'We're cabbage...

people!  We don't like mange tout,

baby sweetcorn and veg that haven't been cooked!'

Got me thinking as I read a review of the findings

of a coach trip aficionado...

With our coach trip a week away...

Am I making a horrible mistake?

Are we ready for cabbage boiled for 20 minutes,

Morris dancers and many and various comfort breaks en route?

My mind whirled back in time to my father's 

70th birthday meal at a posh restaurant,

where he said to the waiter...

'Please make sure they cook the vegetables properly!'

I'm ashamed to say I cringed with embarrassment, 

little knowing then he would only live for another 

four months.

How things and more importantly...

me, have changed in the intervening 

24 years.

I've cooked for the highest and lowest of the land,

I've travelled the world and now I'm on the cusp 

of a completely new experience...

a frigging coach trip.

Forget the Maldives, the Arctic, Mauritius and the like!

'This will be a totally new experience!'

I said grandly, every fibre of my being quivering (with fear perhaps?)
 as I sold the idea to Ted.

Personally I blame it on Shirley,

who is a thrifty Yorkshire lass.

Giving me the hard sell, I could feel my

Green Shield Stamp genes awakening...

'Yes, yes, Yes!

In her head she...

dreams and schemes...

designs of the finer kind.

I'm proud to call her my friend.

Tears hung in my eyes like mini meniscus

as I looked and looked at this sweet latest make.

Picking up the phone I dialled; valiantly

keeping the quiver out of my voice...

'Please can I buy?'

'They're  sold, sorry!'

Before she had time to say...

'I'll make you one.'

My bottom lip dimpled and quivered

and I'm ashamed to say I cried.

❤

This is what on Valentine's morning the

postie delivered.

No not a card from a secret admirer,

but something far, far, far more

valuable...

The badge of the worth of a 

true friend...

Viv

Love in the...

long grass

 

Well... tickle me with a...

feather

If you only go to one exhibition this year...

make it this one

Isabella Blow: Fashion Galore!

Somerset House

until 02 March 2014

A feast of frocks, fashion and fripperies

I was truly blown away

Miss it... at your peril!

I just don't know...

what to do next for badness?

Shall I...

shoot off to dfs to buy a leather sofa

lose three stone

push the boat out and turn the washing machine 

up to 40º in order for my clean knicks

to not smell of old ladies, lavender and wee

say what I really, really mean

shave the backs of my thighs,

when I'm not planning on a trip

to the Maldives any time soon

book an oap coach trip

start reading Mills and Boon in order

to get a little excitement into my life

own up on my first visit to a play reading at our 

local Am Drams, that I am honestly only interested in

being a back-room bod...

and NOT the beautiful nubile romantic lead

put a sock in it and try and start

acting my age

"I can't bear to...

read... 

about David Beckham's obsession with Lego

and what a regular guy he really, really is

Michael Gove's sacking Baroness Morgan

Karzai saying Helmand would have been better if 

UK forces had never set a foot there

Fifth woman accuses Rennard

NHS hospital trust gags health tourism whistleblower

Bob Crow orchestrating the tube strike from Brazil

The Met regarding a gangland boss as their paymaster

Of the people whose homes are made uninsurable and

unsaleable by floodwater

Another word about Scottish independence

about politicians and their ilk!"

*****

As this nugget of opinion issued from my reclining

rosebuds the only retort was...

'That's okay I won't get a paper next Sunday!'

Well I mean to say...

where is a self opinionated girl to go from here,

I ask you?

The reasons as to why I can't bring myself to read these things...

well I'll leave you to work out.

Strangely enough I can bring myself to read in

minute  detail...

 the murder of

Meredith Kercher.

It probably tells you a lot about me...

As I sat picking the...

fluff out of the parquet floor, 
with a view to needle-felting it into a 
hibernating dormouse, I got to thinking...

1.   Why are the stinking rich so awfully thin?

2.   Why do they walk around as if they have a permanent sewerage
smell under their button noses...
acquired after much money spent in the hallowed turf
of the street that runs behind John Lewis?

3.   Why do they insist on four meals a day when they don't flaming eat?
(How do I know?  Cos I've been on the receiving end of that little
fiasco!)

4.   Why do they inject poison into their faces?

5.   Why do they insist on smoking cannabis?

6.  Why is it that the only money they carry is rolled up
£20 notes?

7.  Why is it that they think we believe them
when they endlessly crack on about 
how much money they give to charity?
(Don't they know that we the unwashed hoi polloi 
know it's a frigging tax dodge!)

8.   Where did they acquire the skill of accessing
your bank balance at a 100 yards and then 
blanking you?

9.   Why do they always insist that they are exactly
as Mother Nature intended?
(Don't they realise we can see the join!)

10.   At exactly what point in their development 
did they become so blimming smug?

11.  Why do they wear Hunter wellies when any
self-respecting farmer will tell you they are
treacherous.

12.  Horses?  Why?

13.  Horse boxes... always being driven by
females at 23½ miles per hour... why?

14.   Horse racing... when surely they know 
what happens to the one's that don't make the grade?

15.  Four wheel drive vehicles for taking little
Ezra to prep school?

Oh I could go on...
however I'm running out of fluff. 

Love moves in mysterious ways  




   

Call me a tart…

I don't care!

In days of yore, I used to be anyone's for 

a free carrierbag… 

Not anymore… 

I've gone distinctly upmarket.

The offer of a free bottle of champagne

got my pulse racing.

Call me a champagne socialist tart…

I don't care!

Idly I flirted with the idea as January

slipped by.

The thing that stopped me was the thought of

getting to grips with ordering groceries on-line.

Call me an idle champagne swilling socialist tart…

I don't care!

Events overtook me when due to

me being off the road and Ted having

this awful bug, supplies were needed.

Suddenly the idea grew from a daydream to

an okay let's run with this necessity.

I chose my slot, dithered over the list and 

surprisingly found it harder to spend than when

I diva-like grace Waitrose with my presence.

Call me a champagne quaffing diva…

I don't care!

Because we're hard to find, I put a chatty

note with name and phone number on the order.

Sat back and waited for the freebie…

Oh and the groceries to arrive.

Never one of the most patient people,

ten minutes into our one hour slot my foot was tapping.

One hour and five minutes later, the call came through…

I picked up the phone with the immortal words…

'Are you lost?'

With very precise instructions I talked him in.

As I was just trotting off with ping-pong bats in hand

to do a little light traffic calming.

(think Easi-jetting in to Crudsville airport)

Ted weakly asked where the driver was, to which I replied the Green Cross Inn.

As the words issued out of my rosebud lips a horrible thought entered my mind.

"I've got the pubs muddled up and have sent him the completely wrong way!' 

Racing down the track I saw him pass by.

Hareing up the hill, I stopped as I saw him 

shoe-horning around the chicane.

Out of puff, I decided to wait on the corner by the pond.

'What are you doing here Linda?'

a kindly neighbour enquired.

'Looking for trade, although in this sleepy village

 I'm not going to make much money, lets face it!'

Conveniently forgetting the fact, I'm a little old for this game.

At last down the hill the poor chap came,

to be met with the sight of a mad woman waving her arms around,

like one of those ghastly windmills that are blighting

the landscape. Rubber on tarmac he screeched to a halt.

After much pointing, gesticulating even, he eventually landed.

Ted risen from his sickbed, sorted him out only to

discover we had taken delivery of a neighbour's order!

Back out we go, get our order, then at last we can relax.

Signing the order, Silas Marner-like coins fell from my hand into his.

'You don't have to!' he said

'Oh I do, I do!  

Call it guilt, for me being a daft tart sending you the wrong way!'

Call me an idle champagne-quaffing daft tart…

I don't care!

However a tiny bit of me thinks you might be onto

something, not that I'd ever admit it, mind!

Alright hands up…

I have been in a dark place,

one I am still lurking on the periphery of.

Imagine naked man on the heath, attired in mac, 

 trouser bottoms sewn along the raincoat's hem,
a latterday onesie. 

  
Tad dah!

Should the occasion arise…
all he need do is…
unbutton his waterprooof apparel
to advertise his wares.

That sort of periphery…

highly suspect…

which way will she go?

Just by me being here, 

I honestly think a corner has been turned.

'Thank you all!' as Janet Webb

would say at the end of

the Morecambe and Wise show.

If you remember her, 

you are older than you would like us to believe.

All the emails, have been a great help, much of them I'm

afraid, I haven't got around to replying to… yet.

I will.

The blades flashed in…

the weak winter sun.

Doris stood by the tree line at the side of the lake.

She watched, knowing, seeing and fearing for her only child.

Her cry whipped away on the wind, lost in the murmur of leaves

that tenaciously clung to the trees that gave them life.

It's late in the year for so many trees to be in leaf she thought as

she whirled across the thin ice.

Sadness accompanied her as she twirled faster,

ever closer to the black hole under the ice that to her, 

on this cold day seemed so warm and inviting.

Doris saw the pain, that only a mother can.

With every fibre of her being she willed her

strong daughter to beat her demons.

The melt water seemed strangely beguiling,

 as it slowly, silently crept ever closer.

'I know you're there, I feel your presence, 

I talk to you in the car.

It's alright Mum, I'm not mad,

just sad!'

Another facet of my rich and varied life.

I wouldn't mind but I can't even skate…
well the only time I did, I had bruise on each cheek…
Argentina meet Buenos Aires.

Well did you ever…

In case you can't read it…

'Elegance is an attitude'

Kate Winslet…

which unashamedly grows on you, when you pick up

a fat cheque…

Oh and a free watch.

I'm back!

Watch this space for my thoughts on

'Am I too old to…'

Correct me if I'm...

wrong...

but do the words...

National Theatre Live mean to you that

you are paying £17.50 per ticket

to see a live performance beamed to a

cinema near you...

actually live...

as in... happening now?

On Thursday evening a fellow lover

(not literally, naturally!)

of Alan Bennett and I took ourselves

off to 

'The Habit of Art'

Two large large ladies of mature years,

her of ninety summers and me not far behind,

deposited our ample girths into the

embrace of the pneumatic armchairs that pass themselves off

as today's answer to the 3/9d's.

With huge glasses of wine to hand we settled comfortably 

in for the long haul.

We did pass on the giant tubs of popcorn for two reasons

a)  they didn't sell it

b)  and even if they did... 

we would have been hard-pressed to balance it on our tums.

Settling back for a night of being part of the audience

of the National Theatre made my heart sing.

Alright the fact that the National is a good 20 miles away

as the Albatross flies is a mere bagatelle.

This was live theatre...

and one of the countries finest to boot.

Hold tight...

roll of drums at this point please maestro.

Now I am fully aware that I'm not the sharpest

tool in the box, however it didn't take me long to

realise that is was anything but live...

Why?

You might well ask!

W H Auden was played by Richard Griffiths

who sadly died this year.

The mark of a truly great actor is one who
will come back from the dead in order that
 the show must go on.

The play was another Alan Bennett masterpiece
about the imagined meeting after twenty-five years of
W H Auden and his friend and collaborator 
Benjamin Britten.
The queens of creativity of yesteryear had
had a fall out about who knows what, and this was them
getting back in touch.

Rent boys, peeing in sinks and other unsavoury
aspects of old artisticals in decline 
were the order of the play.
And very good it was too...
but wait...
I did have a few uneasy moments 
not for me you understand...
but for my 90 year chum,
when W H Auden described what 
he wanted to do to the rent boy!

If it's showing in your local flea-pit and you have £17.50
to spare I can highly recommend it...
although take it form me...
it ain't live...
one of its cast is most definitely dead.

Richard Griffiths
1947 - 2013

The sad tale of the fat lass...

the Fly boots and 

the throbbing thumb.

Picture the scene...

all is dust settlingly quiet in

Rapunzel Towers.

Ted is away for the day,

leaving me, his able assistant

to take our Saturday night's ill-gotten gains

to the Air Ambulance base.

Imagine if you can my spiff-chick, splendid

Smart car, stuffed to the parson's nose and 

beyond with coins of the realm.

In order to look the part of an honest upright

citizen I decide to dress up and don some

normal gear.  The all forgiving palazzo pants are 

thrown with a flourish onto the floor.

Proper linen trousers are the order of the day

according to my perusal of Berk's Pearage.

The ensemble is topped off with a lawn blouse,

jaunty red silk paisley scarf.  In the half light of early

morn, you could be forgiven for thinking me normal.

Bum in the air, I locate by means of apparel sat-nav,

my Fly boots cowering in the back of the cupboard.

'Your time has come...

let's hit the road running!'

I cry.

With stocking feet I dust

the aforementioned footwear, as I descend the storeys.
No time for boot black!

I'll just pop them on, then the job's a goodun.

Wrong!

I strained, I huffed, I puffed,

I even lowered the zip of my trousers

in order for a rent not to fill the air.

Linen fatigue...

 a well known event around these parts!

I did try to use my right hand...

the pain!

I honestly thought it would come loose and fall off. 

Fast forward to 4 p.m. and Ted arriving home 
to the sight of the latest

Damien Hirst art work...

'Severed Thumb on Parquet Floor

with Blood and Gore'

circa 2013.

It took me a full 15 minutes...

leg in air

leg over the arm of the sofa

to get the flaming things on.

I was so exhausted I had to get my breath back,

feet up sort of thing!

At this juncture, tired and crotchety, in need of a break,
I thought I'll pitch up

to the Virgin desk at Gatwick,

empty the pails of loot and say...

'Where will this lot get me?' 

as I tip the eleven overflowing buckets

onto their Late Booking counter.

Knowing my luck it'll get me to the

Maldives where...

'No News, No Shoes'

 is the order of the day...

And I won't be able to get the frigging boots off.

✈✈✈

Linda's law of activity...

1.  Don't!

2.  As a Garden Guide trodge around the garden 

at speed, in order visitors can't catch you and

ask you a question you haven't the foggiest

idea of the answer.

3.  The rule of thumb...

Never forget you can't use it!

e.g. hanging washing out

 the squeezing of pegs is sooo

painful as is...

peeling vegetables

cutting out

hand sewing

writing...

folk used to say

'You've got such lovely, unusual hand writing,

can't understand it mind!'

I now know why old ladies writing gets spidery...

it's their thumbs.

Pulling up drawers is also problematical...

the very reason I gave up thongs...

the twang as I lose grip positively

makes all sensation from my nethers

sing... I wouldn't mind, but not in the way

a girl would want them to.

I now have to wear lisle stockings

industrial strength because I have to use

my whole hand to pull them on.

You just won't believe the sheerest Wolford

stockings and tights I've holed in one before I've even

 got out of the clubhouse.  

I wouldn't mind but I don't even play golf.

What's a girl to do when the size of the latest

Booker prize winner - over 800 pages,
means she's not going to 

be able to literally, not literary, get to grips with it!

Download it to you Kindle...
 I hear you cry...

err, I gave it away.

Why?

Because I got it in my head that

all the books were

precised like Readers Digest Condensed Finest.

And no amount of people telling me they're not, will

persuade me otherwise.

Intransigence rules most definitely OK!

Last night saw super sofa slug out of her lair.

Biker boots, beret and scarves a plenty,

she was out shaking her booty with bucket in hand.

Thumb forgotten, she was on a mission.

Now we are a furry family member missing
i.e. Lettice,

we can go out together... a novel experience!

Tunbridge Wells firework display.

Ted orchestrated his troops

to collect for the

Kent, Surrey & Sussex Air Ambulance.

Me being a shrinking violet, decided I would 

raid the Christmas lights and bedeck myself

with same.

Beret... sporting twenty six poppies, (last week

we were abroad collecting... so perks of the job...

 you can snaffle a handful!)

lit up like a Christmas tree, I waylaid all,

as you might imagine.

An old chap I got chatting to, started saying some very complementary

things, what's a girl to do?  Especially with an eye to money

of the folding kind!

As he was pulled away by his friends,

I said 

'Don't worry I'll catch you on the way out!'

I'm not proud...

it was for a good cause after all.

'You can catch me any time!'

his words echoed through the gloom, as his friends

lead him away.

Senility can strike when you least expect it!