No More Soaping The Hairy Bits …

Hi All

I’m here! My chiro lady, Archna, didn’t flatten me for insubordination! She did take a mile of notes though and will probably use them against me next time if I haven’t changed my ways. But that’s fine. The shed is up. The compost heap has been moved and a second one erected (we create a lot of shit in this house for some reason, hence two muck heaps) and the area for the new veggie plot has been dug over. Phew! I am NOT the self praising type but bloody hell, I am definitely praising myself on all I achieved last week. Except for the broken back obviously.

The Lord Richard continues to shuffle through each day. The abscess came to nothing and he pops off this morning to get the old shoulder scanned. He had a moment of panic yesterday. I was digging over the veggie plot, sweating and heaving and he bumbled up the garden and stood looking at me.

‘What?’ I said. What!’

‘How long are you going to be?’ he said.

‘Why?’ I said.

He ferreted with a glove which he had on his right hand and said, ‘If, when you come down to the house, I’ve got lockjaw and can’t open my mouth, I want you to know that I’ve just driven a rusty nail into my thumb and it’s swelling up.’

I sucked my teeth a bit and looked at him.

‘You do NOT get tetanus within thirty minutes you pillock. Haven’t you had a tetanus jab?’

‘I don’t know,’ he mumbled over his shoulder as he went back to mucking out the chucks cage.

Give me a break! Lockjaw? Can’t speak? If frigging only.

I asked him if he wanted me to go to the hospital with him today but the hero said no and that he would manage to find it on his own. Double pillock! The hospital is less than half-a-mile away. Of course all the nurses etc will fall for his boyish charms but then, they don’t know him.

As I write I can hear the shower blasting away. Even his showering ritual annoys me. He won’t use shower gel preferring to lather his hairy bits in soap. I have begged, cajoled and threatened him about using soap. It scums up the glass. But does he listen? No he does not. His mum bought him some shower gel for his birthday (two litres of the stuff) and yesterday he said he supposed he should use the bloody stuff or he would never hear the last of it. Eureka! I equipped him with a lovely pink, plastic sponge thingy  and away we went.

Ending today as I started, I would like to mention the kindness and thoughtfulness of others. Well, one other actually. As I slipped from Archna’s couch she produced a lovely little flowery gift bag.

‘For you. Congratulations on putting Starfish into paperback,’ she said.

I said, ‘Ahh thank you what a lovely little gift bag.’

‘Look inside it,’ she said, giving me that look of hers.

‘Oh,’ I said, removing the blue tissue and finding the sweetest little starfish paperweight.

‘I saw it and thought of you,’ she said.

Obviously I got a bit emotional and gave her a big hug, almost undoing the good she had just achieved with the old neck-discs.

Those words mean the world to me. ‘I saw it and thought of you!’

Archna had been on holiday in Antigua, saw a starfish and thought of me. I don’t need big overblown gestures. For someone to think of me is massive. Richard’s sister, Carol, sent a card through the post a few weeks ago. I opened it and it was simply a card with chucks on. Inside she had written, ‘I saw this and thought of you.’ I keep that card on my shelf in the kitchen and each time I catch it out of the corner of my eye I think of her.

Little things really do mean  a lot. At least in my world little things mean a lot.

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That’s it for today my lovelies. You have been let off lightly! Seeds to sow. Richard to organise. A locked-jaw to prise open – or not!

Take care my lovelies x

 

 

 

Naughty Lemons And Stupid Bleach …

Good Morning All

I thought I’d better get this blog sorted and posted ASAP because I’m off to my chiro lady, Archna, shortly and after she has cast her beady eye on me I may not be coming back in one piece.  I actually highly respect the woman. She is honest and up-front. She leaves me under no illusion that the best she can offer is to hold back time and further degeneration of the old neck discs. But you know what? That’ll do.

After that, a quick trot to the pet shop to get the chucks some corn and the fish some pellets and a dash to Morrison’s to get Chea some more food. She is still on Sheba – but not the pate’ variety and preferably not the jelly now. We have now moved on to chunky, meaty bits in gravy. At least that is today’s preference. She appears non the worse for her conifer antics and my wounds are healing well. My son is here just now replacing ten fence panels and the conifer in question is now behind a six-foot panel and out of reach – I think? She is not impressed at not being allowed out just now and spent all day yesterday wall-of-deathing around the house, sitting in the bedroom window scowling and leaving footprints in the toilet bowl. Mid-day I caught a particularly vicious glare which said, ‘Take me back to the RSPCA.’

Talking of supermarkets – which subliminally I was – don’t you find them a source of amusement and also irritation? I was going to say something there about large people, leaning on shopping trolleys,  blocking the isles but I’ve thought better of it.

No, what I mean is – I find this kind of thing irritating – ‘Extra Tasty Chicken just £1 extra!’ Are they saying that the chicken at normal price is tasteless? Why would you buy tasteless chicken? How much does it cost to paint-on a bit of tasty additive. Why aren’t they all tasty?

And then there’s, ‘New! Improved!’ How can it be improved if it’s new? If it’s new there hasn’t been a previous version. And the ‘Buy One Get One Frees’ are bloody insulting to the average brain cell. ‘Buy a tube of Pringles for £2 50 and get one free.’ Bugger off! Not so long ago Pringles were £1 a tube.

Then there’s the funny side – at least Richard and I find it amusing – but then we don’t get out much. I’ll say, ‘Pass the stupid bleach,’ and Richard passes the Thick Bleach. I’ll say, ‘Pass the prostitutes,’ and Richard bungs in the Loose Lemons. Then we have the erection – Self Raising Flour. The muscles – Strong Onions. The jolly list is endless. I won’t divulge what we call the ‘Boned Out Meat!’

As I say, we really should get out more but probably not to supermarkets.

Talking of Richard, which, again, subliminally I was, he struggled home from work yesterday on the verge of collapse. His shoulder was giving him hell, the painkillers had made him feel sick and his tooth (the one that needs £1,000 spending on it, remember?) had abscessed. Obviously I dashed around attempting to offer advice and help (?) but he was too poorly to even speak to me. He managed to suck half a cheese sandwich, sufficient to take further painkillers and drink a glass of milk and then he sat in front of the fire until I departed for bed at 10.30. Before I limped up to bed – my back is buggered as well remember, he said, ‘I’ve just tried to pop this abscess and can’t and now it is killing me.’

I doubted that. The killing him bit I mean. That pleasure, surely, one day must be all mine? So, I equipped him with some strong, warm, salt water and cotton-wool and told him to bathe the gum for twenty minutes at a time, several times throughout the night.  It might work. It works on cats! And it definitely works on horses!

I left him looking like that bloke in the Godfather. The one who speaks like he has a mouth-full of cotton-wool.MB900389944

Must go. My chiro lady, the pet shop and Morrison’s call. I might need to pick up a bag of erection.

Take care my lovelies x

It Wasn’t Nice But It Was Necessary! …

Good Morning All.

I’m a kind person, right?  And you all know for a fact that I adore my chucks and Chea, so it may come as a surprise when I divulge yesterdays trauma. It wasn’t nice but it was necessary.

With migraine buggered off and the broken back sprayed with painkiller off I limped into the garden and made my merry way to the ‘shed project’ where the next job was to move the compost heap. Chucks were scratching happily, murdering insects and bugs. Chea was playing happily, stalking the chucks and chattering to the wood pigeons who sat just out of reach cooing like a very bad, girl backing-group.

For the first hour all went well. When I realised that I hadn’t seen Chea for the last ten minutes I went in search of her little striped body and found her up the small conifer tree. She was stuck! Again! I laughed at the stupid animal and stretching up, grabbed her front legs and pulled her down. I left her sitting there and went back to my compost heap. Another ten minutes and I realised Chea hadn’t followed me back up the garden so again I went in search of her.

Her presence was only obvious by a shower of dead conifer fronds slowly falling like snow from the neighbours leylandii. This particular tree stands higher than the house roof! I instantly had a bad feeling about this particular adventure of hers. She was nowhere in sight. I called and called and eventually the tiniest miaow drifted down through the dense branches. I pinpointed the miaow at two-thirds up the tree. I decided that this time the stupid cat would have to find her own way down. It was at this point that the miaows turned into distress calls. I couldn’t even see her and Richard wasn’t due home for two hours. I knew that if I let her get to the top of the tree in would be a fire brigade job.

Suddenly my concern, rising terror and helplessness turned to sheer bloody annoyance. This sodding cat had tested every tree in the garden, got stuck up everyone and now she’d disappeared. I knew Richard would not be impressed when he came home to find Chea at the top of a tree and a fire engine parked outside. ‘Right! That’s it!’ I yelled into the tree. ‘It’s time you learnt that tree’s are NOT fun!’

I stomped off, rigged up the hose-pipe, dragged it into position and turned it on full, aimed at the very top of the tree. For a full minute nothing happened and then a slight movement disturbed the upper branches so I turned off the hose-pipe. Everything went quiet. So I turned the hosepipe back on. By now the tree looked like something growing in the Amazon rain forest with water rushing down the trunk and dead fronds showering down. I needed the ladder.

Struggling to get the ladder onto the top of the rockery and shove it up into the branches was a hoot. The water had shifted Chea. Good plan. Now it was all showering down on me as I precariously climbed the ladder into the lower branches. Huge flaw in the plan.

Standing on the top rung, hanging on with one hand, I could see Chea’s head. I coaxed her with a few loving words …believe that and you’ll believe anything, but she still wasn’t having it and began to climb back up the tree! With the effort of a super-human I made a lunge for her, managing to grab a back foot. This sent her mental and she dragged the foot through my hand, ripping open my wrist. I knew that I had one chance to get this cat before she disappeared so I grabbed her side and yanked. She screamed. Really screamed. And wrapped her arms around the branch, hanging on like a feeding leech. I managed to grab her scruff and pulled. And pulled. She screamed and screamed. The water and debris showered down.

I dragged her kicking and screaming through the dead branches, almost fell off the ladder, which tipped, before landing in a heap in the wet mud at the bottom of the tree. She sloped off into the kitchen and set about licking herself clean.

I spent the next ten minutes fishing up the tree trying to release her collar which she had lost in the battle. Obviously it hit me on the head .

As usual, later, when we had repaired our bond, Chea had scoffed some chicken and I had ventured back to my compost heap, the neighbour stuck his head over the fence and casually remarked, ‘Gail, was that your cat in distress?’ My cat in distress? Why is it that whenever I do ANYTHING some neighbour is watching? I took a deep breath and said, ‘No. That WAS my cat … but it was ME in distress!’ He gave me that familiar look that basically all my neighbours give me, stopping to take in my bleeding arms and face, my wet, conifer strewn mop, before nodding and disappearing  into his greenhouse.

I muttered for quite a while about stupid cats and bloody nosey neighbours and then I went back to the relatively calm job of moving a pile of chicken shit. Happy days!

I pray to all things holy and with wings that Chea has learnt her lesson because frankly I can’t take much more of this. My son is coming over tomorrow to replace ten fence panels so I’m going to ask him to take down the neighbours tree! More than one way to skin a stupid cat, sunshine!

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Take care my lovelies x

 

PS I’ve bought her a little treat this morning from the supermarket. Because when all is said and done – I love her unconditionally. As you do!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hurray …It has Risen …

Morning All

I am here today by the skin of my teeth. I have just about killed myself regarding that bloody, must-have shed! But I’ll back-pedal slightly to Saturday morning.

I woke with the start of a migraine. These sodding things are becoming more and more frequent. No longer happy with destroying my life every fortnight, for two days at a time, they are now arriving every weekend. Not only do they imitate a bread-knife sticking through my left eye-socket, they also stop my digestive system, make me feel like vomiting and send my head mental. And no that isn’t an excuse for my impended insanity – it’s a fact, so, if anyone reading this has any up-to-the-minute facts on this migraine enigma I would be really happy to know. Moving on …

Richard arrived on the planet around ten-thirty, not having got home from work till two Saturday morning. With migraine approaching, I was keen to get on with the shed project. He mumbled on about picking up a paper and taking it to McDonald’s and having a coffee and choosing a Grand National runner. I wasn’t too keen because I knew the speed at which the migraine would be taking over but, as Richard rarely comes up with a plan of any kind, I agreed. I sat reading through the runners and riders whilst Richard fetched the drinks (and a burger thing with plastic-looking cheese for himself) Fifteen minutes later he appeared and spat,  ‘I thought this was FAST food?’ I said, ‘Nah, that’s just the speed which it leaves the body.’ Migraine never improves my sarcasm!

We chose our horses and trotted off to the bookies. Richard had his usual yearly witter about how to write out the betting slip etc. As if I’m much wiser. You’d think I lived in the bookies and not visited once a year.

The plan with the shed was to call on a neighbour to help transport it up the garden. No neighbours available. Yep you guessed it – Richard and I moved it – round the chuck shed, over the rockery, round the back of the pond, across the lawn and up the garden.

I’m now cutting a long story short and adding the finale.

Richard is crippled. His shoulder, which he has been on anti-inflammatory tabs for, for the past month. is wrecked. My migraine galloped on causing me to almost die under the back shed-panel. Richards horses – all long shots – came nowhere. My horse came third, which was pretty good considering. Last year I had the first and second – so third keeps some kind of pattern I guess? And the greatest thrill of all was no horses were fatally injured.

Having owned and adored horses almost all of my life I can’t help but divulge into tears when a horse dies. I know there are so many arguments for and against horse racing. I owned a little filly some years ago but she only ever raced on the flat. I would never have been able to own a jump-horse. Never. In defence of racing I will say that the majority of racehorses love racing – if they don’t they don’t make the grade and are sold on as hacks etc. And anyone who has ever attempted to make a horse jump a fence when it didn’t want to jump a fence will know that it is impossible. If half-a-ton of horse-flesh doesn’t want to leap into the air, trust me, it won’t! Get on a horse. Try it. And if these horses die racing I guess they die doing something they love. How many of us can say that? Many humans die without dignity, lying in their own filth in some care home or hospital bed. Where am I going with this? Stop!

… After all the lifting, holding, retrieving Chea from trees, we crawled back into the house on Sunday evening and spent thirty minutes comparing aches and pains. Later Sunday night I bent down to pick up Chea’s dish and my lower back went! Obviously I had taken some obscure muscle by surprise?

Richard spent yesterday morning in bed, barely able to move and then went to the doctors in the afternoon. He didn’t want to go. He would much rather moan on to me about it all. I told him bluntly – ‘get an appointment or I’ll be driving you to the doctor and going in with you – like your mother!’

I’ve taken so many painkillers for the migraine that they have, to a certain extent, helped my broken back. Frankly I’m thinking it may have been better to die under the shed foundations because when I go to my Chiro lady, Archna, on Friday and she sees the state that I am in she’s going to go ballistic and will probably delete me from her client list.

But hey-ho there you go. What doesn’t destroy you makes you stronger. And yesterday I planted the tiny cosmos seeds in my newly cleared-out greenhouse. Chea adores the whole new outdoor experience. She found the clump of newly emerging cat mint and became delirious. Purring, rolling, rubbing, glassy-eyed and rather euphoric  A stoned cat no less. She was out with us for almost nine hours on Saturday and within five minutes of getting back into the house had curled up in front of the fire and missed all the riveting Saturday night TV! Yes, I jest!

Today I need to attempt a bit more – move a muck heap and level the ground. The painkillers have kicked in. The disgusting spray thing that I sprayed all over my bum and lower back is helping. Bit tricky for a second as the over-spill ran down between the old cheeks and … well, probably best not to go there?

You see, I would rest, but isn’t that what they advised in ‘the old days?’ Don’t they now advise you to keep moving? Whatever. You’re a long time dead, hey? And like the brave, heroic Grand National runners, if it should come to it, I would rather die doing something I love …073

 

Take care my lovelies x

 

 

Back To Front Breasts And Visibility …

Good Morning All

Flipping ‘eck where do I start today? Maybe at yesterday?

I kept to plan A and trotted off up the garden with Chea and chucks trailing and continued slab laying. Before long I had a lovely flat base and being Mrs Enthusiastic I trotted back down the garden to find Richards drill so that I could take down a couple of fence panels. Surprised at the fact that the drill was charged, back I galloped.

During the course of the morning I kept feeling rather uncomfortable in the ‘breast’ department and had to keep having a discrete ferret around in the underwear area. For some reason my upper undergarment kept rolling down and sitting beneath my breasts like a bloody tourniquet –  I fell for the advert on the telly regarding that lovely bra-type all-in-one-thingy that you just slip on over your head and it holds, shapes and does lovely things without cutting in – all ladies reading this will know exactly what I mean! Personally I think they are designed for females with pea-nut sized breasts – of which, sadly, I am not one.

I ‘went’ with this for hours, tugging, realigning, missing the fact that the neighbour was up a ladder, trimming a willow, and was watching my MH900287045every move through bifocals. Eventually I had to pop back into the house to go to the loo but, before ablutions, I decided to check out the form of torture that was still squeezing the life out of me. Simples! I’d put the bloody thing on back to front and not only that but when I slipped down the old mud-encrusted leggings I discovered that my pants were also on back to front.

I know I rarely know if I am coming or going but I usually know my front from my back. I blame in on my enthusiasm to start my day.

When The Lord rose from his slumbers we moved the shed base into position and then I preserved it – the shed base not My Lord Richard.

Tomorrow the shed rises. Whoop woo. Neighbours will be called on to heave up the heavy roof, Champagne will be smashed across the shed door and I will bless all who potter in her – which, frankly, will only be yours truly because no one else will be allowed in it. I may call it Roger. I knew a Roger once and he was as thick as two short planks.

I’m listening to The King And I soundtrack on headphones as I write. Don’t these lyrics to Whistle A Happy Tune truly float your boat?

Make believe you’re brave –  and the trick will take you far

You may be as brave – as you make-believe you are.

Awesome.

Today I am flitting like a butterfly – but NOT stinging like a bee! I just want to mention something that disturbed me a little. Most things disturb me a little but … A writer friend of mine was saying how few (mention no names or gender ) book sales they’d had and were at a loss of how to improve sales. Should said person lower the price? Give the books away? I was pretty thrown to be honest because as a writer I know how much work goes into a novel. And not just work as in time-wise. We change into Incredible Hulks and generally not very nice-to-know people when we have a novel sitting inside our skulls demanding to be set free. And all around us people and things suffer. We place partners, family, housework, social activities and the family dog on the back burner and trust that those things will still be there for us when we have freed ourselves of our novel. Hot, nourishing meals are only obtained from McDonald’s (well, hot meals) and when we aren’t writing we can’t involve ourselves in conversation because we are thinking about writing.

It is my experience, albeit limited, because I’ve only been at this self publishing lark for eight months, that the only thing that will sell books is visibility. I write in the romance genre, frankly I don’t know why I say that because my books are not very romantic – not at all slushy – or is that mushy? Or is that just peas? So, for my sins and choice of genre, it appears that there are millions of books sitting on Amazon, so deep on the old Amazon seabed that only a tsunami would shift them and bring them to the surface. I believe, if you can put your book on freebie promo’ for three days and work your butt off (Facebook/Twitter)  tweeting and relying on your twitter friends to re-tweet and download your book, even if they never read it, you may well create your own tsunami and your book will rise, phoenix-like, to the number one position on Amazon. That is what I did with Starfish and that is what happened to Starfish. It reached number one. It then became visible.

I’ve been very naughty of late and hardly ‘pushed’ any of my novels. But I will. And soon. I have to really, don’t I? I can’t bugger about building sheds and listening to The King And I everyday, can I?

But just now – I can. So I’ll have a quick check on the undergarments and then I shall Whistle A Happy Tune all the way to the top of the garden.

Take care my lovelies x

The Mating Millions …Room For One More On Top?

Good Morning All

Yesterday gave me real hope that spring is finally here. There was a cold wind but even so, the sun held a little warmth. I thought I’d have a bit of a go at laying some slabs for the base of the new shed so I let the chucks and Chea out into the garden with me and began the task.

As usual I lost track of the time and became engrossed in slab moving. After a while I realised that one of the chucks was missing so I went in search, eventually finding her in the kitchen having walked mud everywhere and emptied Chea’s bowls of crunchies and roast chicken. The thought of a chicken eating chicken didn’t appeal much.

I soon realised that another chicken problem was imminent – the frogs are back in the pond. Masses of frog spawn sat at the water’s edge and the pond almost bubbled with frogs piggybacking and mating. These critters will grab onto and attempt to rape anything within paddling distance. If they stay in the water they are safe but if they venture out of the pond when the chucks are out they will nab them.

Beautiful caught a frog last year and did a Benny Hill sketch type thing all around the garden. Tearing round, tail feathers flying, with the other two chucks racing after her attempting to grab the swinging frog. Flowerpot was still alive then. And before you go thinking what stupid names for chickens I might as well tell you that little Jake named them – at least, that’s my excuse!

I nearly had a fit listening to that poor little frog screaming (yes they do!) and had to hide in the greenhouse with my hands over my ears until the deathly deed was done. Even if I’d managed to catch the chuck I wouldn’t have been able to resurrect a three-legged frog. Chickens are cruel little shits, they really are, but I do love them. I couldn’t touch their eggs for a fortnight – just the thought of frog flavoured eggs turned my stomach. No worries though because I dished up omelette after omelette for Richard and he never passed a comment. However, he did walk with an occasional hop for a week and croaked when spoken to! No he didn’t, I’m joking.

We dashed off to buy some shed paint in the afternoon and managed to agree on the colour and quantity (amazing) so I may get started on that later, after I’ve laid the other slabs and if I’m not chasing chucks away from the mating millions and retrieving Chea from the conifer.

I can barely contain my childish enthusiasm for the weekend. My new shed, which has stood waiting for the snow drifts to dissolve for the past ten days, should finally get erected. Then the rubbish from the summer-house and the greenhouses can be loaded into it and I will get my greenhouses back and then I can start setting seeds and all manner of things. They do say that little things please little minds and I guess it could be true.

The summer-house, which officially is Richards and is actually more like a large shed, other than for the fact that it has a sofa and a wood burner in it, needs a spring clean. Richard is a great fan of Ade In Britain, where Ade Edmondson tours Britain towing a small caravan which is basically a kitchen on wheels. So the other day Richard announced, seriously mind, ‘I might do some cooking this year.’

I didn’t comment, well it’s virtually impossible to comment when I’m suffocating with laughter.

‘Up at the summerhouse.’

I still didn’t comment, just sputtered a bit and tried to get my breath back.

‘Get a cooker like Ade’s and prepare some meals up there,’ he said.

I’m sure the man is trying to kill me.

‘Get a cooker and prepare meals out in the garden?’ I said.

‘Yeah.’

‘Prepare meals out in the garden? You? You only know how to cook oven chips!’

‘Well I can cook oven chips in it can’t I?’

‘Why would you want to?’ I said.

‘Well I can’t cook anything else.’

‘So we are going to go to the expense of buying an oven so that it can sit rusting up the garden at the side of the rusting barbecue just so that you can cook oven chips?’

‘Yeah. What do you think?’

I did tell him what I thought – but I won’t tell you!

010Take care my lovelies x

Is Romance Dead? … Like The Three-Bird-Roast?

Hi All

Fiddle-de-dee I’m free! Oh Lord please don’t bring on any more holidays. Especially ones where I feel like I have to act (believe me it is an act) like a normal human being and do all the crap things that normal human beings have to do. Mind, having said that it would lead you to believing that I consider there is such a thing as a normal human being. And as I have said many times before – the more I see of some people – the more I prefer plants. Not you guys, obviously, you guys read this blog because you are  lovely/crazy like me/just plain bored – tick/delete as appropriate.

I last blogged on Good Friday – a misnomer if ever I heard one. The day deteriorated with arguments about how to get a 10′ x 8′ shed floor base all the way up the garden, under a five-foot arch. Riddle me this dudes. Impossible.

‘I’ll take the arch down!’ Richard snapped. Yes snapped.

‘Piss off,’ I retaliated.

‘How the hell do you expect me to get an eight foot base under a five-foot arch? AND I can barely use my right arm!’ he snapped again.

Too many naughty snaps, sunbeam.

‘You figure it out,’ I said through gritted teeth. ‘And then, when you’ve done that, go to the bloody doctor and get the slight twinge in your shoulder – which obviously prevents you from doing anything – sorted out!

The answer was staring him in the face. It was the same conundrum as the summer-house – take it around and over the pond! I’ll leave it there because I wouldn’t want you to think that I am in the habit of making grown men cry. He’d have been swimming with the fishes had he tried dismantling my archway with my lovely Golden Rain rambler, variegated ivy and two clematis! He has no respect for anything in the garden, including me, when I’m in the garden.

Back to my original theme. Saturday was filled with my son and titchy grandchildren coming over to bring eggs and daffodils. I say titchy grandchildren in the hope that you will pick up on the subliminal message and assume that I am a young grandma and not Methuselah – though I admit, there are more days when the later seems to apply than the former! But hey ho, I’m young at heart. At heart I’m thirty and still swigging barley wine at the local disco with my adorable cousin Dawn and prancing around to I’m In The Mood For Dancing … but that’s another story… and quite scary!

Sunday … I cooked. Stop laughing. I can cook – when the moon is full and madness overcomes me. I’d suggested to Richard that he invited his sister and her husband and his mum, Betty, over for lunch. Times were noted, lists were made, the frozen three-bird roast was hauled from the bottom of the freezer having not been used at Christmas. Three-bird roast? Dear God. What insensitive shit thought that one up? A chicken inside a duck inside a turkey? It wouldn’t even happen in nature! Yuck. But as I have said before I am no soap-box vegetarian and if my man wants meat my man gets meat. Caveman!

I digress. Everything went marvellously well – until said visitors turned up half an hour early – because stupid Richard told me they were leaving home half an hour later than they actually did. It has long been my policy to get visitors plastered well before I dish-up. That way I have never had a bad word uttered regarding my cock-ups. Of course they all opted for tea so that buggered up that little plan. It was OK though. Just the one disaster. I’d placed the stuffing right up on the top shelf above the three bird abomination and then forgot that it was in there. So it had two hours instead of forty-five minutes. Not to worry. It was super crunchy – just the way everyone liked it – apparently.

Oh I forgot to mention that Carol and Michael, Richards sister and brother-in-law brought me a lovely pot of miniature daffodils and primulas and Carol had made me a super cup cake thingy at her craft group. Betty brought me flowers. I’d bought them Easter eggs. Yes, I’D bought them Easter eggs!

Later that evening, when all guests had gone I turned to Richard, who was sloshed on home-made wine and said, ‘I didn’t get anything from you for Easter then?’

He straightened his face (he just sits with a stupid grin plastered all over his mush when sloshed) and said, ‘You don’t eat chocolate.’

I just shook my head and turned up the TV. Pillock! Amazing how everyone else who had crossed the threshold managed to ‘figure it out.’ And this is the man who wanted to take down my arch! I tell you – romance is flipping dead in the water here.

Yesterday the grand kiddies came over for the day to see their young grandma. Jake made me two pictures and Grace just made a mess! But it was lovely. Although that bloody irritating  CBeebies channel has a lot to answer for. There are only so many times you can ‘all sing a song together’ and enjoy it. Unless, of course, you have the memory of a goldfish and forget after two minutes that you ever sang the bloody irritating tune? And I use the word tune very lightly.

Today I am free of all that. Richard has just crept in from the ‘night-shift’ and slumbers as I write. I have cooked Chea’s chuck and she has stopped pestering. Today now belongs to me. Knowing my luck some idiot will arrive but I’ve considered this and closed the lounge-to-kitchen curtains, plonked on my headphones and I’m listening to a Beatle’s CD which I came across whilst dusting under the sofa in preparation for the visitors! I appear to have put In My Life on replay and I am now floating off on cloud nine. Actually, I think I might just go and see if I can find The Nolan’s because suddenly I really am In The Mood For Dancing.

 

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Take care my lovelies x

 

PS I’m sure I should mention my books but I’ve kinda run out of time