A Man Just For My Entertainment? …

Hi All

I don’t have the faintest idea what to write about today because for one thing Richard hasn’t done anything entertaining for days. I have in fact just told him this as he squeezes into his bike leathers in preparation for going to work. His retort was, ‘I’m not here just to entertain you, you know.’ Funny that because I thought he was. Frankly there hasn’t been much to entertain me here over the last two days. It’s all been a bit low-key.

Both the chucks are sick so the daily chore now is for Richard to hold each chuck in turn, bottom facing me (chuck’s bottom not Richard’s) and for me to wash their bums. It’s fine as long as you don’t happen to be staring into their offices when they eject pooh.

Also, the sick orfe is still sick and floating like a carrot beneath the marsh marigold. Its mates are with it, wiping its sweaty brow and feeding it chicken soup – well maybe not  CHICKEN soup. I still find it sweetly surprising how, when a fish is sick, the others stay by its side. We had a very old goldfish who was totally blind and the others used to nose it to the surface at feeding time and somehow it always managed to find the food and feed. And that’s the devotion of a cold-bloodied animal! Shame the human race can’t be as devoted to each other…

Everything is now out of the greenhouse and in the garden. I had one remaining cosmos which I walked up and down and round and round the garden looking for the last available spot in which to plant it in. Eventually I spied a wee spot near to the fence and beyond the baby cabbages, so, balancing precariously I leant down, trowel in one hand, cosmos in the other. Just as the trowel contacted the soil a huge frog leapt up and across my hand. Obviously I screamed, ‘UGH FROG!!!’ and ran off. And obviously the neighbour heard, poked his head over the fence and enquired if I was alright. I’m sure he lurks – waiting for my next calamity.

My mum always said she should have named me after Calamity Jane. Actually I’ve become much better with age. My teenage years and early twenties were a nightmare. I just seemed ‘accident’ prone. Daft things always happened around me.

I remember on one occasion helping mum, who was doing the weekly wash at the time, by putting away the bread, coffee etc in the pantry. Back then a washing machine was of the ‘open top’ variety. One side washed and one side spun. As I was squeezing past the washing machine, with coffee balanced on bread, the coffee jar toppled off and landed  in the washing machine. Someone, and I swore it wasn’t me, had not screwed the lid on the coffee jar and the contents all spilled out into the sheet wash. Mum was most annoyed and asked me rather snappily why I had to be so lackadaisical? No idea back then what that meant – still don’t have too much of a clue ha ha. It took a few washes to get the sheets back to white.

I scored again, years later, when I put a red sock in with my baby son’s nappies and turned two-dozen white nappies bright pink.

I’m off for my B12 jab shortly so come Monday I’ll be back on the ball and managing to string a sentence together – probably – hopefully – or not.

Okey Dokey – now for the ‘writer’ bit. Here is a link


Cool I hear you say. Yes it is quite cool, actually. It is a link to a writers’ group – only it isn’t just a writers’ group. It is a group for bloggers, readers, authors, writers, poets. Anyone at all to do with writing and/or reading. So pop over and take a look at us. It is a closed group so what happens in the group stays in the group – unless I copy/paste and sell it to the papers!! We have some nice people in the group so if you fancy it give it a go and I’ll see you there.


Have a super weekend.


Take care my lovelies xHPIM2851 - Copy




Short Is Best …In My Humble Opinion …

Hi All

If my memory serves me well, and I’m sure it does, I remember growing up through hot summers and cold winters. What has happened?  Yesterday the garden resembled a tropical rain forest and today a low mist engulfs the vegetable plot. I’m assuming the cabbages, courgettes, beans and pumpkins are still there, shivering and wondering, like me, what the hell is going on. OK. Don’t be picky. I know they don’t think. Well, we assume they don’t. I also remember watching a programme on the TV once and each time a tree was chopped down it screamed. It’s something that I have never forgotten. Each time I prune I imagine a little voice yelping, ‘OUCH!.’ Yeah, you’re right. I’m bonkers. It’s not imperative – but it helps …

Moving on from this totally shit weather …

I rediscovered something about myself yesterday. I say ‘rediscovered’ because I’ve always known it. Sometimes I just forget. I don’t like long things. It’s a daft saying, I know, but less definitely is more. How so, I hear you say. Don’t know, I answer. I’ll try to explain.

I like to read blogs BUT if they are too long, say, more than 900/1,000 words, I do tend to lose interest. And the same with poetry. I find it really hard going soaking up lines and lines and lines and lines of verse. And perhaps I’m old-fashioned, or just plain ignorant, but I quite like poetry to rhyme. Perhaps I have an ‘editing’ issue? My preference for ‘less is more’ also carries over to speech. A perfect example of this is a politician.

Question. What is your party going to do about the homeless?

Politicians answer. We came into power and there was already a nationwide problem with homelessness. You could say we inherited it from the previous party …well …we did …no doubt about it. They ran the country into the ground. We will turn this country around. Make it safe to walk the streets … blah …blah ….blah’

What he meant was …nothing. One little word. Nothing. Why use fifty words when one will do?

Richard needs an editing course. I’ll say, ‘What time are we going?’

He’ll say, ‘Well, if we go now we’ll beat the traffic. But if we go later the traffic will have gone. But then we’ll have to stand around for an hour. So I’m not sure. What do you think?’

The answer, had he asked me the same question, would have been, ‘Get your boots on we are going now!’

And don’t go saying it’s the art of conversation because it isn’t. I lose interest with the answer if it has to go all around the houses and up the back-streets to reach me. Flipping ‘eck life’s too short my bloggy friends.

I also have a problem with short stories that go on for longer than 5,000 words. Forgive me but isn’t the clue in the title? Short? A short story, 1,5000/2,000 words is the epitome of editing. You need a beginning. A middle. And an end. The bits in between require chopping, contracting, tightening and losing. LESS IS MORE.

Funny, isn’t it, how I say all this and then still ramble on? Haha. But you see, rambling is quite different to waffling. Rambling takes years of perfecting. Waffling is something anyone can do.

I have to go. I can’t write when I’m hysterical … and I’m up to 735 words anyway!!! I let Chea out earlier and Richard is now standing at the door waffling about where she might be. He said he’s worried that if she goes over the back fence she won’t be able to get back. I said she will have to get back through the neighbour’s garden and then come back into ours. He said how would she know where the neighbours back entrance is? (no innuendoes thank you). I said I felt sure they work on scent more than sight – cats, not neighbours. He is now standing here giving hand signals saying, ‘Oh yeah, don’t they work on some sort of built-in navigation system? Don’t they home-in like pigeons? Don’t they have a sort of sat-nav and just tap-in take me home – with their little furry paw?’

Keep me sane. Any minute now and she could come flying down the path to join the other cuckoos in this particular crazy nest …


Take care my lovelies xstarfishcoverv1 (680x820) (2)



A Prick In Carefully Chosen Places? …

G’day All

I came across a review for one of my books last night. I am reaching for the voodoo doll and needles with my left hand as I type with my right! A prick in carefully chosen places might be in order. Ha ha, only joking. It was a good review but it made me think …

When I put my first book out there, Mulligan’s Reach, I was so scared. Someone said I was the only person they knew of who had written a book, put it on Amazon and wanted to keep it a secret. It was true. I was terrified that someone might see it, actually buy it, read it and leave a review saying what a load of old cobblers. I hid beneath the table for a week, shaking, and only coming out for food and the loo. And then, such massive relief – no one bought it. No one even knew it was there. No one would be leaving me demoralising reviews. No one would come seeking me out, storming the perimeter fence, demanding their money back. Happy. Happy. Happy.

It was a little like …giving birth to a really ugly baby. Don’t give me a hard time, some babies ARE ugly. YOU know the baby is ugly but if you keep it hidden, the world will just ASSUME it is beautiful. If you SHOW little ugly baby to the world people will snigger and say, ‘I knew she’d have an ugly baby.’

Same with the book. If it was  secret it couldn’t be slammed, could it? But then, like the ugly baby scenario, I began to defend my ugly baby (book) because that is what mummies and writers do. What if it was ugly? What if it did have a face that only a mother could love? Oh yes. And what about the ugly duckling? THAT turned into a beautiful swan. The phoenix rose …

How DARE anyone ignore my ugly baby? My precious little duckling. My book! I’d show them. So I did. I put my second book, Starfish, on Amazon. Well. May as well have ugly twins. In for a penny …

I actually put Starfish on a free promo and over 7,000 copies were uploaded/downloaded (not sure which – too technical) and it went to No 1 on Amazon. That was a real thrill. Truly. And I have to thank all my twitter and fb friends for that. So, thank you all my little twitter and fb friends. You can NEVER thank people enough.

I don’t think I was prepared for the 3 star review I received for apparently, and unknowingly, condoning rape in Starfish. The 3 stars knocked me a bit but the ‘rape’ comment threw me across the floor and back under the table. How could anyone assume that I meant to condone rape!! I did my normal thing …drop my head beneath the parapet and hide, assuming someone was on the way to kill me for being so despicable. And then I did my other normal thing … angrily rise, beat my chest, bellow out a few F words, accompanied by a few B words and write a very stroppy blog announcing in no uncertain terms that if people didn’t like my book not to bloody read it. It was with the greatest satisfaction that I pressed the enter key and sent my reply, to the world and his dog, zooming  into the ether. Huh! Shit head! Slag off my ugly baby, hey? Narrow minded pillock!!!

A friend commented on my blog and said I should be really careful what I say as I could alienate people. So I deleted it. Whatever. I was Mrs Stroppy for a morning … and it made me feel tons better.

I have no argument with reviews now. No. Honestly.I swear it on all things sacred. I see them for what they are. Personal opinions. In my real life I only take notice of a few people’s opinions. You see, I have to respect that person before I can accept what they say. I have to believe that they have the integrity to leave an honest review. I have always been, and always will be, a truly honest person. If someone asks me for my opinion that is what they get. I WILL sugar-coat it if necessary because destroying tender hearts is not on my agenda. Telling someone what they wish to hear is not an opinion and as such is pointless, invaluable and a waste of good breath.

You can always tell a worthwhile review. It tells you what the reader liked and why and what the reader  didn’t like so much (if anything) and why. It comments on content, story, characters, dialogue, pace, etc.  A review is not …’It wasn’t good.’ This was a real review of mine from ages back and even after considering the mentality of someone who might leave a review like that, I still wanted to know …why? Why would you think that?

I’m not even convinced that reviews sell books anyway. I don’t buy a book based on reviews. I buy it because the blurb and first page interest me. I have many books sitting on my Kindle waiting to be read and most of them are free promo’s which I have downloaded to help other writers attain sales figures. I have little time to read – so many other things demand my attention but I will get around to reading them, so, for those of you who know that I’ve got your little baby sitting here, I will read it and I will leave a review. I ALWAYS leave a review. It is the least I can do for all that hard work. I’ve given birth. I know how bloody hard it is to push out that baby …


Take care my lovelies xHPIM2851 - Copy



Too Stiff To Hold …

Hi All

I think I have an allergy to pistachios! Is that possible? I know peanuts are a no-no for some people but …pistachios? I guess a nut is a nut? I can’t stop scratching my neck, sides of my face, nose and ear lobes. The latter are red and bulbous. A totally unattractive look. I did say I wouldn’t be here until Monday but I popped over to reply to some comments and thought I may as well share my pistachio allergy with you, just in case I fall to the floor and expire. If it isn’t one thing it’s another. I feel like I am dropping to bits.

I can hardly believe this but the sun is attempting to shine. It has been so bloody cold and windy here over the last two days. Even Chea bombed up the garden, did an abrupt turn and bombed back yesterday. No sneaking through hedges and scaling fences for her yesterday. She isn’t stupid.

I’m going to attempt to spend some time in the garden this morning. Most everything is out and shivering in the soil, except for the runner beans. I’ll give them another day or two and then plant them in their intended spot, unless my impatient gene kicks in and they’ll be ripped from their pots and planted in the ground today. It is hugely satisfying to get everything out of the greenhouse and planted in the garden.

Richard is going to begin work on his Land Rover again this morning but just how long his calcified shoulder holds out is anyone’s guess. He’ll probably work through the pain barrier until he’s done what he wants to do and then tonight, while he’s watching Britain’s Got Talent (which is never admits to watching by the way) he’ll be in agony and taking sneaky looks at me to see if I am witnessing his pain. Men do that don’t they? My father did it. Keep taking sideways glancing to check if you are aware of their suffering. How could we not be?

I think the area of his attention today is the brakes. He’s replaced them once but they are ‘sticking,’ apparently. Not to worry. It will occupy him for a while. I was roped in to helping him ‘bleed’ them last time. Not a success story so I may take refuge in his summer-house (which now has a TV with DVD player, whoop-woo!) and not be available. You probably think that’s mean? It isn’t. And besides, it is very confusing for the neighbours to hear Richard’s manly voice shouting, ‘UP …DOWN …UP …DOWN …HOLD IT! …  I SAID HOLD IT!’ And me, exhausted, panting, ‘I can’t …it’s too stiff!’ You would need to be familiar with old vehicles and the complicated process of pumping brakes for the aforementioned to make much sense. Unfortunately I AM familiar with the bloody process.

Having said this I guess the fact that I’ve lived here for twenty-two years stands me in good stead with the neighbours? They know me now so little surprises them.

Right, off to have a good scratch at the pistachio allergy, inflamed mush, and get out into the garden before the sun goes in. Ohh! I can wear the new ‘shades’ that I picked up from Specsavers the other day. Banging.

Have a lovely weekend.481488_531531166905613_1999750060_n

Take care my lovelies x

And The Trousers Hit The Floor …

Hi All

I’m wondering how many females receive the answer they require when asking a male, ‘How do I look?’ or ‘Do I look OK in this?’

That was the question that began my day yesterday. ‘Do I look OK?’

If you remember, the last time we ‘spoke,’ I told you that we were taking Richard’s mum, Betty, to the hospital for her six-monthly check-up on her weakening knee? Obviously I couldn’t wear my normal daily attire so a little effort was put into scouring through my wardrobes for something suitable. I chose black leggings, a lovely long flowery top (pink roses) and a pink cardigan. I polished off my look with my posh three-quarter length coat. It was cold yesterday (and today) and I figured with my state of health right now I’d better keep warm. I realise I’m sounding like I’m a hundred years old but …

Richard trotted up the stairs and we met on the landing. ‘Do I look OK?’ I said.

He viewed me silently for a moment, always a bad sign because he always speaks immediately and always without thinking.

‘It’s only the hospital you don’t have to dress up,’ he said.

‘I haven’t dressed up,’ I said.

‘Well you’re more dressed up than usual,’ he said.

‘Well of course I’m more dressed up than usual,’ I said, through gritted teeth, ‘because usually I’m cleaning up chicken shit and rolling round the garden! Do I look OK? Tidy?’

He looked me up and down again. ‘Well, yeah, you look tidy, like you are going to a posh funeral or something.’


I rethought the coat and changed it to a more casual looking one … but, as a form of rebellion, dug out the pink shoes, which Richard hates with a vengeance. Ha! Posh funeral. Any more comments like that and it’ll be his funeral and I’ll be wearing the whole ensemble.

With Betty loaded into the front seat of the tiny UP and me shoved in the back, we set off. They chatted away – well Betty chatted away. I couldn’t hear what she was saying and Richard gave the impression of listening but I know him and I knew that the ‘lights were on but know one was home,’ as he concentrated on the road and traffic.

We took the wrong turning into the hospital and spent valuable time scouting for the orthopaedic department, as per Betty’s instructions. Richard abandoned us in the car and went walkabout attempting to find orthopaedics. He returned twenty minutes later, through a cloud burst, looking half-drowned and about to go off on one and said, ‘It’s NOT the orthopaedic department, MOTHER, it’s Out Patients. Why do you always get these things wrong?’ Betty fumbled around for her disabled parking pass and pretended not to hear.

Eventually we found the right department and Richard evicted us from the car and screeched off to find a parking place. Are you beginning to see into his character yet? See how the smallest things throw him? Haha. Betty linked her arm in mine and off we trotted – well – not exactly – she does have a buggered up knee and two metal hip replacements. She’s pretty bionic – our Betty. We settled in the waiting room for a bit and then I toddled off to find Richard who was just entering the building having parked the car in the next county. He’s also hopeless at finding parking spaces. And he ALWAYS has to reverse into a space.

The consultant was ‘behind,’ apparently and we had to wait quite a while. Betty stressed. Richard stared blankly ahead. And I had a nice conversation with a man in a cowboy hat who looked like the American country singer, Alan Jackson, whom I simply adore. I had been nominated to go in with Betty as her spokesperson and intelligent being in residence. That’s a joke. But you only have to fool some of the people some of the time, don’t you? Betty’s consultant was lovely. L.O.V.E.L.Y. Truly. I have had some experiences with these ‘professionals’ and many of them have had humour bypasses. I say something that I think is hilarious and it washes straight over them. But THIS man was super. So friendly. So super. So lovely … you get the picture? Joking apart, I do get it. I do understand that these consultants, doctors, nurses etc have to deal with the general public and lets face it, the general public can be moronic at times, yeah? I couldn’t do it. I’d murder someone and wham them through the nearest window yelling, ‘Don’t be such a frigging, pathetic tool, so your leg’s hanging off … you have another.’

Mr R (I’ll call him that) put up Betty’s hip and knee X Rays on his computer screen and delved into simple, layman’s terms regarding her condition. He made lovely little jokes along the way and had us in stitches … not literally. He asked to examine the knee and whoosh, Betty sprang to her feet saying, ‘I’ll have to take my trousers down because I can’t get my trouser leg up past my swollen knee.’

This was the only warning we had as her checked, polyester trousers hit the floor, faster than Usain Bolt, and I was presented with her bottom in my face. Mr R and I exchanged glances. I think I fell a little in love with him at this point. Well you would, wouldn’t you? And thinking about it I think he rather liked me. He kept having a sneaky glance across at me when Betty was on the couch having a bloody great needle driven into her right knee. He could have just been checking that I was not going to hit the deck at the sight of his big needle?

In conclusion, Betty is now on the waiting list to have her knee replaced. She will have to go back to see Mr R as a pre-op appointment and I shall have to go with her. I mean, who would expect a sweet, (?) eighty-two-year-old lady to have to answer all those complicated questions on her own? It’s the least I can do, right?

And I’ll probably put a little more thought into my appearance because I certainly do not want Mr R to think that I’ve stopped off at the hospital on the way to a funeral. I think he quite liked my pink, rose top. As far as I could tell, unlike Richard, Mr R had exquisite taste.

Have a lovely weekend. Catch you Monday.

Take care my lovelies x

HPIM2851 - Copy

Questions …Questions!

Hi All

Seems like the dog meat/sun oil dream was a one-off. Still haven’t figured out where it came from or what it may have meant. Readers of this blog have put through one or two suggestions but I think it best if I keep those to myself!

I have just had a telephone conversation with Richard’s mum, she of the recent comment, ‘Everybody is good at something, aren’t they? What are you good at?’

Frankly there was no answer to that. She is very diplomatic – just like her son! We are taking her to the hospital on Thursday for a check-up on her poorly knee. She needs a new one. Apparently I’m required to converse with the consultant because Betty doesn’t understand these things. Perhaps that’s my talent. The one thing that I am good at? Conversing with consultants? We’ll see.

Betty leaves these appointments without a clue to what’s going on or to what has been said. She is fazed somewhat by the status of these people believing that a consultant is the nearest thing to God and therefore unquestionable. The conversation flows over and around her but not into her. She nods and agrees. And then nods and agrees some more. Bless her.  If they said, this time we are going to remove your kneecap and put in a Royal Crown Derby joint, which you will then have to bathe in raspberry jam for two years,  she’d believe them, possibly only querying which make of jam? So in order to avoid this we are taking her.

Besides her total acceptance of all God-like professionals Betty is in her eighties and therefore, in my opinion, deserves a little assistance. She hasn’t quite reached the point that my late father reached. He called me to his house at 2.00 am one morning because he had chest pains. I zoomed up the road, rushed into his house, found him sitting on the bed clutching at his chest, panting. Mrs Calm (me) serenely floating on the surface, paddling like shit beneath the surface, sat on the bed at the side of him and asked him the relevant questions. He pulled a few faces and groaned a bit. I established in my own mind that he wasn’t crying wolf, which he did on several occasions, and walked into the kitchen to call 999. Before I dialled I heard an almighty burp from dad’s direction and stopped. I walked back into his room to see him rubbing at his chest in a circular movement and heard him say, ‘Aww that’s better!’

I stared at him, wide-eyed.  ‘Was that you!’ I said.

He nodded and grinned. ‘Yeah, I feel a bit better now. I think I had wind. It must have been that onion I ate earlier.’

With my heart still thudding I bellowed, ‘Wind? Wind! You’ve got me here at two in the morning because you’ve got bloody wind?’

In answer … he passed wind again – from a lower orifice!

My father was a diamond and if I could have him back, wind and all, I would. I digress …

Because I am going in with Betty to see the consultant and put forwards a million questions I am back in favour and she has just told me that I am like a daughter to her. Sweet hey? Well it is to me. I have to grab nice comments wherever and whenever I can. You see, that’s the main problem with being quite a strong character – or coming across as quite a strong character – people believe it and treat you accordingly  If I was a timid little mouse-type person people would be forever offering me cheese. As it is, being a tiger, people assume I’m killing freely and eating on a regular basis. Haha I’m losing it aren’t I? Not to worry. When the men in the white coats turn up I can always question them – even wrapped in a straight jacket and heading for the funny-farm.

Now there’s a point … I really like farms …HPIM2851 - Copy

Take care my lovelies x

Here Comes The Sun … Slap On The Dog Food …

Good Morning

There are all kinds of dreams, yeah? Producing all kinds of reactions and emotions? Last night I had a dream that left me feeling utterly nauseous. It involved a tall, skinny bloke, naked and lying face-down on my bed, requesting that I rubbed sun oil on his porcelain-white body. Nothing overly nauseous about that – if I kept my eyes shut – but then I had to mix the sun oil. Half a cup of olive oil and half a sachet of dog food, mashed and stirred in. Then I had to apply it to his body. I remember retching in this dream and when the tall, skinny, nude bloke turned over to have the oil rubbed on his front, I woke up. Thank God. Not sure this recent migraine preventative treatment is agreeing with me. I couldn’t face Chea’s Sheba sachet this morning and had to cook her chicken instead.

Talking of Chea! She has become a thorn in my side. She has decided that our garden, rambling and long as it is, is no longer sufficient to hold her interest. She now has to go further afield, scrambling over fences, sliding down the neighbour’s greenhouse roof and generally doing all things that will surely land her in trouble. What can we do? I want to protect her with my life. Isn’t that what you sign up for when you take on these lunatic creatures? To protect them to the very best of your ability? I had a very serious conversation with Richard regarding taking her back to the RSPCA so that they could find her a ‘safe’ home, where she could wander freely without harm. Richard, who 99% of the time goes along with all my ideas, wishes and half insane plans, put his size eleven boot firmly down and flatly refused to consider such a thing. He argued that she was now part of us and that he would rather let her freely navigate the globe (with the consequences that it might bring) than send her back to the RSPCA and never know what happened to her.

Sweet? Yes. Very. BUT. It doesn’t work that way. The very second her little tabby body is nowhere to be seen Richard goes into panic mode. He panics by nature. Nothing I can do about it. It is in his genes. So, when Chea disappears Richard comes bleating to me, ‘I can’t see Chea. Have you seen Chea? How long has Chea been missing? Are you going to help me look for Chea?’

‘Give her a chance to come back,’ I say. ‘Leave her.’

‘OK,’ he says. ‘If YOU say so. If YOU think she’ll come back.’

Do you see what he does there? Turns the whole thing around on to  me so that if she falls into a rain-barrel and dies it is my fault because I said to leave her. So this stresses my massively. MASSIVELY! Off he slopes. Conscience clear. Five minutes later and he’s back.

‘I still can’t see her but if YOU’RE not concerned, that’s OK.’

At this point I have two choices. Kill him. Kill myself. Or get in the car and drive to the nearest airport. OK. I know that’s three choices but I’ve only just realised that the airport is a very possible alternative.

She did her longest disappearing trick yesterday afternoon and Richard went into meltdown, peering over fences, ripping holes in the hedge, talking to the neighbours (he’s a bit reclusive usually!) and calling her – loudly. No result. Well, no that’s not true. There was a result. In his passion to find the sodding creature he forced his body behind the chicken shed so that he could peer, goggle-eyed over the fence. All this rustling and bustling scared the shit out of the chucks and they went ballistic, flying and crashing into the wire on the windows. I went out to see what the hell was going on. Richard was hurrying off up the garden, unaware as usual of the destruction behind him and I was presented with two bleeding chucks.  I’m not swearing here. They were literally bleeding. It was then my turn to go ballistic.

By the time I’d found some cotton wool, warm water and wound powder, Richard was coming back down the garden. I let rip. I can’t tell you what I said. Or how loudly I said it. It would ruin my image. Forever.

Chickens swabbed, powered and separated,  or they would eat each other alive, I stropped off back to the house, yelling that if the f*****g cat EVER came back he WOULD take it to the RSPCA or I would be on that plane flying out to my friend Jo’s place in Africa.

When my breathing had steadied to something near normal I took a sneak out of the door. Richard was sitting on his heels, leaning against the chuck cage, looking down at the floor. I think the combination of losing Chea and upsetting me, and the thought that if I did fly out of the country he’d have to get his own food, had flattened him. As I continued to watch him a little tabby, shit-head cat, wandered up to him and started head-butting his knee.

The wanderer had returned … this time.

I had a lovely surprise last week. I’d previously posted a picture of Chea on my fb timeline and unknown to me,  Artist – Shara Sartipi had taken that image and from it painted Chea. Apparently Shara has included Chea’s limited print with three others and they are available to purchase, individually, or as a set (The Kitty Kat Collection) from her  fb Artist page. It is most definitively worth a look. Shara’s paintings include various subjects …


Take care my lovelies x


Shara’s fb link …    https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.136856736508342.1073741831.136409653219717&type=1




Les Miserables …And Miserable Little Me …

Hi All

It’s been almost a week since I last posted. I’m sure you have all missed me like crazy? But just in case you haven’t I’ll move on.

I was swamped with a massive migraine last Saturday and it rolled on to Sunday and Monday and part of Tuesday. I nearly died you know? OK, a slight exaggeration but I reckon Richard wouldn’t have minded too much. I went berserk and yelled at him because he was unsympathetic to my condition and  I also told him to take Chea back to the RSPCA because she was a sodding nuisance who wouldn’t stop trying to escape from the garden.

Since then I have struggled to the optician to have an eye test, my last one was eight years ago. I know. I’m bloody hopeless. But that’s me, I’m afraid. A rebel. I may have been staggering under the after effects of a horrendous migraine and my eyes may have been slightly crossed but I still noticed the optician had spelt appointment wrong on his information leaflet! APPOINMENT! Haha. Had I been feeling more chipper I’d have pointed it out to him because I wasn’t much impressed with his high and mighty attitude. As it was I let it ride. I’ve ordered some prescription shades because the bright light is causing me considerable discomfort and I’ve just seen my doctor (again) and made an appointment with a neurologist – for July! Don’t hurry on my account, sunbeam. Right that’s that. I’ve been dreadful but I’m back – till the next attack.

Whilst I was ‘poorly’ dear Richard spent time and money in Blockbusters. His choice of films are crap, even when I’m not suffering a blinding headache. On Sunday, as I lay in bed, having finally given in to the pain, he arrived and waddled a Blu-ray DVD in front of my eyes.

‘I’m not interested in this.’ he said, ‘But I know you wanted to see it and I thought it might cheer you up.’

It came into focus – slowly. Les Miserables. Was he frigging joking? Cheer me up? I accept that I must be the only human on the planet who hasn’t seen Les Mis or knows the story but the title is a bit of a give-away.

He placed the said DVD in the player and beetled off downstairs, where he fell hungrily on his new Land Rover mag, which I’d spied tucked under his arm.

Twenty minutes into Les Mis and I almost switched it off. Forty-five minutes in and I still had no apathy with ‘Fantine.’ I didn’t flinch when they booted her out of her job or when they chopped off her locks. As the story evolved I seriously wondered what all the hype and fuss was about. I found dear little Cosette of little importance and not at all worth the trouble and effort lovely Jean Valjean (Hugh Jackman) went to to raise her. I couldn’t help but wonder why everyone had been in tears over this film. Perhaps I was insensitive? Perhaps I’d taken too many painkillers and I was half brain-dead?

And then … Hugh died. And even that was OK.  But then Fancine’s spirit arrived, singing and smiling, ready to take him with her. He rose from his chair and walked towards the spirits of his revolution friends, all standing on the barricade. There was a lump in my throat and the tears rolled down my cheeks. Success. Les Mis did make me cry. And I know exactly why. It’s that dead person coming to fetch their loved one thing. It gets me every time. When Rex Harrison comes for Mrs Muir in The  Ghost And Mrs Muir I sniff and snot like a baby.

Will that happen? Will someone come for me – and you? Take your hand as you step from your old used-up body and you and your someone will walk away into the clouds?

I guess I had to reconsider Les Miserables. The ending did it for me. Emotional. Revolutionary  – in all senses of the word. Brilliant? Yeah pretty much.

I may be a little more focused (literally) tomorrow and I may make more sense. Not promising – just hoping.MV5BMTQ4NDI3NDg4M15BMl5BanBnXkFtZTcwMjY5OTI1OA@@._V1._SX94_SY140_

Take care my lovelies x

Bring On The Dancing Ape …

Good Morning

Does everything have to be so difficult? Apparently so. Why? Who knows?

Now I’m not only talking to myself I’m answering my own questions!

I may as well stare at my  hand and watch my life trickling through my open fingers. Can I ever justify the time spent on this virtual crap? Can you even have ‘virtual’ crap. Isn’t crap – all crap – real?

I need to stop this before I turn into a whirling dervish and disappear up my own posterior.

This, very near to ‘ripping out my hair frenzy,’ has been brought about by attempting to add  a PayPal button to this site. Easy? Yes – if you are a sodding Einstein. I’m not. Why am I even stating the obvious when you all know me now?

Mind you, I have to take some credit and a thump on the back because I did actually create a PayPal button. Oh yes indeedy Mrs Tweedy. Created it I did. Then I attempted to put the little darling on this site – for an hour. But that’s nothing for me. If I intend to do something I do it, regardless of time and effort. I rarely give up  – or in. However, I have given up and I have given in – temporarily. I shall regroup my head.

To be honest I have discovered that the problem may not be of my making or stupidity. Apparently, after wading through the ‘support’ section it appears that you can’t follow PayPal’s instructions because they won’t work with WordPress. WordPress has its own way of doing it. Well whoopee-do, good old WordPress. I’ve spent enough time on this today. I shall endeavour to source an intelligent person to dig me out of this mire.

To be continued …

The bottoming of the wardrobes went spectacularly badly. Just as I was closing down the laptop Richard appeared and asked if I would I like to go out for a couple of hours before he had to go to work. Nothing was further from my mind – because I wanted to bin my entire clothes collection and a good few pairs of shoes, BUT if you discourage people from making suggestions they will lose faith and never suggest anything ever again. So off we toddled to … B&Q.

Rocking. B&Q!! Some suggestion hey? At least the hernia wound wasn’t kicking off so the hand remained out of the pant area. And I did buy some colour coordinating plant pots and saucers to pot-on my cacti collection. So not a wasted journey. And we did pass the horse-dung-for-sale place and  managed to pick up another two bags. I seem to have this thing about surrounding myself with shit.

That proved to be the highlight of yesterday and as I said above, today has started in a rather discouraging vein. And now you are all thinking that things can only get better? I wouldn’t bet on it. I have my chiro appointment in an hour, cacti (with killer spikes) to pot-on and a twenty-first birthday bash to go to tonight. Richard will get lairy (silly) drink too much (2 pints) and start dancing (imitating an ape). I will smile and accept the looks of sympathy. MB900084200

So now tell me things can only get better?


Take care my lovelies x


PS I’d like to welcome all new followers/readers of this blog who have recently joined us. Your support/comments/shares are much appreciated.




Forgive The Hand Down The Pants? …


I may have lost the plot. I have just turned up the radio to listen to Rod Stewart’s new song. I don’t even like Rod Stewart. Weird that. Thinking about it, I don’t mind some of his warbling. Perhaps I like him a bit? No I don’t.

Yesterday I popped out to have a meander around the shopping complex which is just down the motorway from me. I had also arranged to meet my brother, so managing to purchase four blouses (are they still called blouses these days? Tops maybe? ) in forty-five minutes from three different shops was quite some going. I tried on several pairs of trousers but alas drew a big fat no no. Seriously, I was the big fat no no. My weight gain since my inguinal hernia op over a year ago has been well covered here in the past.

For the last year I have had to wear leggings or combats. Anything else is just too tight and applies pressure to my wound, which in turn makes the whole area very sore and painful. Well, it would, wouldn’t it? A piece of gauze sewn into my groin. I’m a bloody hero really, you know. I battle on from day-to-day hardly a whimper or a whine.

Pants are also a problem but a problem which I consider I have solved. I buy them three sizes too big and then the elastic round the leg doesn’t apply pressure. Isn’t this interesting dudes? Take it as a warning. Don’t go levelling ground and throwing rocks around like The Incredible Hulk. Something will give.

Occasionally, like when I’m aimlessly following Richard around B&Q, the old knickers rub and the whole thing hurts so I have to have a quick slide of the hand down the pants and an intense examination of the area just to make sure I haven’t burst the wound. It’s not ideal and at times has drawn the odd look from other shoppers. Obviously this kind of thing is common place with men but not something I guess you would associate with a lady. Lady? Haha. Seriously though, this thing terrifies me in case I rupture it and I end up back on the slab holding another polite conversation about how to sell designer shoes on Ebay with an op room full of green-coated strangers. I jest not. That was exactly the conversation, last time.

Today I am going to attempt to tidy my wardrobes. I have to. There is stuff hanging in them that has never been worn – or likely to be. Skinny jeans are out. The two pairs of stupid white trousers, that Richard said I should buy, are out. White trousers do not fit into my life-style. Thinking about it, everything  I have ever bought when Richard was with me (a rare thing) needs to go. I always say before you take notice from any one who is slagging off your writing take a look at theirs. And consequently before you take fashion advice from someone take a look at what the advisor is wearing. Richard has a style of his own – as do I – and never the two should meet.

The thing is …what do I do with all this stuff? Car boot? Ebay? Charity bag? Close my eyes and bin it? I know that once I have cleared out the stuff I am never going to wear I will feel enlightened but Lordy Lord, what a frigging chore.

I left Richard in charge of the two chucks and Chea yesterday whilst I was off shopping. When I returned I asked him how he had managed. Responsibility weighs very heavily with Richard. He said he had found the hole in the fence where Chea was escaping and had filled the whole thing with a piece of trellis only for Chea to run up it like a ladder and sit grinning at him from the top of the fence. He sounded quite stressed, poor thing. Welcome to my world!

I can warble no longer. I am going to make a cup of tea and then go and clear out all three wardrobes before my energy level and enthusiasm drops to nothing… and those rather annoying baby cabbages start to call …HPIM2818

Take care my lovelies x