The Olden Days

"What happened to your hair?"

"Er, well it was the fashion back then." (Have they any idea how much back-combing went in to that?)

"It looks weird. Why are you wearing that long frock?"

"It was a black-tie do."

"But you're not wearing any tie, anyway why are you on the floor?"

"I'd just got home, that was taken in the first flat I ever owned."

The girls have unearthed a sack of old photo's from somewhere (one's I'd hidden), and are grilling me for any story behind them.

"Why have you got a photo of this?"

I perk up. "That my dear, was the first agency I opened, in Putney."

Beccy's face drops. "It a bit low-rent, isn't it?"

Yes, I started off very low rent. I finished off as sole proprietor of a business pay rolling 500 staff. Wounded, I decide to let it pass. Abby squeals, thrusting a picture up my nose, one of me linking arms with someone. "Who's this bloke you're with?"

"Er, that's someone I met before your dad."

Frowning now, "Does dad know?"

"Well of course he does, he had girlfriends before he met me too, you know.."

Both girls exchange disbelieving looks. Beccy wants more dirt, "So who is he, then?"

"He's a musician. You listen to his music all the time - don't you recognise him?"

"He's not as good looking as dad."

God bless the love of a child. "Um, no darling, 'course he isn't." (Sigh.)

Holding up a picture taken at Biggin Hill airstrip, I deftly change the subject, "Oooh, now see this plane? I used to fly that.."

They look suitably impressed. "You were a pilot?"

"Well, kind of, but this is a glider, they don't have an engine. Another plane has to tow you up first, and then you ride on the wind currents.. "

Disappointment drips from Beccy's voice, "Oh, so it's only a kite, then?  That's why you hair's such a mess?

What is with this fixation on my hair?

Darn, these kids are hard to impress! I rummage deeper in to the pile, and pull out a long forgotten snap-shot of me doing a star-jump. "This was taken at Cornhead in Kent, I was practising for my first ever parachute jump."

"Who's the bloke in the background?"

"Never mind that, did you know your old mum used to jump out of airplanes?"

"Get a look at those skanky shorts he's wearing!" Both girls roll about, giggling. Crestfallen, I give up. Then Beccy finally discovers something that gives both her and Abby a whole new fresh respect, she proffers it out, awestruck.

"Wow, that is WAY cool! I never knew you were a Punk Rocker.."

I straighten my shoulders. "Well I wasn't ALWAYS a boring old fuddy-duddy, you know.."

(There is no way on God's green earth I'm fessing up that it's fancy dress.)

Ooooh, NOOOO!! Is it only me, or am I a dead ringer for Myra Hindley, the child-murderer, in that last shot?????

Be Still My Beating Heart

Due to an under-active thyroid gland, I'm meant to have my bloods regularly checked.  I take daily medication, and so long as the dosage levels are right, which they generally are, I'm hardly troubled by the condition at all.

I usually tell if my meds are running out of sync when;

(1) I'm more tired and grumpy than usual (yes, you up there in the gallery, I'll have you know that that is possible, and I'll have less of the cheek in here too, if you don't want yourself escorting out!)

(2) All my extremities go numb,  and,

(3) I experience constant heartburn, often combined with a rapid heart-beat/palpitations.

This all reads much, much worse than it actually is - it's no-where near life threatening, and is easily fixed by upping the meds.  But to up the meds, I need a blood check, since I don't want to risk any nasty side-effects (a heightend risk of Osteoporosis, or at the far extreme, heart failure) by upping them too much.

Having perhaps not so wisely skipped my last few blood checks, for the past week or so I've been increasingly experiencing these above-mentioned symptoms, signalling all is not quite well within the temple of Shrinky.

Yes, yes, I know it sounds like a heart-attack, but it isn't. I have low blood pressure, low cholesterol, I'm not over-weight, have absolutely no family history of heart problems, I even take the odd tread-mill exercise, and actually lead a fairly healthy(ish) life-style.

Trust me, I know this. My G.P. knows this. My family knows this. The sodding hospital have my medical records, they also should know this.

Anyhows, enough was enough, today I hauled my arse over to the hospital to have some bloods drawn. I even had the correct form requests from my GP in tow (albeit a little worn and tattered from having had swum around in the bottom of my handbag for so long).

Naturally, one form is never enough, the receptionist had her own set she wanted to run through with me, too. She didn't even get half-way down before I found myself slapped on to a gurney and raced through to emergency.

WTF??? How embarrassing is this??

I'm fine.  Will ya' listen to me?  At least let me WALK!

I tell you, if you ever want to jump the queue at Accident and Emergency, just hide your severed arm and claim indigestion, you'll be sped to the front of that queue before you can so much as blink.

It's not as though I actually VOLUNTEERED this information, she was the one who'd asked - and I did try (oh boy, did I try) to qualify what I said.. that it simply was a sign my meds are out of kilter.

"It's just procedure, Mrs. Shrinky, best to be safe than to be sorry, eh?"

I was already feeling very sorry, I had a Tesco grocery home delivery scheduled to arrive in about an hour.

I was still trying to explain all this as I was completely stripped from the waist up and plugged in to various machines and monitors. Another nurse appeared with another bunch of forms.

"Next of kin?"

"He's in London.."

"Does he have a mobile?"

"No." (I was learning honesty is not always the best policy around these parts.) "How long am I going to be here?"

"We'll probably need to keep you in for observation, it depends upon your blood results really."

"What blood results? You haven't taken any."

"The doctor will take them."

Oh great, whoopee-do. The only good thing about going to the blood clinic is that the nurses there know what they're doing. They should, after all it's the only thing they do all day. Junior doctors, on the other hand.. shit, I just knew this was going to hurt.

I started to explain I couldn't possibly stay, my ice-lollies would melt, (I know our delivery guy, he kindly leaves our shopping in the kitchen if I'm out, but even I haven't managed to train him so well as to stack them all away for me yet) besides, I had Sam to pick up from college soon.

Before I get the chance to finish, she wrestles an oxygen mask over my face. I wrestle it back off, not only do I not need it, it's making me light headed. She snaps it back on again, her vain effort to shut me up.  Hearing (and smelling) the car crash victim, a half-drawn curtain away throwing his breakfast back up, I realise keeping the mask on might be not be such a bad idea, after all.

The young doc makes his appearance, stabs me a couple of times, and finally hits a vein.

"Hang on - Can you pass me up my bag?"

"Huh?"

I grab it from him, rooting out the dog-eared form, "Whilst you're in there, you might as well take enough for all these other bloomin' tests.." (Reasoning I'd might as well accomplish the original purpose of why I'd first come in.)

I explain why I can't stay, and we finally reach a compromise, he'll rush through the results that will confirm I am NOT having a heart-attack, if I can only stay put where I am for the next hour.

I start warming to this young man.

Always prepared, I'd packed a book with me for the blood-clinic, and so I resignedly settle myself down in it, to rejoin my hero, him, the one flying over the Cuckoo's nest (alright, that may be a bit of poetic licence there, I'm actually mid-way through reading yet another one of my much famed, true-to-life American serial-killer tomes).

Turns out I may have gall stones. This is news?  No I do not need a scan to prove it, thanks, it's already been well and truly documented from the last scan I had done in this place .  Huh?  NO, kindly leave the stone EXACTLY where it is, I'm totally, completely and utterly done here.  Truly.  (Sheesh, seems these guys will stop shy of near nothing in order to further justify my kidnap.)

I need to wait another week or so for the full blood results to come through, but at least the initial ones reassure my captors I'm safe enough to be released out alone, loose to hit the street again.

What a royal palaver.

Arriving home, I find I needn't have worried about my ice-lollies melting after all - Jake already scoffed them before they had the chance to, those plus all the biscuits, and as well as half the carcass of a raw chicken, the bloody giblets of which now lie splattered all across my freshly-mopped-this-very-morning kitchen floor, to greet me.

Joy.

So now, do tell, how's your week shaping up?  I'm sure hoping mine delivers better matters of the heart.  Happy Valentine's Day, everyone!

Call of Duty

Yes, 'tis true I don't get out much.

Some might say that's just as well.  Considering.

However, come Monday week I've been called up for jury service. When I telephoned to confirm I'd received the notice, I quizzed them as to what it was all about. The silly girl wouldn't tell me a thing, apparently that could influence my opinion (huh?), but she did tell me to make myself available for TWO WHOLE WEEKS.

Oooh - what if it's a juicy murder trial? Just think of all the lovely blog-fodder it might throw up!

Hey, what if I get nobbled? I'd best warn hubby to keep an eye out for kidnappers. Mind you, if Jake goes missing I'll know it was him (those two really should really try to bond more). 

Perhaps I might be offered a bribe? 'Course, I wouldn't accept one, well, not necessarily..

Eeeeeee, do you think we'll be sequestered? I've been longing for a few days off from the housework and cooking, and the great thing is, there isn't even anywhere to park. Whey-hey! Hubby will have to ferry me there and back, in between juggling all the off-spring to and fro.

Can you believe I am even going to get paid expenses for this? Ha, don't they know I'd happily pay THEM? Now, don't get me wrong, I know there are bound to be some boring bits, but so long as I remember to pack my i-pod and a flask of wine, I'm sure I'll be fine..

Talking of wine, I could have kicked myself on Sunday. Trust me to smile and nod to the only drunk on the beach. I thought he was swaying 'cos he was disabled. I felt bad seeing as how everyone else around was giving him such a firm body-swerve (I'm a bit over-sensitised at times). I didn't twig 'til he almost fell on me.

Damned wino wouldn't leave me be after that. As for that dog of mine - he's gone from hero to zero. Never a one to pass up a play-pal, he only went and fetched every single pebble the guy threw. He can forget that steak, count on it (the mutt, not the wino; not that I'm about to be offering him any, either).

In the end, I decided to run away. Surprised, Jake reluctantly cottoned on, and (eventually) joined me. 'Course, I knew this guy wouldn't catch me, but hell, I really didn't expect him to try so hard.  Near gave me heart failure, so's it did! 

Sheesh.

Hubby tells me he wants to be a postman. This is not news, he's said it before. I don't know why he always acts so surprised when I inform him that unless we win the lotto, he'll need to keep up with his growdie-up job for now.

He agreed to fly back to London for the week if I'd promise to give it some thought. S'pose I'd best crack on with that book then, eh? It'll need to be a best seller if I'm soon to keep us in the standard we hope to become accustomed to.

(sigh).

Update:  That rotten kill-joy hubby of mine has only gone and made me claim undue hardship over serving on this jury call I've had.  Seems ONE of us has to be around for the kids.  He also points out if I allowed him to be a postie, he wouldn't have to be off the isle at all, thus freeing me up to attend as many would-be murder trials as my little heart desires.  That's nothing but sheer and outright blackmail that is, isn't it?

My Poacher's Jacket

Glamorous it certainly ain't, this I freely admit, but I wouldn't swap my dear old padded jacket, not for all the hat boxes in Jurby Junk, not even if they came with that gramophone I've been eyeing up, stacked up on the top.

It's far, far too big, which inadvertently proved a great asset to me in the January my youngest was born, seeing as how I could still fasten up all the poppers, with plenty room besides to thrust my hands deep in to the pockets.

Thing is, my youngest has just turned fifteen, and sadly, unlike her ladyship, my comfy old rag is now starting to show all the signs of wear and tear from those generous years of loyal service.

The stitching is unravelling, bits of padding is poking through, and even I have to admit I'm beginning to look more and more like Peggy from out of "Heartbeat", than the smart, young fashionable, would-be horse-woman I once fancied myself as. (I apologise to those outside the UK who haven't a clue as to what I am wittering on about here, but just take my word on it, our Peggy is not the type of woman anyone happily wants to be mistaken for.)

But how on earth will I manage to replace it? The inner pockets can possibly slip six twenty-pound salmon's in there. (I say possibly, because I want to make it perfectly, absolutely and crystal clear here, I have never, of course, ever actually tried to. To date.) But there you see, those inner pockets are sooo darn useful.

If ever I feel the need for a jaunt out with my camera, forget the old kit bag, I have a separate pocket for every lens, battery, hairbrush (well, it gets windy out), emergency lipstick, credit cards, phone, flask of brandy tea - whatever, you name it, I'm a walking port-a-house. And then of course it's so darned warm too, the wind rarely pierces my boney bum with that kind of body armour wrapped about it.

The fondest memory I have of it is on the year when the biker boys were on their annual stay. We had tickets to see "The Who" during TT week, which was held inside a vast Marquee tent, set up with it's own hugely over-priced bars. Scores of us filed through security to be patted down for illegal booze. No one dared to frisk the seemingly heavily preggie lady with the bunch of neer-do-wells at her side. (Each and every other one of those beside me were though - teehee.) I managed to smuggle a whole box of wine and two six-packs of beer through, without so much as a raised eyebrow. (Mind, I did sweat someone might recall me on the way out again, asking where I'd dumped the freshly-birthed new-born.)

Ahhh, so, so many happy days this jacket and I have shared.

Sure, I know it sorely needs chucking, there are no arguments left standing for me to continue to hang on to this thing.

Except.

Well.

No need for haste, eh?

Maybe I'll just retire it to a peg in the back of the cloakroom for a little bit first..

Come on you guys, I know I am not alone here - fess up, what is it you can't bear to bring yourself to part with? Everyone has something, and after all, it's only fair.. I've already gone and shown you mine.
A

A Christmas Carol

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. 

Time to Hide in the Shed Again

Photograph copyright: Shrinky

Yeah, okay this is a wee bit of a cheat, since I've resurrected it up from my old blog, but as my youngest daughter is about to make me sit through all of this all over again in just a couple of months, I thought it might serve to remind me to try to behave myself better this time around.

I usually make a point of always keeping my head well below the parapet when it comes to involving myself overly-much in the day to day business of my kids respective schools - it's kinda necessary, considering that up until recently, each of my four all attended separate ones. (Yes, it is a bit daft I know, but there are good reasons, believe me.) Nowadays, it's only three schools that I have to juggle but this still spreads me thin. Extra curricular activities, parents nights and sporting events, keep me on my toes, especially as I am on my own most of the time. Life is full enough, without the PTA die-hards constantly chasing me.

I know they do fine works 'in all, but jeez - get a life! (Or, at the very least stop guilt-tripping mine.) In an effort to throw these (mostly, but not always) fine ladies off my back, I've agreed to cover various events , photographically speaking, donating the sales proceeds directly back to the school in question. Most of the time I enjoy it and as my kids get a kick out of it too everyone wins, right? What's the problem, I hear you ask?

That socially incompetent gene swimming through my veins, is all. I always, always, always, do or say something which I really, truly and honestly don't set out to do or say, but like some nutter on a psychiatric day pass, I go right on in and do it anyway, showing myself up for the total complete and utter prat which I most obviously am.

Have you any idea how snooty some parents are? They get all humour extracted the moment school fees are exchanged. Still, I have to confess even I excelled myself at the school-leavers chapel service. As ever, it was a genuine mistake, but I kinda doubt the other mother saw it that way.

Let me explain the set up to you, my eldest daughter's year were bidding farewell to junior school and preparing to move up to College, (which isn't really a college, at all, 'though it still likes to call itself that). This is a big thing around these parts. The service is held in a grand cathedral-like chapel situated inside the school grounds. Very pucker, it is. No less than the Bishop of Sodor, Principal of the senior school, the Governor of the island (and his wife), plus the entire school, and all of the parents are in attendance. Naturally, such an auspicious occasion warrants full video coverage, too.

It started quite well I thought. I slipped in to a back pew, since I was still clad in my tatty jeans. I hadn't realised this was a dress-up occasion, but no worries, no one was likely to see me anyway, were they? The sermon and the hymns were cheerfully uplifting, and there was a collective feeling of paternal pride and touching sentiment to the occasion.

It worked down to the speeches, and individual thank-yous, to where the head comes forward and recites her bit. You know the kind of thing, general acknowledgements and bouquets awarded to all the committee ladies who've broken their backs ceaselessly fundraising and organising events. Well deserved too, no doubts about it, pats on the head were well overdue.

Halfway through this presentation the Head suddenly lifts her arm, pointing in my direction, and with a growing sense of unease I hear her say, there is someone sitting way at the backwho also deserves a mention for all the hard work she's contributed towards the photographs and videos for the school yearbook. (Who, me? I Didn't even realise any of my pic's had been selected, never mind turned in to a slide show.) Yes, come on down, Mrs. Shrinky, applause all round.

I regretted sitting so far back, as it was a long walk down the aisle, with everyone's attention fixed squarely on my scruffy jeans, but I finally reached the front of chapel and went to accept my flowers. I thought there was something a little off when I glimpsed the look of horror on the Principals face, but being a tad slow I just didn't know what. The other odd thing was she gave them to the woman who'd just sprung up behind me. I STILL didn't click, thinking, oh - she must be the one who wants to give them to me, perhaps it's from her department? So I reached to take them from her, but she snatched them back again!

Very odd.

She gave me a steely glare. Confused, I went to take them back again. She held firm. She spun on her heel and marched up the aisle, with me trailing along still hanging on to the other side of the bouquet. It was around this moment that the penny finally dropped.

"Are you also called Mrs. Shrinky?" I whispered.

"Blinky!" she hissed back, and slid in to the pew next to mine.

I apologised later, profusely. I didn't mean to mug her for her flowers, did I? Certainly not on camera with the entire school as witness. Apparently, she had sorted through an entire library of photographs to compile the year-book. It was just a pure mis-understanding, is all. Anyways, she was less than charitable on the forgiveness front, I can tell you. A curt nod and her exiting back was all she gave.

But the most humiliating experience was yet to come. "And, finally -" the Head announces, "Mrs. Shrinky -"

I just wanted to die. I took the walk of shame for the second time, wondering where she had managed to scrape up that extra bottle of champagne, as I tried to appear grateful.

Payback

So, okay, it didn't get off to an entirely auspicious start, on account of my best mate forgetting to pick me up from the station. Especially since she wasn't picking up from both her house or her mobile phone, either.

Hmn..

Lesser folk might be forgiven for suspecting they were just a teensy-weensy bit unwelcome, huh? Ah, not me, I know how hopeless she is, besides, we had the whole four days plotted out, I knew something had happened, so I guess I was really more concerned than upset.

Having successfully navigated myself (and luggage) from Gatwick airport to East Croydon, the only friend greeting me was this serenading homeless guy, the one with the dodgy eau-du-pee cologne. After an hour of standing about in the baking heat together, I finally paid him enough for him to bugger off, leaving me free to reluctantly resort to calling her mum at home (Little Ally, my alleged best mate, lives but a few streets walk away from her).

Seems - wait for it - she fell asleep sunbathing in the garden. Nice, eh? Anyways, she and her mum finally arrived (she suitably apologetic and mortified) to receive a stereo ear-bashing from the pair of us (my newly returned homeless friend, and I).

Hey-ho.

Still, she tried to make up for it, found some sticking-plasters for my skinned toes, and proceeded to medicate me with a bucket and half of wine, over a long, leisurely catch-up pub-lunch. Sadly, her mum (being seventy-five) doesn't usually drink very much - it proved quite an adventure getting her back into the cab with us again. Ah but, don't fret, we did have her grown grandson agree to sit the night through with her, he's a very solid and responsible (if disapproving) lad, he is, and he loves his gran.

It's a shame I was a limping, Hop-Along-Cassidy for most of the weekend, but it still didn't prevent us from shopping 'til we almost dropped, or from later meeting up with the girlies, at their local Karaoke pub. Mind, we probably should have called it a night after that, not all piled back to the house to carry on the joviality's.

That's what comes of two middle-aged matrons let loose on the town. With her hubby on a fishing trip, and mine home sitting the kids, we clean forgot we're not the teenager's we once were any more.

So that's how I eventually came to fall asleep with my contact lens still glued to my eyeballs.

It wouldn't have been the end of the world, had I woken with the good common sense to first use drops before attempting to remove them, but as I so rarely use the darn things, it clean slipped my mind. See, soft lens have this tendency to dry out, thus sealing firmly to the surface of your eye. As I plucked one out, I ripped the top layer of my left retina off with it.

ArghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhsweetsufferingJesusI'mblindowwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!!!!

So now I'm not just the limping, hop-along, wonder, I also have only one eye left to see through. And it hurt. A lot. It's blood-red, swollen shut, and gushing a burst river-bank of tears down my contorted face. That was just the beginning, it grew progressively worse by the minute, swelling to twice it's size.

Not that that's the only disaster, ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh dearie me, no. Not at all.

See, I haven't filled you in on the full picture yet. Today is the day I must look my whole gorgeous best, it's imperative, critical to the plan. How the hell can this be happening to me?

Let me explain.

A couple of decades back, my best mate used to be the secretary/PA to the very same guy I was once betrothed to be married to. It was kind of a big deal at the time, we had thrown the engagement party, collected the rings, booked the church, set the date, and even bought the frock, the complete works. Fortunately, she (my pal) being a far better best mate than she ever was a loyal employee, had no qualms whatsoever in telling me, once she found out, that he was being a deceitful, lying, cheating, slutty-whore of a rat behind my back, laying anything that walked. Naturally, I dumped him from a great height, to never see the dirt bag again.

Miraculously, she almost but didn't quite, lose her job over it all, and continued to work on for several more years with him. In fact, it was only after marriage and kids called, that she finally left the firm.

In the meantime, both my ex and I soon moved on. He married my Doppelganger (well, that's what I've been told), and I went on to marry the most loyal man on earth (What? Well, I did too, so there!) It's now all water under the bridge, I haven't set eyes on him in well over twenty-odd years.

BUT.

By pure coincidence, whom should our Little Ally only go and bump into last week? Of course she couldn't help but to mention my up-coming trip over.

And he offered to buy us lunch.

This is meant to be my moment, isn't it? To sail up, be gracious and charming, look a million dollars, and go off leaving him feeling gutted and regretful for the rest of his sorry life.

So it was a bit of a come-down to find myself hobbling up to greet him wearing a sodding eye-patch. With my eye constantly leaking, my nose was stuffed, and I spent the entire duration running to the loo to blow my nose and wipe my mascara. I break out in nasty red blotches when my eyes leak.

And him? The Pratt didn't even have the good grace to sport so much as a beer belly, did he?
(Ally in front, me behind, the day before I looked a train-wreck.)

The lunch was pleasant enough, but it was NOT how I'd planned it. In fact, I think he left feeling he'd had a very, very lucky, narrow escape indeed. As for me? I'm still with the eye patch, and have a doctor's appointment lined up for later.

When I fessed up to Hubby, he almost wet himself laughing.

Life is seldom fair, is it?

The Kindness Of Strangers/Island Life

It was my choice to opt to become a part-time single parent, a price I willingly pay for the luxury of moving to this beautiful island. Hubby's employers are very accommodating, and for the past eight years he has virtually led a double life, working one week from home, and the alternate from London.

To be frank, I've not only got used to this arrangement, I've grown to kind of prefer it. I enjoy the space it affords me, and not being joined at the hip, we do at least have something to catch up on for the weeks when he is actually home. In fact, I freely confess I'm not at all sure how I'll adapt when he does finally retire, but then, being as how we have at least another five years of crippling school fees ahead, not to mention the additional future costs of further education, the blunt truth is this poor lad is hardly likely to stop punching the clock anytime too soon.

When he is here, he truly is the devoted family man, and most particularly with Sam, who utterly worships him. And (bless his prematurely greying side-burns) he always takes the morning school run from me, including serving up a fully cooked breakfast to the troops.

That's not to say parenting four teenagers alone, on the weeks he when he's away is exactly a breeze, particularly with one so dependant, disabled as he is. It falls to me to be the discipinarian, which hardly earns me many mummy-of-the-year awards. Still, keeping the plates up and spinning has got a lot easier with time, and the only real bug-bite I have these days, is being the only source of transport for a house of five. Living miles from any public transportation, with the kids always having some form of extra curricular activity outside of school, I tend to find myself in the role of permanent taxi-driver.

Bad enough as it is, it usually also clashes with some other essential, life-or-death sibling activity. The two girls represent both their school and the island squads in various sporting events, and they often need picking up or dropping off at opposite ends of the island at the same given time. Likewise, Sam only has two social outlets, and both of these are mid-week, and in the evening. As for Matt, now most of his friends drive, he does make the effort to arrange most of his own rides, but it doesn't always pan out that way.. and being as how he is now an adult, he tends to keep later hours than the others. Since I don't settle until all of my brood are safely under our roof, whether he likes it or not, I am often doing the late run for him too. I do have a few car pools running with the girls, but for the most part, it is largely down to me.

The trouble is, I don't really know too many people here, other than the odd acquaintance, I've not gone out of my way to be very sociable. My baby sis' has a young family of her own, and she lives miles over the mountain from me. She is also an acute diabetic, and has more than enough on her plate just coping with her own family demands, willing as she wants to be, it simply isn't an option to call on her. Having no immediate neighbours, the buck rest solidly here.

Which is why I am so mad at myself for never thinking ahead.

Sigh.

See, being the house-hermit that I am, I look upon the Tardis (our car) as just a further extension of my home. I rarely exit it, I drive, drop and collect, that's all. Even my grocery shop is delivered on-line. The only time I ever meet my public, is if the postman has a package I need to sign for.

So, last week, when I set off to pick up our youngest from her netball match, it never even crossed my mind to take any cash or a phone with me. Hell, I never even thought to put something on my bare feet, never mind to wear a bra under my t-shirt.

She wasn't there when I arrived, but much as it drives me demented, that tends to be par for the course. I switched off the engine, turned up the radio and dipped the headlights, assuming she'd arrive any minute.

How was I to know she'd take over an hour??

Seems the coach taking them back to school had a few more pick-up's en-route. It was dark as pitch and raining by the time she dragged up. Naturally, being the social butterfly that she is, she was also one of the last of the ones to appear, most of the others were now just a disappearing red rear-light driving off.

What a time to find I've drained the battery flat.

The car gave a hiccup and died.

FUCK!

We are MILES from home. No sense in looking to Abby for her phone, she never has any credits on it.

Which is why I found myself flagging down the only car left in the car park, the state-of-the-art Jaguar with the very smart lady inside.

Luckily, I had Abby with me to prove I was who I said I was (thank God for school uniforms, eh?), and she kindly drove me the ten miles out of her way to drop us safely home.

Lord knows what she made of the crazy bare-foot mad-woman with the protruding nipples. That's the trouble with sending your kids to a posh school, the mothers there tend to be as designer as their vehicles. I felt Abby cringe as we drove past my broken down old banger. (Hmph, it could have been a Jaguar too, if it weren't for her and her sib's extortionate school fees, but so much for gratitude, eh?)

Worse was to come, I don't know my car registration (du-uh), and I had no idea if we were in the AA, or even where the documents might be even if we were. Hubby wasn't in London last week, as luck would have it, they had sent him off to a jaunt in the Middle East, and he was unreachable by phone. I'd not parked the car legally in the school grounds, and was currently blocking the main artery.

Ugh. I poured myself a glass of wine and vowed to think about it tomorrow.

I didn't get the chance. The phone rang in the wee small hours. There was an "incident" at the school, three fire engines were now blocked from entry. Luckily, I had forgotten to lock the car up, and they had found a receipt there leading them back to the culprit, a.k.a, me.

The "incident" turned out to be a false alarm, and I was given dispensation to leave the ruddy car where it lay 'til the morning. Of course, our phone directory was no where to be found, and I had to call directory enquiries to ask them to recommend a garage in the end. This is where living on a small island has it's advantages..

"Are you sure it's the battery that's flat? You don't need a garage, you just need a jump start!"

"Yeah, I know, but I don't have anyone who can give me one.."

"Give me your number, and I'll call you back.."

Bet you never get that kind of service from your directory services operator, do you? She found someone who was willing to pick me up en-route (in his lunch hour) and kick start the battery for me. Well, um, he arranged to pick me up on the corner, and I did jump into the passenger seat of the wrong car first, much to the alarm of the driver, but I simply don't have the energy left right now to relay that particualar story back to you.. it's a whole 'nother post on it's own.

Anyways, it all ended well, the car started in seconds, and the good Samaritan charged me less than it would have taken for me to have even hired a taxi down there.

But all the same, think I'm gonna' keep a spare pair of shoes in the car from now on.

I Was Really Together (Once)

It's not as though I'm even a natural blond, I have no excuse.

I don't do it on purpose, I don't set out to be such a div, in fact it's downright embarrassing. A friend of mine has just called. Actually, we've not known each other socially for that long, but you know how it is when you just "click" with someone? It's nice, feels like we've known each other for ages. Our daughter's are friends, but it's only recently she and I have got to know each other outside of that.

Anyways, we arranged to have lunch together next week. She's not daft, she said she'll phone to remind me the night before, then pick me up on the day, en-route. This is on account of the time before, when I clean forgot and stood her up.

Luckily, she doesn't bear grudges, she knows I was truly mortified to have got the dates wrong.

As she rang off, she said, "Okay, so that's on the twentieth then."

Me: What?

She: Wednesday.

Me: Hold up.. when was the 16th?

She: Um, that would be today, wouldn't it?

Me: Och, for the love of God, nooooooooo - it can't be. Can it??"

She: Yeah, yeah it is, today is the 16th."

Me: Bugger. I was sure that was next week."

(All I can hear is her laughing her bum off at the other end.)

Seventy-five quid this has cost me.

Damn it!!!

Ages ago, I booked into an advanced cookery class, I was sure it was for next week. I even bought a sharp new knife and a brand new apron for the cause. AND it's clearly written in on the calendar. I even mentioned it this morning to hubby, asking if he fancied giving me a trial run up there first, so's I wouldn't get lost on the day. (I have this thing about getting lost, a thing very well founded..)

I wasn't always like this.

(There was a time when I was so, so together - honest Guv'.)


Ooooh, I've got an up-date! God bless her cotton socks - you'll never guess what's happened? That darling woman who runs the course has just phoned to find out what happened to me today. I apologised and explained my marbles have long since departed. She was only good enough to offer me a place (at no further cost to me) on her next available slot. Talk about impressed - she is under no obligation whatsoever to do any such thing. Awwww, how lovely to find you are valued as more than only a number - actually, we have had a few telephone chats prior to this about her courses, and I kind of took quite a shine to her then.. seems my instincts were spot on!

I look at myself and barely recognise the person I used to be. How did it come to this? I used to be bold, bright, indestructible, and virtually fearless. Before I married, I sky-dived, had my pilots licence, was sole proprietor of a business that pay rolled over 500 people. These days, I can't even keep a grip on what day of the week it is.

What the hell happened????

Deja-Vous

So, it's coming up for that time in the year where I'll soon feel compelled to quit smoking again. It's not a problem, it's easy.

I've done it loads of times.

'Course that still leaves my drinking, gambling, womanising, kleptomania, spousal abuse, costly phone-sex addiction, bulimia, and that nasty heroin habit to tackle, but hey, what the hell, reckon I might as well make a start somewhere, eh?

Oh relax, I'm joking. (Not about the ciggies though.)

It's a health issue, I'm dodging bullets I don't need to load. Trouble is, I LOVE smoking, it's a divine, guilty pleasure of mine. Save me the preaching, I am well aware of the down-side - it stinks, makes me ill, threatens the health of those around me, and literally burns a gaping hole in my pocket - you don't need to underline it, blimey, my very own da died of the lung cancer, I've seen first hand the horror it causes.

I've already got the tablets and a few of those emergency nicotine patches in. Come some point in January (depending on when my bulk supply runs out) I'll be forsaking my beloved addiction in search of healthier options.

According to my day-time TV Guru, Dr. Phil ('scuse me as I genuflect), I need to replace the habit with an alternative placebo, something to fill the void. Trouble is, I figure it should be with something enjoyable, and that's where my dear old friend, Dr. Phil, and I seem to lose common ground. See he suggests taking up exercise over chocolate. Don't get me wrong, actually, I am one of those rare women who doesn't happen to like chocolate, the texture of it melting on my tongue gives me nothing short of the screaming heebie-jebbies - ugh - so I have no quarrel at all with continuing to give the sweeties a body-swerve. (Yeah, you always knew I was weird, huh?) But exercise? Pul-eeze, let's get real here, do I look like a woman into masochism?

Face it, "Joy" and "work out" does not belong in the same sentence together.

Placing the endorphin rush and that smug feeling of virtuosity aside, we all know that that only comes after the pain, which kinda' lacks the incentive for me. I liken it to scrubbing the poxy loo's every week, how much satisfaction can be gained, knowing you'll only have to be repeating the process all over again?

I already stroll on the beach every day, surely that's enough, isn't it? Why, that very photo up there was taken only this morning, proof positive I'm semi-mobile!

I'm skinny enough, I don't need to drop any weight, well certainly none a bit of surgery couldn't cure (wink), where's the motivation? I've learned it's not in a woman's DNA to love her body, and have settled into accepting mine is about as good as it'll get for me, lumps and bumps and all - or put another way, at my age it's waaay too late to sweat the detail.

Discounting exercise then, I am casting around for something equally as pleasurable as my present vice, but without the obvious drawback. Any suggestions? All answers considered, but only if it isn't the obviously boring (like, "Focus more on the writing and photography, dear.."), oh, and it must be addressed in the form of a Limerick, otherwise it won't count. Top prize is it might replace my current idea - obsessively stalking all my blogger friends, on-line.

Since you appear to have rather high stakes involved, I would urge you to start writing..

Messing About on the River

Much as I love him, few can deny my poor, beloved Jake is every bit as dense as he is sweet. The little lad has been feeling a wee bit deprived as of late, what with our roads being sealed off due to all the bikes racing past our drive and all. I've had to confine him to quarters rather more than he'd like. Pets and machinery make for a bad mix, besides, the noise of the engines are hard enough on our own ears, let alone on those of our four legged friends.

When cabin fever grabs either of my two eldest, they can escape lock-down via a slightly precarious, rather dodgy back route. You see, we may not be allowed out of our drive, but by cutting through our back garden, opening the gate and crossing down past the glen, if you balance your way over a slippery pile of boulders that straddles the river, then hike over the odd style and fence, you finish up able to cross over a field that leads on to an open road. Yesterday my eldest daughter, in her best of high heels, with her overnight bag slung over one shoulder, informed me she was taking off for a sleep-over at her friend Katie's house. I did mention she might benefit from the use of a pair of stout Wellington boots, but Beccy being Beccy, she naturally decided her sling-back shoes were perfectly adequate for the task ahead.

Twenty minutes later the silly kid came dripping back indoors, in dire need of a shower and a dry change of clothes. Second time around she left with a flat and far more comfortable set of shoes on her feet. I tried so very hard not to crow. Anyhows, I guess she was distracted then, running late as she was, and so it totally slipped her mind to slide the bolt on the garden gate as she left.

Now, Jake may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he is not entirely stupid. He knows where his river is, and since I wasn't about to take him down there, seems he decided he might as well up and take himself off on his own. He's generally a good lad and never ventures far, in quieter times I have been known to allow him out for the odd solitary swim. He rarely stays long and always comes back safely. So when my youngest ran in to tell me Jake had slipped past the gate, I wasn't overly concerned. The front path up our drive is completely sealed off, there is no way he could find his way to danger.

It was about fifteen minutes later that I first heard his barking. When it continued, a little more urgent, I sensed something was up.

With only the mildest of curses, I reluctantly set off to haul him back. Once there, it only took seconds to fathom the problem. The stoooooopid, stoooopid mutt had only gone and swum himself over to the deepest part of the river, right by the edge of the bank. The bank at this point is far too steep for him to clamber up. He didn't have the sense to turn around and swim back the way he came, and he was now furiously doggy paddling for all he was worth. At first, knowing I couldn't reach him, I tried throwing some sticks farther out, in the hopes of encouraging him to turn around and swim back the way he had come. Not a chance, he was far too distressed. Lying flat on my tum, I scrambled down as far as I dared. Managing to hook a finger around his collar, I succeeded in grabbing enough hold to try to yank him up. Sadly, he is far too heavy for me to lift, and the wretched hound seemed to much prefer drowning over the offered prospect of slow strangulation. I gave up pulling and looked around. Such an isolated place, there was no help at hand. I held his collar as I tried to ponder what to do. Bear in mind, hubby is off doing his marshaling bit, and I have only my two youngest back at home.

A couple of years passed (okay, maybe it was a bit sooner than that), when little Abby came out to investigate where we had gone. I urgently told her to hot foot it over to Nutty Nora's next door, and tell her I needed some help. Give the kid her due, she had to climb over the garden wall to get there (did I mention the road was closed?), but get there she did. Unfortunately, what I hadn't banked on was that Nutty Nora first needed to fix her hair, apply some make-up, and dig out her long-lost water-proofs before setting out.. not to mention to fetch a step ladder in order to haul her considerable self over our way.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch..

I finally decided to give up waiting and jumped in to get him. Jake generously accepted my tow back to the other side of the river, and we both gratefully scrambled back up to Terra firma. Pausing briefly to recover our heart rate, we eventually turned for home, weary, wet and a little shaken, we were thankfully none the worse for our little adventure.

Mid-way up through the glen, whom should I spy but the very glam queen herself, our heroine, Nutty Nora. Great. Course, she just had to follow us all the way back to the house again. All I truly wanted was to shower and to change, the last thing I needed was to have her camped out in my kitchen for the next three hours.

No river jaunts for Jake anymore, you can bank on it (oops). And as for Beccy, she has a brand new set of good shoes of mine to replace, when I finally get my hands on her.

Hmph.