I'm in a bit of...

a tizz!

Will the role I covet be mine tonight?

In my mind's eye I see it all...

heavily corsetted, knickers in a twist

 I stand on a soap-box

and rail at the world

(bit like what I do on my blog, what!) 

Alright I know Emmeline Pankhurst does 

have lots of lines to say

and my memory isn't what it was,

however I can improvise.

I'm not known as 

'StropsRUs'

for nawt you know!

Picture the scene...

In us new strolling players strolled.

Ted looking for all the world

normal and natural.

Me at first glance and with a following

wind could, just could, 

only just, mind, be taken

for a geography teacher.

You know the one...

hairy legs,

dirndl skirt

prickly chin

stout legs in sensible shoes.

On opening my mouth that illusion

is quickly scotched.

Then with all their senses aquiver

they try, oh how hard they try to

ram this very round peg into a square hole:

after 30 seconds tops, they then give up

and from then on blank me.

Never short of confidence, I fend off their

disapproving looks with the ability

of a very efficient heat shield.

I've hammed it up all my life...

no reason to stop now, when I'm only a 

whisker away from getting my equity card.

No parts allocated yet...
Will mine be Lady Myvanwy or
Bet leaning her bosoms on the fence
chatting as she
pegs out her drawers?

Serious rehearsals tonight...

will I have the courage to

stand up and decline a part?

Or... will the old Leo in me be brave

enough to come clean about

my many and various shortcomings?

Watch this space

His thesp eyes lazily...

travelled over my stout bod

as if he wondered whether this starlet

is worth bedding in order to

give her one...

a part in his next production...

 that is.

'The walk is over four miles!'

he said pointedly looking in my direction.

I pulled myself up to my full height of

5' 4" and huffily replied in my

best Lady Bracknell tones

'Well, only a couple of weeks ago we did

over 10 miles!'

We set off, me with I'll show him, strop in every step.

The runner bean and I set the pace...

Up the hill we went...

think Sutton Bank in Yorkshire...

a long slow hill that looks a breeze.

It wasn't long before I had to say

'I'll have to take a breather!'

Damn, DAMN, damn!

He didn't need to say a thing.

At the top, my composure returned, my cheeks

returned to normal, my heart settled.

Lindy Lou was back to her strong sturdy self.

This Strolling Players walk was our first

outing with the local Am Drams group.

In the pub we bonded with our fellow

thesps.  Alcohol always irons out differences

in class, intelligence and social skills,

I find... don't you?

We have been to two play readings

and were dropped right in it.

Plaintively I cried

'I only want to be a backroom boy!'

I know my limitations.

Ted who can sing, has a raft of accents

in his quiver, was a natural.

Me... well...

I don't do any accent other than Estuary English,

I don't speak any languages apart from English...

and that not very well.

What I lack in skills I more than make up for in

 confidence.

Over the years I have given literally

hundreds of talks;

the only trouble is they are all about me

and my life.  In a nutshell I can't ACT, or

put another way, I could oh so easily

corner the market in battle-axes.

Our summer production is

'Oh What a Lovely War'

So you can see I'm stuffed on so many fronts.

But wait, there is one role I covert, which I read on

Tuesday night.

Emmeline Pankhurst on a soap box...

I can see it all now.......

me outside the Chilcott enquiry

With every cotton-picking...

fibre of my body...

I want it to work.

These days I couldn't even

pick cotton if I tried.

What is she on about this time?

My thumb.

I got to thinking as I rubbed

Capsicum/Rhus/Ruta

cream in...

Will it work?

I got to thinking as I gently poured three

powders under my tongue...

Will it work?

I got to thinking as twice

a day I sit like an inscrutable

Buddha while the tablets

'The Combination'

sit quietly dissolving on my tongue...

Will it work?

Idly I think at least the name

is apt, as these days I struggle to

even get my combinations pulled up.

I suppose in order for these potions to have any 

hope of working I need to believe.

And that's the rub...

I want to, I really, really do.

Call me a cynic and oh how right

you'd be, as past posts might give hint?

The pad of my right thumb is permanently

swollen and sore.

Even my doctor said

'Oh yes I've got arthritis in my finger and

don't worry the pain comes and goes!'

Er... mine doesn't, it is a constant

in my life.  Increasingly every thing I do

gives me a huge slug of misery.

I don't do drugs.

A friend said

'Take pain killers!'

'I don't do drugs!'

'Well, it obviously isn't that painful then!'

Dumbfounded my mouth opened and closed

a time or two... a goldfish would be proud.

I got to thinking...

Perhaps she's right!

But hang on, I know I've got a high-pain threshold.

  Perhaps it's the badness of me being such
 a contrary madam...

I deserve it?

Last night I dreamt of Nigel...

Farage... don't you know!

Am I losing my mind?

Readers of my blog will know

that Nigel and I have previous...

No, NO... not of that kind.

Many moons ago when Simon was alive

we lived on Hosey, close to Nigel's father.

One thing led to another re. our growing

disenchantment with Europe

and he came round for a drink.

Early days of UKIP,

we even voted for them.

Us... Simon a true blue Tory

and me a staunch Socialist.

'Happy' heady days of deep and meaningfuls 

over the kitchen table...

talking politics... silly!

Fast forward to Tuesday of this week...

Ted and I were returning from seeing the

Cheapside Hoard.

Hoving to on the London Bridge platform

was none other than Nigel.

We chatted, reminisced and with us wishing him well,

 went our separate ways.

Last night we watched the debate

with Nick Clegg.

Is it any wonder he figured in my dreams?

For a girl that voted No to joining the 

Common Market 40 years ago.

A woman now seriously on the cusp

of not voting.

Labour... not after B'liar

doing just that and 

taking us into an illegal war.

Is the world a better place... I ask you?

Tory... NEVER.

Liberal Democrats... after last night's

Putin jibes and the f word used too

many times to count...

'fantasy'.

Nick Clegg, in my book didn't do himself

or his party any favours.

I think we should all vote

however

in my opinion

we don't live in a democracy.
We mistakenly think that

the politicians we vote for 
will address our concerns.

On arrival at this wonderful club called

The 'Fill Your Boots' House of Parliament.

The Whips then cry...

'I only told you to vote the way your

 party tells you!'

'Forget about the voters.  Well until

close to the next election, 

then you can once again promise them the earth!

We'll even train you as to the finer points of

not answering the questions and an intensive

course of telling stonking great fibs!'

Don't get me wrong I'm
going to vote...
however now Lord Sutch is no more.

What's a girl to do?

STOP PRESS

Lunchtime News

The politician who said 'Hug a Hoodie!'

PM David Cameron.

Today he said 'Maria Miller is doing an excellent job as culture secretary and will continue to do that!' as he put his arm around her.

The Standards Committee should be called the The Double Standards Committee.

I rest my case!

Poem...

The Orange

By Wendy Cope

At lunchtime I bought a huge orange

The size of it made us all laugh.

I peeled it and shared it with Robert and Dave-

They got quarters and I had a half.

And that orange it made me so happy,

As ordinary things often do

Just lately.  The shopping. A walk in the park

This is peace and contentment.  It's new.

The rest of the day was quite easy.

I did all my jobs on the list

And enjoyed them and had some time over.

I love you.  I'm glad I exist.

A Victorian...

stumpery

We passed on the Mothers Day luncheon
at the Beefeater...
instead we took to the woods,
Hubs and I.
We ploughed through the 
undergrowth like a foraging 
Robin Hood and
Maid Marion.

Before Ted had time to turn
the chariot round I was off.
Within minutes in the ancient woodland 
I found exactly the decaying roots and
branches required.

The plants had been bought in readiness.
Primroses and violets I gathered from
the garden...
and  
in the blink of a fairy's eye
 A mysterious grotto appeared.

 Mother Nature would be proud.

Look... I don't do trading...

ok?

The nearest I get, is to idly perusing

the pink paper on a Saturday.

Then I only look at the pictures,

even the lovely Robin Lane Fox

is so up his own hoe I get irritated.

A male Maggie Thatcher does a little light

preaching on the merits of the joys of gardening.

Or put another way instructing the gardeners 

as to his wishes. 

Keeping this in mind...

you can imagine me falling off

my new dfs sofa on reading that one 

of my posts got 41 comments...

Yes you read it right

Forty one comments!

Now hold tight, I'm going for the sympathy vote here:

this is me of 51 faithful followers

of whom just a very loyal few, comment.

I read with envy other peoples' blogs

who have squillons of followers and

trillions of comments.

It's not that I'm envious, mind!

Much!

This morning looking at my stats

my post on Lettice's death...
('Dad always said...'
12 October 2013)
 flagged up 

all these comments.

I discovered on looking that I've been

Forexed

or put another way

F****d!

Now I do realise that I must come across

as a bright forward thinking intelligent

member of the human race... but still?

(Biggest fib ever)

Why me?

And why at my pain at losing my much loved

little faithful friend?

Now Forex followers of the world,

I openly admit I'm cringingly grateful for comments

however...

XXXX off!

Go back to you charts and candles and

may I suggest you Quantitatively Ease them up your

arse...

not lit naturally!

With every fibre of...

my being I will endeavour

 to resist the naff gene.

 I can feel it awakening

deep, deep, deep in the very bowels

of my creaking bod.

This is the reason

our latest project...

and as we are off to the seaside today,

I'm ashamed to say I am partial

to a little saucy seaside naff.

An artistically placed piece of driftwood,

a bucket and spade,

a tastefully painted concrete dolphin,

beautiful plastic butterflies to sit on

the wooden mushroom, that I must say,

 my gardening guru at Scotney

was horrified to see me buy.

His view of my rusted, flying as if by magic

flowers accompanied by hummingbirds, was priceless.

They lay in wait for Ted, their soul aim in life...

to decapitate him.

Brightly coloured windmills,

A barometer in the shape of a galleon,

Kon Tiki fashioned out of lolly sticks.

Heart-shaped pebbles from the beach slipped

seamlessly down my left knicker leg.

A saucy songstress in red spotty dress reclining on

a deck chair who warbles every time you pass her by.

The list is endless.  

I will however draw the line at a gnome 

complete with fishing rod.

Heaven forbid that you should think

me a daft tart or worse than that...

one with no taste.

Any ideas...

you with entomologist leanings?

This wee beastie was spied on my window

Vital statistics:-

Wingspan - 3 cm

Body - 1.2 cm

Mocha coloured

Is that a sting in its tail?

Answers on a postcard please...

Laugh...

I never thought my drawers would dry.

Bloody cheek!

Who does he think he is?

Come to that...

Who do they think they are?

What's brought about the tears of laughter

trickling down my my chubby cheeks and 

twenty six chins?

Oh, and not forgetting the three laps 

of the ceiling done in record time.

Rod Liddle, that doyen of the

svelte figure and three packets of fags a day

 has brought it to our knowledge that

the Saudis have banned the name Linda.

'Have you ever met anyone you liked

called "Linda"?

Lindas in my experience tend to be

unnecessarily cheerful, in a slightly sinister

sort of way, and overweight.

Also meddlesome and garrulous -

a nightmare really.

So, congratulations to Saudi Arabia 

for banning the name

"Linda".

This Lindy Lou couldn't agree more.

Why oh why did my parents lumber

me with the name?

On meeting another Linda I instantly, as they do,

know which year we were born...

sad really.

 I've often thought about the name I'd like...

something herbal, fragrant...

Sage, Tansy, Chervil.

When asked by my son and daughter-in-law

what would I liked to be called by my grandchildren,

the idea of Granny, Nanny, Grandma, Grandmama,

Nan even, all gave me a severe

case of the vapours.

Perish the thought...
 I don't feel old enough to be called...
Mum, let alone Gran!

It didn't take me a 'nano'-second to come up with the 

name Poppy, and Poppy I am.

I've even started signing myself off as Poppy, only to

them, mind!

To say I was...

offended would be the understatement.

I wouldn't mind but I had offered her husband 

a quick skeg of the Sun.

I recognised them from the hotel. 
Stopping for a comfort break at a grotty
service area I settled back with my 
Costa (aplenty) cappuccino.  
After a 20 second peruse of the mighty Sun,
I leant across and out of the kindness
of my heart, offered him the tabloid of the day.
From the length of her upturned nose she said

'Are you on the coach?'
'Do we know you?' was left unspoken.

'I recognise you from the hotel!'
I never forget a face.
Think pig, woods and truffles...
go get 'em girl, no one escapes my notice.
We got into conversation, or more to the point
we hit her on button.

'This is our first Shearings
extravaganza.'
I couldn't help saying in my best Lady Docker tone.

She asked us which excursions we had been on.

'None, we spent the days walking, 
well we did hop on a bus on the one wet day!'

'Aaah, you obviously used your bus pass.
We haven't got ours yet!'
Bloody cheek!

'What gave you that idea?'
Was my acid-drop reply.

She just lifted a lock of her hair and nodded in
my direction.
Bloody cheek!

I wouldn't mind but her hair
was battleship grey...
mine however, is 'Hardwick White' 
Farrow and Ball
don't you know.

For those of a delicate...

disposition...

look away NOW.

The irreverent confessions of a virgin 

coach traveller

Sit back, close your eyes and let me take you 

on the trip of a lifetime.

In these straightened times, I thought it

would be prudent to cut our cloth and all that jazz.

To this end, out went the dreams of the Maldives,

Mauritius, Palau, the Arctic and beyond.

In came, like a knight in shining armour

Mr Shearing and his trusty steed...

the coach.

What better way than to blow the many and various 

cobwebs away, than a little light fell-walking?

Hating with a passion snobbery: I have a sneaky feeling

I am one...

'A coach trip!'

 said in my best Lady Bracknell tones.

The worm hiding in the very depths of my innards,

stirred, lifted its head and wondered...

'Surely not!'

the ghastly thought quivered down its entire length.

Ted, I must say took some persuading;

in true feller tradition made a token stand,

knowing all along the inevitable outcome.

Monday morning, before even the sun was up,

we set off.

Pack-up, packed up.

Books, Kindle, iPod, pencil, notepad,

barley sugars, Fisherman's Friends,

Rennies. Imodium... you

get the drift!  All safely stowed away

like illegals in the back of a lorry.

A 90 year young pal said

'Remember there will be plenty of 'comfort' breaks

for the oldies!'

'That's alright then, that saves packing the left-over

Miss Tena pads from our lovely little Lettice!'

Merely a precautionary measure you understand.

Well...

We stopped, we started, we got on, we got off.

Our first real stop was at Clacketts service station

on the M25, a mere 25 miles and two hours from home.

"Sit back LL, try not to remember whose bright idea this was!'

Ten hours later we arrived at Windermere.

Taken as we enjoyed our hotel supplied picnic

My abiding memory of the trip was the sea of

personal communication devices (deaf aids), topped off

with waves of grey hair.

To say I don't count myself among their numbers

would be wrong, so wrong on so many fronts.

For starters... in my eyes everyone...

yes everyone is older than me,

even my grandchildren...

work that one out if you can!

The driver advertised the trips arranged for us.

With a bum rapidly sporting seat sores overlaid

with hard skin, I must confess I couldn't get excited.

Added to which one was to a retail park, the other a garden centre...

Wot?

Living not a million miles away from

Bluewater, I pride myself on being the sole remaining

inhabitant of the S.E. who hasn't ever been and never ever will.

Why?

Would you want to, when there

are fells to be walked, or at least looked at

for the less able.

We did have fun, we laughed, we climbed, we strode

out like latter-day pioneers.

Our bott's didn't sit again on the coach until

it was time to come home.

We did however jump on a bus and use our free old

dears bus pass, which at home never sees the light of day.

And then on our return, imagine our dismay to read that

they are thinking of taking that privilege away from us...

Well I mean to say, what is the country coming to?

Sitting in the bar, we got chatting to a couple...

'We were very happy to find a Waterstones!'

'Wow, that was a stroke of luck!'

says I, thinking of deep and meaningful conversations

of Proust or Tolstoy.

Oh alright then, Bills and Moon.

'Sorry my husband means Weatherspoons!'

My interest waned.