again, What can I say? Anything worth publishing once, is always worth the thrusting out of again ('specially when I'm so busy writing The Great Novel, as I am right now..) I'll make it up to you next time round, promise! xx

Sardines

2011-10-27T21:12:00.002+01:00

Part one can be read here and part two here .

Da is far from happy, and I can hardly say as I blame him. When he waived us off on the train for England, he (and everybody else, myself included) thought it was only for a two-week jaunt to see Ma's sister, my Auntie Agnes in Yorkshire.

Ma never breathed a word about us leaving Scotland for good.

Mind, if Da's surprised, 'tis nothing compared to Auntie Agnes' shock. 'Twas only on the final day of our second week here, when Auntie Agnes enquired as to what time we should be setting off for the station, that Ma finally saw fit to clue her in as to the plan. To be fair, it's possible Ma didn't even know of it herself, before she happened to wake up that morning.

Ever the impulsive one, not to mention determined, there's no swaying Ma once she takes the bit between her teeth. We're staying, and that's that.

Did I mention Auntie Agnes, Uncle Ray and my six cousins, all live in a two-bedroom, back-to-back terrace house, with no hot running water, and only one (shared by neighbours) out-door loo?

It's not the sleeping four-to-a-bed arrangement I mind quite so much, as us always having to share it with Pee-The-Bed, Big-Bladder-Sandra every night. Besides, I have my darling Bobby waiting for me at home, as well as my mates and me being all set to begin our new school term next week.

Da's yelling so loud, I hear every word. The beeps interrupt. "Hang on, Alec," says Ma, as she thrusts another tuppence through the slot, "Will you shoosh up, and listen to me, now?"

Someone raps on the pane for us to hurry it up, there's a queue of three standing in line outside, all ear-wiggling it in on the conversation. We avoid eye-contact, and turn our backs.

"Aye, happen so," says she, "But you'll need to catch us, first."

I wish she wouldn't goad him on like that, he's mad enough at her as it is.

"Och, okay then, suit yourself, there's the beeps again, I have to go.. What? Eh? Hello? He-llo?"

The connection severed, we walk back to Auntie Agnes' house, Ma smirking all the way.

"So, are they coming down, then?"

She shrugs, "They'll have to, won't they?"

"But,"

"What?"

"Ma, where will they sleep?"

May is five years older than me, Ian seven, and they too have their school and their own friends to think about. Da has his job. And what about our house, all our stuff?

I'm wishing we'd never come down here in the first place. Auntie Agnes' house is smelly and damp, there's never enough food in my belly, and nobody speaks right, half the time they can't even understand what I'm saying. I just want us to go on home.

Ma and Da continue to talk, she calls his works office twice weekly, and they fetch him to the 'phone. He has notice to serve, our furniture to sell, and bundles of other stuff to tie up before coming down to join us. May writes she's seen Bobby with another girl, not that I believe her. I just wish I had his address to write to, to tell him why I've gone missing.

My cousins start school again, but I don't go. Ma tells me as we're moving to our own place soon, it's best to wait 'til Da gets here, and she'll enroll the Sib's and me properly into our new school then, one nearby to where we'll live.

Time has never dragged so heavy.

Lost the (Almost Halloween) Plot

2011-10-22T15:19:00.002+01:00

(I may have made the doll, but Chewy took the pic.)

Monday, 5th May.

"Dear Ms. Shrinky,

"I wish to apply to be your blog ghost writer, a vacancy which appears to be sorely overlooked, and bewilderingly unadvertised. The word on the net is that you've lost it, become complacent and neglectful of your readership, and frankly, well, are an embarrassment to your community. Having opened a window between releasing "Duma Key" and the start of my sequel, I'm compelled (at minimum fee) to offer my services. You may recall me from some of my previous works, "The Shining" was quite popular, and I believe "The Green Mile" received a fair press. I can supply references should you require it, and my terms and conditions remain moderately flexible.

I look forward to hearing from you in due course.

Yours faithfully,

S. King."

Bloody cheek! Who the hell does this guy think he is? 'Course, he's never been quite right in the head ever since that accident of his, has he? So some people (and yes, you know who you are, you traitorous turn-coats) are starting to talk, are they? Charming. Well fine then, so be it. I could do with a break anyway. Just hope you know what you're letting yourselves in for, you do realise he's a horror writer, don't you?

Tuesday, 6th May

Aw, he's kinda' sweet really. The deal is, for a bed in the shed and three square meals a day, he'll run off two weekly posts and mow the lawn for me. Sounds fair enough. He's certainly quiet enough down there, takes all his meals in the shed. I did offer him a glass of wine, but it turns out he gave up drinking years ago, around the same time he quit smoking. Perfect house guest really, all he does is type. He does mutter a lot though, hard to understand him most of the time, what with him being American and from Maine, n'all. Still, so far so good. I'm looking forward to seeing what he comes up with. Hope it's good.

Wednesday, 7th May

Blimey, you wouldn't believe the day I've just had. Sheesh, talk about a Prima Donna, I should have just known that King guy looked too good to be true! All I did was to ask him to trim it down a bit, I mean, who the hell writes a 500 page post? Not on my site. Well, you should have just heard the language.. honestly, proper shocked I was. I told him, I said, "Stevie boy, you may well get away with tantrums like that from where you come from, but not from over here, and certainly not under my roof, you don't! Condense it down to two pages me lad, or it's no pudding for you tonight."

Hmph. I've gone and sent him back to the shed to think about what he's done. I'm feeling all flustered now, think I've got a headache coming on.

Thursday, 8th May

Oh Lord, I've had the most terrible night.. just awful! I couldn't sleep a wink for the stabbing pains in my head, even the Nurafen hasn't helped. As if that weren't bad enough, looks like Stephen's fallen off the wagon now, it smelled like a brewery down the shed this morning. He's darn well smoking again, too - that place is like a tinder-box, one spark and it's set go up in flames, I'm sooo beginning to regret this arrangement. He's only gone and hurled my beautifully cooked breakfast right back at me, hasn't he? Sausages flying everywhere! I ask you, what kind of gratitude is that? Apparently he's on hunger strike now. And get this - I think he snuck up to the house last night, some stuff has gone missing. I don't want to cast any aspersions here, but my supply of emergency Drambuie has gone AWOL, not to mention my favourite hairbrush. I'm just off to check the wine cellar, make sure the rest of the booze is still intact..

Friday, 9th May

I couldn't get out of bed this morning, it's all I can do to prop myself up to type. I need to call a doctor, something isn't right. Oh, and get this, Stevie boy has had the temerity to send me an email:

"I expect you are unable to visit me this morning. If you want me to call Charlie off, publish my post IN IT'S ENTIRETY, or continue to suffer the consequence."

Who the hell is Charlie? Ow! I hurt too much to think, I really don't need this..

Saturday, 10th May

Hi folks, Stephen here - Shrinky sends her apologies, she's a little incapacitated at the moment. Don't worry, I have things covered. Watch this space - oh boy, do I ever have a great post coming up for you guys - hehehe..

Oh, um, Charlie? Have you not met my childhood friend? He doesn't talk that much, he's only a doll, but he and I have become real close.

Apologies to my long ~~suffering~~ term readers for yet another re-post, I promise not to be such a crappy blogger and will try to invent something new before my next offering.. honest!

Negotiations

2011-10-20T18:48:00.003+01:00

She: This is all your fault.

He: Huh?

She: You're meant to be waiting by the door, lead in mouth, all flappy tailed and eager.

He: What time?

Me: Eh?

He: Tried that once, didn't exactly earn me any dog-biscuits, did it?

She: It was four o' clock in the sodding morning!

He: So you expect me to tell the time now?

She: You're supposed to be dragging me up hill and down dale, not slobbering down to share a bowl of tea with me. You're getting fat, you know..

He: I could say something here, but I'm too much of a gent. Trade you my paw for that last biscuit?

She: Go on, then.

(Shaking on it.)

He (mid-munch) : Like it's my fault you stuffed me in kennels and took off to Ireland? I told you no good would come of it.

She: Hey, don't start, I was kidnapped, as well you know.

He: No one force-fed you though, did they?

She: Is it my fault everything came so deliciously deep-fried? Anyways, things are going to change, me lad. You and me, we're on a health drive - enough is enough.

He: Oh, not again. Here we go. Don't see you dragging Jess around on any of these jaunts, do we?

She: That's not in the feline job-spec, besides, she's not as fat as you.

He: Cheers. I never accepted these insults before my balls were taken.

She: C'mon Jake, I could use some support here..

He: Use the treadmill, I'll cheer.

She: I'll do you a deal.

He: I'm listening.

She: Every walk earns you a kip on the couch.

He: Oh yeah, like his Grand Lord and Master is about to go for that one, eh?

She: Um, I was kinda' thinking more like the week when he's in London..?

He: That'll confuse me. You're a shit role-model.

She: I know. What do you say?

He: Let me think about it. Did you remember to tape "Jeremy Kyle"?

She: Ooooh, it's about to start, isn't it?

He: Bring the popcorn..

Away With The Faeries

2011-10-17T15:44:00.002+01:00

Management have brought complaints to my attention I must up my game.

Apparently, my hairy-legged heroine with the hay-stack hair-do, fell way too far below the minimum "kempt" standard most bloggers expect and demand. To wit, I'm told as no-one wants to actually read about my sorry personal hygiene problems, my character needs to either glam-up, or be immediately shut-down, with all future blogging privileges withdrawn forthwith.

Harsh, or what?

Soooo, with this borne in mind, I hereby present you with

The Further "Scrubbed-Up" Fantasy Adventures Of A Desperate(ly Bored) Housewife

(Note to Management: All effort has been taken to cover any offensive appendages.)

Guess I knew it was only a matter of time before word of my super-powers got out.

In truth, I have tried to play them down some, because, well no one really likes a show off, do they? Still, I guess it was inevitable it would have to come out at some point. I mean, once you've got it, you've got it, haven't you? Be daft not to use it now and then, akin to stashing a billion quid in the house, only to then go stand in line at the soup kitchen.

Still, yes, with a little hindsight, I agree, perhaps I may have chosen a more fit, responsible way to test them out. No bones about it, I am truly very, very sorry.

I apologise.

Profoundly.

But I ask you, who ever heard of a Super-hero having to do community service? And as for this ankle-tag nonsense, surely you cannot be serious?

Sigh..

On your own heads be it, then. C'mon, what happens when I need to save the world, and it's past my curfew? Have you really thought this one out?

Okay, but don't let it be said I never warned you, is all..

(Pout.)

I wouldn't mind, but it's hardly as though I actually asked to get set apart from all you common mortals. No-one thought to tap me on the shoulder to ask. A little, "Oh, 'scuse me Missus, how do you fancy me bestowing a few superhuman gifts on you?" might, maybe have come in handy.

I could have said no.

Unlikely, granted, but still, I might have.

They didn't know.

All I'm saying is, it would have been nice to at least have been given the option. But oh no, all I get is, " ZAP!" done deed!

Guess I should have known better than to get mixed up with that bunch of fairies. It all began when I took that sodding picture - you remember, down by Fairy Bridge?

Yeah, that's the one.

Naturally, it got my curiosity up, and I found myself being drawn back there. But for all my hours spent in searching, the fairies never revealed themselves again.

Reluctantly prepared to admit defeat, I finally made one last pilgrimage to lay my gift at the fairy shrine, tied my wish to their tree, and turned for home.

That's when I heard him. Proper foul language he was spouting at that.

'Course, I had no idea what was going on, but the mutt was acting in a real frenzy, I'd never seen him in such a vexed state.

Running over, I see something snagged on his upper canine. The curses and screams mixed together with Jake's snarling confuse me, and I actually do a double take, believing it's the hound himself there that's doing all the yelling.

And then I see him.

Eyes out on stalks, my jaw gapes. Looped by his belt and snagged to Jake's tooth, is this angry-faced, livid, little creature, being tossed and flung around fit to rattle his every bone.

"Do something ya' great galloping galloot! Call yer fecking flea-bag off, right this minute, ya' gormless, puss-filled, face-ache of a vacant, howling waste o' space, ye.."

Well now, I don't know about you, but I don't respond very well to being spoken to in such tones.

Distressed as he is, there's no excuse for such a stunning lack of manners. Besides, he's certainly ignored me for long enough, hasn't he? Have I received so much as one simple thank you for all those carefully chosen gifts, lovingly left lying by his shrine?

Ha! Look, who needs the favour NOW then, eh?

Grabbing Jake's collar, I calm and settle the little fella' down enough to reach over and pluck the wee guy loose, and raise him by his belt, level to my eye.

Big mistake!

Still kicking and cursing, he lets his fist fly straight, smack-bang into my retina - owowowowowow, that damn-well hurts - yet still I hold him fast (if a little farther away).

"Take yer shiftless, slimy, sticky mitts off a' me, ye stinkin' stream o' steaming sputum.."

Charming, eh?

Still, the little folk are hardly sought out for their polite after-dinner conversation. Everyone knows the catching of a fairy gives out huge rewards, but it's also common knowledge they rarely give up their favours with grace.

It takes several minutes of stern negotiation (the best part involving ducking him in the river for a bit) before he finally swears to give up my just due.

Satisfied I've won a life-changing prize, I happily set the little fella' free, as once promised, no fairy can ever go back on their word, it's set in stone.

Admittedly, maybe I should have asked him to be a little more specific as to the gifts he'd bestow, but I'm not always the sharpest knife in the drawer when it comes to my trust.

I just kinda' assumed it would come in monetary form, y'know?

Not as in a bolt of lightening set to frizzle my being.

Sheesh, what the hell is all that about?

No sooner have I let go of him, a flash of energy sears through my veins hot enough to rival any giant onset of the menopause, and I find myself soaring way up, up, over twenty foot high, only to plummet down fast and hard, landing slap-splash-crash into the middle of the boulder-strewn river.

Scares the bejesus out of me, so it does (the wee rat-bag's way of revenge, no doubt)

.

I want to make it plain, I had no say whatsoever in the powers the warped little sod chose to gift me. Awesome as they may be, would you elect to have the ability to stop the bad guys by fetid stench alone?

It's hardly flattering to be known as the Queen of Skunks, y'know.

I'll have it said, my motives were nothing but pure when I chased down that mugger - how the hell was I to know the whole of Douglas would need evacuating, afterwards?

And another thing, so far as I was aware, I thought that whip he gave me was just a tool to round up the baddies with, no one told me it disabled folk by inflicting instant, multiple ejaculation.

(Eewwwh - pul-ease!)

Still, a girlie has to make the best of things.. I mean, at least the transport looks groovy, eh?

(Further note to Management: Ten cans of super-hold hairspray have been sacrificed to ensure each hair be expertly nailed into place, during the execution of this photograph.)

Down at the Old Dog and Duck

2011-10-16T13:25:00.006+01:00

The Best-Bank-Robber is weary.

Others, at the peak of their career
Have a portrait hung in the boardroom,
Not a mug shot on "Ten Most Wanted".

Over a pint of Marston's Pride,
Stan-The-Safe-Cracker sympathises.
He is so very tired of co-worker's shooting at him, paid vacations only at "Her Majesty's Pleasure", and no pat on the Back for a job well done.

Too old for Government re-training
(Where the pay is shite)
There still is the one-armed bandit to feed,
And those safe houses to keep.

The Best-Bank-Robber reflects;
"Back in my day at Borstal, skills such as
Internet transfer, hacking, and identity fraud,
They were as distant as those CCTV cameras
Now squatting on every corner."

Creaking in his chair, Stan-The-Safe-Cracker sighs,
"'Tis the poxy forensics, DNA, that's destroying the livelihood,"

"They wouldn't dare if we wuz Unionised."

Raising a glass, they ponder in gloom
As to How It's All Gone So To Pot.
Finally, bell ringing, Bruiser-The-Barman
Signals last orders to drain up their ale.

Out in the cold night air, as they part until the next, Stan-The-Safe-Cracker Brightens, turning to deliver a reassuring back-Slap.

"Well man, at least your young Colin is making a mark?"

The-Best-Bank-Robber tries hard not to crow. Swallowing a lump of paternal Pride, shoulders squared, he smiles.

"Aye, sure enough, so his dear Ma tells me.. yeah, he's only out and running His very own crack-den now, ain't he?"

Shuffling Off

2011-10-10T19:42:00.003+01:00

God: So tell me Shrinky, now your life has played out, any questions?

Me: No it hasn't.

God: Sorry?

Me: My life, it's only halfway through, that's not "played out", that's "cut short tragically".

God: Ah.

Me: So yeah, here's a question, why the rush? I mean, what happened to those golden years, a paid up mortgage, a little return on my pension? Heck, even senility, that'll do - I'm no where near done yet, what about all the other things I want to do?

God: Oh, you have done everything you want to do.

Me: Huh?

God: Every one says that. If there were anything else you wanted to do, you would have done it.

Me: What utter bollocks! I've got loads of stuff I need to finish -

God: Perhaps you do, but do you want to?

Me: Yes!!! Yes, I do, as it happens. And what was all that about, anyway? What was with the being done to death by a cockroach bit? What did I ever do to deserve that? I mean, sure, I might not have led the most pious of lives, but I wasn't that bad, surely?

God: Of course you weren't, well not entirely. You did kill a lot of insects, mind.. Take it from me, all this dying in your sleep nonsense, it is an awfully dull end, you know. Besides, you did make the six o' clock news."

Me(preening): Really?

God: Ummn. Choking to death in a restaurant. On a cockroach? Headlines, my dear.

Me: (Smiling broadly) Aw, well yes, I suppose it would really, wouldn't it? Did they include my photo?

God: Of course, you are quite the celebrity, my dear.

Me: Aw, that's nice. Which one?

God: Which what?

Me: Photo - which one did they use?

God: The dead one.

Me: WHAT?? You're kidding me, right? Tell me you're kidding me..

God: Sorry.

Me: Sorry? I didn't even get my roots done - If I had to die this young, I should at least have been allowed to make a presentable corpse, don't you think? Anyways, why take me now? I've been sweating blood to get that not-a-book-of-mine into print, the very least you could have done is let me see it published.

God: That's not my fault.

Me: Huh?

God: I gave you ample time to finish it, you were the one who chose to fritter it all away, blogging. Freedom of choice, remember?

Me: Well, how was I to know I was about to be yanked up here? Would it have killed you to give me a little advance warning?

God: I didn't want to depress you, you were rather glum enough as it was. Actually, that's one of the reasons I've called you in..

Me: What? Oh, that's nice, that is isn't it? You sling all this crap out at me, and the minute I complain, I'm toast? What the hell did you expect me to do?

God: Exactly what you did. You asked for my help.

Me: HELP? This is help? Think you and I need to consult more in future. Oh wait a minute, silly me, I forgot, I no longer have a future now, do I? Thanks God, cheers for that!

God: Of course you have a future, that's the whole point my dear. I'm sending you back.

Me: Huh?

God: Yes, I have a plan for you, you see. I always have had. All that stuff you experienced wasn't at all by pure chance, you know. I went to a lot of trouble to make that happen.

Me: It was deliberate?

God: Sure it was. I'm proud to say you've learnt a lot. You're ready for the next stage now.

Me: Who says I want to go back?

God: For goodness sake, fickle creature, make up your mind..

Me: Well, yeah - sure, but I just want to know what the alternatives are first. I mean, I'm not going back for all that crap again, am I? What happened to heaven, and all that? Isn't there supposed to be a host of angels waiting up there for me?

God: No, not just yet, they're fully booked. It's by appointment only these days, I'm afraid, but if that's what you really want, I'd be happy to slot you in for a cancellation?

Me: Cancellation? What do you mean, cancellation? How can death be cancelled? Do you often have a change of heart at the last minute, then? "Oops, sorry Nigel - only joking!" You must be really hard up for entertainment, that's sick, that is.

God: It's got nothing to do with me, it's all those meddling doctors down there. Why do you think the planet is struggling so hard to support you all? Half of you should have checked out years ago.. I give everyone an expiratory date, but then we're back to that old free choice again, aren't we? Not only have they introduced IVF, they've even taken to stealing each others organs now, you know.. So, how about it then, shall I sign you up for the next slot, or do you want to go back again?

Me: So this plan you have for me involves multiple choice? Forgive me for sounding cynical, but I'm starting to lose a wee bit of faith here..

God: I have a plan, it's entirely your choice whether you want to follow it or not.

Me: What happens if I don't?

God: You'll be sorry.

Me: Are you meant to be threatening me like this?

God: I'm God, I can do what I like.

Me: So let me see if I've got this right.. I'm not allowed to go back as myself?

God: It would be a bit pointless, don't you think? Anyway, every one's already been to your funeral.

Me: Never stopped you with Jesus..

God: As if everyone and their uncle hasn't tried to pull that one. The answer's no.

Me: I will at least be rich, though, right?

God: In which way?

Me: What do you mean, "which way"? Rich as in cash, of course, loads and loads of it, please. It's not as though you didn't make me suffer enough last time around, is it? It's only fair..

God: I have every intention of making you rich, but not in worldly goods. Unlike many, you will be returned to earth abundantly eloquent and remarkably healthy; gifts best suited for the purpose I have in hand.

Me: O-kay. Cool. But with a little, tiny million or so in cash, too? C'mon, it's hardly gonna' hurt you now, is it? I mean, where's the harm?

God: It would distract you, make you lazy. Trust me, I know you.

Me: That, uh - that is totally unfair, how can you even say that? You only know the me that I was, and that me had you riding my back, zapping my arse, and throwing curve-balls at me every five minutes. Now that me, hell yeah, sure I probably would have taken it a little easier, who could blame me? But that's not this me. I know how fragile life truly is now. I can do focused, believe me, I can do this, un-lazy rich is me, just roll it on, you'll see..

God: Thankfully, I don't need to. Oh, don't look so crest-fallen girl, you'll earn a perfectly decent living, don't fear. You really do need to have more faith, you know.

Me: Do I have any say in this?

God: You don't have to go back..

Me: Aside from that?

God: Sorry.

Me: You're not much of a liberal when it comes to this freedom of choice, are you?

God: Ha! Funny you should say that, because it brings us nicely on to my next point. To quote a certain famous car manufacturer; you can have any colour you like, so long as it's black.

Me: Eh? Um..what? WHAT?? Ut-oh, oh no, no way. This your idea of funny?

God: It's my idea of true.

Me: What? Why? What difference does that make to the great scheme of things? Don't get me wrong here, I like black people - well, some of them, but - you're not serious, are you? I'm white, you know I'm white!

God: You're scared.

Me: Hell, yeah! Have you seen the deal these guys get down there? What're you smiling about? You know, I used to place a lot of trust in you, no one told me you were just plum crazy.

God: It'll work out well, you'll see.

Me: Oh, I get it, I'm going to be male, too, aren't I? And young. Twenties something? Gee God, you must really love me, after all, you're obviously going to be recalling me in again pretty soon..

God: No. Not that I don't love you, of course. But no, you are going to live a very long and productive life, rest assured, I would hardly have gone to all of this trouble just to go and waste you all over again, now would I?

Me: Well, as you put it so nicely. Alright, so I'm a young black man.. a handsome, muscular young, black man, right? I guess that's not so bad.. Pity though, I used to love flirting with all those guys.

God: Oh, that needn't change..

Me: Huh? No, uh-uh, you cannot be serious -

God: Never more, my dear. Sorry, we're not exactly talking Will Smith here, you're going to be a joyously gay young, black man quite well-known, too, I might add. Well you did so want to be well known in your last life didn't you, poor dear? I feel it's the very least I can do for you now..

Me: Why are you sounding so camp, all of a sudden?

God: What can I say? I am all things to all men. Women too, come to that.. anyway, where were we? Oh, yes, your purpose. You are going to make quite a mark, my dear. People are going to love you; not those who know you of course, but those whose lives you touch will be eternally grateful there is a God in heaven..

Me: Hold up.

God: Mmmn?

Me: Sorry to interrupt here, but I mean, if I touch someones life for the good and all that, I'm not saying they have to necessarily love me exactly, but they're bound to be more grateful to having me on the earth, as opposed to, say having you, ie., a God in heaven; a guy who, let's face it, has kinda' grown just a mite distant, and a tad remote down the years? Hell, why should you take all my credit?

God: Because I made you, and I can unmake you too. Where do you think parents actually got that saying from in the first place? Anyway, as I was saying.. I have a grand design for you, one that will impact beautifully on so many lives.

Me: I'm getting scared to ask. Does any of this involve me and hurt in any way?

God: Oh no, not at all. In any case, not physically. I grant you, you will not often, well hardly ever, actually probably never, be very liked by those around you, but really, that is such a small price to pay for all the good you will do for others..

Me: Glad you seem to think so.

God: I've groomed you, my girl. All your life has been leading up to this, this is it, your big moment! As good old Dr. Phil keeps saying, "I want you to get excited about your life."

Me: Is that the baldy, American guy? The one on day-time T.V.? Sheesh, you really have been slacking off up here. It rots the brain, you know.

God: You will not talk about St. John, like that, he's doing a fine job down there.

Me: Oh blimey, you mean - ?

God: None other. A fine man then, and a fine one now. Anyway, let's not digress.. time is getting short, and there is work to do. I'm sure you are probably well aware of the purpose I have in mind for you, so without further ado, let's get on with it.

(Ten minutes later)

Me: You're taking the piss.

God: I thought you'd be pleased.

Me: Oh, come on God, cut me some slack here, I hate those morons - you know I do!

God: Stop being such a drama queen; it's not them you hate, it's their actions. Which is why you are best qualified to go back down there to kick some ass. Think about it.

Me: Gee, you're a regular loving God, you are. Why don't you just save putting me to all this bother, and zap the sods with a bit of your good old smite, instead? It'd get the job done in half the time.

God: I know, it is tempting, isn't it? Not that it would work, of course. For every one of them, there are a dozen or so more who would soon take their place. No, I'm afraid it's more of a control and monitoring operation that we need.

Me: Talk for yourself here, I'm out of it, remember?

God: Stop sulking, you are going to love your new life. Trust me.

Me: So in between all this service to mankind business, do I actually get to have one, then? I mean, lots of fluffy, warm happy bits, stuff to make it all worthwhile?

God: Oh yes, lots.

Me: And I'll be handsome?

God: Of course. People predictably respond better to good looks, don't they?

Me: Will I be athletic?

God: You'll be very agile. Mentally.

Me: Mentally? - what's that got to do with the price of eggs? I'm gonna' be fit, yeah?

God: Absolutely. A club foot is nothing to worry about these days..

Me: No way!! Uh-uh, deals off, I'm walking away, with both of my two good feet, right now. You can stuff that for a game of soldiers, go and find some other poor sucker to play with. What the hell are you talking about, God?

God: You have to experience discrimination, in order to fully appreciate the injustice of it. Being a black, gay, disabled man will add a fire to your belly, a passion to your soul. I promise you, you will experience a hugely satisfying life, my dear, you will be far happier than you've ever known. You'll end up thanking me, honestly.

Me: Yeah, right. Thanks anyway, but just put me down for your nearest cancellation, will you? Point me to the waiting room, and give me a shout when the angels arrive. This second time around lark of yours sure stinks to high heaven.

God: Well, if that's what you really want, I can't hold you, it has to be your own free choice, of course. It is a great pity, though. You have no idea how badly you will regret this.

Me: Oh, surprise, surprise, here we go! I knew it was only a matter of time before you pulled this old one on me. Sure, yeah, you know what's best for me, and I'm gonna' suffer horribly if I choose any other path.. am I right?

God: You really do have a lot of insight, don't you?

Me: What kind of free choice do you call that?

God: The only one you have. Still, it is your call..

Me: You're just loving this, aren't you?

God: I'm merely offering you a guiding hand, is all.

Me: How can you say I'll be happy? What's to be happy about?

God: All the good you'll do. You're going to make a lot of people very grateful.

Me: I'll be a fabulous lover?

God: That wasn't what I meant.

Me: Maybe not - but I will be, won't I?

God: Er, it's probably not a good time to add this, but since you've asked, well, I'm going have to say that that's going to be rather
unlikely..

Me: Huh?

God: I'm sending you back impotent. I don't want you distracted.

Me: COME AGAIN??

God: Sex is highly over-rated, believe me. I only put it in there to give me a good laugh. You're far better off without it, you'll see.

Me: I don't want to see. Let me get laid!

God: No.

Me: I get laid, or I'm not going back.

God: That's your final answer?

Me: Oh, stop that! It isn't "Who wants to be a Millionaire", you know. This is my life we're talking about.

God: Which is why I urge you to make the right decision, my dear. It's the most important one you'll ever make.

Me: I don't want to be Prime Minister, it's boring. Like I say, I hate these guys!

God: Oh, don't worry, it won't be boring after I kit you out with a bigger brain.

Me: So now you're calling me thick too, eh? Well, humph, that's really nice, that is! Good job you never have to run for election, isn't it?

God: I don't want to press you, my dear, but this was meant to be my afternoon off, you know. Are you any closer to making your choice?

Me: There isn't one, is there?

God: Not really.

Me: Are you sure you know what you're doing?

God: You can always come back and sue me..

Me: I think someone already tried that, didn't they?

God: I hate to press you..

Me: A black, impotent, gay, disabled Prime Minister, eh? Ah, what the hell, okay let's get on with it..

Sweet Sam, Mine

2011-10-06T22:35:00.004+01:00

It's stormy out, the ferries are cancelled, and I see the trees are fair lashing about down in the glen. Sam is not a happy camper.

"The wind wants to sleep with us tonight."

I promise to have a word with it.

He's not convinced, "No, it's shouting too loud, it won't hear."

"Well, we won't let it in, okay?"

Agitated now, "That's no good, it'll just bang the door and knock on the window all night!"

"Sam, please DO NOT open your window tonight."

Upset, "It wants in!"

"Oka-aay, well, it can come sleep with me then, alright?"

"Promise?"

Looking him squarely in the eye, I find I can't lie, this lad's had to wear far too many broken promises from me as of late.

"Och no love, I'm sorry. But how about if I put a mattress down in my room and you come in to sleep with me?"

A frustrated sigh, "No."

"Why not?"

"You snore."

(Bloody cheek! That's a heinous distortion - I do NOT snore - he tells EVERYONE this! I may breathe a little heavily at times, but it's his dad who's the champion snorer! As far as Sam is concerned, as his daddy walks on water, that God-awful racket in the dead of night simply has to be from my throat, not from his precious father's, oh my, no, for you see his daddy - unlike me - is just as perfect as perfect can be, and even then some, with a flaming halo attached to the top. Um, oopsie, I'm ranting, aren't I? Sorry.)

I sure hope the roof doesn't blow off tonight..

_____________________

Turning eighteen is not proving easy. As an "adult", Sam no longer qualifies for a placement in full-time education, well, he wasn't given that last year, either - full time education that is - but he did at least have a four day, part-time placement on a life-skills course at our local college, where he was able to mix and to socialise with other folk such as himself.

This course ended in early July, and Sam's been offered no other daily outlet from home, other than the two part-time days he's only recently begun (three weeks ago) back at college. A third day was then later added, working at a garden centre - which he now absolutely loves. They give him a wage-packet (£2) at the end of the day, which he is SO proud of. It makes him feel validated, useful and worthy, and is building his self-esteem up no end!

So yes, that's great, and certainly a welcome change from the months of having had only his boring, old mother to hang out with all day. Thank God for his evening clubs, those run by several charities, otherwise he may have gone plum stir-crazy. (Of course, it still falls to me or to his dad to get him to where he needs to be, and home again.)

So yes, three days a week Sam is now given a purpose to his day. However, we were promised (months ago) he could count on having a five day week in place by now, and Sam is keenly aware of that.

Over the summer, at the urging of Sam's newly-appointed social worker, we visited with and enrolled Sam up to attend a scheme we are all very excited about.  We were given to believe this would begin on the same week as he re-started college.

This place is a recently opened new venture to the isle, specifically geared to offer work-shops and social outlets, to young adults who live within the autistic spectrum. They cover everything from bicycle repair, painting and decorating, computing, or cookery, to loom-weaving, carpentry, gardening or pottery - all taught in this shiny-bright, wonderfully equipped, purpose-built centre.

His social worker recommended Sam have a full two day placement there, and after meeting him, the centre happily endorsed this. We were delighted, as Sam has fallen in love with the place. I can't tell you what a great vibe there is there, the energy, warmth and dedication of the people running these workshops is obvious.

So yes, poor Sam has been asking me every day, "Is it this week I start at the centre?"    I invariably tell him perhaps, but I'm not sure, because I'm still waiting to hear back from them. Sam is lost without his time-table, he doesn't comprehend uncertainty - in his world things are either black or white. And he TRUSTS me. I have lied to him.

I call Sam's social worker at least twice weekly to ask what's happening, but he always seems to be on the brink of waiting for his line manager to approve it, or for her to have a meeting with her boss to give us the go-ahead, but then it seems that he, her boss, must now chase the bean-counters down, to release the funding required for his placement to happen there..

And so it goes on..

Being told it was a given, I've allowed Sam to set his heart on this place. Last week his social worker came back to tell me he can only hope to secure ONE day a week there for Sam now. Imagine how betrayed Sam felt. I had PROMISED him two days.

On Monday his social worker expressed concern there may not be enough money in the pot to secure any place at all now for Sam there, but that he's still working on it.

Wednesday, he told me everything is on hold. The centre manager had to leave due to personal circumstances, and until the staffing issue is resolved there, nothing can move.

I am so verily tempted to apply for this position, myself.   What do you think?

Strike a Light

2011-09-30T19:36:00.005+01:00

Well, dip me in treacle, peg me up on a clothes-line and blast me with sugar-sprinkles, what a week this turned out to be..

Still ferreting about in search of this missing ~~golf ball of a~~ diamond of mine, it occurred to me maybe the waste disposal unit did actually have good reason for throwing the meltdown it had the other day, perhaps that's where the darn stone landed up?

'Course, ever cautious, I made certain to cut the power switch before sloping my hand down in there for a rummage.. 'cept, I didn't quite realise just how deep this contraption runs - who would have thought? Before I know it, I'm leaning down almost up to my armpit in there, and still with no sign of reaching firm ground.

But if you think that's odd, 'tis NOTHING compared to what happens next - truth be told, even as I type, I'm still doubting my senses.

That darn bowl of the unit only springs into life, grinding and gyrating, and with me, my arm still stuck half-way down there, screaming fit to burst. Instinctively, I yank my arm to free myself, only to find my fingers being grabbed and tugged near out from their very sockets. The unit has taken a fierce purchase on me, and I'm battling on the losing side of a now desperate tug of war. As I'm being fed deeper, sucked in inch by further inch, I hear a high pitch, ear-shatteringly loud wail, hardly registering this is actually coming from ME, yelling my lungs out as I am at the sheer bloody terror of it all.

I guess that must've been around about the time I passed out.

I awoke, disorientated, in pitch dark, to find myself lying on the floor of a dank, cold, metallic-like surface, an irritating splash of water regularly dousing my head. As my eyes slowly adjust, I look up to discern a faint, dim light emanating from a small, circular opening, very faraway up, overhead.

What, is that a dripping tap I see up there?

Sploosh.

Uck, I'm completely drenched. Attempting for cover, I scuttle my bum further along, hopeful to scamper out of range. This is where I do a hesitant body-check for missing limbs and digits, and thankfully come up much relieved. However it is I came by this place, at least I appear to have made it in here still fully intact.

I squint around, trying to get a fix on where I've landed, and discover an approaching warm, bright glow appearing around the curved, domed wall to my left. It casts a flickering shadow along the smooth, silvered casings, granting a clearer, solid form to my newly found surroundings.

Looks like I'm only sitting in some kind of sodding, ginormous, monster-type of a pipe..?

SHIT.

How the hell did I get to here????????????

The light source is moving, flooding towards me. Gaping up, I see burning torches, hand-held by a group of people who appear to be alarmingly headed my way.

Sweet Jesus - WTF, Now??

I'm not daft, I know having seen "Frankenstein", crowds of torch-bearing rabble rarely bodes well for those whom they hunt.

But there's nowhere to run.

I watch in panic as they draw closer, noting they are all female, and exceedingly, unnervingly, strikingly familiar..

This is nuts.

They are all ME.

Well, almost. We are all identical.. except.. not totally, completely. It's hard to pinpoint exactly how, but it's clear my twin versions are, subtly, quite different from me, and they are also, peculiarly, obviously unique from one another, too. I'm struggling to absorb this, blindly awestruck, and seriously grappling for my sanity, as one of my Doppelgangers steps up, smiling.

"Hey there, Shrink, we were wondering when you'd stop by!"

Everyone nods at me, grinning.

"Who, what the - ?"

Another Shrinky steps forward, "Och, I know, it's all a bit of a jolt, isn't it? Everyone feels that way first time down. Don't worry, it's all good, you'll see."

Someone helps me to my feet and passes me a torch (suspiciously resembling an over-sized match-stick), "Come on, let's go grab the comfy seats to get better acquainted."

I'm led around the bend (kind of fitting, I've mentally arrived there, anyway) to where a large chamber, lit up by ample burning sconces, awaits. Furnished in an eclectic assortment of various over-stuffed Sofa's and elegant chaise-lounges, it resembles something of a cross between a whore's boudoir and a Sport's Bar. It even has a wall-mounted floor to ceiling flat-screen telly, and a roulette table sitting centre stage.

Surreal.

A wheel-chair bound Shrinky meets me with a cup of hot, sweet tea, "Here, sit down and sip this, it'll help."

Everyone else takes a pew, and she begins to fill me in.

"Welcome to our alternate sump-hole, this is where we all come to visit with each other."

Shrinky-in-the-corner pipes up, "But not all at once, we just pop in here from time to time if we need to swap notes, compare lives or to perhaps offer some useful advice amongst ourselves."

Shrinky-by-the-door sighs, "We are all alternate versions of you. We live the lives you decided against. I'm the one who married your childhood sweetheart."

WHAT?

"Yeah, that's why I'm a little more worn - he really was serious about raising that football team.. we even managed to top it with two reserves and a spare keeper, as well."

Sheesh! I look askance at Shrinky-in-the-wheelchair.

"Oh, I'm the you who DIDN'T give up sky-diving, after starting our family.."

Blimey.

"And you?" I ask of the power-dressed Shrinky.

"I'm the you who stuck by her resolve, after ditching that two-timing fiance of ours - I stayed single, focusing on my career, which, incidentally, flourished."

"You still have the agencies?"

"No daaaarlink, I eventually went public, floated them on the stock market. I'm retired to Marbella now, happily settled in with my delightful new toy-boy."

Crumbs.

"How many of you are there?"

They all shrug in unison. Shrinky-by-the-table laughs. "Countless! For every choice you make, another alternative of you takes up the discarded role. We all lead full, complete lives, it's just each of them are completely different."

"I-I had no idea..!"

Shrinky-by-the-door shakes her head, "Most never do."

"What, you mean EVERYONE has alternate selves down their sump-holes?"

"Don't be ridiculous, we don't actually LIVE here, we simply come by to visit from time to time. We all go back to our own lives, just as you will, too. We use this place to confer together, occasionally swap lives with, or to try to prevent any really mega-bad future decisions from fermenting. Um, not that we always succeed, of course." She casts her eye over Comatose-in-the-corner-Shrinky. "She's the you who chose to say yes."

"To what?"

"Everything wonderfully bad."

"Ah."

She flicks on the television, and my world floods the screen. "This is where we keep an eye on you, try to contain the worst of your actions."

"Steady on, sod off! How DARE you spy on me?"

"We're spying on our futures with you, be grateful. See that roulette table? We roll your chances on it, discard as much of your ill-choices as we can. We look after you, silly-one."

Time stands still in the sump-hole, and it turns out we all have one. I stayed for what felt hours, learning all there was to it. I can go back any time I please, and exiting home again isn't as hard with practice (so I'm told).. though I don't think I'll ever feel comfortable arriving back stark-naked in a puddle of sick.

Yours is in it's own special place, not necessarily down the waste-disposal unit, but it's around if you care to look. Not all of us find it, but those who do are truly blessed, indeed. Gone are the "what-ifs", and forget any regrets. I've learned I'm actually living the life that's truly meant for me, and I also now happen to have the bestest set of concerned advisers exclusively on tap (cringe), any time I might ever need commit to a hard decision. It's kinda' comforting, really (I think)..

Though I still can't help but wonder what the Shrinky-who-found-my-diamond is currently up to..

(Sigh.)

So tell me, what alternative lives do you think YOUR Doppelgangers might be living?

Knot Funny

2011-09-24T01:22:00.089+01:00

Friday afternoon when the doorbell rang, my heart went thunk in to my fluffy slippers 'cos I knew I wasn't expecting anyone.

Figuring Nutty Nora had got bored again, I grudingly prepared myself to be lumbered. There's no sense hiding, my car gives me away.

But as it turned out it wasn't her after all, it was this big, slightly tussled looking, smiley-woman, and although she appeared to know exactly who I was, I hadn't a foggiest clue as to who in the hell she might be, but she sure looked to have been hitting the happy pills.

Guess I need to backtrack a bit.

Sometime back in April (I think) I was sitting stuck behind a van at the traffic lights. It advertised dog-grooming services with a phone number displayed. I memorised it, never having a pen when needed, and called them (well okay, her) when I got home.

Thing is, Jake's bloomers are in a bit of a mess - his bum region has got more knots in it than a Swiss log cabin. Truth is, I worry it might get to the point of his arse sealing up altogether..

No, it's not that I don't groom him, I do (sometimes), and with a lot of persuasion and the odd little threat, I can usually lug him in to the downstairs shower with me if he really needs a wash, but try as I might, I can't get his backside to unknot except with scissors, and he looks daft walking around in a semi-Brazilian.  Totally undignified.

So anyways, I explained the problem and asked her to book him in. Would you believe the first available appointment she had wasn't until yesterday? Little wonder I'd forgotten!

Good job I hardly ever go anywhere isn't it? Which takes us back to Mrs. Smiley-Woman. She has her whole salon set up in the back of that van of hers; bath tub, hoists, grooming table, the works. Incredible, but true.

So I did as bid and led Jake around, freed up a couple of power-points in the garage, and left them to it. Jake being Jake, I knew he wouldn't believe his luck, like his owner he's hardly a one to pass up on a pamper. Assuring her she could do what she liked with him, I took myself off indoors.

I wasn't in the house for hardly all of two minutes before the phone went. It was her, giggling that she needed me. Off I trot to see what's up.

She blithely informs me, "This isn't working."

"Huh?"

"He's too heavy for the dog-hoist."

Now, I admit he likes his scraps, but he's no Saint Bernard. Besides, she knew he was a Golden Retriever before she got here. No matter, I wasn't too fussed about a shampoo, he has his daily swim at the beach.

"Fair enough," I said, "I just want you to sort his bloomers out, really."

"Ah," She laughs, "That's the problem, see he won't fit on the grooming table either.."

WHAT? How many years has she been at this job? Lord knows, she certainly appears to have a full enough diary. Besides, who needs a grooming table when you can take him indoors and do him on the floor? Smiley-woman finds this hilarious.

"Oh no, dear, see I have this dodgy knee.."

Silly me. Her constant grinning is starting to get right up my.. well, let's just say I'm beginning to get mildly irritated. Having waited months for this, you could say I'm starting to feel a tad disappointed.

"Well, how about if he lies on the sofa then?"

More fits of laughter, "Ah, I'm afraid that wouldn't work on account of my weak back. It would be certain to set it off again. I just didn't realise he'd be so big."

So now it's official, he's a freak of nature. Even the alleged professional dog-groomer of a zillion years confirms it, seems he's more part pony than dog.

I could finish this post by giving you a blow by blow account of the hysterically amusing tale of how Mrs. Smiley-Face came by both her dodgy knee and her weak back, but I'm not so sure you would laugh quite as hard as she did over the lengthy recounting of it.

Long story short suffice it to say, vanity be damned, after having had a small talk with the scissors, Jake now sports a chilly but knot-free, full Brazillian - and what's more, he didn't need to wait months for it either, and nor has it cost me so much as a single farthing.

Hey, maybe I should consider plugging this obvious wide gap in our market, and set myself up as a professional BIG dog groomer?

The Curious Incident of the Missing Stone

2011-09-21T12:22:00.001+01:00

'Course, that's what Abby told me she was doing up 'til 5.30am..

I wouldn't put it past her and the friends who "slept over", to have been actually up hunting for that lost diamond of mine, the entire night long.

Hmmmn.

Yup, I'm just off to check e-bay..

What a Royal To-Do

2011-09-12T15:21:00.003+01:00

It's been fun and games on the Isle this week. This fluffy li'l kitten is our endorsed mascot for the Youth Commonwealth Games (speaks volumes about us, don't ya' think?)

We're currently hosting the tournament over here, and out of sixty-five countries, there are only two absent. Zimbabwe's President, Robert Mugabe declined, on account of us not talking to him right now, (ha, yeah, like as if we were about to invite him over, anyways, huh? We've plenty enough on our plate as it is thanks, what with that Gadaffi bloke and his recent shenanigans) and it seems that Fiji is also kinda' indisposed, due to them having suffered a rather questionable coup over there recently (yup, t'was news to me, too).

Naturally, this sporting event is a huge big deal for us, why, with a population of less than 75,000 - I mean, it's sorta' like our equivalent to England hosting the 2012 Olympic Games, and it's exciting, y'know? Well, so I'm told. That's if you're into all these athletics and sports and such-like, which in truth, I'm not.

Well, not really.

(Unless Yoga counts?)

But Mr. Shrinky is well made up about it. A few months back the call went up for volunteers, and Mr. Shrinky, being of a more altruistic nature (and far sportier) than I, was first in line to sign up and book himself a week out from his day job. 'Course he had no idea what the required tasks might be, anything from manning the ticket gates, to looking after visiting teams, who knew?.

In due course he was called in for an interview. A week later someone phoned to ask if he was up for the one-on-one babysitting of a VIP for the duration.

So sure, I told him fine and go ahead, just so long as we're not expected to be putting them up over the week, I mean, who wants visiting VIP's examining the fluff under the bed, or to be counting our dead bugs on the sill?

He called them back and was assured they'd already booked him for The Sefton (our poshest hotel on the Isle). At that top dollar, we figured it surely must be one of their finest, super-star athletes, one of their elite they had in mind for him to hand-hold, eh?

It wasn't until last week they eventually had him in for the sit down and debrief, and finally announced the identity of this mystery Geezer.

And blimey.

Well, bloomin' heck, even I'm impressed. I don't always cut Mr. Shrinky enough credit - seems (contrary to me) he truly is a pretty well-respected citizen around these parts. Maybe it's all that recent work he's been doing for the Government (he's been a wee bit in the news as of late) that's raised his profile?

Must be.

Now, I am aware there are a few Doubting Thomas' around these parts, those of you who may be casting a dollop of doubt over the truth and veracity of my recent postings.. and yes, much though it pains me, I do accept I may just occasionally be a wee bit prone to exaggeration, but I want it to be known right here and now, every single thing in this particular post is nothing but the total, unabridged and gospel truth.

Pin your ears back.

See that man below? (No, not the one dressed up like a pumpkin, that's Mr. Shrinky, I'm talking about the one standing next to him, His Royal Highness, Prince Tunku Imran of Malaysia, second in line to the throne, and the President of the Commonwealth Youth Games, himself.)

Yes, granted, he may not be dressed quite as Presidential or as Prince-like as you might be expecting of someone of his standing, but hey, be fair, this was taken on his day off. The games hadn't started yet.

You don't believe me? Go Google! Just don't forget to come back and apologise. Well, what you waiting for? Go on, scoot!

(Foot tapping..)

Right, you happy now? Sheesh, some of you really do have trust issues, don't you? Aye, and you can stuff your apology 'til the next time, I'm off my stride now.. where were we?

Oh yeah.

I'm so glad we traded the old Tardis up, you can hardly go collecting royalty driving that old clunker, certainly not on the first introduction. Impressions count, they do.

I told Mr. Shrinky, I said, "No, now you can't go meeting him, holding up that bit of cardboard with his name scrawled across it, I mean, he's used to being recognised, isn't he? I imagine he normally comes with servants and chauffeurs and such, you just can't go showing up for him looking like some sort of odd-job, clueless cabbie!"

So he took himself away on-line to bone up a bit better, and later on he took a trip down to the library for a book or two on Malaysia, and any of their customs we ought to be knowing about. (I love my dog, and I'd heard they eat them over there.)

As it turns out, Mr. Shrinky needn't have worried, he stood out like a beacon at the arrivals gate, sporting that ~~near fluorescent, cheap and nasty~~ orange and black volunteer uniform they'd supplied him with. And the plastic name-tag around his neck served him well.

Plus there were only six folk on the flight.

Well, so far Mr. Shrinky is having a blast. Him and His Nibs are on first name terms now, and pure inseparable they are. Seriously, what a genuinely nice bloke this guy is, and he carries no airs or graces about him at all.

For the first two days, hubby served as his chauffeur/tour guide, driving him all over and about the place. He had to stop off now and then for the odd lunch and dinner with folk, but when he did, he always invited Mr. Shrinky along with him, too. Yes, Mr. Shrinky's been rubbing shoulders with the high and mighty all week, he has, and he's utterly chuffed to bits to be sitting in in the VIP box, watching all the games as he is.

You wouldn't catch any of our Royals popping over here without their full entourage of body guards in tow, I told hubby to be careful, you never know if he's likely to be kidnapped or not, do you? Mind, with him being Muslim an' all, I guess that does narrow the field down a bit, eh?

It's been quite a full week, all told. His charge has to give out the odd medal, and to make an ocassional speech or two here or there, but in between all that and the watching of the games, they've still found free time enough to go out sight-seeing, shopping, or to stop off for a small libation at an out of the way Pub.

Though I did cringe when he took him visiting there out to a junk shop, I ask you, is that really the sort of place for a Prince to be seen hanging about at?

Mind, that said, he did buy a set of six egg-cups from in there (egg cups are hard to come by in Malaysia).

Our friend is scheduled to have dinner this evening at a formal do with, amongst others,The Governor, and Prince Edward (UK Queen's youngest son), but I've reluctantly advised Mr. Shrinky to be leaving his tux at home for the occasion, I fear it rather doubtful he'll be receiving any free pass into there this evening (though, being ever hopeful, he's stuck it in the boot, just in case).

All things considered, there's a lot to be said for volunteering. I wish, I wish, I wish I could tell you more, especially of all the salacious, juicy tit-bit's I've had passed my way this week, but (sigh) as I'm under strict threat of divorce should I divulge any gossip in here, I'm having to bite my tongue hard, and to sadly take a pass on (what for me are) the bestest and most entertaining bits.

His Highness is due to jet away on Tuesday, but with the tail end of Hurricane Katrina hitting us today, all flights and ferries are closed from the Isle. I sure hope The Sefton can extend his stay on from tomorrow, should the need arise.

If not, push comes to shove, I s'pose I could make up a spare bed for the night.

(Running off to find my fluffy duster..)

More Adventures of a Desperate(ly Bored) Housewife

2011-09-02T20:17:00.010+01:00

It's not as though I planned on going out.

Aside from me still trying to live down that whole talk-show fiasco, my road was all set to close up for the day, it being our Grand Prix race week an' all. Actually I felt pretty grateful everything was on lock down, 'cos it's the safest I'd felt in weeks.

Like you know, these poor frayed nerves of mine sorely needed the rest, I swear I had every intention of simply writing the day off under my duvet.

I hadn't banked on our psycho Postie.

This guy seriously needs his parole revoked, Chief Minister's brother or not. I'll bet none of his co-worker's get away with this breaking and entering lark of his. Grant you he's certainly gifted, there's not many who can fold themselves through my catflap.

He boasts he's never returned an undelivered parcel yet.

If I wake to the doorbell, I have less than thirty seconds to cover my arse before his boot hits the stair.

"Oh hullo, Mrs. Shrinkie, and what a fetching robe it is that you're wearing today," Whispering, "..though if you don't mind me saying, those legs of yours might use a little attention?"

It's just as well my face doesn't work first thing.

"And here I've come with your mail."

"What the f - what time is it?"

"Oh, early. Six. I thought it best to make the rounds before the roads seal off. Can you sign for this package for Mrs. Dishthedirt? I don't like to be waking her."

Adding fresh insult to injury, he now needs to use my loo. By the time he's done apologising for the smell, and for the broken brush down the blocked S-bend, I find I'm surprisingly wide, wide awake, and rapidly developing facial tics.

Sooooooo, being as how I'm now up and about, it dawns on me I have a few safe hours left before the roads are due to close, and as precious few people are likely to be out and around at this God-forsaken early hour, I reckon a wee drive down to the ferry port can't do much harm..  Like I say, it's sure been a while since I last dared push my head out the door, . The daily mainland newspapers get shipped over at sunrise, and I want to know if my name is still being trashed about over there.

Swapping my robe over for a coat, I stick a hat over my haystack, and nonchalantly picking at the crusted sleep matter from the corner of one eye, I discard my fluffy slippers in favour of the mock tiger-skin pumps which Bec's conveniently lost by the door (Yeah, for a skinny shrimp, she sure does have big feet).

As I arrive, the news-vendor guy is still bent over cutting the string from the paper-bales.

"Jesus, God and The Holy Virgin Mary, is that yours or the dog's legs you've come in on?"

What is this fixation with my personal grooming, today?

Hiding my exposed shins against the counter, I grab the first three available tabloids to hand, and thrust a five pound note out to the insensitive bastard.

"And maybe I can interest you in purchasing a disposable razor, too?"

I ignore the ignoramus and stick my hand out for my change, as a second person saunters into the store. As I casually glance over, I'm telling ya' folks, my heart near explodes right up through my throat, so it does.  All I can say is it's a darn good job I hold possession over a very healthy bladder, that's for sure.

You'll never guess who's standing there before us? None but the very Dictator, yes, that sad, sorry skid mark on the knickers of society, it's only he himself, isn't it? The contemptible and thieving, murderous and evil Colonel sodding Gadaffi, that's all!

WELL.
(That's my outraged voice, by the way.)

THE BLOOMIN' CHEEK OF THE SMELLY GIT, EH?
(That's still in my outraged voice.)

He doesn't look near as nice close-up, y'know. AND he stinks. You think he might have at least availed himself of a shower on the crossing, well assuming he blew in with the ferry, that is.

I can barely lift my jaw off the floor.

I watch as up he strides to the counter, bold as brass, dragging his wheelie-case behind, "Morning. Half an ounce of Golden Virginia tobacco, and a box of matches, please."

Now, I don't know about you, but I can't have any of that, can I? I mean, this guy's a nasty war criminal.

"Hey," I says to the Mr. Vendor-Man, "You can put that right back up on the shelf again - can't you see who this is?"

So he stares at me like an idjit.

Pointing accusingly, "Look, it's him, that Gadaffi bloke, innit?"

"Huh?"

I'd expect better from someone so tediously observant as he is in the hairy leg department..

"Gadaffi!" shouts I, stabbing my pointy finger at the upheld front page photo in "The Sun", as I all but ram it (the paper, not my finger, that is) up his fat, spotty nose. "Him!"

"Where?" asks Gadaffi, craftily swivelling his head to gawp out the window, all innocent-like.

"Don't you give me that, I'm on to you, Sonny Boy."

"No, I not Sonny boy, what you talk about?"

Seeing he's getting a bit agitated, I urge our idjit Mr. Vendor-Guy to get a move on, and to call the police, pronto, but (eyes-skywards) does he listen? Where's the Cavalry when you need it, eh?

Gadaffi edges for the door, but, ha, no way am I about to let him escape.

Spread-eaglling (yes, I think you'll find it is a word) myself upright against the door frame, I yell at Mr. Vendor-Man, the useless head-the-ball, frozen-in-the-headlights, worst-person-ever-to-have-with-you-in-a-tight-corner, to grow a spine and to flippin'-well help me, but it's only when I snatch up his Stanley Knife still lying atop the stack of paper's by the door, that he finally, glory hallelujah, reaches for the phone.

Well, that's what I'm assuming he's doing, since he's gone and buggered away off out the back.

Gadaffi throws his hands wide, "Puleese, lady, calm down, I no Gadaffi, I nice man - " He smiles, "See? I only come here to visit brother.."

"Oh for f***k's sake, don't tell me we've we got him over here, n'all..?"

   __________________________

Anyways friends, the police did eventually turn up, but instead of arresting Gadaffi, can you believe it was actually ME they had the affront to slap in hand cuff's? I know, I know, talk about ingratitude, eh? Proper offended I was. These days, it's little wonder normal folk like us shy leery of ever getting involved, isn't it?

Fortunately, whilst attempting my citizen's arrest, I'd accidentally kicked the s**t out of Gadaffi, well, it was only to subdue him, of course, but the wimp somehow fainted (and no, he was not in a coma when they trundled him away in the ambulance, that's a pure, scurrilous lie, so it is).

But, um, yes, it is true he did need to have a stay in Nobles hospital for a wee bit. Which is actually just as well, isn't it?

At least the truth came out, since there's no denying finger-prints, eh? Hmph.   Told you so! And PROPER apologetic everyone suddenly finds themselves, don't they?

So I'm not charged with causing an affray, or of inflicting any grievous bodily harm now, am I? Oh no, not at all, it appears the whole wide world and it's Uncle is now besotted with both me and my hairy legs.

Um, yeah, 'twas kinda' unfortunate me meeting that storm of paparazzi so fresh from my release like that, most unflattering. Like I say, I never dressed for going out that morning, for sure I would have been certain to have at least run a comb through my hair (on my head) had I even the slightest inkling of all the fuss I'd walk into.

But.

Still, it all came out well in the end, eh? The press have happily moved on from that recent regrettable incident, the one involving Sharon Banks and me, and the postie hasn't even delivered any more hate mail to my door in weeks. Apparently I'm a hero now.

I'm in line for a medal, too. Yeah, I'm off to Buckingham Palace next week. Libya has invited me over as well, but I'm gonna' wait until their hotels are a bit more comfy, first.

'Course, the reward money has come in handy, I've even managed to settle that civil suit Sharon's mum brought against me.

So then, doesn't that just go to show, eh? However bleak and dismal life is, you simply and truly never really know what the dawn of a fresh tomorrow will bring..

Hey, hang on, is that David Cameron's dulcet tones on my answer-phone?

The Further Fantasy Adventures of a Desperate(ly Bored) Housewife

2011-08-28T04:01:00.000+01:00

Jeez, so much has happened, where do I start?

Well, you know about my kidnapping Dr. Phil and all that, from my last post, yeah? I have to confess it was more than just a tad stressy seeing all that paparazzi and helicopters whizzing about outside, I mean, talk about intrusive, or what? Sheesh!

And, oh my God, did you just see that bloomin' Dishthedirt nutter on the telly? Where does she get off telling everyone and their uncle that she and me are bosom buddies? Pul-eese! And it's hardly surprising, of course she thinks I'm a recluse - you would hide too, if yours was the drive she kept trundling down to camp out at 24/7. I'm telling you, with her IQ barely at room temperature, it's a bare faced cheek she had the audacity to dis' me like that, and right out there on live telly, n'all.

Hmph.

Anyways, just as I'd always suspected, turns out that Dr. Phil bloke is one hell of a decent chap, nothing short of a pure diamond, so he is. See, after a couple of days, he was sporting enough to drop the charges, claimed it had all been a big mis-understanding, that he had actually been voluntarily staying with me all along - can you believe it? Before we knew it, all the squad cars, T.V. vans, and the hoop-la simply upped-sticks and quit. What a sweetie, eh? Course, he'd had the benefit of the blog by then, finally understood where I'm coming from. (Plus, I did hand over the bullets)

Long story short, turns out we really hit it off, him and me. In fact, he was even good enough to offer me my own T.V. Chat Show - seriously, he did! Well, I'm not a one to look a gift horse in the mouth, am I? And 'sides, it seemed kind of churlish to turn him down.

So, "O.k. Phil, fair enough," I said, "Let's go for it."

And that's just exactly what we went and did, big-time. I jest you not, I've been a very, very busy bunny since the last time we spoke. Actually, as it turns out, I'm pretty sure most of this is old news to you by now, seeing as how it all ended up the way it did.

Sigh.

I guess you've been following it in the tabloids, huh? Let me tell you, it was as much of a surprise to me than it was to anyone else.

I mean, who the hell expects a guest of theirs to commit murder in front of a live T.V. audience? Where was security, for heavens sake? Sure is the last time I hire again through that agency.

Besides, in light of his previous violent history, you'd have thought any silly bint with even half a semblance of any self-preservation would have known far, far better than to tell her boyfriend in front of the whole wide world that, oopsie, here she was, pregnant, not by him after all, but by his twenty-one-year-old step-grandad, the very same one whose sister she is now leaving him (the boyfriend that is, not the step-grandad) for.

Is it that surprising he lost it?

Ironic really, considering it was all one big fat lie anyway (as the autopsy later proved).

Sheesh, what a mess.

It's ridiculous, listening to the media, you'd be forgiven for thinking it was me who had snapped her sorry neck.

Suddenly, my show has become a prime example of our morally bankrupt society, and I'm being castigated for shamelessly exploiting the weak-minded, in bringing what is now perceived as the most puerile, basest form of tasteless entertainment to ever grace our screens.

If you believe the polls, seems ten million of my ex-loyal viewers appear to agree.

I can tell you, between the Network dumping me from a great height, the tabloid's trashing me for all they're worth, and these endless sacks of hate-mail flooding through my door, I'm beginning to worry moral society won't be the only thing to end up bankrupt by the time this thing is through..

Did you witness that funeral?? Ye Gods, half the streets of Manchester were lined up in mourning. Sharon's sister made it plain whom she blames for her sister's death, and it certainly isn't the one currently locked up and awaiting trial in Wandsworth Scrubs. Oh dear me, no, he, it appears, is simply another vulnerable victim, shamelessly exploited and manipulated by a calculating and greedy predator, one who knew precisely what she was doing.

I'm scared to put my head outside the door.

Sharon's mother can't comment, on account she is still under contract to the Daily Star. I'm told ratings soared on the Six o' Clock news that night. Sharon Banks, heroin addict and ex-shop lifter, martyr status now fully achieved, is seemingly fast approaching Sainthood.

I hear there's talk of a record pay-out from my ex-network.

So yes, as I say, it's been quite a hectic few weeks, all things considered.

Ah well, c'est la vie, n'est pas? So much for the cruel, fickle Mistress of fame and fortune, eh?

Oops, sorry, gotta' go, something smelly and unmentionable has just dropped through my letterbox..

Desperate Measures

2011-08-24T01:03:00.000+01:00

Ken Ageswell: We interrupt this post to join Katie I'Madorable, live outside the scene of the Shrinky residence. Katie, what can you tell us?

Katie I'Madorable: Hello Ken. Yes, I have with us neighbour and self-confessed close family friend of the Shrinkies, Mrs. Dishthedirt. Tell us, Mrs. Dishthedirt, was there any build-up to this, were any signs missed?

Mrs. Dishthedirt: Thank you Katie, oh yes, there were so many. That poor woman was just crying out for help. I guess it all started months ago. One Saturday, I was washing up at the kitchen window, and there she was - tearing around her back garden, screaming like a banshee at the top of her lungs. She was clad in nothing but a nightie. I ask you, is that normal? It wasn't the first time, either. I'll be honest, it scared me. I live alone, you know. My husband's left me. It's almost a year now, but the pain is still as if it's only yesterday. I'm not even sure I even want him back, not really - well, not since he moved in with that tart of his, I -

Katie: So she has displayed bizarre behaviour prior to this?

Mrs. Dishthedirt: Oh my, yes! I used to call round there regularly, I saw it first-hand. She started to become reclusive you know, hiding behind the door, pretending to be out, I even found her crouched under the hedge one day. Stress was written all over her face. I said to her, I said, Shrinky, you have got to get a grip dear. What if your husband abandons you? It's possible, you know. Mine did. She has no idea what stress is, not until that happens, believe me,

Katie: Do you have any clue as to what may have triggered this decline? Was there any key factor, any major event you can recall that may have led up this?

Mrs. Dishthedirt: Oh, for sure! She was fine up until she bought that lap-top. That's how she came to fall in with that cult..

Katie: A Cult?

Mrs. Dishthedirt: Yup, that's where it all began. Mark my words. She became a Blogger. It's true. She had no time at all for me after that, dropped me like a hot potato, so she did, just like that worthless shit of a husband of mine,

Katie: Thank you, Mrs. Dishthedirt, I'm afraid we're going to have to leave it here to re-join the studio. Breaking news is coming in.. Ken, is it true Mrs. Shrinky has stated her demands to the negotiator?

Ken Ageswell: Yes, Katie, the police have just released a statement. Dr. Phil is safe and unharmed, he is tired and emotional, but appears to be under no immediate threat of danger. Mrs. Shrinky claims she is very excited about her life, and is completely real about her situation. However, she is still refusing to release him unless he meets with her demands. I have Chief Inspector Lewis joining me. Chief Inspector, thank you for being with us, can you please update us on the current state of affairs?

Chief Inspector Lewis: Yes, thank you, Ken. Mrs.Shrinky has informed us via our negotiator, she will only release Dr. Phil on the sole condition he submits to immediately opening an emergency website from her server.

Ken: Do we have any indication about the nature of this website she's demanding?

Chief Inspector Lewis: It's grim, I'm afraid. She claims she and her fellow bloggers are being discriminated against, and is insisting Dr. Phil enters in to their sect to judge for himself. She also appears concerned at an apparent schism within her group, some of whom are stating Dr. Phil is, and always has been, nothing but a complete and utter charlatan. This is apparently causing Mrs. Shrinky considerable distress, which is why she demands he blog daily for a full week. In return, she promises to eventually turn him loose, when he can then give his own fully unedited and unbiased take, with a frank and honest appraisal of how he personally views their group.

Ken: Oh, that's awful. Brainwashing, eh?

Chief Inspector Lewis: He will be de-briefed, we'll do all we can for him. In the meantime, we are trying to keep the situation as calm and as stable as possible, and are providing as many chocolate biscuits as Mrs. Shrinky, her dog, and Dr. Phil can eat.

Ken: Thank you, Chief Inspector. We will, naturally, be keeping you up-dated with any future events, but for now, this is Ken Ageswell at BBC news, wishing you a safe and blog-free evening.

(If you, or anyone you know have been adversely affected by what you have just viewed, please contact our counselling advice-line at www.http://blogbusters.idiot.com)

Veronica

2011-08-16T12:27:00.002+01:00

The reason for my recent interest in our family history, is I received an e-mail from a very much removed distant cousin of my husband's this week. She's researching the family tree, and whilst Googling, had tripped over an old post of mine which sparked her interest.

Happily, I have a collection of photographs dating back to the early 1800's of the Ludolf clan, so have promised to scan and forward on what I can. She in return has generously offered to forward on a copy of the family tree, once it is (as best as she can trace) complete.

(Part one can be read here and part two here.)

She (Veronica) must have been in her early seventies when we first met.

Her face always lit up as she recounted her days in the WRAF (Women's Royal Air Force) during WW2. Although she never left the ground (or Country, come to that), she experienced a great many adventures, and risked her life in the name of her King and Country, more than once..

Assigned training as a plotter in The Operations Room, she became one of the the first ever Radar Operator's in Britain. Billited just outside of London, her workplace was situated in the back of one of three converted trucks, slap bang in the middle of a cornfield..

The Army Land girls worked the fields adjacent, and according to Veronica, they were a high-spirited, devil-me-care, lot. Hard working by day, they would happily party all night if given half the chance. This gave Veronica considerable consternation when she abruptly found herself unofficially appointed in charge of their welfare - being in the WRAF, she had no legitimate sway in Army matters, but that still didn't stop her from being ordered to oversee their morning roll-call.

Although in her mid-twenties, thus-far Veronica had led a very sheltered life, she had never dated before, and she certainly didn't drink. She had no idea what to do about the often AWOL, frequently hung-over, and all too often, love-struck or heartbroken girls absent from duty. Loathe to land anyone in trouble, she frequently found herself fudging things to allow time for the offending culprits to make it back in line. Hardly surprisingly, this made her quite popular, which may be why the girls soon took it upon themselves to further her education whenever possible.

Despite rigid rationing, many underground drinking bars flourished, and it was to one of these, off-duty, they escorted her to one day. It held the tradition every new female crossing the premises should stand up on a table, down a shot in one, and, aided by some very helpful servicemen, with fresh boot-polish applied to the soles of her shoes, be flipped up-sides-down, to "walk" the ceiling. Veronica wasn't exactly keen, but realising there was no getting out of it, she agreed to be "flipped" but only on the proviso one of the females in her group joined her on the table, to keep her skirt held up high enough to ensure her modesty. (This "walk" - plus shots - sealed the beginning of some lasting friendships for Veronica, some of which were to span decades).

It was she who missed the roll-call, that next morning - something she had a hard time living down.

It wasn't always an easy relationship with my mother-in-law, but I loved hearing her tales of her days in the war. I am awed at how her generation coped during the blitz, all the loved ones they lost, the hardships they endured.

The cornfields surrounding Veronica's quarters were all equipped with heavy duty artillery, and part of her duties involved firing one of these at the incoming German planes that relentlessly bombed London. Whilst most of the civilian populace were taking shelter underground, she was out there risking life and limb. During one evening raid, the truck she worked from took a direct hit, ironically, manning the gun that day effectively saved her life.

When peace was finally declared, it was a very different Veronica who eventually returned home to her mother's house. Once de-mobbed, she, like thousands of others, had a new way of life to find, out in Civvy Street, and it wasn't necessarily an easy transition.

As I mentioned earlier, Veronica and I didn't always have the easiest of relationships, but I had to admire her. I think I should end by fast forwarding through to one of the last times I ever saw her.

(Wonder why I am not in the picture?)

It was the occasion of her fiftieth wedding anniversary, and it was probably one of best coups Veronica ever pulled on me. She was very frail at the time, wheelchair-bound from a broken hip, and with many breathing difficulties, she still rose to the event to celebrate it in style. Hiring a venue at one of Harrogate's top hotels, a couple of hundred of us were invited to celebrate with them to join together for a slap up meal in honour of the auspicious landmark.

Naturally, being family, we were to be seated at the "top table" and were to take our pew placed alongside both her and Jack. Only our eldest accompanied us there, seeing as how our other three children were still a little too young and unpredictable to be expected to sit through all the courses and subsequent speeches to follow. Needless to say, everyone there would want a record of this happy gathering, and so the room was bound to be positively laden with flashlights, cameras and a multitude of video recorders.

I knew I would barely know anyone there outside of our immediate family, so it goes without saying I was a tad unsure and slightly nervous as to how it would all go down. You can imagine then how thunderstruck I was when Veronica telephoned to inform me of her "special evening request". It appeared she had recently developed a certain extreme allergy to both perfume and cosmetics. Anyone placed anywhere near her must not, under any circumstance, wear so much as a lick of either.

I considered coming down with the 'flu, but being no body's fool Al quickly pre-empted me.

"Don't even think of crying off, it's important you're there.. besides, you always look gorgeous."

(Yeah, right.)

So it was, bare faced and deodorant-free, feeling the ugliest woman in town, wishing myself invisible, I finally turfed up to be filed through to be greeted by our couple of the hour.

Visibly doing a double take, I truly didn't believe my eyes.

There she sat in all her glory, looking nothing less than radiant, Veronica was all elegantly coiffured and fully made-up, right down to her unmistakable trademark Scarlet lipstick. When her eyes met mine, she positively glowed.

"I thought you were allergic to cosmetics?"

"Not to the hypo-allergic variety, dear.." purred she, eyes all a-twinkle.

It 'Aint Easy Living With Saints

2011-08-15T21:33:00.001+01:00

My eldest hates his middle name, not as though I can blame him. His father wasn't overly keen on carrying it around with him either, but well, tradition is tradition, and so come his baptism we duly lumbered the firstborn with it anyway.

It's a curious piece of family history, and one I doubt is backed up in solid fact, but being as how my mother-in-law was so fiercely proud of her ancestry, I was never brave nor mad enough to question it's voracity.

Generations of the first born male have "Guthlac" in their name. The claim is they are from a direct line of the St. Guthlac, the one who came over here with the Vikings to rape and pillage for a bit.

He certainly was a very busy man, 'cos around about this time he also managed to marry and sire four legitimate children to claim for his own. Well, not that he hung around for very long mind, because shortly later he found the lure of becoming a hermit too strong to deny (and having four sweet cherubs of my own, I can certainly understand the lure).

He certainly was a bit of a lad, our Guthlac, tho' personally I would have hardly have called him Saintly. Having seemingly tired of the raping, murdering and pillaging chapter of his life, it appears he then found religion and swiftly moved on to his dead-beat dad phase.

(Ahhh, those boys will be boys, eh?)

Anyways, long story short, he finished up living in a cave in Ely, performed three miracles, and ended up canonised for it. My mother-in-law swore unto to her dying day that she and her descendants had the blood of Saint Guthlac swishing through their veins.

Veronica was quite a lady. She had many tales she could relate to us regarding her linage, some were truly remarkable, and others I took laced with a heavy sprinkle of salt, but it was undoubtedly true she believed each and every word (like the story of her Great Aunt Freya for example, an intrepid explorer of her day, who travelled the far reaches of the globe, and who, for her troubles was found murdered, drowned somewhere in the Nile). But this St. Guthlac tale may well turn out be the most enormous humdinger of them all. Still, it sure does add a lovely bit of spice to the old family history, doesn't it?

Guess we'll never really know, but it is rather fascinating to contemplate. Sadly, I think my own kids are more at that pillaging stage in their lives right about now.. nevertheless a mother can always live in hopes, eh? (Sigh.)

(For those of you more interested in the boring bits, please feel free, though far from obliged, to read on.. )

St. Guthlac (c.AD 673-714)

St. Guthlac was the son of Penwald, a minor prince from the Royal Mercian House of Icling, and his wife, Tette. Born around AD 673, he was a serious child, not given to boyish pranks. Yet upon reaching manhood at fifteen, he decided to become a soldier of fortune. He collected a great troop of armed followers around him and, together, they ravaged the countryside, burning, raping and pillaging as they went. For nine years, Guthlac carried on with this thoughtless way of life, even marrying and fathering children, until, one night, he had a heavenly dream that instilled him with love and compassion for his fellow man. He made an oath to dedicate his life to the service of the Lord and, in the morning, bade his family and companions farewell. He forsook his accumulated wealth and went off to join the dual-monastery at Repton in Derbyshire, where he received the tonsure from Abbess Aelfthrith.

After two years in the monastery, Guthlac began to long for the more secluded life of a hermit. So, having acquired leave from the monastic elders, he departed for the great Fens, north of Cambridge. Unlike the well drained arable land of today, the Fens were then a labyrinth of black wandering streams, broad lagoons and quagmires with vast beds of reeds, sedge and fern. The islands amongst this dismal swamp were a great attraction for the recluse.

Guthlac was directed to a particular one of these islands by a local man named Tatwin. Many people had attempted to inhabit it before, but none had succeeded, on account of the loneliness of the wilderness and its manifold horrors. The twenty-six year old Guthlac eagerly rose to such a challenge and arrived in a little boat at his new home of the "Crow Land" on St. Bartholomew's Day.

He surveyed the area a while before returning to Repton for supplies and building materials with which he returned with the help of two servants. St. Guthlac found an ancient tumulus on the island, against which he built himself a hermitage. He resolved to wear only skins and ate only barley bread and drank water each day. For a while, he was disturbed on his little island by a number of the native British inhabitants who dragged him into the swamp and beat him. In the dark night, Guthlac imagined he was attacked by horrible monsters.

There were other dangers closer to home however. Guthlac's servant, Beccel, was shaving him one day, when he was seized by a desire to cut his master's throat and install himself in his cell, that he might instead be honoured by the locals as a holyman. Luckily, the perceptive Guthlac saw the temptation within and shamed the offender into confession and repentance.

Guthlac was a tall trim man. He was mild, engaging, tolerate, modest, patient and humble. These many virtues were recognised by the Fenland wildlife. All the wild birds came to him and fed from his hands. Ravens, though at first tormenting him by stealing letters and gloves from his visitors, later, seized with compunction at his reproofs, brought them back. As Wilfrid, a holy visitant, was once conversing with him on his island, two passing swallows flew down onto the saint's shoulders and burst into song. Guthlac believed that, "With him who has led his life after God's will, the wild beasts and wild birds are tame."

After fifteen years in the Fens, Guthlac was seized by an alarming illness while at prayers in his chapel. Beccel ran to his side and tended him; but the holy man was dying. He hung on for another eight days, giving his servant detailed instruction for his burial by his sister, Pegge, in a lead coffin and a sheet given him by Abbess Edburga. He died on 11th April AD 714 and the great Abbey of Croyland grew up around his grave.

Kissed by an Angel

2011-08-13T12:46:00.058+01:00

(Photograph copyright of Shrinky)

Recently I've been going through a spate of waking around 4.30 in the morning. Not in a "toss around and drift back off again" way either, it's like in more of a "Bing! Hey, I'm wide awake, I need to get up now." kind of way.

So that's what I've been doing, slipping on my robe and silently making my way downstairs. Careful of my slumbering brood, I quietly potter about, drink tea, converse with the dog, check emails, and ruminate about the forthcoming day.

Although I haven't purposefully chosen to be up this early, I have to confess there is a certain stillness to these hours I've begun to enjoy.

I love to hear the birds wake and call to each other like a massive feathered family of Waltons, I imagine they are checking to see if they have all made it safe through the night. When the orange glow of sunrise peeps over the mountain, I've taken to watching out for the grey Heron as he swoops down to fish for his breakfast at dawn.

I can't see the river from our window, it runs further down the garden through and past the glen, but when the weather permits I sometimes pad down there in the hopes of spotting him.

So it was the other morning, with Jake at my heel and my fluffy slippers collecting dew, I ventured out in to the half light to begin picking my way down there. I'd set less than a couple of footsteps out before something, or to be more precise, someone, stopped me dead in my tracks.

There, directly in our path, bobbing about on the grass without an apparent care in the world, hopped a tiny little bird.

He surprised me, he should have certainly flown off before allowing me this close.

Assuming he was injured, I grabbed Jake and bundled him back indoors before going back out to investigate. He was still right there, bobbing around, bright and as chirpy as when I'd first left him.

I inched a fraction closer.

He only went and narrowed the gap, didn't he? Cheeping up at me, he darted his head from side to side, obviously keen to share something important.

I stood there for a bit (well, for an eternity) just watching him, with a silly big grin plastered all over my face.

How very peculiar!

Chancing my luck, I slowly crouched down and offered him my outstretched hand. Hardly missing a beat, he leapt up and fluttered, landing slap-bang right in to the palm of my hand.

Oh. My. God.

I could scarcely breathe.

He still danced up and down, engaging with me in that high pitch "peep-peep" of his as I looked on - spell-bound.

Where had he suddenly come from?

My heart sat in my mouth whilst he fixed me with a playful eye. Suddenly, he hopped, took wing and fluttered to rest on the gatepost at my side - still chirruping away as bold as day.

Finally finding my wits, I turned and fled indoors to find my camera - I stopped to fix the correct lens and attach a flashgun (it was still not fully light yet), already certain he would be long gone before I made it back out there.

But no, there he was, impatiently awaiting me, trilling his disapproval at such an abrupt departure. I swear this guy positively posed for the camera, flash-light and all!

Finally, I put my hand out again, and in he hopped once more. I had only one free hand left and with the wrong lens and setting fixed to take it with, but although I couldn't look through the viewfinder, I fired off a few shots anyway, just for proof I wasn't dreaming.

None of the hand shots came out, only the much blurred image below (but if you peek real hard, you can just about make out a tiny little birdie sitting there in the palm of my hand).

Finally, he lifted his head and turned, and launching himself from my finger, he took to the wing, to fly up, up and away, fast to become only a disappearing speck in the distance. I wonder if he had other missions to make before dawn?

A dear friend and fellow blogger assures me he is a male Gold crest - but I have a very different name in mind.. because daft as this may sound, ever since that angel flew down to kiss me, I've slept like a baby all throughout each and every single night..

(Yes, I am a lazy blogger, this is a re-post from 2008. I have never seen my little friend since, but neither have I ever forgotten the absolute wonder of his unexpected and wholly inexplicable visit, either. Oddly enough, it took for my sister to point out that this isn't the only time I've ever experienced such an encounter. At least twice before, as a child something very similar also occurred.)

Rambling On

2011-08-08T23:03:00.000+01:00

Footnote: It's all good news on the test results, seems there is nothing wrong that can't be fixed!

Prodical's Return

2011-08-02T00:16:00.004+01:00

Ma's not home yet, it's her first week up at Menzie's. Peter doesn't seem to be in either. We make for the scullery where Mary lights the stove for heat, setting some bread under the grill, as I climb up on the chair to fill the kettle from the tap.

We settle with our toast and mugs of tea in front of the telly, watching Top Cat giving Officer Dibble the run-around. Just as the credits begin to roll, a key scrapes the lock, and Peter's head pokes round the door.

"Ma not back yet?"

We shake our heads.

He flops beside me, helping himself to a slice my toast, "I've seen Da, he was up by the docks with Uncle Jimmy."

Mary looks at him, "Did he speak to you?"

"Aye, he saw me. He said to tell Ma he's coming back now. And he gave me thruppence."

Typical, Peter always gets the money out of him. I pretend not to care. "When's he coming? Tonight?"

"Aye, I think so."

Mary looks to be sucking on a lemon, "That's good then, Ma'll be pleased."

And sure, 'course she will, and what's wrong with that? Seems Mary's never happy 'less she's miserable.

I turn the telly over searching for cartoons, but they appear to have finished.

                                      _____________

Ma is pleased, not that she say's as much but it's easy to tell. She's washed her hair and tidied herself up, and even sent Peter off to fetch minced beef from the Butcher. We're ordered to clear up our rooms and not to make any mess.

Dipping chunks of bread into the steaming gravy, we eat our mince and tatties at the kitchen table, wiping our plates clean. It's Peter's turn to do the dishes, so carrying my plate to the sink, I head into the living room to join Ma, watching "Peyton Place". But she is too distracted to settle much into it, fidgeting and watching the clock. When Peter comes through, she has him repeat exactly what it was Da said to him, and he dutifully recounts it to her for the umpteenth time.

Nearing bedtime, Ma finally decides to send me down to Beep-Beep's. I don't know it's real name, but it's the bar on the corner next to our tenement block, where Da usually drinks. She wants me to check out if he's in there, tell him to come on up home if he is.

                       ______________________________

The bar is crowded, music, cigarette smoke, and conversation seep out through the swing doors as, peeping through the archway, I scan for his face. A rich, beer-soaked shout call out, "Hey Larry, look - your bairn's here!"

A rumble of laughter ensues and another voice pipes in, "Ehh, you're in trouble now, man!"

Da laughs too, says something funny. They all split their sides. He puts down his pint, arms beckoning, "Hey Karen, c'mere."

Perched high on a bar-stool, a packet of crisps and a bottle of lemonade in hand, I swing my legs and deliver my message.

"Later." He says, and buys me a box of chocolates from behind the counter. Da's buddies fawn over me, me being the best wee girlie in town. No-one is in any rush to go home, least of all me, sitting here basking in my glow. It's only after last orders are well and truly over that we make for the door.

His yeasty breath meets the sharp night air, switching his sway into more of a stagger, as his feet struggle to carry him on home. Oblivious, I skip up ahead, cradling what's left of my chocolates under my arm. Turning, I run to take all three flights of stairs in one fell swoop.

Rapping on the door, I hear Da huffing below, leaning heavily on the banister rail, as he makes his way up.

The door opens to Ma's closed face. Upset, she signals me through, motioning me on to bed. Sensing trouble, I gladly go on.

Changing, I climb under the covers next to Mary, listening out for voices in the hall. Relieved it all seems fine enough, with them only just talking, settling down I turn, snuggling into my sister to steal her warmth, I relax and drift off..

                          ________________________

My senses snap alert.

A loud wail.

Next to me Mary also stiffens. She too is wide awake. We lie silently side by side, listening, trying to work out what's happening.

Da's voice is raised and angry, he's shouting at Ma. She, sobbing, in lower notes is trying to placate, dampen the fire of his beer fueled rage.  I can't hear what's being said, their voices are too distorted to decipher, his with the booze, hers by her pain.

My belly twists a lump of lead in my gut.

Huddled 'neath the blanket, we are become frozen lumps of stone, straining to fathom the timbre and tone, we shallow our breath and with thrumming hearts, immobilised by the gravity of our dull, draining dread, strain our ears to outside the hallway.

Da crashes out from the living room, his heavy foot-falls thudding down the hall.

Oh no.

They stop outside our door. Barely breathing, we pretend sleep. The handle rattles, opens, and light spills over the room. Squinting through half slitted eyes, I see Da's hunched bulk leaning silhouetted against the door frame.

Squeezing my eyes tightly shut, I lie still hearing him breathe, watching us.

He hesitates, perhaps he thinks we really are asleep? He enters anyway, his weight tilting the mattress as he sits on the edge, his eyes now itching my face.

"Karen?" He touches my shoulder. Asleep or awake, he still wants to talk. Smelling his beer, smoke and despair, I open my eyes. We've already heard the shouting, pleading, the hard, sharp blows, but he chooses ignorance, safe I can't call him to account.

He sighs, "Ah Karen, your mother, she's a funny woman."

He doesn't mean she is funny to laugh with, just she's strange, odd, not right in the head.

I don't respond, willing him silent. Eyes welling up to display his misery, he seeks my comfort. "She's the stupidest woman this length of Commerce Street, aye, and from the start of Castlegate and back an' all! Thick! Not a brain-cell to her, neither there is, she just pure disgusts me, so she does." He weaves an arm around to demonstrate his frustration, "She hasn't even the intelligence of a - a budgie, y'know?"

It doesn't matter what I know. I know I hate it when he talks about her like that. I know the tremble in my throat every time she cries, the ache for air in my lungs each time he gets mad at her. I also know to my shame I am far too gutless to make him stop. I know a lot of things, but I also know he doesn't want me to know all that I know, so I simply lie quiet, allowing him his rant, wishing him done. Yet. Still my heart twists for him, he, my father, this man whom I cannot fail to still love.

He pulls out his hankie and gives a loud blow. "Aw, c'mere wee Karen and give me a big hug.."

I lean up on one elbow and am enveloped in his musky scents. Pressing his lips to my ear, he murmurs, "I love you, me wee darlin', you're the bestest out of all of them, so you are."

I know this to be so (as does Mary now, too, feigning sleep next to me). I hate it when he slobbers all weepy and sentimental like this, it's a precursor. It's the set routine for what will doubtlessly follow on. Sure enough, though it's no surprise, hearing it said still has the power to slice the flesh from my bone. I believe his words afresh, and that it's true, he is leaving me forever, never to be seen again.

"Ach, it's breaking me heart, wee Karen, I've only come to say goodbye. I'm the baddie, I'm the big, bad wolf - that's what you'll be thinking.."

"No, no Da, I won't."

"Aye, hush now, it's true, that's what she'll tell you, I know she will. And you'll believe her, of course, as you must."

"No, please Da!" I can't help it, sobbing now, "Da, please don't go, don't leave.."

"I have to, bonny lass, 'tis the only way, I have to go. This is it, I'm going for good, but just remember - I'll always, always love you."

Now he's blubbing too. I'm still begging but shaking his head, he holds me tight. He won't ever come back, never.

Mary's given up playing dead, wet cheeks, nose running, she lunges her arms out, clinging for dear life to him, "No Da, pleaaaase don't leave us, please Da, we need you!"

He holds us both in his tight embrace, three of us locked in a huddle of pain. Gently, he brushes us off, swaying to his feet.

"Shhhhhhhh now, it's okay, you look after your sister now, Mary, y'hear?"

"No Da!" she wails, "Come back, please Da!"

He points, nailing us to stay.

Finding the door, he closes it behind.

             __________________________________

We listen to the grief and the sorrow of Ma trying to cajole him away from his mission, but he's set and having none of it. I visualise his battered case as I hear it snap shut. Ma runs out with him, her calls echoing off the cold tile walls.

Finally, a click of the latch, and she comes back indoors to greet the silence of her loneliness.

End of an Era

2011-07-30T15:46:00.002+01:00

Meet The Wheelie-Bin, my new(ish) knight in shining armour. Isn't he handsome? No more snow day's stuck indoors for me anymore, don't ya' know he's got a four wheel drive?

Well, it had to happen. Our trusty old Tardis went senile a long time back, flashing "Deflated Tyres", beeping "Gear Malfunction", and spewing all kinds of ~~hissy-fits and lies~~ other dire warnings out across the consul. Despite many frequent check-up's and much tender loving care, sadly, her marbles had plum up and left her. Then when she went and developed that awful hacking cough, we knew it was all over.

The poor girl needed needed a carer, not an abuser, it was well after time for her trade in.

The Wheelie-Bin's boot is too high a challenge for Jake to leap, I had to invest in a ramp to allow him access. It cost slightly shy of a kings ransom, too (£90)!!

Yeah, and is he grateful?

Hmph.

It takes the youngest shoving him from behind (him farting in distress), and me ~~cutting off his air supply by the collar~~ firmly yanking him up from the front, him growling low and locking his paws at every drag, to heave him all the way up it.

By the time he's loaded, we are all too knackered to much consider any kind of a run. Oh, and it appears he has no trouble at all jumping OUT of the boot.. muttermutter

Still, practise makes perfect. He's at least stopped with the farting now. The youngest is just glad he isn't a horse, they must kick and poo something chronic before being trained to walk up a horse-trailer!

And have you seen the length of this darn thing? I need the parking space of a juggernaut to erect that contraption. I've not yet been brave enough to drive out to the beach, I'm too nervous people will laugh at me wrestling Jake into the boot, and besides, like I say, parking is at a premium there, it's doubtful I'll find a place big enough to dock us all in.

Thankfully, it does fold to a third it's size, but ye Gods it's heavy! I have to be VERY careful, amidst a few other things I'm awaiting a bone-density scan, and am leery of fracturing a limb or two whilst traipsing out and about in the wild beyond.

(I also recently found out I apparently have a freaking kidney stone the size of an apple needing removal First I have to turn tea-total for my liver to improve - sheesh - so here I am even denied the comfort of my wee drop of wine of a night - ah, but enough of all of this, I'm digressing..)

So for now I've resorted to kidnapping the youngest (for support), to explore glens and woodlands I've never set foot in before. There are a lot to the north of the isle we're still discovering.

With the weather in the mid-70's, it's a perfect way to get used to handling The Wheelie Bin, as well as to discover a secluded enough spot to run Jake up the plank, without fear of arrest.

Look what I found at the heart of Glen Helen - there is no sign or explanation as to why it is there. It faces onto a waterfall. Isn't it gorgeous?

Maybe this is where the fairies hold court?

And Another Week Arrives

2011-07-19T21:49:00.003+01:00

It's a close call as to which of the two of us weighs the most..

I found out over the weekend, when I landed up flat on my arse slap bang in the sea.

(Little b*****d..)

Some bright spark tossed his dog a pebble out there, just as I'm putting Jake on the lead to head off to the car.

Every pebble on the beach belongs to my idiot dog.

He's totally crap on that lead. I'm not ever, ever winding that darned thing around my wrist again. I've never flown so fast in my life.

So embarrassing. My bag of dog-shit also split open on the skid down. Very messy..

Hey-ho. Talk about a squelchy drive home. It took ages to shower all the sand out of my bum.

He's making do with a run in the glen from here on out.

______________________________

Bec got stopped by another ~~pervy old man~~ photographer the other week, asking her to do a few test-shots for a magazine cover. She took his card for me to check out, and he seemed kosher enough, has a website and a studio in the centre of town. I spoke to him over the phone, told him she doesn't do any lingerie or such-like (nudge, nudge), and that she'll have a (very muscular) friend in tow turfing up with her to any shoot.

I think it came out rather well..

For a person claiming she doesn't want to model, she sure does wind up being photographed a lot.

______________________________

Hubby has been quite the local celeb this week, he's been interviewed by no less than THREE local radio stations. Sadly, being work related, it's all dry as dust, but still.. I forget he doesn't just iron, y'know? There's also talk of him getting a slot on the (national) BBC - watch this space, kids!

______________________________

OMG, I can't believe the cost of meat these-days, just look at the bill I got from my local butcher's on Saturday..

Sheesh - I don't care how good his sausages are, that's just gotta' be taking the p**s?

Sick Bunny

2011-07-14T11:42:00.007+01:00

"Huh?"

"I said I don't feel well"

Undeterred, ever hopeful for his early morning birthday bonus, hubby unwisely points out the bright side,

"You know, your voice sounds really sexy, when it's all raspy like that.."

Catching the look I throw fit to drop an elephant, he deflates.

"What? What did I say?"

I'm too busy hacking my lungs up to answer. Sheesh, this is bad. I sit up and spit a few green lumps of what feels like semi-digested bone out onto the tissue (yeah, I admit to it, I peeked).

Nice.

Still, at least it's serving to cool hubby's ardour.

Poor lad. It is his birthday, and we are on holiday, but as it simply hurts like hell for me to even breathe at this point, he's gonna' just have to do with the promise of birthday cake for now.

I scoot up and pad to the loo, which is where I suddenly have to stop to quell a scream.

(NB. Cystitis, to all you uninitiated males amongst us, is the female equivalent of having to pee with a scalding red hot poker up your privates. Naturally, this is a long drawn out stop and start process, being as how you instinctively need to clench every second or two in order to cease with the torture.)

Thing is, I don't ordinarily get chest infections, and I've never been particularly prone to cystitis either. To get both at the same time is nothing short of shameful, especially since I'm meant to be sunning it up on a beach in Greece.

And get a hold of this, as if I 'm not already sorry enough for myself, in the shower I only go and discover I've been stricken down by yet another dreaded lurgy.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!!!!!!!!!

Approximately eight inches south from my left armpit, what do I find but this huge, pulsating third nipple.

(Well, that's what it looks like.)

It's a boil, a bloody great boil!! And it hurts.

A lot.

Then I find another one on my right hip.

Shit, can life get any better?

I don't even get boils. Talk about unfair!

Naturally, I can't fasten a bra around a boil, and my nether regions need as much fresh air as a frock can allow, so I'm resigned to going commando over the next few days.

What I really need is some serious medication.

A word to the wise here folks, never point at your fanny and wink at a Greek Pharmacist.. too much gets lost in the translation.

Finally, in lieu of cough medicine I'm given Lemsip, and in place of a lusty Vicks Nasal spray I'm handed a paltry eucalyptus stick to ram up my nose. I politely decline the proffered box of tampons.

Okay, it's far from perfect, but with double strength Lemsips every four hours, carrying that fetching plug up my nose, and with no painful undies threatening to lance my boils, life slightly improves.

Now, if only I can sit on my bum without squirming, I might even make it through to the end of the holiday without being arrested for cussing..

Helpful hubby to the rescue.

"Hey, isn't yogurt meant to be good for that?"

(Yes, yes I know NOW that that is for Thrush, not Cystitis, it's just a pity you weren't there with me at the time to tell me about that, isn't it? I'm desperate enough to try anything at this point.)

Sadly, the restaurant doesn't dispense any syringes with their yogurts, but I'm game anyway.

Hubby helps (a tad more enthusiastically than called for).

A little squelchy, and exceedingly messy, he promises me an application every two hours or so will make a world of difference.

Sadly, he forgets to mention for whom.

Ah well.

It was worth a shot.

I finally resign myself to hijacking the youngest's inflatable and surrounding myself with an aura of "Touch me and you die".

It somehow gets me through.

Once back in Old Blighty again, I finally find the Doc, and jeez, look! I really was ill (Told you so).

Not only am I on a course of antibiotics, I'm on steroids and a ventilator too, not to mention awaiting the results of blood tests. Did I mention I actually passed out cold this morning.. ? I bloomin' well did, y'know!

So come on my friends, give me sympathy please, and lots of it too. (Hey, I'm giving my most brave and pathetic smile, cut me some slack here)!

This is an old post - no, I am not going on holiday this year, and can you blame me???

I've successfully farmed the girls out to go away with friends, Sam and hubby are taking off for a week without me, and Matt is happily working hard to save enough money to join his buddies in the south of France by the end of this month.

Me?

I'm looking forward to long, peaceful walks with Jake on the beach, and full, blissful possession of the TV remote control upon my return..

Who Needs Collagen?

2011-07-08T00:17:00.001+01:00

Hey kids, gather round, I want to share something here.

Turning back the ravishes of time is painful, expensive, and doesn't work. Oh yeah, you bright young things can laugh all you like, just wait and see, one day you too will wake up to wonder who dared to replace your face with that worn out mask of your mothers.

S'not nice getting saggier and baggier, in fact it's downright depressing. Well, that's my excuse. Anyways, I wasn't exactly out actively looking for the fountain of youth, was I? But if it's thrust out on a golden platter, who am I to refuse?

Admittedly in hindsight, perhaps I should have exercised more caution, especially considering the last time I fell foul of a beauty "freebie" in exchange for a full advertising "before and after" spread.

That was when my hairdressing salon bribed me to give them full Carte-Blanche with my hair, a regrettable enough experience, without the added injury of having to see it plastered all over the local weekly rag to every one's amusement. But you see, memory fades and hair grows back, I am a trusting soul at heart, not to mention the eternal optimist.

So when my dentist had me under the drill, (perhaps it was also under the influence of the Novocaine, who knows?) I naively found myself agreeing to play Guinea Pig to her giving me a free shot or two of Botox. All she wanted in return was for me to come back in a week or two's time to do the "after" shots for her portfolio. Although I guess you could've argued she was definitely cheating a lot - well, these before shots were hardly at my most flattering, she had me all numbed up and swollen in this over sized, frozen grimace, didn't she? But hell, I'm not proud, did I care?

Oh, come on now, we're talking a free couple of hundred quids worth of treatment here, are you telling me you wouldn't have grabbed it with both hands?

Sadly, most of the injections being aimed around my forehead and eyes, few had the benefit of the anesthetic, but hey, no gain without pain, eh? I laid back and suffered in the gallant name of beauty, taking all she had to give (and then some).

(Ow.)

Telling me not to look in the mirror for the next couple of days she happily ushered me out, on the firm assurance the shots would need a little time to "settle" in first. So it was I exited her surgery as Quasimodo, eagerly hoping to soon return as Esmeralda.

Hmmmn. No fool like an old fool, is there?

She went through the motions, but I am pretty sure I never made it into her portfolio. Instead of lifting my brow, it had the very opposite effect, I walked around for over three months with a permanent scowl, deep, hooded sockets, and appearing to give every unfortunate I tripped across the evil eye. Animals and small children bolted in fright, I'd aged well over twenty years.

Hubby thought it hysterical.

I took this lesson to heart, and vowed to quit kidding myself - age is inevitable, unpalatable or not, no one stays young forever.

Or do they..??? (Insert mysterious smile.)

Something miraculous happened last night.

Why, if I weren't such an altruistic little soul, I might even be tempted to keep schtoom, and go on to market this discovery for my own fame and fortune (aw, who am I tryin' to kid? I can't keep a secret to save my life).

Mid-way through watching "Luther" on the telly, I got a severe case the "snibblies". The "snibblies", as I am sure you know, is when you are not at all hungry, but are still compelled to feed on something. Anything will do, it's just the motion of satisfying your taste-buds, isn't it? When the ad's came on, I went off for a rummage. The choice was sadly lacking, faced with either a bowl of muesli or one of the kids pouches of Sun-Capri orange juice, I opted for the latter.

Actually, it was rather nice.

I went back for a second one.

And a third.

_________________________

"What the fuck..?""

Now, I don't know about you, but I don't think that's any greeting to give your wife when you turn to her for a goodnight kiss.

"What's your problem?" I found myself slurring through my recently strangely tingling lips.

"Are you okay?"

"Why shouldn't I be?" I asked, oddly buzzing and not in the least bit tired anymore.

"Go look in the mirror!"

Effortlessly sprinting out of bed, (and resisting the urge to take off for twenty laps round the garden, en-route) I did as bid.

Well, bugger me, what a sight for sore eyes! I've never had such luscious lips in my life before, even if I say it myself, they were nothing short of positively stunning - all plumped up and larger than life - I could hardly rip my eyes from the mirror. And the energy surge flowing through my veins made me want to go out and dance right through in to the wee small hours - wow, nothing short of positively electrified, I felt sparks bursting from my pores!

I settled instead for coming downstairs to write for a few hours, not returning until hubby came to drag me (loudly protesting) back up to bed, at around 4am.

So, there we have it.

Forget all those night creams, the collagen, or Botox, all we really need is a little squirt of this E-additive riddled orange juice to put the bloom back into our cheeks.

Well, of course I'm banning my kids from drinking that stuff, after all, what kind of a mother do you take me for? (it's far too good to waste on the likes of them).

I'm doubling my order of it on my next Tesco shop, and plan on hoarding it in a safe, locked place where only I can reach.. It's mine, all mine from here on out.. (Cue thunderbolt & evil cackle.)

Whey-hey, life is never short of little surprises, is it?