You know times is hard when...

you buy six sausages, and you make them last for two meals

i.e. sausage casserole Saturday night

(3 for him, two for me)

sausage soup made from the left-overs for  Sunday luncheon

(half the remaining sausage sliced into each bowl)

You use stone-ground organic bread wrappers

for picking up the dog poo.

(saving money on the flowery fragrant doggy-do bags)

You only order half a case of Bolly instead of the regular order of one (fib!)

You pretend you're saving trees, by not sending cards

(let's face it the email ones, just don't cut the mustard)

You make brawn instead of buying foie gras
(two fibs-
1.  I've only made it once, 
2.  I'd never buy foie gras)

You decide that, after you've filled half a land fill site with plastic
bottles, perhaps tap has a lot going for it after all!

You make the Sunday dinner organic, free-range,
lived a happy life 'til the old chip-chop chicken
last a week in one guise or another.

You never look at the travel sections of the papers

You look at horses in a whole new light!?!

Cancel your gym membership... isn't that a cult
following a man with a large todger?
The only muscles exercised are your lust muscles

Cheap cider holds you in a thrall

You learn to play the hurdy-gurdy
so passers by can show their appreciation

You re-ignite your relationship with the cobbler

and with the wooden mushroom languishing in the back of the drawer.

You let your subscription to fancy magazines lapse
(in the case of 'Country Living' especially, 
every cotton-picking feature now is flogging
something!)

You forego Lettice's line of lottery numbers... what?... 
Yes I'm afraid you heard right...
sad I know!
Now it's going up to two quid
(what a con!)
So I'll only do one line...
 the numbers I dreamt; that are forever engraved on my
soul... that's how strong the dream was.

Post a daily blog, it keeps you off the streets,
well that is until you've finally got a masters
in begging.

Don't read anything into this... okay?

In my warped way I got to thinking...

there are only two types of people...

those who like Ferrero Rocher

and those who don't!

I ought to declare myself here, and say I do and I don't!

Let me explain.

Back in the dark days of dairy farming,

Christmas 1990 to be exact.

I had not long since lost my dad

(hate that expression, it makes it sound like I'd mislaid him somewhere, 

when in fact he had recently died.)

Only child in mourning; up to her eyes in cow shit...

you get the picture?

Christmas as always, was at ours; it made sense, when cows and muck, have to be

dealt with twice a day, 365 days a year.

Dad's lady-friend and her daughter were visiting.

Husband's father and brother were also coming for Christmas lunch;  
with a grand flourish they presented Margaret and Hilary with...
Yes, you've guessed it a box of...

 Smiles all round; they were accepted with gracious charm.

Only after they'd left to milk their cows, did the intellectual talons show...
Sniff...
'There's only one box of Ferrero Rocher in the entire world
and everybody, but everybody moves it on!'

If I hadn't been so sad, I'd have smiled.

I've never forgotten it.

It's become a standing joke now.
Must confess I wouldn't buy them, much preferring up-market
chocolate tempered on the warmth of a young man's thighs;
however when push comes to shove, in these straightened times
I will trough a box, with the best of them, or
in Marg and Hilary's book...
the worst of them!

Sledging on the sofa...

I got to thinking...

1.  Why is it when you pluck your eyebrows

you run the very real risk of plucking them into oblivion?

2.  Why therefore, doesn't the same thing happen when

you pluck your chin?

The exact opposite happens; they sprout ever more

aggressively and worse than that, they invite 

hairs of every colour and creed to join the party...
chin-crashing.

3.  How come men age so much better than women?

4.  Why do we blog?  

5.  Are we being 100% honest when we say we're only doing this for ourselves?

6.  Who are we kidding?

7.  Is it a form of cyber one-up-manship?

8.     How naff can you get, when the only wine you can drink is
a poncy rose?   Alright it's not...

9.  Why is it the washing machine works on overdrive

at the *end of our lives, like it does at the **beginning? 

(* washing widdly things... not me... the dog)

(** washing nappies... definitely showing me age here!)

10.  'Ours is not to reason why.

                                                  Ours is but to do and die.'   

Noggy, my cousins used to call it...

Quilt is what Aaron called his.

What is she on about?

Comfort blankets that's what.

I've got one.

'No! You surprise me!'

said in a voice that smacks of... to be honest nothing

surprises me with you LL.

I'm wearing mine as I sit on the sofa

 watching the much anticipated snow.

Well to call it snow is a slight exaggeration,

it's the thinnest, meanest looking snow you ever did see.

I digress.

A Peruvian Collection catalogue regularly, with gay abandon plops on the mat...

well you would won't you at the prices they charge!

I have in the past, in a fit, with my leg in the air bought from them.  

That old adage... you get what you pay for certainly applies to their clothes.

Wonderful quality.

Recently I've bought a body shaping slip.

Alright I know, before you even think it, my podge bod

doesn't for one moment look like this. 

It reminds me of what an all in-one

corselette must have felt like.

The nearest I got was, the wonder knickers of yore called...

 Passion was never killed quicker - Panti-Girdles.

Panti is what you did in struggling in and out of them.

I'm telling you now, the pants weren't of an exciting nature, more

a push and pull you nature.

Once in, you were  bulletproof.

On receiving my much awaited slip, on it went.

The idea was to smooth out the bulges.

More chance of a steam roller flattening Scafell!

I peeled it off and popped it in the drawer marked...

More Wasted Money

Later, much later, after my return from York, where in a sale I

bought a lovely dress, slightly, only slightly, you understand:

well it was in the sale and half price...

tight!

Out came the slip: shoe-horning in the many and various

 was a work-out in itself.

Once on, and tripping out and about, I felt strangely

snug... smug even!

Boy did it feel good, holding me in all the right places, 

which I ought to say now... a brave bra never has.

I'm encased, enthralled, enraptured by what on the face of it

is a roll of tightly knitted lycra...

and blooming marvellous it feels too!

With every fibre of my being, I try, oh how I try, not

to suck my thumb as I fondle the material.

I slapped the photo onto the counter and...

in imperious tones said

'Don't say a word!'

She gulped, her mouth opened and closed...

'Going anywhere nice for your holidays?'

she enquired.

Yes, you've guessed it,

yesterday I went to the hairdressers.

For a long time I've fancied having a major short

hair-cut.  Yesterday was the day.  As she snipped, visions of

Judy Dench filled my mind.  

Hands clasped to my bosom, 

'Is there still time for my thesp aspirations to rise to the surface?'

idly flitted through my brain.

I tried not to look as the grey curls fell to the floor:

looking for all the world like ash from secret papers, 

burnt by an agent on a covert mission.

Daniel would be proud.

The lesbian-lookalike peering back at me,

quite took my breath away.

'Must remember to polish my diker boots when I get home'

I thought as I stomped off.

Cleaning my teeth last night, I peeped into the only kind mirror in the house; 

we've all got them haven't we?

'Blimey, I didn't realise I had so many frown lines on my flaming forehead...

Bugger that!'

This morning finds me looking like Jo Brand on a bad hair day

crossed with Ken Dodd having been given the number twos

at the barbers.
What I didn't realise was...
after a night of major martial arts with the duvet;
 I would look as if I'd been scared shitless by a horror movie;
that in fact, I was the main character.  And a blooming scary one at that.

Dame Judy rest easy.

'I only told you to cut the bloody ends off!'  

Sphinx-like I sit on the sofa...

millennium of minutes pass me by.

Sphinx-like my Smart car sits in the garage...

millennium of imaginary miles pass it by.

We can't go anywhere due to the expected arrival of one

Miss Tena... well to be exact, three...

some might say a shipping order...

shipping I said!

Our days revolve around the dog...

Lettice.

The highlight of our short Winter days is catering for her every want.
Her sphincter isn't what it was; tell me whose is at 104,
105 on St. Valentine's day?
It's just a dribble, sometimes not even that, no puddles or accidents on the
parquet.
3 a.m. sees the man, scantily-clad putting her out...
if that isn't love I don't know what is!

We've had to learn semaphore, she's deaf...
must be catching, although the only semaphore
I know, is the two-finger kind!

Putting her out for 'Hurry Ups'
is a particular joy; twitching the curtains we  
eagerly await the passage of the cordon bleu casserole.
Thomas Crapper would be proud.

Spot the Ball by any other name...
would smell as sweet! 

Inside my head a...

momentous decision has been taken.

I am no longer going to kid myself I have an

artistical bone in my body: the sad fact is...

I frigging haven't!

There I've said it.

All along I've kidded myself: alright, yes, on occasions and with a following

wind, I have turned out 'stuff' that folk have bought with their hard earned cash.

Over the years I've squirrelled away fabric of all textures, colours and hues.

To what end LL?

This morning was a case in point, I thought I'll get cracking on a

mish-mash of odds and ends of material; a veritable sewn pot-pourri;

Salvador Dali meets Christina Rossetti... 

they make mad passionate love on my fabric pyre.

Hot is the word.

The end result; with my tweaking, will be the envy of all.

In my 'studio' (Well you would call it that, wouldn't you, if you had

delusions of crafting grandeur?) I pulled out all interesting snippets on which to start this amazing masterpiece.  A few minutes in, and already the will to sew was dwindling fast.

Thoughts of past projects filled my mind; the angels, cushions, bunting, needlecases, bags, curtains, badges, keyrings, pincushions, hairclips, dolls, denim, corsages...

cortage more like.

NO... STOP!
'Who you kidding any road?'

What to do now, that's the big problem?
Shall I become a writer?  At least with my sore thumb I can bang away
on the ole keyboard without doing too much damage.
A patchwork of thoughts and feelings; sounds good to me!  
I'll flog off all the crafting geegaws 
and with the money buy myself a revolving shed like
George Bernard Shaw.

  
I'm just off now to check out ebay...

Pin-pricks fell in the South East...

Call yourself SNOW?

The meanest, pinniest, pricks of frozen

rain you ever did see.

FAT, fluffy flakes were

requested, nay...

demanded...

and this is what we got...
drizzle...

that's what mean cooks do with cold-pressed extra virgin.

Look... 

I am fully aware that talk of the weather

is the main topic of conversation of old folk;

well, that and their bowel movements. 

However I'm not old... okay?

These are my ten reasons why...

1.  I LIKE snow

2.  I don't repeat myself, you receiving me?

I don't repeat myself.

3.  Haven't donned the BIG pink knicks...yet!

4.  Don't drink Gin and It

5.  Never listen to the Archers: although must confess 

I did when I lived the 'good life' in the Highlands and didn't have a telly.

6.  Still own a pair of fishnet stockings

(alright, I can't do the rubber buttons up on my

sexy suspender belt... due to arthritic frigging thumb)

7. Don't need glasses

(conveniently forgetting I can't hear a flaming thing) 

8.  Love my husband

(Yes, yes...it's only been 4+ years... early days)

9.  Take an interest in politics!?!

10. Think all this navel gazing of yore

is a load of tosh...

Look forward...

      

As I snuzzle on the sofa...

under the

John Lewis,

pretend brown bear skin 

from deepest, outerest, outer Mongolia.

Clad in fanny coloured pink

Sloppy Joe hoodie,

with great excitement I await the snow.

Provisions are quite properly laid on;

not forgetting of course the layers of blubber laid down

over the intervening months;

in readiness for just such an occasion as this.

Peeping out from under the many and various layers,

woman-made and synthetic, I spy the first fat flake.

 'Look!'  

My cry only slightly muffled by the

Pisa towers of high calorific supplies that quite rightly
inhabit the soon to be, Arctic tundra.

From out of the king's chair opposite

the man raises his regal head.

'It's started!'

One fat snowflake does not a blizzard make.

Alright it was followed by two weedy-looking relations...

'We're off!'

Piss-poor I make it...

hard on its heels came...

thin, mean and very lower working class...

drizzle.

'Pop upstairs will you my ole metrological matey

and get an up to date weather cheque!'

Talk amongst yourselves while he's gone.

Tripping the light fantastic, down he came, looking for all the world like

beau brummell of the met office.

'No snow, sun forcast for tomorrow!'

'Wot?  You sure you didn't look on the tabloid

page 3, silicon implants, false smiles and botox

in the valleys, weather page i.e ITV?'

'No... It was definitely the beeb!'

'Please  (Weedling tone now adopted)

can you find one that suits and report back?'

In the meantime, even the bleeding rain has stopped!

Snow's on its way...

we're ready...

are you?

Tears of salt drop...

into my cup of hot Oxo.

Is it any wonder my blood pressure is high?

The book is finished...

"Comfort is often, he finds, imparted at the cost

of a flea or two."

Thomas Cromwell has a soft side?

What now...

A hair is caught between the pages of the book...

Mine or the dog's?

Thomas More's, more like.

The dust settles around me;

the sofa cushions fall back

as if beheaded; as my ever-increasing

buttocks vacate my ring-side seat...
Madame Defarge would have been proud.

Can I bear to wait?

Nothing much moves here...

this is the reason why...

I'm in the thick of the Tudor reign.
I'm stood shoulder to shoulder with Thomas Cromwell...
I'm devouring each page of prose;
I'm re-reading; double checking the 'Who's Who'
of Henry's court.
(for fear of missing the teensiest nuance of a bygone age)
I'm wiping off the condensation dripping
on the dungeon walls of the Tower.
Lice bite.
I feel the flames licking at my feet. 
 The cords binding me to the stake cut into my flesh.

Fear curls slowly, slowly through every fibre of my body.

Hand on heart... honestly...

could you see,
Hugo Rifkind,
 the son of the urbane

Malcolm Rifkind

(he of the plummy cut-glass Scottish burr)

being lustful back in Eighties Edinburgh, of racy Austin Allegros

sporting...

(alright I know 'racy, sporting and Allegro' should never be in the same sentence)

a frigging roof rack?

I ask you?

Perhaps he is'nt the son of M.R?

He is...

I've just

'Can you blame us for taking advantage of the lax British tax laws'

Googled him.

You may not be surprised to learn I've got a new love

(of the mothering kind, you understand?)

How could you not love him?

When

a) he doesn't bother to comb his hair for a very important photo,

b) he wears what I suspect is a grubby white long sleeved top

under his Primark's finest camouflage I'm just off to the tropics shirt,

c) And more importantly, his obvious lust for the cloth-cap life 

he was never allowed to get around to tasting as a kid.

See his superb back page column in today's Times.

Happy New Year to all who have taken the time

to wish me season's greetings.

Haven't felt like blogging due to reading

Wolf Hall

Hilary Mantel

If you haven't...

YOU MUST!

See... 

already my new years resolution of not being bossy and self-opinionated

has bitten the dust.