Check list of...

things I want to do before I die...

Sit on the front row of a major couture house

in my size 20 M&S elasticated waist palazzo pants

Find a perfume I really like, that suits me,

and doesn't have all the dogs of the neighbourhood following me down the street

Say and do exactly what I want without fear of giving offence

Not get my knickers in a twist about the state of the world

Not give a flying fig if folk think I'm rough

Show I care without thinking its a chink in my armour

Look in the mirror and appreciate the me that looks back

Open my mouth and put both feet in

Say 'Can you lend me a hand'

Admit I'm not super woman and I have feet of clay

Not feel guilty when I swear in a totally inappropriate situation

Celebrate who I actually am, as opposed to who I'd like you to think I am

Not always try to show people a good time

Flop around all day in my jim-jams without fear of folks thinking I'm a slut

Not think... 'I wish I hadn't said that!'

Look at girls going out in the winter with hardly a stitch on
and not think 'Your muff will catch a chill'

Not instinctively pull my tummy in when a handsome bloke hoves into view

Kick the strong work ethic into touch, by not being on the rack of guilt
when flopped on the sofa

Try to live by this maxim...

Sew pockets in my shroud,

in order to get the first round in on arrival.

Let them eat...

Lasagne!

What makes you think I'm embarking on
a huge tome about the French Revolution?

'A Place of Greater Safety'
by 
Hilary Mantel

As it's a snowy day, there will be another blog along shortly.

Ma Larkin-like I rested...

my breasts on the wall,

Pam Ferris as Ma Larkin in
Darling Buds of May
by H.E. Bates

as into my hand Mike the postie

pressed a real letter.

Remember those?

This sported an air mail sticker, a proper stamp

 (the ones you lick) featuring fruit and berries.

Cutting short the genial chit-chat, I scuttled back to my burrow in the Weald.

A letter addressed to me, from the other side of the world.

Crinkly paper, hand-written with real ink.

My excitement knew no bounds.

WDinL's

(Wicked Daughter-in-laws)

mother has recently emigrated. 

 Joy filled every line, happiness oozed.

Dread ever so slowly crept up on me...

Oh crumbs... I've got to reply...

like real writing...

none of this blogging clap-trap.

Aah... I've got a bad thumb so I will have to type my reply

 flitted across my mind.

Added to which, and don't ask me why, my thoughts are conveyed so much

smoothlier via a keyboard?

I put it off; I even put it off until I couldn't put it off a moment longer.

I opened Word and every cotton-picking one of them deserted me.

You've heard of ham actors, this was a ham 

(and none of your knitted, processed, plastic ham either)

wordsmith at her best.  The only thing I didn't do was exit stage left.

I stuttered, I stumbled, woodeny was wot I was. It didn't flow, it sounded trite

and contrived as if this isn't, I ask you?

The crux of the matter is...
There really is no news here...
Why?
Cos I'm Billy No Mates.
I live tucked out of the way, where nobody can find me,
I don't go anywhere, don't see anybody.
Confined to barracks due to Lettice, our lovable mutt,
 who is fifteen on St Valentine's day.

Here she is asleep in the garage last summer

And like the advert says
'She's worth it!'

Aaah!  What to say, there's only so much gooey-wooey
things you can say about our shared offspring.
Plus I'm not a sun shines out of their bot sort of mother.
Battle-axe-say it like it is-preferably with socking great knobs on-
100% bomb proof-Oooh Matron! Robin starched phantom of fear- me!

Word has failed me:
Words fail me.

I know, I'll just send her this
http://letticeleaf-blog. blogspot.co.uk 
on a bit of paper.
In these austere times, seems to me as if I've cracked it;
plus she may even become a follower!
I may even get to 40,
must confess I don't feel it.

Help! I'm conked out in...

the lay-by of life.

Even with a gentle service...

plugs, points and nibbles greased...

there is no way this old banger will ever soar

(sore more like!)

Hard shoulder here we come!

I wouldn't mind but I've even taken to wearing knickers.

That really should tell you the state of decay that has overtaken me.

For the C in commando now read C in Combinations...

BIG ones too!

I'm just in from a little genteel one-handed gardening; take it from

me, you can't get much more refined than light weeding with the left hand.

Triple-layered, double muffled, knicks and jogging bottoms

(or should I say jiggling bottoms)

I still felt the cold.

As I sowed a few seeds in the greenhouse, the thought occurred

 this is what my life has come to...

getting my thrills from sowing seeds as opposed to...

wild oats.

Yesterday after admitting to buying from Amazon,
yes, they who wriggle out of paying much (or any) tax;
I discover on reading in today's F.T. magazine
that they are, not to put too fine a point on it...
not very good employers.
As I flopped on the sofa feeling every one of my 39 years (fib),
I got to thinking, along with my supple bod where has my social conscience gone?
My strop levels have dropped like mercury in a thermometer.
Gone are the days, and not that long ago, when in the perishing snow peppered day I stood  revolting outside the Chilcott enquiry, in order to send a message to
Tony Bliar as he explained away his 'innocence' in taking us into an illegal war.

Grim photo, I know, however 
that's exactly how I felt that day, as I walked up
Whitehall carrying aloft my black pashmina appliqued with
'Bliar' and red hands dripping with blood.
Every stitch I might add, sewn with passion. 

Whichever way you look at it, turning a blind eye,
buying cheap, is another word for greed.
Perniciously it has crept up on all of us, without us really realising the full import
of where it will take us next.

This much I know...

I have stonking great double, double

standards.

I'm always getting on my high horse about the injustices in the world, like huge companies paying zilch tax; alright I know it's due to our government not closing loopholes, which allow it to be legal.  Not morally legal though!

However...

 (I do love this word, because you always know the following

words will knock the stuffing out of you)

I sit patiently (alright not very!) waiting for Mike the postie to knock.

And he just has... with...

My order from Amazon...
Giving Up the Ghost - a memoir
A Place of Greater Safety
by...
wait for it...
Drum Roll...
Get on with it do LL!
Hilary Mantel...

The most enduring love in my life is the feel of a good book:
time and place pass me by, as nose in a book I lose myself.

Now I know I shouldn't: Ted like Maggie (Yes that one!)
is the product of a 'behind the counter' life...
not the nudge, nudge, wink, wink sort!
He thinks you should shop in shops, well he would wouldn't he?
I totally agree...
however 
in order to feed my habit, I have to
get my drug of choice as cheaply as possible.
I'd like to say I've lurked on street corners waiting for a man
in capacious raincoat to sidle up and out of the corner of his mouth hiss

'Ere you interested in the latest hot off the press?'
As he opens his coat to reveal pockets stuffed with
paperbacks, print still drying in the breeze.
I've done the next best thing and surreptitiously
limbo-danced up to the lap-top 
and under cover of darkness perused the Amazon catalogue.
Strangely finding my fingers hovering over the buy with 1 click, and
 before you know it, and with a face as if butter wouldn't melt in its rosebud mouth...
the deed is done.

Coffee is quietly doing what coffee does in the cafetiere.
By way of celebration I may even crack open the tin of cheesey footballs
left over from Christmas, as I cosy up with my latest love... Hilary.
In fact my love is so great, I may even divorce Ted and ask her to marry me!

SOS... I need some serious feedback...

Can you help?

This morning over in my studio I've made a start on

getting rid of all the treasures I've accumulated over the years.

Like lots of us I squirrel away bits and bobs with the very real intention of 

manufacturing  mini 'masterpieces'.

Trouble is, even with two hands that worked as God intended,

my work never really hit the spot.

Added to which, I've flitted from one idea to another

(that's been the story of my life).

I feel the time has come to face facts and get shot.

My right hand is so painful that even my writing is becoming spidery;

not to put too fine a point on it...

it's starting to shout...

OLD GIRL!

Not that I am you understand!?!

Now this is where you come in...

those that know me personally and those that only know me via

blogland will probably all agree...

I'm a daft tart.

Ted always says 

'You put yourself down too much Lin!'

'I know, I know, it just feels right somehow!'

Here's the rub, should I bite the bullet and get rid of all

crafting paraphanalia and write, which with keyboard I can...

No thumb was hurt writing this post.

If so, when push comes to shove, would it, like all other

scams and schemes come to... nowt?

Added too which, although I enjoy firing off stupid and very often totally inappropriate

posts and comments, would I soon lose the will to do it?

My other blog 'Life through a clear straw',

 I enjoyed to start with, then got bored!

Wouldn't mind if I could just laze prone on the sofa with

book, wine and wotsits...

I've tried and guess what...

I got flaming BORED!?!

And another thing...

Could I really write a warts and all story of my life?

It's okay knocking myself, but would I have the courage to

say it like was with my parents (both dead)?

Your thoughts would be greatly appreciated.

A week has passed...

since my eyes devoured the last line

of 'Bring Up the Bodies'.

I feel bereft,

no other prose comes close.

I've tried, oh how I've tried to read another:

nothing, but nothing works its magic.

For the very first time in my life I am about to go on a journey

never undertaken before...

I've started to reread, yes me... rereading a book, 
you may not be surprised to know its
'Wolf Hall'.

Hilary Mantel's words envelope me like a warm woollen cloak,

I get comfort from every well crafted sentence.

This is me speaking: me of the whizzing through the tedious bits,

the descriptive passages: me of chucking a boring book 

out of the window of a moving train (fib).

Hilary's words I hoover up: I'm an upmarket vacuum, you know the sort,

the ones that all living bugs, dead skin, mites, spores, allergens (I could go on!) fear.

Who is this strange apparition?

Now I do know I have always been

envious of intelligent life, a strange phenomenon not known to me.

However as I've said way back in a past post that...

I'm too light for heavy books and too heavy for light books.

Suddenly my brain has morphed into an useful piece of kit.

When did it happen?  What strange powers were at work in me

as I stood in the church and the book called me.

Not God... Hilary Mantel.

Before you know it I'll be sporting a house-shaped

head-dress.

I felt the chiropodist's eyes...

on my bunions as I bopped bare foot

on the dance-floor.

The days of loving my body never, ever were mine for the taking.
Looking back I wish, that I had viewed myself with honest eyes,
if only to accept that I wasn't as bad as I thought I was.

If I knew then what I know now, how different I'd be.
For starters I wouldn't bother with clothes,
my hour glass figure of yore, would knock their eyes out.
My green eyes would flash with invitation...

'Drink to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss within the cup
and I'll not ask for wine."

Cycling naked, in my long mac, given the chance again
 would I bother with doing the buttons up?
Oh-no-Siree!

Happy Days!

Crumbs of the humble pie...

wedged sideways in my rose-bud moue 

issued forth at speed, as if

pebble dashing a wall.

On this very rare occasion, I didn't sweep in...
sidled more like.

Settling ever-so gently into my seat I said
'I owe you an apology!'
'Why?' he enquired from the pinnacle of his great learning.
'Well... I was rather rude last time we met.'
'Were you, what did you say?'
"I'm hardly going to repeat it am I, that would just compound it!'
'Go on!'
'Oh alright then...
I told you to wash your mouth out, not once but twice!'
'Oh yes, I remember it now!'
Settling comfortably into grovel-mode I said
'I'm sorry I didn't show the proper respect,
 that a man of your medical experience deserves!'
Thinking all the while, the fact is, you look young enough
for me to dangle on my knee.
Alright, I know that's got nothing to do with the price of cheese in Woolworths...
but still.

The shrinking violet tablet began to wear off and the old LL returned.

'Is there anything else you can do to alleviate the pain?
My doctor says I've just got to poke up with it!'

 'An operation if it gets much worse', the pain will go,
however it won't be the thumb it was!
I don't want to give you another steroid injection because over time they
destroy the cartilage.
Pain killers and anti-inflammatory pills are the way forward!'
'Look, I just don't want to take tablets!'
A more measured response this time than last, you'll agree?
That's the end of this thumb story...
at least for the time being.

The thing is I can type, and that's about the only thing I can do
without causing it to throb.
Crafting's loss is blogging's gain...

'You having a frigging larff LL?'

***

On reading in the paper, hedgehogs are in danger of becoming extinct,
I thought as we live off the road and have a jungly garden,
 complete with a huge ancient hedge.  I will offer home to
waifs and strays of a prickly kind.
Onto the phone I go to offer 5* accommodation.
Well, you'd have thought I was a hedgehog fancier of the worse kind.
Very sniffy she was.
'Do you have hedgehogs?'
'We did see hedgehogs asleep in the hedge a couple of years ago.
 The dog last summer would stand and stare with gently wagging tail
at what I thought was a slumbering hedgehog.'
'That's not enough,  we have to have evidence that they are actually there!
You will definitely know by their droppings and the snuffling noises they make!'
'At this time of year, surely not?'
My question hung in the air...
A humpf was her non-verbal reply.
'Ask the neighbours!' she said as she put down the phone.

As I replaced the receiver I thought
CRC checks for hedgehog adoptive parents now is it?

Humpf, double humpf!

Prickly is what I felt!

Things I love...

and things I don't.

I love dogs

I don't love cats... cos

I love birds more.

I love sprouts

I hate kale.

I love having brilliant eyesight

I hate being deaf...

Everyone, nearly everyone, cracks the same 'funny'...

'Pardon?'

I love having the strength of character...

not to hit them.

I hate the fact that they feel they can get away with saying it.

I love starter and a main

I don't like main and a pud.

I love cheese

I don't like chocolate...

although...?

I love outspoken people

I hate folk that never say what they mean.

I love to laugh

I love to cry

I hate to mope.

I love slummocky people

who don't give a fig.

I don't like helmet lacquered hair.

I love curves

I hate the meanness of angles,

pared to the bone.

I love to laze
I hate the guilt that attends.

I love my broad mind
I hate my broad feet.

I love thinking I've got hidden talent
I hate not being able to frigging find it!

I love  salad... yes I really do,
I love stodge
I hate being tubby.

I love being laid-back
I hate not being more dynamic.

I love looking gamine with short hair

Audrey Hepburn - I wish!

I hate looking like I've plugged myself into the mains when I get up. 

I love having nothing to do
I hate having nothing to do!

I love a clean house
I hate doing it.

I love to think myself a wit

I hate folk meeting me and finding...

I'm anything but!

I love having a social conscience
I hate what human beings do
to each other and the planet.

My guide to...

the social niceties of life...

or how not to be thought a dork.

1.  Never ever say serviette -

napkin... don't you know.

2.   Always say lavatory,

never, toilet, loo - maybe, bog - no,

carsey - never.

3.  Lounge - forever marks you down as 

working class.

Whereas - Drawing Room shouts middle-class

(with aspirations) 

4.  Never eat your peas off a knife, or lick it; although...

I have seen Mathew Fort lick his on
Great British Menu...
so perhaps that means it's okay?
And I bet Boris does! 

5.  While we're (well, me actually) on the subject...
for goodness sake learn to wield your eating irons in the British way.

6.  Never eat junk food or ready meals...
and before you crack on about how dear food is...
ever heard of pulses...
cheap AND nutritious?

7.  Please pronounce schedule
as shed-dule never sked-dule...
do you forever want to be thought American?

8.  Never swear...
'Sod it!' is as far, in polite conversation you can go.
(Note to self... must remember this!)

9.   To be thought real 'top-drawer' always use a tea-pot,
never a 'brew in a mug'.

10.  When taking tea at the Connaught, never stir the tea in the pot...
let it gently infuse.

11.  Fish knives and forks are old hat...
you heard it first here folks!

12.  Always serve Vinaigrette, never say, nor yet serve
'Mayo'.  Salad Cream is beyond the pale.

13.  Leave barbequeing to men who wear orange singlets.

14.  Whatever you do, don't serve the cheese course
before the sweet...
it's pretentious,
 and folks might...
 perish the thought, think...
 you're pro EU.

15.  Never give house-room to a tray with a

bag of beads clapped on its back...

Your bum will be forever welded to the sofa

if you do.

16.  Only ever kiss on one cheek,

kissing on both cheeks leave to the French.

17.  Don't listen to a word I say.

The only thing to do with good advice is pass it on. It is never any use to oneself.