Hex My Ex: Dabis, Improbe Poenas!

Check your posts

2011-05-18T18:07:00.002+01:00

Blimey. For the first time in ages, I decided to check my blog comment posts. I had, rather naively, expected that Blogger would send all to be moderated to my (almost) redundant Yahoo account, in which this Blog resides, but it obviously doesn't.

I was confronted with 73 unmoderated comments and my smile raised, my eyebrows lifted and I thought, Aw...I am being missed. How nice is that? Then I realised that out of the 73 comments, three were genuine ones - for instance, "Happy New Year, HexMyEx"...40% from some weirdo, fuckwit dating agency, and the rest wholly written in Mandarin Chinese. I did run the comments through Babelfish.com and they were rather interesting...to me...but I shall not bore you further!

I've dipped my toe into Facebook and tentatively started leaving a few status updates. I generally feel a little egocentric doing so, and much prefer leaving comments on other people's posts, but I am getting there.

But this is going to be a genuine HEX post, no holds barred...read on...if you dare! (And for all of those who think my name is still Agnes Mildew, I will not shatter your illusions...but for authenticity, I will write, "Agnes")

"Agnes, Agnes, Agnes"...no this is not somebody trying to wake me from a bad dream...this is our temporary marketing manager. Right. I have to say it, and I feel like crap saying it, but she is Indian and has an exceptionally high-pitched, quickly-spoken Indian accent. Say to yourself, very fast: "burry-garry-burry-garry-burry-garry-burry-garry-burry-garry..." over and over again. This is what I hear when she calls her family/friends for the 20th time this morning.

I am now going to sound like a bleating imbecile, but I AM NOT RACIST. My true best friend, Z, is from Pakistan, and I love the bones of her. But this lass, and I shall have to call her Tangerini...as it is almost her name...is an abomination.

Eight times I have run the same document by her for editing and correction. I no sooner open my mouth to explain what needs to be done than she shouts me down and I just clam up and stare at her, waiting for 'Version 8', which will need EXACTLY the same edits...'cos she didn't listen...

She claims to be a Marketing Guru. She worked in 'the States' for eight years - and boy, don't we know it? She asked me about White Paper rules in the UK - were they done under Chicago API?

JFDI...

That means: "Just Fucking Do It"

My smoking buddy dragged me out for a fag this afternoon, claiming she could see steam coming from my ears.

I don't mind somebody wanting my help - I will help all I can...but I DESPISE starting to talk and being shouted down...and then being asked, "What was it again?"

I have queried, 8 times (I know this, because she sent me Version 8 of the web copy) the number of Suppliers for a contract. Eight times she got it wrong and brushed it off to 'confusion'. Look: (18 + 19) - 3 duplicates = 34.

Was that a difficult equation?

34 frigging suppliers on a legal and formal document, which I had to question EIGHT TIMES!!

She has now starting riffling through my in-tray. Yesterday, as I was leaving the office, she shrieked at me: "Oh My God, I cannot believe that St ****** Hospice spelled M****** wrongly in their newsletter!"

Now, I had printed off said newsletter, stored it in my in-tray for a few days, and that particular morning, it was in my recyc pile. She was looking at Wikipedia..fount of all knowledge, as we all know *ahem*, and querying a health organisation which had been in the area since 1974. I informed her that Wikipedia was incorrect, walked out of my offices, and then realised that she had been going through my in-trays, nosing and stuff I was working on.

Neil: What does Retrofit General mean?

Simon: I dunno...ask Marketing...

Me: Retrofit General is the umbr...

Her: Umbrella agreement for all of the Retrofit contracts and I am working on them, so if you have any queries, just come to me...

She goes soon. I need every ounce of will-power and civility to keep on going, but it is hard.

HexMyTemp....

Where Have the Years Gone By?

2011-03-12T15:51:00.003Z

I got fed up of blogging, I must admit. You see, I went into this job many years ago, where I was told repeatedly, Blogging is the way forward for SEO purposes...keep your content updated on a regular basis, and Boy, YOU WILL ZOOM UP THE SEARCH ENGINES.

All I wanted to do was bitch about the ex and some former employers...all of a sudden, it became a little too corporate and too much of a chore...and so I gave up...for nearly four years - haha!

I decided to have a break - I took leave of work and wrote a book (which is about 2 pages from finishing and entitled Ducks, Muck and Lots of Luck - shit title, I know, but a WIP) and attempted to breed ducks, geese and chickens.

After 18 months of the ducks and geese devastating everything outside of our bricks and mortar house, and making the most inordinate amount of racket, we sold them...after we had 'liberated' Gary and Barry (Aylesbury Ducks) on the beautiful River Weaver where we still see them and chuck them bread. Brenda, the Embden Goose died, leaving her sister, Mave the Rave on her own, so we sold her to a Welsh farmer whose gander was in a 'terrible state' having lost his partner.

And now we have 15 chickens. They are of varying breeds, but they all have names: Euphemia, Lavender, Ethel, Mavis, Maude, Violet, Betty, Joyce, Raquel, Tina & Cher (they are the Black Rocks and I thought a Rock Star name appropriate), Norma, Biddy, Hilda and Una. They each lay a mean egg - wholly free-range and wholly organic...and I now sell them across our village and beyond. For 75 frigging pee per half dozen when Tesco get two whole bloody pounds for the same!

What else has happened? As if you are interested??

I went back to work...I worked for the most racist person I have ever come across who made me feel physically ill when he ranted about his Asian customers...and so I got out after nine months of steely, gritted toleration, much to his chagrin. He threatened me, abused me and called me 'transient' when I handed in my notice. Out of goodwill, I offered to work a month, even though I only needed to do a week.

After he gave me a crap reference, even though I had netted them £1000s due to my PR and marketing (even landing them on prime time TV from PR), I walked out. His parting words were that he wouldn't pay me a sausage...and THAT is where you are wrong, Mister!

"Unlawful Deduction of Wages" act comes into play somewhere here...and thus I digress...

Hey! I grew some balls! I told that turd he was unprofessional, petty and filled with sour grapes. What a guy.

I mean to say, gurlies, how would you feel about a bloke who came in to work each day, unkempt, scratching his balls, burping and saying 'parrrr-dON' in a dodgy French accent, banging on about granny porn and the most recent consignment of porn he and his wife were expecting from the States (and then he would clear off home and go off work-chat while they watched unmentionable stuff)

...and then, when an Asian guy would ring up for his money back on one of his dodgy hair loss solutions, he would be screaming (while customer service were chatting to said customer): F*cking P*ki C*nts...tell them to F*ck right off!

Sorry, I don't buy into that type of hatred.

I start work with a new company on Monday. And Christ, I hope it works out because I am as stressed out as hell about it all - the case of fingers burned firmly springs to mind!

My biggest coup is landing my very first freelance PR gig with Planet Earth Logistics...now they cover all manner of sexual health issues...so that's going to be exciting, isn't it?!

I am going to TRY to keep this blog updated again...if I get more than five comments on this post, I will go for it!

Apologies for it being a dull one so far!

Agnes xxx

The Senescent Charles Parsnip

2009-05-03T11:06:00.005+01:00

It was my darling husband's 40th birthday on Sunday. As befits a man of his age, at 11am, Sunday morning, he was back in bed, snoozing until lunchtime as he cannot stand the pace. That's OK. I will never let him live it down, though, believe me...

It took me ages to plan his birthday weekend. It is always made much more difficult because I simply cannot keep a surprise to save my life and walk around with a cheesey, yet hopefully knowing grin on my face, as if to say, "I know something you don't know..." Then I ask if he wants to know what his surprise is, to which he always says, "No!", I gripe and wheedle, he gives in and I blurt it all out triumphantly and then have to do something else instead.

I decided that, as #2 was away at her father's, we'd make a weekend of it all. I started preparing on Tuesday night, baking his birthday cake, making a fantastic seafood pâté for his Saturday morning brekkie with home-made bread (which we had all scoffed by Thursday night), booking us a room at Cranage Hall down the road, blowing up countless numbers of balloons with #2 and organising a plethora of birthday cards ranging from a paw-painted one from Oscar (there are still green footprints in the kitchen) to a Happy 50th Birthday from the tortoises which are still in hibernation since last Autumn...

I was very kind to him yesterday. I allowed him to sleep in until 7.30am. I tend to wake up with the Dawn Chorus and stare at him until he rouses himself. He must find it a very religious experience as he often wakes up shouting, Jesus Christ!

I was ever so good, dear reader: I held my water for four days. I had it all planned out, to kick him out of the house, fill the conservatory with balloons and banners, pack the cards, chocolate and wine and then pretend to be taking him to Shakerley Mere for a stroll, yet secretly driving him to the hotel for the night. I'd packed our bags, fed and watered all the animals (apart from the tortoises which have probably dried up by now and will be my newest ash trays).

Friday night, he caved, wanted to know the plans and I 'fessed up immediately. I showed him the Hall's facade and he appeared delighted, as was I for getting the room half-price on a late-booking deal.

We set off for a walk and lunch at the Duke of Portland, a supposed gastro-pub which has won all sorts of awards. I haven't got a clue how they have won these gongs, because the food was that insipid and bland, that I complained and got the booze knocked off the bill. My leek and potato soup tasted like weak cabbage water and Mr P's macaroni cheese appeared to have been made with Kraft Singles. Nasty, skanky junk. We were glad to get on and get to the hotel.

And didn't it look posh?! Gosh, I was chuffed, driving up the long carriage sweep to the main entrance, where we checked in...and were then directed to the Travelodge annexe. Boo hiss! I was most disgruntled. I'd paid all that money and could have gone to the M6 services for the same quality of room.

My face fell. Mr P tried to make light of it all and said the main thing was that we could have some hot sex without waking #2. That wasn't good enough for me. I wanted a luxurious pampering session in the bath with all my unguents, a salubrious room and a view of the rolling Cheshire Plains, not the car park.

Mr P sank down into his chair, heavily, and picked up a brochure to scan. Inside, it contained pictures of people with their throats cut.

"What's that?" I asked. "Are they the people who have died here?"

"No. It's an advert for a murder-mystery weekend..."

I decided the only way to get through the weekend was to get drunk, but Mr P put his foot down and told me I wasn't allowed to. Yet another avenue of pleasure denied me. We had to smoke outside and the nearest exit was about ten miles away, down a veritable warren of different corridors. I got lost a few times and seemed to keep finding myself in the bar...

We decided to go and explore the hotel. The cleaning staff were out and about, and their trolleys, filled with bubble baths, soaps, moisturisers and shower caps were littered along the passage ways. I am a sucker for hotel toiletries and have come away with enough body lotion to moisturise a small hospital. Yes, I am a tea leaf: I never steal anything but hotel toiletries. I believe it is something to do with me wanting to get my money's worth...

We found ourselves at the Tempus Restaurant and were greeted by a wonderfully acerbic hostess called Gill. She explained that the restaurant was closed off as it was being taken over by a Beauty Pageant. I asked if it was lettuce and raisins on the menu and she raised a weary eyebrow.

"They'll only go and throw that up, too..." she remarked astutely.

Sure enough, I have never seen so many anorexic teenagers before. But do you know what was so ironic? All their parents were massive. Clinically obese, some of them...There was also a wedding going on. I think Charles and I were the only 'normal' guests there to be honest.

We told Gill that we would be coming for dinner tonight and she winked at me - I'd already arranged for a birthday cake for Mr P to be brought to him and she told us she'd reserve one of the booths for us - which was very intimate.

We toddled off to the bar for a game of pool where I was mercilessly drubbed by Mr P, despite trying to get some advice from a young staff member who bore a strong Glaswegian accent. I could barely make out what he was advising me, and so it is hardly surprising that I continued to mis-pot the balls. I think Mr P was a bit jealous to be honest, but refuses to admit it. He claims it would never have future due to the language barrier...

The evening meal was jolly good, I must admit. And Gill brought out a birthday cake for Mr Parsnip. We only discovered the next day that she'd whipped down to the Co-op and bought one of theirs. The cavernous restaurant was practically empty and so we were waited on hand-and-foot - none of the beauty pageanters were in there for seconds, obviously.

We turned in pretty early, really, and were both out for the count when, at 2am, our hotel phone started ringing. I jumped out of bed in fright, started shouting, Where am I? What's happening? Where's that bloody phone? (I didn't know if it was on his side or mine) and then, Turn the bloody light on for God's sake.

The minute I answered it, it went dead. Boy, was I annoyed...but not enough to lose any more sleep and I started sawing logs pretty much instantly. Mr P took much longer to get off. Probably because I was keeping him awake.

I was half-tempted, next morning, to get my own back on our anonymous caller, and randomly play knock and run on the bedroom doors when I went for my 5.45am fag over on the other side of the world. There were a few Sunday Papers shoved outside doors, too, and I considered swapping them around just to confound the guests...but that would have got staff into trouble, so I decided against that pretty sharpish.

Charles treated himself to a Full Monty Fry-up of sausages, eggs, beans, mushrooms, toast, bacon and hash browns.

We have not heard the last of it since. He is now so constipated that he has had to take two of my laxatives. And still there is no joy. I have offered to give him a suppository of soap, but he has passed on that magnanimous gesture.

Mr P spent the rest of his birthday gardening. We have turned a large area of scrub land over to vegetables and Mr Parsnip, as befits his name, is nurturing all sorts of vegetables and cat shit. To date, we have spent about £50 on cat deterrent gizmos. One is a sonic thingummy-jig which just seems to set next-door's dog off on a frenzy, and the other stuff stinks of garlic and pepper. #2 loves it and inhales it readily, like a Coke addict. So, I am most dismayed to find two fresh dollops in my newly hown plot this morning.

Mr P loves his veg plot. Indeed, I think he loves it more than me nowadays. In his constipated, poorly state, yesterday, he even got his dressing gown and wellies on and went to inspect it. He was pleased to report a cat shit-free zone. And so it is to me to dash his ebullient mood today when he returns from the library, replete with SF novels, Photography guides...and How To Grow Vegetables...no doubt.

Love Thy Neighbour...

2009-05-01T06:34:00.010+01:00

As our other reader may be aware, I live in a large village in the heart of Cheshire. I believe, a few years ago, the local County Council voted to re-term it as a 'town', but the residents kicked up such a fuss (probably something to do with taxes), that the idea was shelved and 'village' it remains. It's an eclectic mix of demographics. At both ends of the village are the Knobs' Hills - enormous country piles; thatched cottages; elegant 1930s townhouses - and then in the middle, there are two rambling 1950s housing estates, built by the Council, for the large chemical works, ICI, which has since closed down. Workers were given the chance to buy their houses, and many of them did, only to sell them on later. I live in one such house - it was owned by a Mr John Langley, an original ICI worker, who bought the property for £5000, raised a son, and died here a few years ago. A builder then bought the place, ripped its guts out, did it up, and I toddled along, made him an offer and moved in six weeks later.

This housing estate's roads and closes are all named after trees. For example, there are Walnut Avenue; Hazel Grove; Ash Grove; Rowan Road; Laburnum Close (which on the other side, reads 'Laburnam Close' - a schizophrenic Town & Country planner, obviously). And, thankfully, there are lots of trees about, which is always a delight to me, although not to Mr P who suffers terribly with hay fever, and whose eyes look like pickled eggs in the summer months. The houses range from those designated for the elderly to townhouses to semis (such as ours) and a few detached. Due to the wildly varying prices, there are people from all walks of life living around here.

To the rear of our property is a row of shops. I have mentioned the colourful characters in the past, but it never ceases to amaze me who you can bump into over there (not Jonny Depp, most unfortunately...). On Wednesday, I visited the Post Office to withdraw some money. As usual, there was a queue of blue-rinsers who fumble with surprise into their bags once they reach the window, as if they are shocked to find themselves there and have suddenly forgotten what on earth they have come for...

As I stood patiently, a young 'lady' (and I use that term very loosely) entered the shop pushing a buggy containing a snot-nosed baby, and dragging a 7-year old boy and toddler. I knew she was coming to the post office because I heard her telling her child a mile away. She stopped traffic. She was the inspiration for the Fog Horn. She genuinely was not shouting at her children; she simply yelled instead of talking.

Everyone in the shop stopped, aghast, at the noise which emenated from her vocal cords. My ears started to bleed and I got a fit of uncontrollable giggles. To try to stem my hilarity, I stared at the CCTV cameras and attempted to look as though I was about to stage a stick-up, imagining the hurly-burly of Cheshire Constabulary coming to take me away...It didn't work. I had to cross my legs as I thought I might wet myself. The faces of the other customers were pictures.

As I arrived at the window, the female teller rolled her eyes at me and shook her head sadly. She asked me for my request and I waggled a finger in my ear, and asked her to speak up as I had gone a bit deaf...By this stage, the woman had left the shop (and an audible vacuum). Had she still been there, I wouldn't have cracked this joke, as she was a big bruiser and would have snapped me in two. I quite like the arrangement of my body as it is, to be frank.

I got my money and then moved to the shop counter to purchase my cigarettes. An old bloke was in front of me, spending his pension on Lucky Dips, Thunderballs and Scratch Cards. He was taking forever, but he ponged of Famous Grouse, so perhaps he was just half-cut. Suddenly, the 7-year old boy returned, barrelling down the shop to the counter, picked up a Twirl and waited to be served. He was only there for about ten seconds when his mother 'said' from the door.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"

"I'M GERRIN' SERVED!"

"WELL 'URRY UP, COS I'M BURSTIN' FER A WEE!!"

Mmm. Nice. I was thrilled to have been treated to that gem of information. At least it was a Number One. I shuddered to think what she might have divulged had her bowels been moving at that point...

There was a tangible sigh of relief went around the other customers as she left the premises. Half an hour later, as she arrived at home, a mile away, I heard her exclaim, "AAH! F*CKIN' 'ELL, THAT'S BETTER..."

Pearl Necklaces and Other Gems...

2009-04-29T08:35:00.007+01:00

I went to the hairdresser yesterday for a wee trim as my hair was starting to resemble a hedgehog which had mated with a Brillo pad. Sam, my hairdresser, knows me pretty well, and as my hair is still rather short, knows she can slot me in quickly in between lengthier appointments. Therefore, I didn't mind a short wait and decided to lower my IQ by flicking through the magazine, Closer.

In between scanning Jordan and Peter's latest scandal, and Kerry's weight gain due to her excessive vodka binges, I happened upon an article which displayed a picture of a grossly obese woman slathering what looked like flour and water on her face. Contained within the palm of her hand was a puddle of the stuff.

Intrigued, I read on further...

From a young age, the woman had been encouraged by her mother to look after her complexion, and subjected her skin to all manner of facials, unguents and treatments in order to have the perfect face (pity about the arrangement of it, I must admit). In her quest for the ultimate epidermis, she sought out labs in the United States and came across a company called CMEN*** (say it out loud).

Yup. That was no flour and water concoction adorning her rosy cheeks, but sperm: jiz; spunk; man juice...call it what you will.

She didn't have a boyfriend to ask for a few of his samples and 'didn't feel comfortable asking [her] male friends' (hardly surprising, I guess - 'Scuse me Steve, will you just jerk off in my face, please?'...) and so she spends a small fortune each month for a vial (or 'vile', depending on which way you look at it) of STD-screened sperm which comes with a bottle of lavender oil (to take away the pong) and a spatula for mixing. She puts this lavender-jiz mix on her face morning and night. The routine is to allow it to become crusty and then wash it off. She was amazed by the results! Within a few days, a dry patch of skin on her chin had vanished!! (Nothing to do with the healing properties of lavender oil, obviously, despite this being very well documented in alternative medicine journals). She has since spent £6000 on sperm, and although she felt somewhat uncomfortable at first, she pulled herself together and told herself it was 'just another skin treatment'.

Although she hasn't got a fella at the moment (and it's hardly surprising considering she's massive, not on the attractive side, and slathers her face in spunk), she claims she would NEVER give up her beauty secret if she did land some poor, unsuspecting sap. If he didn't like another man's jiz on her face, he wasn't the bloke for her...

I couldn't wait to tell Mr P, but I promptly forgot until this morning when I kindly brought him a cup of tea in bed. He was half asleep, had a go at me for snoring through the night, proceeded to snore himself and so I decided shock tactics might wake him up. I relayed the story to him in gory detail and suddenly his eyes opened.

'Wha? She puts sperm on her face?'

'Oh yes. And there was a photo of all this spermy gloop smeared into her cheeks.' I explained with glee.

'Oh God. That's disgusting. A stranger's sperm?'

'Yep! Probably sperm donor rejects...'

'Is it good for the skin, then?'

'I've told you many a time that it is. Why do you think I ask you to *&%$^££%%...?'

'Oh God. Oh God...'

'Don't think I'd fancy another bloke's man juice on me, I must admit. Anyway, the daft cow is paying a small fortune for the benefits of lavender oil, I'm pretty sure of that...'

I couldn't wait to tell #2 daughter, now that I had remembered the story. #2 loves to be revolted, so I collared her in the kitchen and started to tell my tale again.

'I was reading Closer in the hairdressers yesterday and there was this article about a really enormous woman, with long ginger hair...'

'Aw...bless,' #2 interjected.

'...who slathers strange men's sperm on her face as a skin treatment...'

'URGH! I'm gonna be sick! You mean SPERM? Proper SPERM?'

'Yes. She buys it from a lab called CMEN and has it posted to her every month. She's spent six grand on spunk now!'

'Oh My God, Mum! The dirty cow! Did you see it?'

'Yes. There was a puddle of spunk in her hand and she was slathering it into her face. It was quite putrid, to be honest with you...'

'Urgh. Doesn't it dry all crusty-like?' (I'm not sure how she has discovered the properties of sperm, and I must make a note to myself to interrogate her on this tonight when she returns from the ex's house)

'Yes. And that's the point at which she must wash it off. She reckons it has done wonders for her skin.'

#2 was speechless (which is a rare event) and cogitated this information for all of five minutes before continuing to bombard me with questions, the most modal being 'what did it look like?'.

And so, there you have it. Discard your Clarins, Clinique, Mac, Nivea, Oil of Olay and purchase some Oil of Ollie. If you have a man in your life, I feel certain he will oblige you and if not, don't be a wimp like this woman, just march up to the next man in the street and proposition him. It's cheaper than using CMEN. I feel certain that the erupting spot on my top lip will be gone by tomorrow now that I have this knowledge...

*** Please do not confuse CMEN with CMEN. I don't think it would 'go down' very well...

Flavour of the Month (Not)...

2009-04-27T11:52:00.007+01:00

I have no idea about the rest of you in the world, but here in the UK, there is a brand of crisps called Walkers which currently has a marketing campaign to introduce a new flavour onto the unsuspecting British public.

The new flavours were submitted by people who obviously thought for all of ten seconds about the weirdest tastes imaginable and which were then 'developed' by infamous British chef, Heston Blumenthal, who appears to be two butties short of a picnic on the best of occasions (the guy makes porridge out of snails, for heaven's sake). Mr Blumenthal goes off with his chemist buddy, dickies around with all sorts of preservatives, E-numbers, carcinogens and MSG derivatives and comes up with the following:

Cajun Squirrel

Chilli & Chocolate

Builder's Breakfast

Onion Bhaji

Fish & Chips

Crispy Duck & Hoisin

So, in the interests of research, Mr P and I decided to try out each of these flavours for our other reader so that you don't have to (and believe me, you really don't want to...)

Cajun Squirrel

OK. The blurb reads that 'no squirrels were harmed in the development of this flavour'. Instantly, I am on my guard. If it says 'squirrel', I want to be sure I am eating squirrel. If no squirrels were harmed, how does Heston know what they taste like? Did he wait for some road kill or something? Did he ask a fox what squirrel tastes like? How many native Louisianans eat squirrel?

Verdict: Tastes like chicken which has been rolled around in orange dust.

Chilli & Chocolate

This to me, defeats the object of a savoury snack. Why put chocolate into it? If I want chocolate, I'll go and buy a bar of Galaxy, not buy chocolate-flavoured spuds. That's just bollocks. Yes, I know that it is fashionable to sling a few pieces of dark chocolate into your Mexican banquet these days since some bright spark discovered that the Aztecs used to do it, whilst worshipping their God, Costalotl, but it doesn't make sense to me.

Verdict: Tastes like spicy chicken with a sickly after-taste of something resembling saccharine.

Builder's Breakfast

Ostensibly, the Full Monty fry-up: bacon, eggs, mushrooms, black pudding, fried bread. What a mish-mash of flavours. When the packet is opened, there is an overwhelming smell of bad farts. It is reminiscent of the egg butties I make for #2 daughter who complains bitterly about the way she is ostracised on the school bus when her bag is accidentally kicked and an eggy pong seeps its way to the gobbiest kid's nose who then loudly asks, WHO'S FARTED?

Verdict: Tastes like the smell of rotten eggs with a smokey piquancy. Weird. Much to be avoided if you want to keep your friends and acquaintances close to you.

Onion Bhaji

I love onion bhajis. In fact, I love Indian food, full-stop. It has to be that cuisine dearest to my stomach lining. I decided to have a prawn vindaloo last week and suffered for 48 hours afterwards. I have never before eaten a curry which tastes of hot. I am glad I put the toilet roll into the freezer ready for the morning after the night before. But, I digress. These do not taste even remotely like onion bhajis.

Verdict: Taste like manky beef casserole.

Fish & Chips

Another bizarre combination for a bag of crisps. I mean to say, chips taste like crisps, don't they? So, is this not a bit of a con? I am paying extra money to have spud-flavoured crisps...which are made from spuds. Chuck in a bit of oyster sauce for a malodourous fish input and Heston reckons we can be kidded into tucking into a bag of fish & chips. Nooooo! You cannot bastardise fish & chips. It is illegal.

Verdict: Tastes like really bad prawn cocktail.

Crispy Duck & Hoisin Sauce

I'm not a great lover of Chinese food, particularly not the variety which has been devised for the 11.30pm chucked-out-of-the-pub-I'm-starving-let's-get-a-Chinese type. And Crispy Duck falls into this category as far as I am concerned. It's sweet gloop which has been created for those whose palates have seared off through the night after drinking ten pints of Carlsberg lager.

Verdict: Tastes like chicken. With chocolate.

Basically, Heston has revamped chicken, prawn cocktail, egg and beef flavoured crisps. And probably got yet another TV series on how to make castles of lard, black pudding and cress. So, there you have it. Which would you vote for? I wouldn't be bothered for any of them, personally. The winner will be as popular as hedgehog flavoured crisps were in the 70s.

Give me marmite rice cakes, any day.

Monstrous Memes

2009-04-27T10:54:00.004+01:00

Linda. You are no longer my friend. Awards I like (rewards are even better), but memes, I despise. And I don't think I could encounter a worse meme than to list five sexy things about myself.

Mr P, #2 and I went out for lunch yesterday. The meme was weighing heavily on my mind. I consulted #2 daughter and asked her to list five sexy things about herself. She looked at me blankly, blurted "Wha'?" and so I gave her the remit in more detail.

"I like my eyes, hair and I think my shoulders are really nice. Dunno why, but I really like my shoulders..."

"OK. That's three things; anything else?"

"Such as?"

"Well, your artistic ability; your handicrafts."

"This is just daft," she replied. "All you're asking me is what do I like about myself."

I sighed, turned to Mr P and asked him to list five sexy things about himself.

"Nothing," he replied.

"What, not even your bum, or your calves, or your photography skills."

"Nope. I am not remotely sexy."

(I personally think he is, but that's by-the-by)

So, I have wracked my brains long and hard, and come up with the definitive 5-point list for why I am sexy and the points are as follows:

1. I am sexy because, when I dance, I can gyrate my pelvis as well as Madonna any day of the week and if I do some serious shimmying, my knees only lock in position around 15% of the time.

2. I am sexy because I can still wrap my feet behind the back of my neck, or bite my toenails off and not suffer for it the next day with muscle spasms.

3. I am sexy because, as I am a heavy smoker, my voice is quite 'come-to-bed' at times. Particularly if I am also suffering with a heavy cold. If you don't look at my watering eyes and streaming nose and squint a bit, with a bit of imagination, you could almost believe you were listening to Kathleen Turner as Jessica Rabbit.

4. I am sexy because I wear 6" heels most of the time and thus hit 6' in height. I will wear the dirtiest shoes known to man, even though they cripple me, because they make me feel superior. The cast of our pantomimes in Oman always knew when they were in for a pasting from me depending on which pair of shoes I was wearing that night. The higher the heel, the worse trouble they were going to be in. Shoes are my passion. All my shoes scream, 'F*ck me'. Apart from my slippers. And I pinched those from our honeymoon hotel. And I don't admit to anyone that I actually wear them. They have to catch me in the act.

5. I am sexy because I can put my whole fist into my mouth. Not many women can do that. Don't you think that is sexy? Or does it just mean I have a big mouth?

So, there we have it. That is the PG-rated five point list of why I am sexy. I could have given you the X-rated version, but this is a family blog, and anyway, it's none of your business. I don't kiss and tell unless there are vast sums of money involved. But just in case, drop me an email and I can provide you with my bank account details forthwith for all the dirt on Mr Parsnip and his penchant for me wearing my gardening gloves...

Working Wonders

2009-04-14T15:47:00.003+01:00

Cor! It's been a long, long time, hasn't it? Agnes Mildew-Parsnip has almost forgotten what it is like to write a blog. There was I saying to my buddy, Keli, at Counterfeit Humans, that I was giving it all up for good. No more; no more blogging: Hasta La Vista Blogger...and then the urge bit me on the bum this morning.

And it all started due to an abortive journey to work!

I guess the story starts a little earlier than that, though...

Around August last year, I decided I was going to try domesticity, and attempted to become a Retro Housewife. To this end, I twirled around in dirndl skirts with my hair in a French pleat; indelible red lipstick; stockings...and wellies for planting spuds out in the newly dug-over veg plot. For months, the house gleamed; the freezer was stocked full of home-made fish-cakes, casseroles, pasties, pies, parfaits...you name it, it was in there: Charles Parsnip gained a stone in weight, and #2 daughter lost a stone (hating everything bar Subway and chicken nuggets). I redecorated the kitchen, lounge, and three bedrooms; sowed spuds, carrots, peas, onions, leeks, tomatoes and bedding plants (the leeks, though, now belong to Mr P, as he planted them outside...).

Around six weeks ago, I became so bored, I got destructive, drank heavily, graffiti-ed the wallpaper, abused old ladies on mobility aids, took to jogging (for two days), watched daytime TV and suddenly realised, in a moment of epiphany, that Housewifery, if Mr Parsnip is not going to impregnate me, is NOT for me. (And let me hasten to add, Mr P has NO chance of impregnating me at the moment, the way I feel about kids!)

So, it was time to re-apply for weeerk. What could I do? Could I go back to my old job-type-of-thing, of online marketing? On the back of sorting out the water pressure on our boiler, and stopping the leaking radiators in the house, should I retrain as a plumber? Or a joiner, having always enjoyed wood-working and carpentry from my schooldays and my father's influence? Or what about Interior Design? I mean to say, that lettering in the bedroom looks bloody good! How many of you can say you wrote "Amore Vincit Omnia" with a steady hand after consuming half a bottle of Shiraz? In Calligraphic lettering?!

I re-applied for what I do best (I think) and that is online marketing, being a bit of a techy freaky-geek, deep down. I didn't go mad, really, being rather selective about what appealled. Mr Parsnip, being the magnanimous chappy he is (and having an ultradian memory...) informed me that I should go for a job which 'ticked every box'.

So, imagine my surprise (I have always wanted to write that à la Sunday Supplement Sensationalist Columnists) when I was phoned, out of the blue, by a company who were offering a role for which I had not applied, in a county to which I would not consider commuting...I informed them, immediately, that the type of commute they were expecting was out of my remit, and Thank You, but No, Thank You.

How about working from home, though?

*Gulp*

Pardon?

You might be able to work from home if you show your face once a week?

*Ahem* Well, but of course. We can discuss this, can't we? We're all adults here! When shall I come over?

What about tomorrow?

*thinks* Bugger! I wanted to drunkenly write 'Noli Perturbare' on my bedroom door tomorrow in Italic Garamond script...

*brightly* OK! Send me the address, I shall SatNav it, and see you at 3pm, as I have a 1pm meeting.

The address came, with warnings that it was very easy to get lost. I cancelled my 1pm, called the interviewer, asked if I could come early and arrived at exactly the same time, had I not rescheduled...

The drive was horrendous. 52 miles away, into Black Pudding Land (Deepest, Darkest Lancashire) and I got horrifically lost as the SatNav refused, point blank, to recognise any of the roads, streets, postcodes, POIs, that I input. I sat outside the Renault garage (not the Mercedes garage, about which I had been informed) and thanked God for mobile phones. The chirpy boss answered and informed me that if I did find my way, unaided, to his business park, the job was mine, anyway.

Spurred on by this, I found it, by hook or by crook, and almost shook his hand as I walked in, to exclaim, Where's the contract, then?

He was lovely, as was his partner. Next day, they offered me the job and I nearly bit their hands off. Although an agency had usurped them, by sending them my CV an hour after they had found mine on Monster I visited with them further to sort out the more 'sensitive' details.

And I got lost...

Again...

For some, very odd reason, I read, COME OFF AT JUNCTION 6 as, COME OFF AT JUNCTION 4.

I came off at J4, followed all the RH Lane, LH Lane, 2nd T @ R/A shorthand I had written, and kept thinking, Bloody Hell! I don't recall any of these places. I went across the same roundabout over the A666 (no joke! It really is the A666!) three times. Eventually, I was almost in tears, had rung the company and spoken to a telesales oik to pass a message on, and pulled into a burger bar lay-by.

The chap serving had 'football eyes': one home; one away and teeth that only an orthodontist could care about. But he was very amenable, looked at my directions, looked at me in pity, as though I was some escaped retard and explained that this was junction 4.

"Oh Shit!" I exclaimed, most indecently, and staggered across the potholes in the carpark, after having thanked him profusely, hobbling in my 5" heels and tight work skirt. I was hooted by a number of wagon drivers, who served to make me jump out of my skin and make me appear to be suffering from St. Vitus' Dance.

I eventually proceeded to the office, wherein my boss exclaimed that I was 'rubbish' and allowed me to go home early.

I was rescheduled to return in four days. Mr Parsnip informed me that time would fly so quickly, I would no sooner get there, than it would be time to come home. He was more correct than he has ever been in his life...by the time I reached the office, having travelled for 1.25 hours, I parked up and checked my text messages. There were two: one was from Mr P wishing me a lovely day; the other from the director asking me not to pitch up that day due to other commitments. I turned the car around and drove home...

Next time I went up, I didn't get home until 8pm, which wasn't much fun, particularly as the weather was decidedly awful on the M6 and then Mr P and I decided to have one of our bizarre rows where neither of us really knows why it happens but it just does...

And so I am back up there tomorrow. I have not slept properly for three nights, now, and am hoping that I will get some rest tonight. Mr P is already tucked up safely in bed, having had a jolly nice back rub from me. He has a day off tomorrow, but I am hoping against hope that he mows the lawn, hoovers the upstairs and makes me a jolly nice dinner for my return, but I am not holding my breath, knowing how blokes get side-tracked by DIY sites, techy sites, gaming sites, and porn.

So, I am just about to set my alarm for 6.30am. Thankfully, I now wear my hair very short, so a quick splash of water makes it seem OK rather than the previous 30 minutes GHD straightening, and, since the weather is so glorious now, I can happily squirt my face with fake-tan and look OK with a bit of mascara and lippy.

Roll on 7pm...

Christmas Time is Here II

2008-12-10T12:20:00.006Z

OK Agnes, you win.

So once again this year, I decided to try and engender some Christmas spirit, and also bond with step-daughters #1 & 2 by taking them Christmas Shopping at the Trafford Centre.

Agnes has nothing but hatred & disdain for these horrible shopping centres. A monument to consumerism, the Trafford Centre is a vast shopping complex on two levels, with a massive eatery in the middle. Fountains fire water jets high into the air, Christmas lights bathe all the shoppers in a happy glow as they elbow their way past each other. A brass band plays Christmas carols to those who walk by, and every single shop has Christmas music playing gently to soothe the souls of those who queue endlessly, to be served by sullen shop assistants who are fed up with Christmas and all the shenanegans of working until 11 every night for the four weeks prior to the two day celebration. (long sentence award here plz)

The bonding began in typical style, with both girls rushing in from school, excited at the prospect of a shopping trip. As we left a relieved Agnes and went to the car, then the antagonism began in earnest.

"I'm sitting in the front."

"No. I'm sitting in the front on the way there. You can sit there on the way back."

"Cow!"

Of course, there is no need to annotate which daughter said what to whom, because it's entirely interchangeable. It doesn't matter.

Imagine the scene...

5pm (rush hour)

Heading into central Manchester

Pouring down with rain

Dank, dark and cold night

Radio 1.

I could hardly see anything through the spray of the vehicles on the road. White vans screaming down the outside lane at 90mph with visibility down to a few yards. Terrified drivers sitting in any lane at stupidly low speeds. Lorries throwing up half an ocean in their wake. Brake lights on and off, last second lane-changing, me not overly familiar with the route, and two bored girls.

Radio 1.

I'll mention it again, because it is worth mentioning. Such noisy, talentless crap. Endless repetition of the same words "vummanizer... vummanizer... I'm a vummanizer, you're a vummanizer...." It was like those French lessons all so distant now... Je suis, tu es, il est, nous sommes... I remarked that her voice sounded like it was coming through a bucket-full of tights.

"She lost her voice," remarked #1 avidly. "She had a drug problem, lost her voice, and now she's making a comeback."

Perhaps she shouldn't have bothered, I thought, as I narrowly avoided being tossed into the side of a lorry by a nutter in a Mercedes who shot past me, only to slam his brakes on and cut across three lanes of rush hour traffic to dive down a slip road.

The radio got turned up, the girls started bouncing in their seats, and I rested my arm against the window and held my head as I continued to dodge the traffic. Christ, I was getting old. Music too loud, can't understand the youth of today... Did I sound familiar?

We hit a traffic jam with only 3 miles to the centre. I moved over into the left hand lane, as I knew I'd be pulling off soon. #1 looked at me with concern and suggested I moved out again to skip the traffic and pull in later, a tactic already being employed by half of Manchester, hence the reason we were stuck in this queue. I glared at the passing traffic and wished them all a thousand painful deaths. #1 tutted and went back to writing her letter in the dark*.

After about ten minutes of not moving, the girls got bored.

"I'm hungry"

"Are we there yet?"

"My back's hurting"

"I need the loo"

"Can I have that cushion for my back?"

"No! I'm using it as a pillow"

"But my back is really hurting!!"

"You can have it on the way back"

"Cow!!"

"When we get there, can we have something to eat first?"

I like order. The Trafford Centre is like a big long stick. John Lewis (my intended parking place) is at one end of it, and my plan was to walk up to the top on the ground floor, and back along the top, hitting all the shops we needed with military precision. There would be no time for dawdling. I knew what I wanted, and then I was getting out. Already I thought of Agnes, sat back at home, ordering everything online, and enjoying a cigarette without condemnation. Next year, I vowed. Next year.

And now The Plan was in danger of collapse. The food halls are half way up the stick. My mind went awhirl as I tried to figure out how to get to the food halls, feed the girls, do the shopping, and get back to the car without having to double back on myself and waste footsteps. I know, I know. You pity Agnes don't you?

And then, there was just one more worry.... I wanted to buy Agnes something nice. To wear under her clothes you understand. Things that step-daughters most definitely shouldn't see. Cautiously, and with great hindsight-enabled stupidity, I opened my mouth.

"Will you two be OK on your own if... well... you know... if I have to pop off for a bit?"

#1 looked up at me suspiciously. She can be terribly intelligent when the mood takes her. #2 dragged herself from her daydream, pulled her thumb out of her mouth and managed a "hmmm?"

"I need to pop off and get a few bits. Will you be OK in Boots or something?"

I caught a glance out of the corner of my eye of #1 turning this over in her mind. The penny dropped.

"Are you going to Ann Summers?"

I blanched. "Maybe. I'd like to get your mum something nice, and I might want to go into La Senza too (much more upmarket lingerie for the discerning woman)"

"What are you going to get her?" asked #1 innocently, yet veiled with impish maliciousness.

I, as usual when faced with #1's cockiness, momentarily froze. And like all of nature's victims, one second of hesitation is all it takes to prompt the attack.

A giggle came from the back seat. "Is it handcuffs?".

#1 guffawed. "Nah.. they've already got some of them." and then to me "Is it some sexy underwear?"

My face must have gone white, my hands felt slippery on the steering wheel. I wanted to vanish. I wanted to go home. I wanted Agnes to face this, not me.

"I'm thinking about getting her a nice nightie," I replied, surprising myself at the swiftness of my reply as well as the disarmingly un-interesting words. #1 immediately became bored. Thwarted, she returned to her letter, but #2 persisted in the back.

"I can help you choose it you know. I know what she likes!"

"No. It's OK thanks. I'll just bumble around on my own. Besides, I don't want you two in there poking fun at me, I'll be embarrassed enough as it is. It's just not right having you there while I buy night things for your mum."

#1 looked up, a gleam returning to her eye. "We won't poke fun at you. We'll just be there to help."

"Mum had a really nice nightie that she really loved," continued #2 from the back. "It had Eeyore on it."

I could imagine Agnes' face opening an Eeyore nightie. I remained resolute in the face of adversity.

"It's OK. Thank you. I'll be fine."

Eventually the traffic began to move, and five minutes later, we parked up.

After we'd had something to eat, which was an amusing experience whereby #2 went healthy with a Subway and #1 went unhealthy with a MacD's. After finishing her healthy option, #2 asked for a lone chip from #1's pile which was met with a venomous "NO!". I asked #2 if she wanted me to get a portion of chips and she said, Yes please! Sometimes the smallest things can make one feel good. The look on her face as I returned with the chips was worth the queue and the clueless service. I still refuse to call chips "fries", which utterly confuses most MacDonalds workers. I remember at school once, a group of us went down to MacD's and spent ten minutes going round asking the staff what the time was, counting up the amount of furrowed eyebrows or grunted responses. Quite a shocking revalation that was. Made me study a bit harder for my O'levels... But, I digress...

We hit the shops.

So. Without regailing you with a detailed account of the ensuing fun, here are the high points.

In Shop A:

#2 pointing at an item and saying "oooh. That's nice".

#1 responding in a voice loud enough for the shop to hear... "What?! Charlie can't afford that! It's X thousand pounds!"

In Shop B:

Me, browsing quietly and struggling to locate the Right Thing: "Can either of you two help me with this?"

#1, ignoring me "come and look at these boots I'm getting for Christmas"

#2, ignoring me "come and look at these shoes I like"

Me, repeating the question, in a sterner manner.

#1 and #2 shrugging their shoulder in unison: "Sorry, nope."

In Shop C:

I locate what I'm looking for, but lose the children. OMFG, I just lost the kids! Crap. I'm dead. For a second, I wonder whether Agnes will greet me with relief if I turn up back at the house without them, then I dismiss the fantasy and settle on the reality that I will, in fact, be dead. As a doornail.

#1 comes flouncing over with something in her hand. "Look at this! Isn't it lovely". #2 isn't far behind.

Stressed now, I come up with a Plan.

"Look. Here's some money. Why don't you go to Shop D and get your mum something nice. Look for something for her. Yep, For her.

#1 frowns as if this is something she will need to concentrate hard on. She nods, confident of her task, and the pair of them skip out of the store.

The shop assistant smiles gently as I pay for my goods. "They seem lovely girls. Do they get on?" I consider the truth, then realise that I'm holding up the queue, and that no-one ever wants to hear the truth.

"Yep,"I lie. I nod, smile, pay for my stuff and leave her mumbling about her sister with whom she constantly argues.

Outside of Shop C, I realise that I cannot see shop D. My fevered brain works overtime. I was sure it was close by. I look up and down the sea of heads. Crap. I lost them again. I look over the balcony. Nope. No sign of shop D. Shop E, however, is next door to C, so I figure that they'll finish in D then come back to C by the time I'm finished in E. Still with me? OK. Re-read from "Yep".

Shop E:

I dash inside, believing like some sort of SETI fanatic, that this shop won't be busy. It's rammed to the gills. I snatch what I want, and rush to the counter. God is smiling on me as the queue all but evaporates and I move to the empty assistant station. He smiles at me.

I clear my throat, fumbling for my mobile phone in my pocket and pulling out a pack of cigarettes which I rest on the counter. "I don't suppose you know where Shop D is do you?" I enquire.

He merely glares at the cigs and points to the warning on the packet which shows a mouth cancer victim in all its horrible glory. "That's 'orrible, that is." he states.

I wait. I look into his glassy eyes. There is no sign of movement.

"Wot?"

"I said... Do you know where Shop D is please?"

He furrows his brow. Jesus, I think. How hard can this be to figure out? It can't be that far away.

"Sorry mate, dunno. Is this a Christmas present?"

I nod absently. He's asking because he's going to give me a gift receipt. Agnes can take it back if it's wrong, but more pressingly, if I don't find the girls, none of this will matter, because I'll be dead.

"Lucky you." he states, and my mind stops dead. The words don't compute. What the f*ck is he on about? I look up at him and he is sadly picking the price tag off.

"What do you mean?" I enquire patiently.

"No-one's gonna get me nuthin' this year" he replies.

I consider telling him that if he doesn't shut up, he won't need to worry about it because my murder of him will be inconsequential to what happens to me when Agnes finds out that I have LOST HER CHILDREN. Life will be meaningless without testicles.

#1 saunters up to me as I leave the shop. They found Shop D without me, bought what they needed, then came back to find me. Good girls. I should never have doubted them. the panic subsides, but my head throbs.

After this, the visits to shop F, G and H, things go relatively smoothly. Even the visit to Ann Summers goes without a hitch as the girls are too engrossed in getting their respective boyfriends something nice to notice what I'm up to.

#2 was in the front on the way home*, which meant Rock FM, which was infinitely preferable to that commercial sh*t they play on Radio1. Although, having said that, even this so called "independant" radio station was pretty commercial.

Next year.

I use teh internets.

* Another story...

Christmas Time is Here!

2008-12-10T11:02:00.007Z

I am getting excited. Only 15 days to go until Chrimbo (as us Scousers call it) and I have now spent a small fortune of money which I don't really have. Therefore, I will probably have to go cleaning posh people's houses, write a book or prostitute myself to pay off the credit card bill which will land with an almighty thump on 2 January 2009. That day when you feel a hell of a lot better than the day before when your head is pounding with ten elephant ballerinas and somebody has emptied a cannister of CO2 into your guts...You wake up realising that you haven't died. You got through New Year's Day and only had to spend 2.5 hours in the bathroom, which wasn't that bad as they were showing Only Fools & Horses: that episode where Rodney 'hilariously' (and I use that term very, very loosely and if it drips with much more sarcasm, it is liable to wash away...) gets called a plonker for the millionth time by Del Boy, and The Wizard of Oz on the telly. Again.

Then the postman arrives and your world caves in. Ah me...Why do I like this time of year so very much?

Well, I shall let you into a secret. I love giving presents to people. I get much more of a kick out of giving them than receiving them, (Mr P, please don't take this statement too much to heart. Eternity Rings are an exception to this rule...) and I am like a cat on a hot tin roof, desperate for the recipients to play my guessing games as to what they are about to receive (and for that they should be truly thankful...Amen). For example, I have bought Mr P a *******/****/********** for Christmas and I cannot wait to give it to him. So I pester him to play the guessing game with him, promising him that if he does guess it, I won't tell him if he's right or not. He doesn't like this game, and refuses to play for some considerable time until I have made his ears bleed with my incessant nagging.

So, this morning, he wearily acquiesced, I promised faithfully not to give anything away and he asked, Is it anything to do with photography?

YES!

Oops...

I clapped my hand over my mouth in shock at my utterance, blushed unbearably red at my error and then squawked at myself, loudly, for being completely incapable of keeping a secret. I couldn't believe that my mouth was in Top Gear when my brain was still strolling down a pretty country lane...

Last year, whilst very distracted by a telephone conversation at work, I noticed, vaguely, that my colleagues were whispering amongst themselves. As soon as I put the phone down, one of them asked, Who did you get for Secret Santa, then? I automatically told them and was screeched out of the department for being a 'gob-sh*te' and incapable of holding my water.

This year, I thought I was being slightly more clever in ordering everything on-line and adjusting delivery dates to just before Christmas. So I wouldn't be tempted to hand everything out, you understand? I ordered this digital tablet thingummy for Charles, about which I knew nothing and then fretted. Was this what he wanted? It looked more like a hot-plate for warming pans than something with which you could do whizzy digital photography things. By 10pm, I had showed him the reviews, the tech specs, and groaned because he didn't think he had the USB port it required.

Two weeks ago, I bought him three photography books. One evening, he was a bit down in the dumps, so I gave them to him to cheer him up.

So that's now four presents of which he has knowledge.

(Aside: I keep smelling blue cheese in here...I wonder what's wrong with my nose?)

He's got to have some surprises for Christmas Day, so yesterday, I returned to eBay, armed with my Flexible Friend and, eyes shut very tightly, heart beating wildly, I hit the 'Buy This Now!' button. I do hate being bossed around by an e-commerce site, but they are bullies and I am a weakling at times...

I also had a winning bid on the most amazing, brand new, Nicole Farhi silk and cashmere jumper for him. Every hour, I checked 'My eBay', just in case, and with only 23 minutes to go until the bid ended, I got up to prepare dinner for my beloved family. And lost the bloody jumper. I was spitting hell, fire and brimstone. They can buy their own chips next time...

Despite what he says, Mr P finds it very difficult to hold his water, too. By 2pm yesterday, two of my presents were in my grubby hands and that was without a single, ingle word of cajoling or nagging. I hadn't even mentioned his shopping trip to him - and 'trip' is the operative word by all accounts, when the girls got to him about going within a five mile radius of Anne Summers. (Actually, as another aside, I have a blog to write about the Anne Summers' catalogue. To say I was lost for words and almost hysterical is NOT an understatement...then again, perhaps Mr P should write this for a change...hint, hint) Not once. I am actually really good like that. I don't root in hiding places, I don't ask what I am getting, I just stay very quiet and wish, with everything crossed, that I am getting an Eternity Ring, with dirty big, square-cut diamonds. If I stay really, really still and don't breathe for about 45 seconds, it might just come true...

So, 15 days to go. Actually, Mr P and I are spending Christmas alone this year. #s 1 and 2 daughters are off to the ex's house for six days. Although he has magnanimously allowed them to come here for a 'few hours' on Christmas Day itself. And I wouldn't mind betting it will be either over the lunchtime, so I have to get cooking as from first light, or when the Christmas Rugby Special is showing over on BBC2 wherein the Barbarians drub the living daylights out of England. As usual...

We will be celebrating Christmas for the girls on New Year's Day. A sort of BOGOF deal (Buy One, Get One Free) for them. So, Mr P has agreed to eat salmon with me on 25th December - no petrified turkeys in this house, this year. And we shall probably open a nice bottle of vin rouge or two, maybe stroll down to the local to walk off the mince pies and enjoy the ambience of the Hanging Gate's two bar electric fire.

I simply cannot wait!!

A Dirty Welsh Weekend

2008-12-03T06:08:00.004Z

So, off we go to Bodysgallen Hall Hotel for a mucky weekend, since Mr P had finally sold his house, there were a few, spare quid knocking about; #s 1 and 2 were at their father's house and we needed a break from household chores.

Mr P had a mad, final dash at work, meaning that he was unable to help me pack, load up the car, sort out the animals, wash-up or even make himself a cup of tea. It must be a nightmare replying to an email, mustn't it? #1, after a blazing row, wherein I threatened to stunt her growth for evermore, finally acquiesced to minding her sister and taking her to the cinema and so by midday, I was almost ready to leave the house. Bunnies fed? Check. Cat fed? Check. Doors and windows locked? Check. Handcuffs packed? What? What are they in your suitcase for, Mum?

I was sitting on the toilet at the time, reading a book, 'dropping off some timber', as my eldest so quaintly terms it and my brow furrowed in consternation wondering how I was going to get out of this one...

-They're to secure something in the car.

-Are you sure they're not for kinky stuff**?

-Positive. I swear to you. On my life. Really...

Bodysgallen Hall is an enormous country house hotel. Very snooty, very up-market and a bit better than the Holiday Inns I am used to. You even dress for dinner, which appeals to my vanity immensely - there is nothing better, for me, than putting on a slinky frock, 'boofing' up my hair, plastering on the make-up and getting out one of my hundreds of pairs of 6" stilettoes. Unfortunately, Mr P was unable to procure a room for us within the main body of the hall and so we were farmed out to the boondocks to stay in The Engine Room, a converted farm building in the form of a luxury cottage. It was fantastic, but the walk up the hillside to the Hall, in -6 degC temperatures, on ice and shale, in aforesaid 6" heels made the North Face of the Eiger look inviting. It was so bloody cold that over slinky frocks I had to wear a jumper, fleece, scarf, gloves and heavy overcoat. And I was still cold. And the hood from my fleece made me look like some dubious crack dealer.

The hotel is classed as a Spa: it has 'therapy and treatment rooms'; an indoor swimming pool; sauna; steam room; whirlpool and gymnasium. And it was for the gym I headed.

Many years ago, when living in Oman, I was a total gym-head. I couldn't get enough of the place, working out for two hours a day, almost every day, unless the ex took umbrage at the fact that I hadn't fed him fresh grapes for a few days. Since repatriation, I hadn't exercised in any way, shape or form and had become quite comfortably indolent and blasé about toning up or making my heart beat faster than at resting moment. So I packed my Nikes, my Bridget Jones knickers which look like gym shorts but are really my secret weapon, and a few skanky T-shirts to pong up.

I enjoyed it immensely, and I have to admit that the exercise bug has bitten me hard on the backside. I haven't been able to get to a gym since our return and I miss it like my right arm has been chopped off. I may just sneak off to LA Fitness tomorrow while Mr P is messing on his Photoshop, pretending to be busy...

On my third visit, I had arrived long before Mr P, who was only using the pool, and after our reunion in the steam room, and a big fat sweat in there, we were ready to clear off and head back home via TK Maxx, wherein I found the most fantastic pair of dirty designer shoes (at £10.00!), a pair of sunglasses (as mine have recently snapped and now make me look like Long John Silver with only one lens) and a box of crackers for Christmas.

Whilst doing some weight training, I had found a teeny-bopper CD and turned up the volume. It was all stuff that our girls love and force me to listen to on a regular basis. Artists like J-Zed, 50 percentage, Acorn...you know, those very trendy chappies. What happened to regular band names like The Grateful Dead, Ozric Tentacles and Black Lace? Unfortunately, after three songs in, and me pounding away like a mad woman, a sweet old dear limped in wearing her little black leotard, black tights, pumps and a horrified expression at the demonic sounds blurting from the sound system. Being the polite person I am, and always deferring to my elders, I asked her if she wanted to reduce the volume.

She switched channels to Classic FM wherein I then performed tricep dips to Vivaldi's 4 seasons in the 'A-Z of Composers'. I sort of lost my momentum.

Thankfully, her own work-out consisted of ten minutes of bouncing on the trampette and then stretching. She effusively thanked me for my consideration and then buggered off to the pool from where she waved at me before dipping her toe in the water. I cracked on until I saw the glint of Mr P's bald patch rising above the water during his breast stroke. I finished off, changed, and met him in the whirlpool.

After ten minutes of playing with his inflated swimming shorts, squeezing the air out of his herniated groin and cackling loudly, echoing around the building, we decided to remove ourselves and get ready to depart the hotel (boo, hiss!).

I retired to the ladies' and there found my 'Old Dear', stark naked, parading around as though she had the nubile body of a 16-year old. I was frankly quite startled at how the body sags in the late 60s. I averted my eyes as much as possible, but had it confirmed to me that,'Yes, it does go grey down there!'

As I padded around, grabbing my clothes and sorting out my changing room, she kept looking over at me and smiling. So when I emerged, fully dressed, and needing to dry off my hair, I suspected I now had a friend for life and would soon be learning a few things about this lady. Sure enough, she began with how 'utterly marvellous' Bodysgallen is and did I have membership?

-Er no. I am just here for the weekend.

-Ooooh. You're staying here. Well, how simply marvellous. We come here all the time. The food is marvellous (she did like that word) and do you know what I like about it?

-Err...it doesn't come in a bucket?

-The portion sizes. Nice and small. I cannot abide large portion sizes.

This was actually my only bugbear about the grub - portions were tiny. You can't get stuck in to a bit of nosebag if the meal is more about presentation than satiation.

-So where is your nearest Spa Hotel?

-We don't have any near us, really. There's a Spa up the road from where I live but it's not residential.

-It's name?

-Whitley Day Spa...(and I did feel a bit daft telling her this. Whenever we mention it in this house, it is always said with a broad Geordie accent.)

-No. Not heard of that one. My daughter is going to Hawkscross in the new year. Are you familiar with it?

-Er...nope.

Then she got chatting to me about her exercise plan which 'James' had devised for her. James is a veritable miracle man. He has reversed the stages of osteoporosis in one woman, reduced another man's hypertension and last week, he walked on the water of the swimming pool, chucking loaves and fishes to the visiting Germans. She proceeded to tell me all about her recent hip operation and how much better she now felt...

-I don't believe in operations, you know (why? I've seen them happen on 'I'm a Celebrity, Get Me Some Plastic Boobs'). No, I always tell people, If you don't need an operation, don't have it done.

Makes sense, I thought. I wouldn't book myself in for a spot of disembowelling if it wasn't necessary. I'd much prefer to visit the charity shops in Northwich and pick up a bargain.

-So, what I always say is, Beware!

Beware? Beware of what? Baddies? Spiders? Loan Sharks? Who? What?

She was obviously batty. I had been trying, for the past ten minutes, to leave and meet Mr P who would, by now, be on his tenth game of telephone Sudoku and wondering what the hell had happened to me. I took my leave and met him as arranged.

-Coo. Sorry. Couldn't get away from the old duck in the changing room. Do you know, she spent £35 to come here to watch eight minutes of fireworks. And I had to work-out to bloody Vivaldi...

-What? What's up?

Mr P was looking a bit green around the gills: The published room rate prices didn't include VAT.

I gulped. A further 17.5% to pay. And the muckiness of our weekend had pretty much extended to me almost slipping flat on my backside into a puddle. Now was not the time to ask for £400 to join LA Fitness in our local town.

-Ooh. Not nice. Are you OK? Do you want me to drive us home?

Mr P grimaced, gritted his teeth and said, with bitterness, Even the food allowance didn't cover the wine we ordered. You were right. (And I bet that hurt more than anything, having to admit that I was right for a change!).

-Ah well, at least we enjoyed it, eh?

-Yes. I think we should think about another break away, this time with the girls.

So we are camping at the bottom of our garden in a few weeks time, when the wood has dried out, we can have a bonfire and I can sling some jacket potatoes into the embers. Quality dining, quality accommodation. It'll even be en suite as I have a toilet in the outhouses and an outside tap. And I am not VAT registered...

**They never got used, honestly. Mr P crocked his back and the idea of tickling him with a feather around his armpits and being unable to fend me off just didn't cut the mustard, so we watched Schindler's List instead...

Hex My Pets

2008-11-17T13:28:00.005Z

This post was reputedly going to be written by Mr Parsnip, considering he was the one who flew into high dudgeon over the event, but as per usual, he is all mouth and no trousers and his photography priorities come high above such quality literature as you read on HexMyEx.

As our regular reader may know, we have taken possession of a black and white, male kitten. I have had cats (as befits a witch of my calibre) since I was knee-high to a grasshopper but unfortunately, over the last 20-odd years, haven't had much luck with them.

'Tom #1' snuffed it of a heart attack just shy of his first birthday, so along came 'Lucky', a rescue cat whose fate wasn't that lucky if you care to read the link. Lucky was the last cat I owned at my parents' house and upon moving in with the ex, I obtained 'Scroff', short for Scrofulous, meaning TB-ridden. She was lovely. She got knocked down by a car within eight months of us owning her. 'Poirot' came along to replace her and we later had to donate him to the mother-in-law upon our expatriation to Oman. 'Sid' (short for Sidr, which was the Garden Court upon which we lived - and I thought 'she' was a 'he') adopted us from a bin when we lived in Muscat. She was a scraggy stray who wobbled from the bin into our house, ate my sausages and didn't leave. She was then taken on by another family upon my departure. Repatriation brought 'Tom #2' who now resides with the ex and is the size of a small pouffe upon which you can rest your weary feet; 'Holly', in my own house, was donated to a friend whose daughter longed for a pet and since I was living alone and out at work 12 hours each day it was deemed kinder; then 'Ollie' and 'Norman' have been here and since done a runner, having found that living on the other side of the main road, where there are many foxy Tabbies is infinitely preferable to living on this side of the road where there is little but Carling Black Label cans, smelly old dogs and too many curious children for their liking.

After a short gap and a resolution NEVER to get another cat, I got all starry-eyed for a kitten one afternoon in the local hostelry having read the Mid-Cheshire Buy-Sell free paper in which there were plenty of scrawny runts for sale at exorbitant prices.

-Mr P? Can I have a kitten, please?

-Err...Yes. I guess so. If you want.

-OK!

Ten minutes later, I have a postcode, a time to collect the remaining male of the litter and suddenly, Mr P is more excitable than a bag full of monkeys. I learned that he had never had a pet from scratch, never named anything (apart from his City of Heroes' villains) and thus, I decided to 'give' the kitten to him, to love, cherish, feed, clean out its litter tray and leave the kicking and abuse to me.

'Oscar' came to our abode at the end of August, when #1 and #2 daughters holidayed in Spain. He was pampered, fussed over, molly-coddled and generally treated like a piece of precious porcelain by Mr Parsnip who even, at one point, suggested that he slept in our bedroom with us!

No bloody chance!

I have had one infestation of cat fleas in the house, many, many years ago and it was nightmarish waking up itching all over and as spotty as if I was suffering with Rubella...it wasn't even my fault for being a tardy pet-owner - the ex refused to give me any money to get some Bob Martin's; Tom #2 went a-wandering; obviously got in with a dirty woman cat and brought back his own version of VD to infect the manky carpets in the ex's house. Despite my constant complaining of flea bites, he refused to allow me to do anything other than scrub everything with bleach. It was only when #1 threw the Mount Etna of temper tantrums at the bites bedecking her legs, arms, hands and torso that he submitted and I was allowed to bring the disinfestation guys in. But only downstairs...

I had to use all my feminine guiles to get that disinfestation bloke into my bedroom...and I shall leave the rest to your imagination...!

So, while Oscar is a very cute kitten, with a gregarious nature, he seems to prefer to crap inside the house than outside. He has a vast expanse of garden, including a soft, squishy compost heap but, no, he will go outside, pretend he is 'hard' in front of rabbits Lambert and Butler, and then yowl to come back in for a dump. It is tedious. There were a number of accidents at one point, after we had gradually edged the litter tray outside and Mr P would frequently be seen with his head resting on the kitchen floor, spreading his hands out, doing a reccy for cat pee. With the dim lights in the kitchen, his hands would often slide right through Oscar's latest offering, smear it even further and then an outburst of filthy, filthy language would colour the air blue, offend my sensitive nature and the cat would suddenly learn how to fly. Invariably, I end up cleaning the mess.

It is Mr P's duty to empty the litter tray. If he complains, the girls and I chorus to him: He's YOUR cat! I suspect he has now sussed that the small matter of the naming ceremony, and presenting the kitten to him, as his very own, had a few hidden agendas on my part...

Anyway, on Saturday night, there we were, dressed in all our finery, ready for a night out from which we blobbed and decided to cook at home instead and Mr Parsnip hears the plaintive meowing of his darling kitten from the outhouse passageway, raises his voice an octave and gently coos, Oscar! Ozzie, Come on, Come on inside out of the cold. Aaah. Look at you, you're all soggy like a drowned rat...

Oscar stalks in, looking most disgruntled from his bath to which I subjected him after he came down from the loft with blue legs, belly and face; skinny and matted, scowls as only a cat can, and sniffs in the corner of the kitchen, six inches from his litter tray.

There was then a moment of intense concentration. It was as if time stood still as Mr Parsnip stared at the cat; the cat stared back and suddenly, Mr P squawked, Is he having a sh*t? Another moment of stillness and then Mr P launched himself at the moggy, picked him up by the scruff of his neck, revealing a steaming, curled turd on the floor and suddenly had to arch himself backwards. The cat, all four limbs stuck out at odd angles had decided that his bowels weren't quite empty and continued to evacuate them mid-air. Cat poo splattered across the skirting board, the kitchen floor and the door mat.

The air became quite blue, the door was flung open and the kitten was flung out.

Dirty little F*cker! Dirty, Dirty Little F*cker!! That's just disgusting! Dirty, dirty Sod! Six inches from his litter tray. Six Inches!!

While this tirade continued to rage, I did the practical thing: got some toilet paper from the bathroom, started picking up the mess in between gipping sessions, and then disinfected the areas. It was all sorted out within a few minutes and Oscar suddenly had a much cleaner litter tray to use after Mr P galvanised himself to pitch the used kitty-lit.

Later in bed, the tirade resumed.

MY kitten. Oh yes. MY BLOODY KITTEN, isn't he? 'Here you are, YOU can name him. He's yours now'. Oh I fell for that one, didn't I? I'm never listening to you get all starry-eyed in the pub again. Never. It was a bloody trap.

But I clean up his accidents, I responded, mildly. And I feed him.

We ALL bloody feed him. That's why he sh*ts so bloody much. He never stops eating. I have to clean his bloody litter tray out. He goes outside, and then comes back in TO SH*T!!

And then I got hysterical. Mr P, when in high dudgeon, is one of the funniest sights known to man. It took me about 20 minutes to contain myself. I laughed so hard, I didn't need to remove my make-up as the tears had done it for me. Upon my return from the toilet, Mr P levelled a scowl so hard at me, that if looks could kill, I'd now be six feet under the clay.

What's that look for?

I'm writing my blog, he said, ominously...

Obviously not...

Hexing on YOUR Behalf...Ingrates! Tsk...

2008-11-03T08:42:00.004Z

Right. Since putting up the Hallowe'en Hex post, I have been positively inundated with requests to Hex people (well, I think three of you asked, anyway...). So, as I am a very biddable person and always keen to assist, I shall attempt forthwith. Trouble is, you haven't really told me any of the whys and wherefores, such as names, dates, incidents. Rubbish, aren't you? Therefore, it is up to me to guess.

Here goes.

Karen: You asked me to hex some of your exes. I'll hex two of them for you (a sort of BOGOF deal - and in case you don't have that irritating mnemonic in the States, it means, Buy One Get One Free. When the noxious git who coined the phrase comes on the telly, squawking it at the camera in order to sell bloody double glazing, I have to mute the sound and hide behind a cushion. He is ghastly. So a hex on him while I'm at it, too...)

Ex #1. Let's call him Oswald. Oswald was a big, fat, slobbery chap with enormous rubbery lips. He was a terrible kisser and used to leave slaver all over your face. You didn't like this at all and asked him to stop making you feel as though you had been licked to death by a Labrador with halitosis. He wouldn't. This made you very cross. You also didn't like the way he would rub your cats' fur up the wrong way, thus making them very disgruntled. You don't like it when your cats are miserable. To top it all, every night, when you wanted to get jiggy in bed (as long as there was no kissing), he would bring up a plate of cheese and pickled onion butties, rest them on his big fat belly, and not offer you any. That was the height of bad manners to you. And then he dumped you. So you've never got over that ignominy. Thus, a Hex on Oswald. May his pickled onions chemically react with his slobber and his bottom explode...

Ex #2. Let's call this chap Norbert. Norbert was very, very mean with his money. He wouldn't allow you any spends and you would have to cut the NY Post up into strips for toilet paper. For six months, you lived on cardboard and beans, which unfortunately for you, was highly calorific, so you put on heaps of weight and became a right lard-arse. And you didn't like that in the slightest, did you? His meanness even extended to 'Belly-Button fluff farming'. Terrible. Each week, you and the girls had to line up while he extracted the fluff from your navels. Then he would force you to spin it into yarn and knit your jumpers for the winter. They were always grey-blue. After six years of this misery, he left you for a life in a Scottish croft with a woman he had met on a self-sufficiency website forum. They then wrote a book together, advising people on how to make money playing the stock markets and are now multi-millionaires and very happy since their marriage. What a cad, eh? Thus, a Hex on Norbert. May the tax man locate him, throw him in prison where he is too scared to bend down for the soap in the showers because he is a very pretty boy, isn't he? May he have difficulty going to the toilet for the rest of his life. And I know how awful that can be, so that really is a vicious Hex...

Ok, you're done. Next up is Keli who wants me to hex 3-4 people. No. You can have two like Karen. Stop being greedy. You don't give me any indication of who these people are...tsk! So, I will use my powers of clair-whatsit, and reckon that one is your husband's second cousin twice removed - Sandra; and the other is that bloke down at the Post Office - Ezekial.

Sandra. Well, what can I say? She really is a vituperous, malfeasant little vixen, isn't she? Do you remember that time you told her you were allergic to nuts, and during Thanksgiving dinner, she announced that since she had become vegetarian, you were having Nut Loaf as your main course? And as you are severely diabetic, you just had to eat it and blew up like a barrage balloon. Terrible. You've still got the swelling on your ear lobes to prove it, haven't you? She also sends Christmas cards addressed to your husband, 'Basil', the boys, 'Charlie and Chuckie' and 'her'. Not nice at all. In fact, she just doesn't like you because she sends me lovely Christmas presents like ornamental frying pans to hang on the wall. My favourite contains a chicken hatching an egg**. Thus, a Hex on Sandra. May the non-stick coating on her Teflon pans wear away so she can no longer prepare dinners and has to eat raw meat for the rest of her life (she's not really vegetarian, you know - she was lying...) which clogs up her colon and makes going to the toilet difficult. (As you may have gathered, this is a problem which is forefront in my mind at the moment and I cannot seem to get rid of it.)

Ezekial. Well, not only is his name rather daft and difficult to keep on typing, he keeps telling you to go to different windows at the Post Office when you want to tax your car, open a savings account, purchase some bonds, withdraw cash or buy a Lottery ticket. And, he short-changes you, every time, gawps at you when you correct him, calls everyone to witness what he is being accused of and makes you feel a right trouble-maker. From all this change he has creamed off you, he has bought a yacht which he sails in the Florida Keys (my geography is a bit crap - is that a watery place?). Thus, a Hex on Ezekial. May his main-stay mast get dry rot, and may he be forcefully beset about by Seaman Staines (say it out loud...) and Master Bates (again, say it out loud...).

Mars: Again, you wanted the exes, didn't you. Well, OK, one of them was my ex who you snogged at the Dubai Rugby 7s in 2002. I know. I saw you on the big screen. I have Hexed the Ex repeatedly in this blog so I can't think of much more to say about him at the moment as he has been rather quiet just recently. But it serves you right. You snog him, you get what you deserve. I know I certainly did. By gum, I must have been a bad bugger in a former life...Karma...that's what they say, isn't it? Am I rambling?

Linda: Now, thank you. Everyone!! Take note. At least Linda gives me something to work on. Blimey. She even gives names and vague incidents. So, first up, Maxine. Well, she was the golden girl, wasn't she? Everyone fancied her. And didn't she know it? And whenever she was on milk monitor duty, she'd always make you wait until last so you got the warm milk, didn't she? Not nice. Warm milk in the Australian heat. It was almost sour cream by the time you got your lips round that milk bottle. (I have a story about milk bottles, actually, but I don't know if it would fit in here as it is rather rude and it happened when my friend Andrew and I were very naughty teenagers and used to make crank calls to Gay Switchboard. We didn't know any better. We were horrible...). Fatty and ugly? You? Well, a Hex on Maxine. May her blubber be mistaken for a whale's when she is swimming off the coast of Tokyo; she is harpooned in her backside and can no longer go to the toilet properly. Rotten old faggot...

Your maths teacher. Mr Hiscock. His first name was Aaron. (Say it out loud, please, otherwise none of my excellent, subtle jokes will work. And I try ever so hard with them. Just ask Mr Parsnip...I told him a joke I had made up yesterday morning. It took him ages to work it out and I had to tell him the whole plot of Macbeth before he got it. Tsk! Sometimes I wonder what I am doing in this life...). So, back to Mr Hiscock. He knew, deep down, that you were related to Albert Einstein, a whizz at maths and thus had 'algebra-envy'. He made your life living hell, repeatedly dragged you out to the front of the class and forced you to deconstruct the Theory of Relativity, which he had learned off by heart and was waiting for you to write ♥=π + Ω / 2dy (∞ + 46 (Σ 1 + ½)) instead of ß = π + Ω / 2dy (∞ + 46 (Σ 1 + ½)). Bastard. (I hope you realise how long it took me to write out that sodding equation using all the flipping Alt keys...Ages...). So, may the fleas of a thousand camels infest his armpits, may his quadratic equations crumble to dust and may he be constipated for the rest of his life.

Bugger. I have just realised. Your maths teacher was a woman. Oh well, let's just pretend, eh?

Mr Charles Inigo Parsnip: You asked me to Hex cheeky kids. Well, I vividly remember that time Masher Malloy and Grebo Toerag threw cheese slices at you when you went to the chippy for your fried steak and kidney pie, mushy peas and fried rice. You were very shaken upon your return, weren't you? You also looked reminiscent of a McDonald's Bic Mac. But without the gherkins. I personally feel it is just zestful youth - an outlet for their angst and pain. To throw cheese slices at you isn't that bad, but, well...we can all be affected by trauma in our lives. So, a Hex on Cheeky Kids. May their pocket money dry up so they can no longer purchase cigs, Carling Black Label and WKD. May their tongues harden so they cannot speak and their bottoms cease to function normally so they feel sluggish and tend to stay indoors to watch Blue Peter where they can learn how to bake scones and apple pie.

Right, I am spent. This has taken it out of me, I hope you realise! Eight massive Hexes in just one morning. I've got nothing left for the cat now, who is presently humping a furry toy sheepdog Mr P purchased for #2 daughter on one of our mucky sojourns to Wales a few months ago. Thank goodness his testicles haven't yet dropped...the cat's, not Mr P's, if you need clarification.

Donations for Hexes are always welcome. In GB pounds, please - none of your silly money over in the States, Oz and Dubai. Or cheques. As long as you write your card details on the back. Just make them payable to 'Agnes Mildew' as I haven't yet changed the name on my bank account to 'Agnes Mildew-Parsnip'. Let's work it out as 50p/word.

Perhaps I should 'pad' those Hexes out a bit more...

**The ornamental frying pan. I genuinely did receive this gift once from the ex's step-mother. And it did have a chicken in it, hatching an egg. I was utterly confounded by what I was supposed to do with it. So I donated it to the Charity Shop. I wonder who bought it?

Curry Munching and Death by Grouse

2008-11-02T07:15:00.013Z

I am an ardent curry lover. I can eat curry until it comes out of my ears, as well as other places (which is why a roll of toilet paper sits in our fridge). Whilst living in Oman, I was in Curry Heaven and it was The Real Thing! None of this wishy-washy 'hot' gravy stuff which seems to come out of every small town corner curry house in the UK.

Whilst pregnant with #2, I abused the rights of pregnant women and decided to feign cravings for curry and thus gorged myself on Pav (pronounced 'pow') Bhaji for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Every day. As they were the cheapest curries in the whole world, being made purely from potato, tomato, peas, chilli and onion, (some put cauliflower into it, but that is revolting and we won't go there...) it saved the ex a fortune on food bills, so his only complaint was having to drop into the 'pow barjee caff' each night on his way home from work. Unfortunately, what I saved on food, I lost on Gaviscon, as those curries certainly made their presence felt in the early hours of the mornings...

My very first curry was in the 80s when a group of us staggered from a seedy nightclub in St Helens, called Sindy's, decided we were hungry, and couldn't find a Donner Kebab van anywhere (which is a blessing in disguise when you consider that gunge aside →, from which they SHAVE meat into a warm pitta bread. It's reputedly lamb. I don't think it has ever baaa'ed in its life. Squeaked, maybe. Possibly even gnawed a few electric wires in someone's attic. But never baaa'ed).

So, into Tarik's we went. Being a nube, yet not wanting to appear a gurlie-wuss, as I was out with a group of rufty-tufty blokes who had been strutting their stuff on the dance floor to Mel & Kim and Wham!, I went for the chicken korma. A curry, but a mild one with coconut and mango. Sounded good. Unfortunately, my virgin tastebuds had never managed anything hotter than a Spicy Beanburger from Wimpy. The sweat oozed from every pore, I panted like an ageing incontinent Labrador, swigged back a few gallons of water and used every napkin on the table to mop up my tears. What a Girl!

Yet, there was something about those exotic spices which addicted me. And I persevered and toughened up. Every week, I would attempt a curry after Sindy's, and when the sweating and tears started to abate, I moved up a spice notch and tried the next one.

So, by the time I hit Oman, I was a Vindaloo Virtuoso and thus the whole menu had opened up to me and by gum, I hit the ground running...no wonder I ballooned at one point, what with all that ghee and coconut milk!

One summer, when most of the expat wives had fled the scorching heat of Muscat for the cool, wet climes of the UK, I was asked to write a "Challenge the Chef" article for Living in the Gulf magazine in Dubai. So, it was time to collar the bachelors. Those poor saps whose wives had abandoned them, who were living on shish kebabs, samosas and schwarmas, and teach them how to cook. So, what was the best thing to teach them? Yup, how to make a curry. I visited the restaurant, Passage to India, collared the manager, explained that it would be excellent publicity for them, being a brand new restaurant, blagged a free meal for four out of him for that night, and set the date up with their chef, Sanjay. And so, The Curry Munchers' Club was borne from that night.

Dave (the bachelor hosting the challenge) and I went to the shop with Sanjay and gave him carte blanche on what to buy with 20 rials (our budget to feed four starving bachelors, me and the photographer, Richard). All manner of odd-looking vegetables went into our basket which I couldn't name now if you paid me as well as chicken, fish and loads and loads of firey chilli peppers. We sped back to his house where the other three bachelors, which included my ex, who had whinged at me so hard about being left out that he had to come, were well stuck in to their Millers. Richard and I set the shots up, dragged the lads away from the footie on Dave's 42" telly and got them to work. To be honest with you, the lads were so drunk by this stage, they couldn't have opened a packet of crisps, let alone made a Korma, and so Sanjay and I did most of the work.

The food was utterly fantastic, the atmosphere was buzzing and we were all having a whale of a time. Until Dave got his 3-litre bottle of Famous Grouse whiskey out (1 litre left) and started pouring out the drinks. This was around 1am and Sanjay was long tucked up in his bed. I demurred and asked for a Miller Lite instead. But Dave set up a chant of obnoxious insults, to which the others joined in and suddenly my hi-ball was a third full of Famous Grouse. Then it was a case of "Down in One or Show us Yer Bum!". And, always one to accept my own challenges, I acquiesced...time, and again...

It's not a good idea to eat firey curries, drink a load of lager and then toss back treble whiskies as though they are Dandelion and Burdock. It's also not a good idea to be the only woman in a group of hardened drinkers who have taken you to their bosoms and decided to make you an honorary bloke for the night.

I wasn't very well the next day. I had an article to write up, photographs to develop, two children to care for and another interview to set up. I just went back to bed and died a thousand deaths.

At 3pm, Dave called me to see how I was. I simply groaned. He sounded lighter than air; all fresh and fun. Reckoned the spices had given him a few grumbles in the night, but had really enjoyed himself, thanks very much and all that. I gently put the receiver back on its hook and covered my throbbing head with the duvet.

There is a saying in the UK that the only way to kill a Vindaloo is with a lager. Take heed of that, fellow curry munchers. Because the only way to kill yourself is with a Vindaloo and many treble whiskies.

The curry I partook of last night (as we have finally found a superb curry house in Northwich) was accompanied by Adam's Ale. Aqua Vita. Water.

Hence why I am awake at 6.30am, writing this drivel, and feeling tickety-boo.

Learn from my research. That's why I do it. For you...

Hallowe'en Hexing

2008-10-31T15:02:00.008Z

For some strange reason, my hand looks a bit abnormal on this photo. I can guarantee, it is not a penis at the side of my head...

Considering this blog was originally started to Hex my Ex and cast all sorts of curses and incantations on those who have thwarted me over the years, I'm not doing very well on the Hallowe'en front, bearing in mind it's the one night of the year that evil witches like me can get on their broomsticks and legitimately hex all and sundry.

So, out of respect for this day, I am going to provide a top ten list of those people and things which I would (still) hex with impunity. Although my conscience is generally quite alert, today, it can bugger off while I flex my talons, search inside the knife drawer for the sharpest tools, and rip forth with the most barbed remarks I can possibly make about the following damnèd irritations of which I have/had the misfortune to experience.

10. Lisa Tickle. The Head Girl at our High School. She beat me to it by one vote and so I never got to take home the plastic shield all Head Girls were offered for a grand total of eight months. She also claimed that being size 14 was enormous (that was my size at the time), yet when I peeked into the skirt she had taken off before PE, I saw that the label read size 16. AND she snogged Paul Speed after I did and ended up going out with him for six months. I think that is what makes me want to hex her the most. I snogged him first, he told me my brown eyes were as beautiful as a Jersey Cow's (was that a compliment, do you think?) and that he wouldn't mind getting into my pants. I declined that offer, I must admit. Knowing her, though, I bet she didn't...

9. Mrs Brown, our 4th year Junior school mistress. She sported a bosom upon which you could have set a row of pint pots with whiskey chasers and wore a conical bra long before Gaultier even thought of bedecking Madonna in his gold creation. One day, I snuck my maths text book home to ask my brother to give me a hand with some complicated work (this was punishable by death in Mrs Brown's book) and intended to surreptitiously slide it back into my desk the following day. Unfortunately for me, I fell ill with tonsilitis that night and couldn't return to the school for a few days. Mrs Brown decided to do a spot check for desk tidiness during my absence, and thus noticed the concomitant absence of my Alpha-Beta book. Upon my return to school, I was warned that I was 'in for it'. Sure enough, I was hauled up to the front of the class, bawled out and then the hand went back for an almighty wallop across the back of the legs.

I moved out of the way, just in time, and she clattered her arm right across the hard metal corner of her desk. I legged it, the Headmaster entered to speak to her, and I was saved...for once!

8. Mindy Hammond. This just says it all.

7. Mario, my former boss. What a lech. This egocentric, rotund, smelly South African decided that whenever his skeletal, equally smelly wife (who picked her ear wax and ate it) was out of the office, he would try it on with me. It got to the stage where I used to simply laugh at him. But he didn't like that at all. It was when he clicked that I was winding him up, asking him to regale us all with tales of his days in a band, when women threw their underwear at him, and I asked if they also threw their white sticks, that I got the sack. I can't stand people without a sense of humour...

6. Another boss, Bernard. Just a little upstart, really. Told me that I was desperate for him but he would have to fend me off, 'unfortunately' for me. Used to sneak up behind me and tickle me hard in the ribs, getting me screaming abuse loudly, at which he would then take umbrage and interrupt me constantly when I was trying to get work done. Never used to pay me on time, either, so that one Bank Holiday weekend, once again without a monthly salary, I had no money to buy cigs, fill my car up with petrol or buy any food. It was the lack of cigarettes which grated the most...

5. Trinny and Susannah. These self-appointed TV fashionistas are obsessed by boobs. On men or women. They grope, analyse, critique and denegrate every breast which comes into their line of vision (they would have had a field day with Mrs Brown, above). They are rude, obnoxious, sport the most dreadful dress sense (the picture aside is the only one I could find which makes them look well-dressed, actually) and purport to be able to tell us peasants how to dress our best. I have had the misfortune to watch their programme, Undress the Nation, once, and vowed, Never Again. Banal, puerile tripe for people who don't know how to make an appointment for a hair-cut; don't realise that Charity Shops sell the best designer gear for a fraction of the prices you pay in the High Street, and are generally gormless, slavering morons. 'Nuff said.

4. Steve Wright. A BBC Radio 2 DJ who is the most sycophantic little tosser one could ever have the misfortune to listen to. He invites guests onto his 2-5pm show, purports to have read their books/listened to their latest CDs/had them over for dinner and positively gushes over their every word. His laughter is that of a gurgling drain, belching over raw sewage: stinking, foetid and not pleasant to witness. He refers to celebrities as his 'great mates' (even if he has never met them previously...or perhaps they asked him directions to the toilet at some BBC awards ceremony) and his nose is so dark from 'brown-nosing' that you might suspect he has severe circulation problems in his extremities.

3. Air musicians. Anybody who plays the air-guitar, air drums, air-saxophone, air-sackbut. I don't care. Whatever they 'air-play' deserves a very extreme hexing in my book. Now, I am a classically trained organist (no jokes, please) and will, in deep reverie, mildly tap out tunes on the arm of the settee, or atop my leg - with only one hand, I will have you note - but I DO NOT close my eyes as I am doing it, I DO NOT simulate orgasms while I am doing it, I DO NOT pout and jut my head back and forth in a manner reminiscent of Mick Jagger, and I DO NOT think I look cool. It is a very private affair between me and the sofa. People, (and particularly men) who decide that virtual scratching of their privates, whilst pretending to pluck a bass guitar are just sad. Sad, lonely and need to get some outside interests such as toad-sexing. Anything but air-playing...

2. Sunday League Cyclists. If you live in a rural, or semi-rural area as I do, every Sunday the country lanes are plagued by these be-lycra'ed human-insects. They don all sorts of bright colours to stand out (and thus make fair sport for me to attempt to knock them down if I am out and about in my car), ride two or three abreast, gob everywhere as they are cycling and basically look abnormal. They also slow me down. And I only want to be slowed down in my car if I choose. Last time Sunday League cyclists slowed me down, I crawled behind them for about 200 metres then blasted on my horn so loudly that they wobbled dangerously, hit the kerb and I overtook, shouting the Highway Code at them (ergo: Thou shalt not cycle more than one abreast on a road. Particularly if Agnes Mildew is abroad).

1. Yes, it's the one you've all been waiting for. Well, possibly two of you have been, if you haven't dozed off yet. It's the Pick of the Pops (and you really ought to listen to this music, as it is seminal for us 30-somethings in the UK who listened to the Radio 1 charts!).

The Ex!

How could I write a blog called HexMyEx without mentioning that little malodorous junket of crap? Big Nose; Tosser; Knob-end...ah, my terms of endearment go ever on. If you want to know why I hex him, read the blog. If it's a case of TL;DR, well, your loss. Don't come crying to me when you can't follow what's going on...

Happy Hallowe'en, Hexers!

Hedgerows & Agnes's Hegemony

2008-10-27T07:46:00.007Z

Mr P was 'my bitch' for all of one hour last night. I did ask for a sex slave for the rest of my life, but he wouldn't go along with that, much to my chagrin, claiming that he would like a turn from time to time.

After working for around three hours making Sunday Roast (which was chicken, not rabbit) and spectacularly spitting my dummy out when #1 complained that I had poured fresh cream on to her lemon cheesecake, Mr P decided to get me out of the house to calm down and cool off - it was certainly the right temperature outside to do this, I can assure you: it was bitterly cold; at one point I could hardly see through the driving rain and the gales were whipping down the collar of my coat, freezing me to the bone marrow. But nary one word of complaint came out of me. Probably because I had to grit my teeth together so forcefully in case the chattering dislodged some important brain cells.

And then, in true English weather-style, the sun shone brightly, the wind died down and I was able to thaw out. And then I spotted the wild mushrooms growing on the Alder trees. In Britain, there is a variety of wild mushroom called the Jew's Ear. They are not a pretty sight when they cluster together in a bit of a creepy, Uriah Heep-type way, and they have a rather gelatinous quality to them. But, if you first soak them in boiling water and then add a pinch of salt, they'll rival any Truffle rutted up by a pig in Provençale. I had no bag with me, so I stuffed handfuls into my coat pockets. Then my gourmet imagination got to work and I picked handfuls of young nettles. I requested that Mr P found me a stray plastic bag and he spotted one which he suspected had originally been designated for dog poo and blanched slightly. But it was clean (and would only have added to the flavour anyway) and into the bag went my mushrooms and nettles.

-Mmm! Wild mushroom and nettle soup, eh? What do you reckon?

Mr P's face looked like a bulldog licking urine off a thistle.

-It'll be fantastic! This is what we said we'd do - go foraging; live the Good Life. Be Tom and Barbara!

Mr P's face remained bulldog-like.

-Honest! Full of iron, goodness, taste. It'll taste fabulous, believe me. All I need is some butter, white wine and creme fraiche.

-And if I don't like it, I don't have to eat it, do I? And you won't get cross with me? I am warning you, you know.

-Listen, if you don't like it, I'll eat raw nettles. If you do like it, you'll be my sex slave forever. OK?

Mr P declined to respond...

Well, I set to work, chopping, soaking, brewing up, having a wee nip of wine as I went along and the most wonderful smells started to emanate from that pan on hob. And Mr P started to look more and more uncomfortable.

After an hour of simmering, I blended my brew and the most wonderful mushroom-coloured broth emerged. Mr P gingerly stuck his nose into the pot and looked puzzled.

-It smells bloody lovely, actually, he confessed.

-Yup! Try it! It is lovely.

-You have washed everything haven't you? A dog won't have peed on this stuff?

-Oh, come on! How can a dog cock its leg four feet up a tree?

-Might have been a big dog...

He gingerly tasted the soup. And then had another spoonful. And another.

-That's really, really nice!

-Mwahahahaha! Told you, didn't I?

#2 was in the kitchen with us at the time. She was shocked out of her skin to see Mr P go down on both knees and beg forgiveness from me.

-Please forgive me. I am sorry for doubting your culinary expertise. I am sorry. *kiss, kiss, grovel, grovel*

-OK. So you are now my sex slave forever?

-No. I want a turn from time to time, too.

-OK. You can be my bitch, then.

-Alright. I can go along with that. Can I have a bowl later, please?

And so, the Battle Of The Hedgerows was Agnes Mildew (1) - Charles Parsnip (0). A big fat, round Zero!

And off he has toddled to work this morning armed with the chicken legs from yesterday's roast, some home-made biscuits, and Hedgerow Soup.

What more could a man ask for?

Cheap and Nasty...

2008-10-23T15:26:00.006+01:00

I appear to come from a long line of bargain-hunters. It must be in the blood; a twist in my DNA which was created when first I was just a twinkle in a boiler-house fitter's eye. My mother is the most repugnant bargain-hunter: belligerent; rude; arrogant and embarrassing. I mean to say, one simply doesn't haggle the undies down in a charity shop, does one?

However, I am a watered-down version of her when it comes to bargains and the 'reduced' aisle in our local supermarkets. Only today, I informed Mr P that I was going to the Co-op for milk and prawns. I returned with a bag filled with miniature cheeses - those ones which are very poncey, look great on the dinner table and make you bankrupt (reduced from £2.19 to 40p); a lemon cheesecake (reduced from £3.29 to 60p); six organic, free-range eggs (reduced from £1.75 to 75p) and Scotch eggs (reduced from £1.99 to 99p).

I forgot to get the prawns.

I am always seduced by the reduced...

I shop at charity shops and second hand shops most of the time - eBay is my best friend. I don't mind wearing other people's cast-offs in the slightest. I have even been known to make 45 minute drives over to Wilmslow, home of the Manchester United players, whose wives and girlfriends (WAGs) donate their Armani, Gucci, Versace and D&G to the local Oxfam, British Heart Foundation and Cancer Research shops. It's the place to pick up a designer bargain most of the time.

On one of my trips, I got chatting to a fellow bargain hunter who told me only that morning he had purchased a Hugo Boss suit, pure wool, still with tags for £25.00. It had been donated literally minutes ago by footballer, Roy Keane. Colleen Rooney (Wayne Rooney's new wife, little Scouse bundle of fluff and £££s that she is) makes a point of donating all her cast-offs to the charity shops in Wilmslow. And women fall on them like ravening wolves. Particularly as she doesn't fit the usual WAG stereotype of being rake thin and shapeless. She is 'all vumman'! And therefore, half of Unposh Cheshire, those of us filled with Pies and Prejudice [apologies, Stuart Maconie] (that's where I live) cannot wait for her to have a jolly good clear-out. And I don't mean on the toilet...

Now, my bargain hunting doesn't always turn out for the best, I have to be honest. I have risked 'sell-by dates', forgotten about them, having stored said items in the fridge, and returned to find a green, furry mass of seething cures for the diseases of the Third World. I have also bought items of clothing from eBay, claiming to be such and such a size, got them for £3.50 plus P&P and the discovered that they are size 8, but only if you are a midget with anorexia. I even, much to my utter dismay, bought the most fantastic Karen Millen dress the other month from eBay for £40 when it should have been £200. It was on the kinky side, I must admit - all black, fitted satin; bondage style zips and just quite dirty, really. I bust the side zip, trying to pour myself into it in a very ungainly manner. I had to actually be cut out of the damned thing. Mr P got his pliers and broke the zip so I could breathe again. I decided to take it to a seamstress to have it let out slightly and have the zip mended, but I left it on a pile of books designated for donation to Oxfam before doing so.

And the dress went with the books...

I was extremely, very, awfully, very, exceptionally upset...

Now, we are attempting to tighten our belts at the moment and save money where necessary as we are in a rather precarious financial situation, waiting for Mr P's house down south to sell. So, I have been bargain hunting in ways which I know would make #1's and #2's stomachs turn were they to ever read their mother's blog...which they refuse to, because IT'S BORING!!!

So, they will never, ever know that last night, their 'chicken casserole' was actually 'bunny brew'...A whole bunny for three quid! I can't even buy one decent sized chicken breast for that amount! It was a pretty grotesque thing to behold, I must admit. It was vacuum-sealed in plastic from our local Master Butcher and had this bit of absorbent 'paper' upon which it lay, and which appeared to be speckled with the detritus from a hairy man's razor blades. It turned my stomach and I had to ask Mr P to take it from the plastic, give it a wash and make it slightly more presentable before I could attack it.

Although my best intentions were to carve the uncooked meat first and then casserole it, I simply couldn't do it. Outside, gambolling in their run, were Lambert and Butler, our two Netherland Dwarf rabbits. I felt evil; a turncoat; a pariah of virtue.

Then I snapped its spine and popped it in with the leeks, carrots, garlic, shallots, cider and stock...

Mr P reckoned the smell emanating from the oven was fantastic. It did smell pretty good, I must admit, but I was starting to sweat profusely. It was six hours before the girls returned from school. Would they suss? Would there be a row? How could I blag my way through this one? I have never, ever managed to pass fish off as chicken, but an esteemed cookery website informed me that 'young rabbit tastes just like chicken'. I just hoped my rabbit hadn't been drawing its pension...

'What's for tea?' said #1.

'Chicken casserole,' I replied.

'Oh Yum! Great!...What's this? Is this fish?'

No. It's not fish. What I did was, I didn't have any chicken breasts, so I bunged a whole chicken into the casserole pot, cooked it up, then pulled the meat off. That's why it looks like your meat from a Sunday Roast.'

'It's fish, isn't it?'

'No, I swear to you. It isn't fish.'

'It's not fish, Rosie' [from #2] 'Look at it, fish doesn't look like that. You've never eaten fish like I have, so you wouldn't know.'

'OK. I want to see the bones'

*thinks* Oh Gawd. They are in the outhouse. The cat has cleaned them dry. They don't look chicken-like any more. At all...

'I didn't know chickens had such prominent spines...'

'Yeah. That's because we clean up after the Roast Dinners.'

They both ate their Bunny Brew. Even complimented it. You will never, ever understand the sigh of relief I released when I washed up later on.

Trouble is, my conscience is pricking me dreadfully. I cooked Thumper. I may as well have killed Bambi's Mum. I feel sick to my stomach. £3.00 or not, to feed three people.

I have bought a kilo of tomatoes to make tomato and roast pepper soup. Nobody cares when a tomato screams...

A Hex on the Sexes

2008-10-22T12:37:00.005+01:00

I am in a state of bewilderment. And if there are any male bloggers out there who would care to enlighten me, I'd be very grateful as I get nowhere fast with my own Caveman.

I realise that women have the most inordinate amount of daft foibles, such as nicking all the miniature toiletries from hotel rooms, including the shower cap, which we wouldn't be seen dead in; saving plastic bags 'because they always come in handy'; recycling old T-shirts for dusters; and promising to make chicken soup from the Sunday Roast carcass (which generally sits there until it gathers the cure for HIV in our kitchen).

My list of enigmas surrounding the less-fair sex include the following:

Not getting your hair cut
Not shaving and thinking snogging 3-day old stubble is a turn-on (when really it just ribbons your chin)
Not clearing out your skanky underpants which are full of holes and splits
Ditto with socks
Never finishing a DIY job which they have set about with great enthusiasm and then walked away from for a cup of tea, never to return...

So, let's take point 1. Getting the hair cut. My husband is currently trialling a brand product for me called Fast Hair. Prior to this, he trialled Nisim. We are having great success with both products as, previously a rather follicly challenged individual, he is now giving Fabio a run for his money. Unfortunately, Mr P's golden tresses don't lend themselves to the GHDs like Fabio's (not that I would want them to, either, I hasten to add); they tend to sort of 'spiral' out at odd angles. Over the last two weeks he has been called anything from Samson, to Tintin, to, this morning, #1 accused him of sporting a jaunty Afro. Mr P claims she doesn't know what one is. I put him straight...

After repeated nagging, and threats this morning to cut it for him...even going so far as to get the comb, kitchen scissors and a towel out, when he called my bluff (and you really don't want to do that, as I will always rise to the bait), he realised It Was Time. It took a grand total of 20 minutes and he was back. Not too hard, was it?

Point 2. Now, I must admit, a bit of stubble can sort of 'do it' for me from time to time (unless it is ginger and then I would rather view raw offal: Viking heritage and virility, or not). And so this is a bit of a mealy-mouthed complaint. It looks good on certain chaps, but it doesn't feel good on my face. I vividly recall the first snog I had after having been in the wilderness for a few months last year. He hadn't shaved and nearly ripped my delicate skin off. For three days, I sported scabby scratches down my chin which itched and caused me to pick incessantly (I am a dreadful spot-picker). So, while it looks good, it feels awful and I prefer babies' bums to bristly bears' arses...

Point 3. Not getting rid of your skanky pants. Why? Why is it such a comfort to have your testicles poking through an unfeasibly small hole, which strangulates the scrotum, wrecks chances of fertility, looks like a turkey's neck and must be uncomfortable? Surely? I have never known a man to get rid of his undies. I have had to do it for him...albeit very surreptitiously, under cover of darkness, wearing a disguise and bolstering my side of the bed with pillows and a dark wig. There are then the inevitable questions:

Where are my pants?

Which ones?

You know, those black ones.

What, the ones with the dirty big holes in the crotch?

They're not holes, they're ventilation shafts...

Check under the kitchen sink. I think I used them to wipe up the last dose of cat pee from the kitchen floor.

Point 4. Socks. I don't even pretend with these. I just tear them up in front of any man and tell them they are not Robin - 'Holy Socks, Batman!' It just befuddles me.

Now, admittedly, I have socks from years and years ago, which are still doing me proud...but "I iz vumman". I wear stockings, hold-ups, tights etc most of the time, so my socks don't get a daily wear and tear...thus they can last me for years...unlike aforesaid nylons which only seem to grace my legs for an hour and then they are laddered. As my clear nail polish has gone hard, I cannot really dab the 'ladder' with chocamocha and walk round with what look like carcinogenic melanoma all over my legs...

Point 5. Never finishing a DIY job. The amount of times I have had to stalk through the house bearing arms such as hammers, Phillips screwdrivers, hacksaws and nails is beyond comprehension. And this has gone on since time immemorial, so don't think I am Parnsip-baiting here.

But just a little bit of Parnsip-baiting for you Parnsip-baiter fans...he took the side of the bath off about 8 months ago to get at the taps. The screw covers have never been replaced and are shoved, in a margarine tub, behind the bathroom door...

It took three months for the shower power point to be sealed up - after he had removed it, and left the wires hanging freely, he walked away and got cracking on something else instead.

Yet, he put up the best fence panelling known to man! He and a friend, Phil, got cracking one Saturday, tore down the kindling which was our boundary fence, dug the holes, inserted the concrete posts, and erected 16 panels of Waney Lap. They were both crocked by the end of it, admittedly, and could hardly stand. But during the most recent high winds, they have stood firm and fast, like the Old Man of Hoy. So, I am not moaning there, either...

Is it the League of Gentlemen? Does a Caveman need another Caveman in order to show off his prowess to complete something? Not exactly 'penis-envy'. Fence-envy? Nah...that doesn't work, either...

Anyway, I am still as flummoxed as ever, so I would appreciate some guidance in these matters. Once I am enlightened, I can nip out with my club and pummell a passing dog to spit-roast for my very own Mr. Ug.

Hex on Health & Safety

2008-10-19T06:10:00.011+01:00

So, a bright and shiny day on Saturday and a perfect opportunity for Mr P to get out into the fresh air together with his trusty camera and get some material for his portfolio which is required for college.

I had a remit: find him somewhere 'different'; with atmosphere and spirit; standing as solitary as possible; few people about and interesting. I considered the local pub before opening hours, but that wasn't quite what he had in mind.

Picture of Bunbury Graveyard courtesy of Mr Parsnip, Photography for Fun

So, after some thorough research which took me about 0.8 minutes, I found Peckforton Castle which is about 30 minutes drive away and also on the way to St Boniface's Church in a village called Bunbury, which has some rather creepy gravestones and gargoyles.

A wedding was taking place at the castle (indeed, there were two that day, and grand events they looked to be) and I saw a woman walking around with a flower arrangement of lilies, spleenwort, roses and all sorts of paraphenalia for the next hour. She wouldn't put it down. Everywhere she went, she held the arrangement in front of her. I wondered, idly, if she was a gate-crasher and if it might be acting as camouflage, but the thought seemed too ridiculous really considering she was also dressed like a peacock. I suggested to Mr P that he removed his wedding ring (I was wearing gloves) and we pretended to be newly affianced and seeking a wedding venue. Then we might get access to the battlements and turrets for better photo-opportunities. He did so for a grand total of 60 seconds and then I snapped at him to put it back on as there was no point lying. I don't see why he should get chat-up opportunities and I can't...

As it stood, nobody is allowed on the battlements for 'Health & Safety' reasons. 'Health & Safety' in the UK is the biggest single kill-joy known to man. Children are no longer allowed to play 'conkers' at school in the autumn; office chair racing is banned; lunchtime drinking is banned in most places of work; bonfire night, in certain parishes has been banned in case sparks fly from the bonfire and burn a passing kitten or old lady...and the list goes ever on. I believe H & S's Top Secret remit is to turn us into lifeless imbeciles who sit in front of the telly (but not with it on in case we get some form of radiation sickness) and never budge outside our front doors. They really are the biggest bunch of jobsworths the Government has ever seen fit to create and we should all stage an uprising against them.

Latest scandals to come out of the Bureaucracy of Berks led to the patron of a pub being forced to sign a disclaimer when she took her leftovers home for the dog. In the event that the dog got ill, the pub's chef would not be held responsible. And then a nutter who wanted to cut down all the palm trees in Torquay due to the falling palm fronds..."They're like tigers," he was quoted as saying, "Beautiful to look at, but you wouldn't want them wandering the streets.

Can anybody tell me where this chap got his whacky baccy from? When was the last time you saw a palm frond stalk its prey, leap atop its back, attack the jugular and disembowel it slowly and with great pleasure? No, I can't remember, either, and I really have wracked my brains.

So, chances are, there will be a number of people on November 5 this year having to watch a large screen TV in the freezing cold showing images of a roaring, crackling bonfire. That's what happened in Ilfracombe, North Devon in 2006.

In the 1970s, when I attended Junior School in our village, we had a concrete playground, 'monkey bars', an open drainage ditch which was fed by the effluent from the large sewerage works a mile away, British Bulldog was positively encouraged (where kids smash through a chain of hands using anything short of a hacksaw) and the autumn conker championships saw the teachers running a book with best odds on Warbie's vinegared and baked prize winners. Last time I visited the school, in passing (as I never did return my Mental Maths book), I noticed that all the concrete had gone (that silly rubbery stuff now), no monkey bars, the stream had run dry due to the closure of the sewerage works with the rill itself cordoned off and there were no conker trees in sight for miles around.

And people complain that all their kids do is sit indoors and watch telly or play video games?

What else is there to do? Every bit of fun is taken away. A makeshift swing only has to be roped up to the branch of a tree and some do-gooder comes along and cuts it down. All children must apply their own sunscreen at school in case a teacher is accused of abuse...and I am so glad #2 is old enough to apply it herself now as in the past, she would definitely have squirted it onto her crackers and eaten it.

A turn-up for the books, though - our local off-license has the Remembrance Day poppies in today. And we have pins again - hurray! Last year, Health & Safety decreed that poppies could not be held on your lapel with a pin - in case someone 'poked their eye out' (has this ever happened to anyone?). So we all went round with poppies stuck in our zips. Which made for some interesting flies on the men at our office...

At least Health & Safety couldn't complain about that...

Hexing House-Keeping

2008-10-11T15:31:00.004+01:00

In my wildest dreams, I want to be a Retro-Housewife. It is my ardent desire for my darling husband and two beautiful daughters return from their respective places of work and school to a perfectly coiffured wife/mother, sporting a 1950s frock, nipped in at all the right places and lipstick applied without a single smudge. The house will be gleaming like an advert for Glint, it will NOT smell of my Lambert & Butler smokes (1950s housewives only smoke in the evenings alongside their Martinis, replete with green olives) and the healthy, but sumptuous, dinner will be ready to dish up as I twirl around the kitchen, my dirndl skirt flaring out provocatively, yet efficiently.

God! Reality bites hard, doesn't it?!

For health reasons, I have not been at work for some time and have thus had Mr Muscle, Flash, Zoflora, Cif and Domestos at my disposal on a daily basis. The house has shone but due to aforementioned health reasons (let's call them HR, because we all know a bastard in HR) I have not been quite as diligent as usual. The place is clean, but the lustre is not there. It's tidy, but it's not immaculate. This annoys me immensely, but for the time being, it will just have to do.

However, baking and cooking still must be done.

I am too much of a cheapskate to pay for mass-produced cakes and biscuits and will therefore make my own on a regular basis. It is rare for us not to have at least one flavour of home-made cake in a plastic bag on the kitchen worktop. Indeed, at the moment, we have coffee and walnut, and lemon and coconut, which I smear with raspberry jam. I tend to get free-range eggs via a contact at work, but as I am not in touch with him at the moment, eggs come from Eddie the Grocer, round the back, who leers at me whenever I walk into his shop. He looked a bit glum the other day, so I brought him round samples of my cakes (in the hope that he'd offer to sell them for me). He just looked furtive, slipped them into the stock room, mumbled something about it being a good job he was married and then ducked as his Mrs stomped around the cleaning products aisle.

Despite my best intentions, something ALWAYS goes wrong with my baking. The last two times I have made triple chocolate brownies, they have ended up like breeze blocks and thus landed in the bin. My quiches burst through the ceramic beads which I ladle on to prevent the pasty rising during blind-baking and look like the surface of the moon, and I can regularly undercook the veg. Last time I made fresh bread, instead of using Bread Flour, I reached for the regular Plain. And then one of Mr Parsnip's teeth cracked as he took a bite with his tomato and basil soup (home-made!). That cost quite a lot of money in dentistry a few days later...

Today, as #1 is off to Normandy at 4.30am tomorrow, I decided to make a lovely 'Ta-ta, See You, Hello Peace & Quiet Dinner' to see her off with which involves chicken casserole and something I have been threatening for a while: a baked chocolate and mint cheesecake.

Now, normally, my cheesecakes turn out spectacularly. Even #2, who is averse to anything not wrapped in plastic, enjoys them. I have turned out Baileys, Tia Maria and fresh lemon ones to date. So, off I toddled to the Co-op and spent about £8.00 on the ingredients. Philadelphia Cheese (low-fat); Fair-Trade black chocolate (so I am not exploiting the workers); free-range eggs (so those poor chickens' bums get a break); 'Light' sugar (for obvious reasons); and 50% extra free McVities' Digestive biscuits...cause I am a cheapskate and always look for a bargain. Despite not wearing the 1950s frock, having contemporary music on very loud and being caught boogying dramatically by Mr P wherein he made me jump out of my skin and blush somewhat at the movements I was then making with my hips, I did twirl around, got the dirty dishes done as I whisked the mix, melted the chocolate and made the base...

I had a spring-form tin ready for it all. It was looking fantastic. I even got adventurous and 'marbled' the mix with the melted chocolate, forming a cobweb of patterns. My smile of pride stretched from ear to ear!

Then I picked the tin up to place into the pre-heated oven (160degC) and the f*cking bottom fell out of the tin. I had got the wrong 'bottom'.

The squawking out of me was both blue and desperate. Thank God #1 walked in at that point and offered to assist as I was covered in raw chocolate/mint cheesecake mix. Mr P, with the doors thus being wide open, heard my expostulations, came in, saw the mess and set to to help me clear up.

#1 told me it was OK to cry. And I almost did. Purely for the former beauty of the thing.

However, it's OK to cry over spilt milk, but not over spilt cheesecake mix.

It was salvaged, turned into a gloop and baked. So we now have chocolate/mint 'crunch' for pud tonight.

During the mop-up operation, #2 came in to snitch on her sister who had used some rather nasty profanities on her while my back was turned. And for once, I simply couldn't be fagged intervening. White mess dripped from the worktop, down the cupboard doors and onto the floor which I had scrubbed twice yesterday (twice because the bloody kitten decided to pee on the lino in the evening). I snapped at her to sort it out herself and she stared at the mess.

'Has it gone wrong, then?' she asked.

'No, it's bloody marvellous, isn't it?' I retorted, somewhat obviously sarcastically.

Mr P was on his hands and knees at this point, mopping up the gloop. With reassuring 'shush-shush' noises and an explanation to #2 of how sarcastic angry women can be, she vanished with a bit of a flounce of indignation.

So, the proof of this pudding is certainly going to be in the eating. It looks like a nasty brownish/grey mess and I am still heart-broken at the loss of my cobweb. Mr P is going to have bacon butties at early dawn tomorrow since we have to get up at Stupid O'Clock. I'll probably bloody burn those, too.

One of these days, I will produce a meal fit for a Queen. I just hope it isn't Queen Anne I.

Hex My Express

2008-10-09T11:46:00.013+01:00

There is a newspaper here in the UK called The Daily Express. Most UK newspapers are only fit to be torn into strips and used in the outhouse toilet when the Andrex has run out and the Express is no exception.

It is a pathetic Tory comic designed for the un-thinking, aspiring middle classes who pretend not to enjoy gossip about Z-list celebrities, such as most of those retards found on Big Brother and I'm A Celebrity, Get Me on the Ice With a Strictly Come Off It Salary; it bear-bates the current government (which most of the British population now do, anyway, so that's possibly an unfair criticism); it provides no balance; scare-mongers and purports to be fighting the good fight for us Stiff-Upper-Lip Brits.

It's tripe.

But. It has a fantastic General Knowledge crossword on Sundays in the supplement and I do succumb most weeks in the hope that one day I will complete it without having to refer to Google for the answers. I mean to say, who knows the answer to this one: *In Greek myths, one of the three Erinyes or Furies, along with Megaera and Tisiphone (6). Responses in the comments box, please. * For the impatient amongst you, the answer is right at the bottom. I am teasing you all...

When picking the fluff from my navel, and watching paint dry has ceased to amuse me, I will flick through the rest of this magazine. And without fail, every Sunday, my blood starts to boil at the article written by one of their 'new' columnists, Mindy Hammond.

Who?

Mindy Hammond...

Do you know what she is famous for?

She is famous for being the wife of Richard Hammond of Top Gear fame. And how did he become really famous? He did it by almost killing himself in a high-speed crash whilst filming for Top Gear. There was almost a public mourning, he received so much publicity about it. But the fact was, he was doing something which gives him an erection (driving high-powered vehicles) AND pays him bloody good money. OK, he's a nice enough chap, but he hasn't got the irony and wit of Jeremy Clarkson nor the charm and good temper of James May, who co-present the show. He's a stooge, basically. He's the good-looking short-arse who wears the trendy clothes, looks a bit bewildered at times when Clarkson is tearing a strip off him, and provides a bit of eye candy for the women who have to watch the show with their blokes.

So, about three months ago, there was an article written about her - how brave she had been through Richard's crash; how her beauty was 'luminous'; photos of her walking in her bare feet across an emerald green pasture, leading her white charger; how stoic she had been during the photo shoot in the bitter cold weather, never losing her smile (it was the thought of that fat pay-cheque which kept her going) and then, the stupid rag announced that it was proud to present their new columnist, Mindy Bloody Hammond.

She has the page 5 spot, straight after the contents and masthead. Pole position, as Richard would probably say. And she writes complete and utter Mills and Boone, schmaltzy, cheesey, gut-wrenchingly awful drivel. And it drives me berserk.

This week, she recounted us poor blithering idiots with a tale of getting on Richard's brand new Harley for a romantic get-away for two, sans kids. But they were constantly beseiged by set-backs, such as no petrol in the tank (*gasp, horror!*), getting lost in the dark (but Mindy did her Girl Guide thang and navigated them not only by reading her map in the dark, but fumbling for her mobile phone and speaking to the Hotel Staff.) *swoon* My Heroine. I'd never have thought of doing that. To add insult to injury, the heavens had opened and she now had rainwater in her biking boots. That must have been bloody awful for her.

Richard became 'gloomy'. He thought he would have to have room service rather than patronise the restaurant (never lose a photo opportunity, though, Rich?). But Mindy came to the rescue! She stripped off her leathers, and there underneath the biker gear was her LBD. She fluffed up her hair, wiped her smeared mascara and "Wow," said Richard (I always thought 'Wow' would have an exclamation mark after it, but obviously not in Mindy's world). "How did you do that? You look like a girl and everything." (Eloquent, eh?)

"You'd be amazed what you can get into a handbag," I smiled. [Insert: *smugly*]

I get 40 fags, my mobile, my cash card, shut-up grub for the kids, 5 lighters, 4 lipsticks, keys and my purse into my handbag, when I can be fagged carrying it, which is almost never - back-pockets do me fine. I don't tend to cart Gucci dresses around with me...

Another thing which drives me bananas is her name. She was Christened Amanda. She is in her mid-40s. What middle-aged woman walks round calling herself, Mindy? MINDY! I ask you. Mandy I can cope with. Mandy is a normal derivative of Amanda. But Mindy?? Oh, come on.

My real name, which most of you have been waiting for with bated breath is...NOT AGNES...Nope. And I have had a few cutesy-piekin nicknames in the past from soppy blokes, all of whom have been given short-thrift the minute they bastardise my name. Ok...*deep sigh*...it's really Alison. So I was called Allsy-poo, Ali-babes, Allsy-Wallsy.

No. Just stop! Right there...

It is simple: A-L-I-S-O-N. My middle name is Ann. I can cope with Annie, too, from people very close to me.

Just because she is short, petite and has 'Titian hair and an aura of goodness' does not mean she can toy with our affections and worm her way into our hearts with her silly, coy name. She can't even write well. Her tales are bland, boring, 2-dimensional and so 'ordinary' (apart from the fact that she lives in a dirty big castle) that I get angry. I get angry for us struggling bloggers who'd love to be published on our merits - not because we happen to have shagged somebody famous and got their rings on our fingers.

How many of us have to face traumas through our lives? Fatalities, deaths, soul-destroying illnesses, terrible set-backs which can leave us depleted? Do we get paid for writing about it? Do we all WANT to write about it? (and you can call me a hypocrite for writing Annie's Rexia, but it's not being done for commercial value!).

And I wouldn't mind if she was a decent writer and had something of intelligence to say. Then I wouldn't be on my self-righteous rant...

Although not taken last night (my face-pack was brown then), Mr P tells me this is very reminiscent of my scowl as I expostulated about Mindy Bloody Hammond. My own 'luminous beauty' came after the pack was washed off...

PS. The answer to the crossword question is Alecto, the Goddess of Constant Anger. That pretty much sums me up, eh?!

A Little Toilet Humour for the Day

2008-10-05T07:07:00.010+01:00

So, a day which started off with drizzle, turned to rain, then a deluge of such intensity that I have just seen every animal on God's damp planet strolling in pairs towards an old gentleman with a long beard who seems to be in a hurry to get his Ark cruise underway.

Conversation in every local shop went like this:

-Turned bitter, hasn't it?

-Brrr. I know. Had to stick the heating on last night it was that cold.

-I didn't. I wore two jumpers, a T-shirt, a fleece, jacket, thermals, jeans, three pairs of socks...*pause while they think of something else to have worn*...AND my wellies.

-Just never seems to have stopped raining. All it did all summer was rain. Now autumn's upon us and it's just bloody raining. All the time.

-Turned bitter, though, hasn't it?

-Brr. I know...and ad infinitum...

Mr Parsnip decided he was going to be My Hero and do all the ironing - of which there appeared to be an awful lot. I found this an extremely generous gesture until I really got thinking about the motives behind it. Mr Parsnip likes to watch trashy horror movies - anything with a Zombie in it is right up his street. He also knows that an evening's viewing of these is just not going to happen in this house. Not unless I was suddenly hospitalised for a mysterious tropical illness or Jonny Depp called to see if I wanted a pie and a pint down at The Gate. But when he irons (and I will generally prostrate myself to anyone who offers to do this chore for me) I scurry out of the way sharpish and he is thus left to put on any DVD he wants.

I caught a snippet of one such film yesterday as I was walking through the lounge to get to the kitchen. At this particular juncture, the two main characters appeared to be learning how to conjugate the verb, 'To f*ck'. I am sure any old English masters would have been impressed by their enthusiasm, if not the actual conjugation. There were also too many split infinitives involved...

Thus ensued a philisophical debate about why on earth these characters were trying to kill Zombies when Zombies are already dead. I argued back and forth that it was impossible to kill something which is already dead, ergo, Zombie Movies are utter codswallop. Mr P looked at me enigmatically, raised an eyebrow and said, Ah, therein lies the question. Which basically means he hasn't got a clue, either.

When it was time for bed, we decided to take our books upstairs together with a hot drink (and the cigs...yes, disgusting to smoke in bed, I know, but I pay the bills on this house, not you) and have a read. Mr P enjoys Fantasy Fiction books. You know the ones I mean? They involve characters called Skilgarrion The Impaler; Garth The Destroyer; Horace The Pencil Sharpener...that type of stuff.

I prefer autobiographies, travelogues; anything factual, really - but my preference is for humorous anecdotal tales. So, I picked up Bill Bryson's The Thunderbolt Kid. I got up to chapter 4 and I don't think I have cried laughing at a book as much as this. At certain parts, I wasn't sure if I was going to make the toilet on time. I giggled, guffawed, chuckled and howled at the prose. I don't recommend it, though...why should he get a plug when he's already loaded? (Note to Mr Bryson: If you ever stumble over this blog, I think you are marvellous and would love to be your highly-paid researcher. The above was only a joke - see, I have even put a photo on...I love you, really, I do xxx)

In one of the chapters, he tells the reader of a kid called Lumpy Kowalski - so-called because he always had a lump of poo in his pants. I think every junior school child knows a Lumpy Kowalski, don't they? I certainly did. His name was Stuart. He was a slobbery, loving child, goofy and fussed over by his mother who was a bit ineffectual and probably never raised her voice in her life. Almost every day, Stuart would 'have an accident' and until one of us alerted the teacher to the God-awful pong, Stuart would sit there on his own personal cushion of warmth and stench, oblivious to the gipping noises and fainting children surrounding him.

Miss? Stuart's pooed his pants again.

*a weary sigh*

Come on Stuart, let's get you a new pair of pants.

And Stuart would return ten minutes later wearing a pair of Lost Property shorts.

As soon as his mother saw him at the school gate, coming ambling towards her wearing pants designed for a boy way much bigger than he, she would also sigh wearily and say: Ooohhh, Stewdle, Not Again.

'Stewdle' would just grin amiably and rattle off about his day of needlework, maths, English and all the other dull subjects to which 1970s teachers subjected us poor children.

Another boy at our Junior School (and he was a bit tough, so I shall not be giving out his real name here) was nicknamed 'Warby'. Warby stank, no matter what time of day. He was grimy from the moment he got to school and got worse as the day wore on. He had badly crossed-eyes, chipped teeth and knuckles which looked like they were made of India rubber, they were that calloused. The stains on his clothes were quite remarkable. In fact, I am wondering if he was attemping a Map of the World, they were that interesting. They were certainly reminiscent in their size, shape and different colours, to the fascinating countries on my globe at home.

One fateful day, and again, it was raining, therefore 'Wet Playtime' wherein the teachers locked themselves into the Staff Room with their coffee, tea, Digestives and a bottle of Gordon's Gin and left around sixty under-11s to their own devices. I was sat at my desk drawing, as usual and Warby sat on my desk lid. I politely asked him to move (I was a very polite child, and also, it didn't pay to anger Warby). Surprisingly he did, after shoving a grimy finger into my sketch and demanding to know 'Warrizit?'

A thermo-nuclear reactor for a supersonic warhead, I responded.

Borin'...and thus he left...

And left me with a smear across my desk.

I am a wimp. I don't like nasty smears and smells, and will always tentatively sniff the dishcloth before each use, just in case it has gone a bit 'foisty'. I don't like mucky toilets; I don't like sticky splashes...and I certainly don't like smears on MY desk.

I ran to the toilet, got a handful of wet paper towels and the ubiquitous Buttermilk soap which was found in every cheap school toilet in the 70s (and probably still is now) and scrubbed at my desk until it gleamed. I dried it off, and then proceeded to sniff it vigorously. I continued to sniff it all afternoon until Mrs Brown squawked at me to Stop That At Once Or You'll Get A Smack (that was how she also dealt with the OCD kids). I was utterly mortified. I thought I might get Warby's Disease (which is what we secretly said behind his back if he touched you or any of your possessions). And Warby's Disease meant that you got crossed-eyes, black fingernails and smelt for the rest of your life. Not nice.

An expression from #1 and #2s junior school days has also entered this household: The Alvanley Poo. God help you if you leave an Alvanley Poo in the toilet here. This entered the Mildew-Parsnip vocabulary via #2 who was revolted by the Alvanley Primary infant school children who simply 'forgot' to flush the toilet after going for a poo. The poo thus squats in the bottom of the pan, 'frays' and leaves a pool of brown water surrounding it. This is an Alvanley Poo. It can happen frequently in our house as the water pressure (despite all the bloody rain) isn't that marvellous and there can be a few escapees. #2 is unforgiving. She doesn't give a damn about water pressures, United Utilities, second flushes, high-fibre diets. She DOES NOT want to sit atop An Alvanley Poo. And therefore, the perpetrator (and a first-class interrogation will take place) is discovered and frog-marched to the toilet to Get Rid Of It. Invariably, she is hopping from one foot to the next by this stage, desperate to go, but refusing to use the downstairs, outhouse loo, which is always spotlessly clean, but there are some rather large spiders who like to over-winter in there and I do, therefore, empathise with her on that score.

So, if you were to ever visit our house for a nice piece of home-made cake and a large glass of whiskey, and get caught short, please, please, ensure that the toilet is empty before you leave. And always change the toilet roll when it has finished. Thank you.

Herein 'lies' Lady Gregson

2008-09-17T12:06:00.010+01:00

Right, so this is my second post of the day, and more in keeping with HexMyEx...I hope!

I am sure that many of you receive Spam emails from allegedly extremely rich people offering to let you have a share of their vast wealth as long as you reply to their personal email address providing them with all your financial information, full address, date of birth and inside leg measurement. Anybody who does this has to have a vacuum located between their ears, in my personal opinion.

Generally, I just hit delete on these and think no more about them, but the following (together with my 'comments') really tickled me and I saved it for future reference. Please note, the appalling grammar and spellings belong to Lady Gregson - I have left them in intentionally!

Here writes Lady Dianne Gregson, suffering from cancerous ailment (sounds like she has started writing her epitaph already). I am marriedto Sir Richard Gregson an Englishman who is dead (who, not unsurprisingly, has ever actually been alive, according to my Google research! (this also sounds scarily like she has kept him sealed in a vault somewhere in her house)). When my late husband was alivehe deposited the sum of 20 Million Great Britain (Britain??) Pounds Sterling (I would herein state that this is one of the most fantastic uses of tautology I have ever come across! The only thing missing is the £ sign...) which werederived from his vast estates and investment in capital market with his bankhere in UK.Recently, my Doctor told me that I have limited days to live due to thecancerous problems I am suffering from (I would thus assume that, since I have held onto this mail for a while, she has now snuffed it. RIP).

I have decided to donate this fund toyou (She's trusting, isn't she? How does she know I won't do a runner and buy myself a Mini Cooper S?) and want you to use this gift which comes from my husbands effort to fundthe upkeep of widows, widowers, orphans,destitute, the down-trodden, physicallychallenged children,barren-women (Well, I think I'd just hook the orphans up with the barren women and kill two birds with one stone...) and persons who prove to be genuinelyhandicapped financially (I definitely fit this description.)

I took this decision because I do not have any child (Hmmm. I am also getting the impression she didn't have much of an education, either...Do you think she'd like an orphan?) and my husband relativesare bourgeois and very wealthy persons.I do not want my husband's hard earnedmoney (er...hang on, she's just told me that it was derived from his 'vast estates' and capital investment - I wouldn't reckon there's much hard work going on there would you? Ask the National Trust to look after the estates and get your stockbroker to invest wisely. Then he can clear orf to his Club and play billiards...I wouldn't mind working as hard as him, either...) to be misused or invested into ill perceived ventures hence the reasonfor taking this bold decision.

As soon as I receive your reply I shall give you the contact of the Bank inUK (The Bank is a very famous one you know. Almost as famous as The Agnes Mildew Banking Corporation). I will also issue you a Letter of Authority that will empower you as theoriginal beneficiary of this fund (Ooh, ooh, ooh! I am getting excited now! I am to be the original beneficiary! Strange, though that my email address wasn't in the 'To' line of the mail...just 'undisclosed recipients'. Do you think she is having me on? Cheating old witch!).

My happiness is that I lived a life worthyof emulation. Please assure me that you will act just as I have statedherein.Hope to hear from you soon (She's starting to sound a bit more chipper now, isn't she? I almost expected a 'Cheerio!' then!).You can contact me through my personal email address: dgregson02@googlemail.comMadam Dianne Gregson (She told me she was Lady Dianne Gregson! She's either fibbing or the cancer has made her lose her marbles...)

So, am I a hard-hearted cynic and this lady desperately needs my help, or am I sharper than all the knives in the cutlery drawer? I don't even think that question needs dignifying with an answer!

Sometimes Spam can be SO much fun! At least it makes a change from offering to extend my penis...

A Blatant Plug...

2008-09-17T09:05:00.003+01:00

Every time I try to write this post, my blasted internet connection dies - is it trying to tell me something, I wonder?

Anyway, if you can't plug your own writing, who else is going to do it for you?

HexMyEx is an attempt at humour, but there is actually a more serious side to me which I am getting out in a new blog - Annie's Rexia...say it fast enough and you'll probably get more of an idea what it's about.

If you don't like it, don't tell me as I am a coward! If you do like it, please leave a comment - and if you think it will ever help anyone, pass the URL on.

Monday Morning Musings...

2008-09-15T07:47:00.009+01:00

Mr Parsnip totally spoiled our Sunday 'Have-We-Won-The-Lottery' dreaming session this weekend by ruining the girls' viewing of X-Factor on Saturday night, turning channels and watching the balls being called out in real time. I was sitting in the conservatory and thus couldn't make myself heard to ask him to stop. I could also see them popping out of the strange bingo-esque machine and thus knew we didn't stand a chance. I was a bit miffed with him for wrecking our ritual (my alliteration improves with each blog, I reckon...). But I guess it was a good thing, as we weren't really talking yesterday morning, what with me accusing him of being 'too quiet' after I had made his ears bleed with all the threats of bludgeoning the ex to death with the butt of a shotgun. I guess a, 'Mffmm. Nuthin',' wouldn't really have worked in a dreaming session, would it?

Anyway, yesterday was a day of colours. There was certainly some colourful language, that's for sure!

We had our very first dinner guest at our new dining table and chairs - a school pal of #1 who is one of the nicest young ladies you could ever meet and since she ate utterly everything from her plates, I offered to adopt her. #1 and 2 gave me looks which, if they could kill, Mr P would now be choosing urns for my remains. We have a bit of a Sunday tradition these days: I stand on my feet for three hours, cooking a roast dinner which I don't eat (being pescetarian) and then stand on my feet for an hour cleaning it up. It's really good fun you know. I enjoy it almost as much as I enjoy cleaning the cat's litter tray, my third favourite task after ironing, and banging my head repeatedly on the wall...

Anyway, I was informed by #2 that I was asking 'the wrong things'. All I said was, How's the love life, E? She giggled, told me it was a bit slow and then I got my head ripped off by #2.

Blimey, I retorted, I was only being polite.

YOU JUST DON'T ASK QUESTIONS LIKE THAT, YOU KNOW!!

Sorry, I mumbled, and moved onto less volatile subjects such as how she felt about ousting Alastair Darling and shoving every HIP that has been ordered per house sale up his rectum.

The girls have moved schools quite a lot in their relatively short lives and their first UK school was in a village called Alvanley. #1 still keeps in touch with some of her oppoes from there but I nearly fell off my chair when she informed me that Emma N had undergone an abortion. Mr P thought my shock and horror was play-acting, but I genuinely felt sick and a real sense of 'There But For the Grace of God Go I'. Emma N is the same age as #1 and always was a bit of a precocious young lady who was encouraged to wear the latest fashions and make-up by her mother, who was convinced she had model quality. The child has obviously been hot-housed into being a nubile and is exploring every avenue of it.

Fu..Blo..Fu...Oh My Goodness! I expostulated, remembering just in the nick of time that we had polite company. No! You're winding me up. Don't fib. That's not true, is it? Is it?

Yup! retorted #1, #2 and E, somewhat smugly: Her best friend told us.

Some fu...blo...flippin' best friend she is, eh? I answered in abject horror.

Aren't girls bitchy? I guess I was the same at High School, but all I remember of my High School days is trogging off to the library to swot up, filling up the KitKat machine in the Science block and, once, taking advantage of my powers as Deputy Head Girl and telling Sporty Spice off who was a pain in the neck at our school.

Apart from meeting that obnoxious dwarf, Jerry Marsden, and telling him that my father had sold him his first guitar, that is my only claim to fame. What a life I have led, eh?

(Caveat: Get Mr P on the subject of famous people and he would have you believe he is best friends with Ozzy Osbourne, John Craven, Sue Lawley, some very rich Arabic Sheikh and Marylin Monroe...he put in phone lines for them when he worked for British Telecom...)
(Caveat #2. He didn't ever go to Marylin's house. I made that up...He's not THAT old...yet...)

Within minutes of the dining table being cleared and #1 suspecting she was being let off clearing the fat from the roasting dish, she scarpered with E, leaving me, Mr P and #2 to tidy the detritus. Mr P came over all romantic and crooned to me in the kitchen, whirling me around the lino. I would have preferred, "It had to be you" by Frank Sinatra. I got "Why Can't I be You?" by The Cure. Why does he want to be me? Does he like my underwear? Is it my luxuriant head of hair which he covets? Or is it the fact that on particularly 'windy' days, I can burb 'Abu Dhabi' and get away with all the syllables. Anyway, I shall be doing a stock-take of my knickers over the next few weeks, that's for sure...

Then it was Sunday Papers time. I have the attention-span of a goldfish with Alzheimer's and so I find it very difficult to sit still for more than about five minutes unless there is a crossword or a burning blog for me to work on. But one thing which is guaranteed to make me sit down are the supplements. Now, I guess this is a very long preamble into the post I originally intended to write, but some of our more loyal readers may recall that I wrote a post about Sunday Supplements some time ago. Read it. Here. You Must. Or I won't speak to you again...

Helloo..Hellooo...Hellooo...helllooooo?

Gosh, there's an echo in here and an amazing mass of tumbleweed suddenly. Will somebody stop that tolling bell?

Now this week's were corkers, and the one which really stood out for me in the Healthy Living catalogue was this (and bear with me here as I thought it was for candles...)

EXCELLENT FOR POWER CUTS

Ever been caught out without a toilet on hand? Now the problem is solved! Portable Loo is invaluable in a bedroom, car, boat or caravan. Also useful for those confined to wheelchairs and young children when travelling long distances...blah, blah, blah.

Now, correct me if I am wrong, but what does this ↑ have to do with power cuts? Does it provide a warming glow so you don't bang your shins on sharp table corners whilst fumbling in the dark? Does it give you some heat when the temperature has dropped below -2degC? Does it give you warming liquid to refresh your palate? No, don't answer that one. I just got a shudder thinking a bit too laterally...

What utter codswallop, eh?!

About two months ago, I had to attend a meeting with a larger-than-life Texan chappie who had set up his own business selling disability aids - indeed his 'knork' is advertised in this catalogue, and I did swipe one from him for Mr Parsnip who likes to make life as easy as possible for himself. But he was really pushing a bottom wiper which you can see aside.

I'm afraid I got a bit hysterical as this 6'4" Texan attempted to show me how to wrap the tissue in the holder, reach around to the anus, and wipe his bum.

When I got back to my desk, I demonstrated it in the Biblical sense - i.e. how it was meant to be used. And then I used it in a very non-Biblical sense, wherein men were coming to me to ask if I could give their wives any lessons...

Hmmm. There is some rubbish bandied about in newspapers, isn't there? Not least in the business and politics section.

Anyway, after that, Mr P introduced #2 to the wonders of Geeks on YouTube and they sat and watched very silly films about Star Wars wherein I went for a soak in the bath and pondered the paradoxes of Men and Women.

For example: Mr Parsnip had offered to come up and sit with me in the bath whilst I soaked, as soon as his Star Wars video had finished. Being of a pseudo-altruistic nature, I told him: No, no, no, you STAY and watch your films. That's fine. Spend quality time with #2.

I got into the bath and immediately started to fester in the event that he didn't come up. I argued with myself more than I argue with real people, attempting to make myself see reason. The sad fact of the matter is, when most of the time women say No, don't worry, they really do mean the opposite and I always abhorred that. But now I have succumbed, too.

It must be the menopause...but I'm only 38?

I have obviously turned into my mother...

Oh, to be a Winner!

2008-09-11T08:43:00.015+01:00

Every Sunday morning, Mr Parsnip and I lie in our bed, smoking (disgusting habit, I know), drinking coffee (me) and tea (him) and speculating as to whether we have actually won the National Lottery this weekend. We had a massive dreaming session about it this Sunday, which continued even in the pub where we went for lunch. We hold off checking the numbers for hours, preferring to expound at length as to what we would do with our millions, which cars we would buy, what dreams we would realise, whether we would move house, and if we would put #1 into a High Security Boarding School from which she would never escape.

Our dreams this weekend were as follows:

Mr Parsnip:
1. To give up work and open his own photography business. He is a budding amateur photographer and, indeed, you can see some of his work on Words and Pictures but he is rubbish at keeping it up-to-date despite my nagging him, so don't hold your breath...
2. To buy some doozy sports car (he is fast approaching the 19th anniversary of his 21st birthday, so I guess this is some mid-life crisis thing in the hope that he can pick up blonde babes with his fanny magnet)
3. To get an all-singing, all-dancing camera which does all but set up the shots, complete with dirty big lenses and what-nots.

Agnes:
1. To open an Eating Disorders Clinic for adults in Cheshire
2. To have a Jeep Grand Cherokee (I still miss mine from my Oman days!)
3. To have an unlimited account with Karen Millen and Red or Dead
4. To send #1 daughter to a High Security Boarding School from which she cannot escape.

Strangely, what we both then agreed upon was that we wouldn't necessarily want to up-sticks and move to some Country Pile in the Home Counties. We'd be quite happy in our 3-bed semi, complete with new conservatory...but we would do something about the shops which border the rear of our property.

The row of shops consists of: hairdresser; Post Office; hardware store; pharmacy; chip shop; off license and general grocery store. The rear of the shops, atop which sit flats, is seen from our bedroom window and it is a total eyesore. There are enormous ventilation pipes climbing up the brickwork; ugly battered outhouses with felt roofing peeling off, derelict fences, and the ubiquitous Carling Black Label cans litter the unadopted road which separates us. It is a bit of a torrid mess.

Unfortunately, where there is Carling Black Label (a very cheap lager, favoured by the IQ-challenged 'yoof' in this area), there are idiots and trouble-makers. The first summer I spent here, I was on the phone to the police that often they started dropping in for a cup of tea and a natter, on the off-chance I wasn't doing anything. One particular night was memorable whence I had just come out of the shower and had donned only my knickers. The yoof had entered my garden and were terrorising the bunnies, Lambert and Butler. I literally *hung* out of the window, topless and shameless, and squawked out a chorus of expletives and profanities, whilst threatening to castrate them. The girls were mortified. But only by the fact that I was sans bra...The final straw came when I had to call out the Fire Brigade as the rotten little pukes had decided to set fire to the rear of the hardware store where they keep the gas bottles. It took two big, burly firemen to give me a hug to stop me from crying and sobbing in frustration...I guess I put the hand-wringing hysterics on a little bit as one of them really was rather dishy! (I was wearing clothes by this stage, I hasten to add...)

So, I galvanised myself after that, and instead of leaving matters to the police, took matters into my own hands and petitioned our local MP. Actually, I bombarded him with letters of complaint. And within a week, I received a letter on House of Commons letter-headed paper (I must confess to feeling the fear of God when I first saw the portcullis and chains logo on the rear of the envelope and thought someone had finally caught up with me from my own mis-spent youth...) and our MP promised me action. And indeed, action happened, much to my relief and chuffed-ness! We received a nightly patrol, and the scum-bag element moved on to pastures new.

Only once after that was there any trouble and I unfortunately didn't witness it, but our former Post Master, Geoff, told me about it in gleeful detail. It seems a gang of snots were causing trouble on the common which fronts the shops and one of the locals reported it to the police. Within minutes, a squad car pulled up and a rather enormous officer unfolded himself from his tiny patrol vehicle. The main protagonist of the trouble, considering himself a tough guy, decided to take on the officer.

Bad Move.

The officer spoke quietly into his walkie-talkie and minutes later, three more vehicles came whizzing round the corner. The youth decided to run for it.

Another Bad Move.

Four strapping policemen rugby-tackled him, laid him flat, sat on his head and made him promise To Stop Being A Bad Lad...The funniest part, according to Geoff, who had experienced it all, was how the lad had to take a pushchair, replete with his own child, and stalk off home. Big Man: teaching his child all she needs to know in life. I didn't think that was especially funny, although I could see the irony. I found it sad that ill-breeding breeds ill-breeding. Why aren't there sterilisation programmes for people like this?

So, we would buy out the off-license, and while we are at it, we would get rid of the chippy, as that is almost as magnetic for the yoof. There's nothing better (and more nutritious - to them) than a tray of chips with curry sauce and eight cans of Carling. That's a gor-may meal, innit?

In their place, we would install a traditional butcher and a traditional fishmonger. We would offer the girls who work in the off-license (who all, embarrassingly, know me by name and know exactly what I am going in for *ahem*) any jobs, with training, if they so wish. Mr P reckons Cheryl, who probably clocks in at around 22 stone, would be great as the butcher. She's dry as the desert, plain-speaking and doesn't suffer fools. She could cart sides of cow round as though they were feather pillows, believe me. I have seen her man-handle trouble-makers from the shop as though they were naughty toddlers.

Kerry, who has a smile and a chat for everyone - and actually manages to talk to the yoof sensibly and amiably, would probably be great serving behind the counter. She'd have the old dears flocking in for their 1/2lb of silverside and 'nice bit of fillet for me tea'.

Trish could be the fishmonger. I like Trish - a lot! She rarely smiles, is always sardonic, never has a good word to say for anyone, but makes me roar laughing with her tales, always delivered totally deadpan. I could just imagine her whalloping a dead haddock onto the slab and gutting it in front of me, bearing a face of total disdain...

The only girl I would find difficult to place is Diane, who always looks so sad, talks in such a quiet voice it is difficult to know what she is saying, and has too many tales of woe for one her age. I think I would just give her a few thousand and tell her to treat herself, pay off her mortgage and get rid of the spongeing control freak she is living with.

Having a decent butcher would probably annoy Eddie, our grocer/general store owner. He offers local bacon, ham, sausages and black pudding which he sells for exorbitant prices. He's a curmudgeon is Eddie, and I get the feeling he's a wee bit sweet on me! He was moaning and miserable the other week, so I told him I would bring him in some of my fresh baking to cheer him up. I returned, replete with coffee cake and lemon sponge. He turned pale, called me to the rear of the shop, and took it from me as though I was passing him a parcel of heroin. I then realised that he was as terrified of his scowling wife as I am...Since then, he has hinted more than once, that it is 'a good job we are both married, as I am having all sorts of thoughts now...'. He actually had me blushing dreadfully two days ago, so flirtatious was he. And unfortunately, Agnes Mildew is a shocking blusher and I give myself away so easily. The blushing was picked up on immediately. I think he took it as compliance that I felt the same - but I just felt uncomfortable. I looked at him plaintively and said, 'Stop making me blush. It was only a piece of bloody cake...'

I got out of the shop fairly sharpish and later, told Mr P what had happened, who suddenly became My Hero (he's pretty good at that, you know!) and next day, despite him being in agony with the dreadful dentistry work he had just undergone, he accompanied me to Eddie's where I needed to purchase two sticks of butter. Eddie looked a bit askance and kept giving me sly looks to which I refused to respond. Later that afternoon, I was driving past his shop to access the rear of our house and he came out of his shop. "Oi, yer bugger!" he exclaimed. "Yer brought yer bloody 'usband in fer back-up this morning, didn't you?"
"Yes, I did!" I retorted, and continued on my way...

Daft old bugger! He's about 15 years older than me and is married to a woman whose looks can kill at ten paces. Even #2 told me last night she doesn't think she has ever seen her smile once in the three years we have patronised her shop! I just think Eddie leads a frustrated life and likes to dream, such as Mr Parsnip and I do. At least he has his two Jaguars, though - a modern and a Vintage. It seems you can predict the weather by which one he is driving. If he is in the Vintage, the sun will shine all day as he is too scared to let raindrops fall on it. If the weather be inclement, he'll be in the modern one.

Village life, eh?

I wouldn't exchange it for a win on the Lottery.

Damn! Yes, I would!

PS. We didn't win this weekend, either...

Conservating Agnes

2008-09-09T14:07:00.017+01:00

So, it was an email from Keli over at Counterfeit Humans which has sort of prompted this post. I had told her about our new conservatory and she waxed lyrical about whether we played music in there, if it was green and tranquil, and I suddenly realised that as our other reader (number one is me, and thus a Brit) and from 'across the pond', she possibly didn't really know what the British conservatory is for.

Well, as I look out of our bedroom window, I can survey a number of conservatories built onto the back of these 1950s Council-built homes (by the way, I am not a Council House Wallah...these houses were built by the Council for the masses of ICI workers who settled here to mine the salt and create all sorts of chemicals, sodium potash and explosives. You know I am a snob so forgive me, any Council House Wallah who may be reading this post...such as the ex...) and they are built, so it would seem, for two purposes: a) as a bit more space to a potentially cramped house and b) as a sun room (when the bloody sun shines in England, particularly the North West, where the Parsnip family reside, which is privy to the Gulf Stream, bringing rain, drizzle, fog, rain, damp, rain, showers and rain...).

With the installation of Mr Parsnip, my 3-bed semi appeared to be shrinking - he can be a bit larger than life at times - and it was decided that we would either move (bad choice in the current economic climate) or extend. And so, I had these grand ideas that we would have this fantastic, light and airy loft conversion for me and Mr P, with an attic bedroom, spiral staircase up, ensuite bathroom etcetera, etcetera, and up I went into the loft to spec it out, being a builder's ex-wife. When I realised that, even as a pretty tall bird, standing at 5'8" and not being able to straighten my neck, the pitch wasn't quite steep enough, I thought long and hard about extending from the side and building a new 'block' where the outhouses are...until I checked out next door and realised that Jackie would start throwing flaming pasties at my door if I did so - I guess it would have felt like living in a mausoleum to her, so dark it would have become...

I wracked my brains as to how I could handle having three growing people in the house, as well as myself, and not go mental.

And so it was deemed that I would increase my mortgage by an utterly stupid amount and have built the largest conservatory The Conservatory Outlet had ever had commissioned. (And I am not providing them with a link because they screwed me over, for three weeks, on my choice of tiles, so Yah Boo Sucks to You!). The erection, if you will pardon my choice of words, was built with three purposes in mind: an office for Mr Parsnip when he cannot be fagged getting out of bed at 7am to travel ten minutes up the road to his official place of work (which happens on an extremely regular basis); a dining area; and a sanctuary for me, replete with sofa; side tables for my over-flowing ashtrays; lamps by which I can read literature such as Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy and Viz Magazine and have a happy, peaceful place.

Initially, building work went according to plan, although I was quite perturbed when I saw the footings which didn't look as though they were going to provide us with the equivalent of three living spaces. But, as they say, never show an idiot a half-finished job, and when the base and brickwork went down, it started to look huge...which prompted daft suggestions from Mr P and #2 daughter of having bloody fish tanks all over the place, forming arches of marine life, giving aquamarine glows at night. And who'd have to clean these sodding fish tanks and feed the bloomin' fish? Me! That's who! As I have to feed Lambert & Butler (rabbits) and muck out Oscar, the new moggy, pretty much every day, I am damned if I am going to clear out Britney, Shenaz, Goldie, Shaniah, Rhianna, 50-Cent, Robbie and Compo while I am at it...

Anyway, the conservatory went up pretty quickly and it wasn't long before we had windows, a roof and doors. The only thing which just didn't seem to happen was the flooring. We were messed around repeatedly by the Outlet and I could tell that the MD was panicking each time I called to ask, in a crystal-cut accent, When Are My Tiles Coming? They did come...eventually...and so it was time to install ourselves.

Mr P took up residence in his 'office' fairly quickly and indeed, if I am looking for him to help me unblock toilets or put lamps together, I am pretty sure I will find him in front of his PC, purporting to work, when really, he is organising his 6000 digital photos into different categories. Only the other day, I found his notes by which he was cataloguing his images and felt quite touched. I stroked his head gently and tenderly coo-ed: Aahh. You're really quite anal, aren't you?

I can also tell when he has been in here as he has shed his hand-rolling tobacco everywhere...It is like having Worzel Gummidge, the TV scarecrow, in here, there is that much dust and baccy lying about. This means more cleaning for me - that is where my anality lies, I am afraid (and no, don't invite me over to clean your house; that line gets used on me way too many times for it to be funny any more). I have to keep a clean and tidy house. And I object to it being crapped up when I have been on my hands and knees scrubbing, in between bouts of being a domestic Goddess and baking all sorts of fattening delights. So, you can imagine my dismay last night when I discovered that the kitten, Oscar, had decided to use the brand new conservatory rug as his litter tray. It wasn't a decent, 'dry' one, either. It was revolting and made me gip somewhat dramatically.

Mr P banished the moggy to the kitchen (wherein lay his litter tray) and told him that he was A Bad Cat. The kitten mewed plaintively at him, attempted to climb his trouser leg (reminiscent of a humping dog) and was promptly ignored. #2 daughter was almost beside herself with angst. So we asked how she would feel if one of us took a dump on her pillow.

She soon came round to our way of thinking...

My haven hasn't come to fruition as of yet. I have the window ledges bedecked in candles and a candelabra which decided to splatter wax ALL OVER THE BLOODY TILES last night. I will generally iron anything that comes to hand, but I have never spent an hour ironing ceramic tiles and I hope never to have to do it again.

I also awake every morning to Fly Heaven. I have started calling the place Pet Cemetary there are that many dead things to walk in to. A few weeks ago, sick and tired of vacuuming the carcasses from the window ledge, I squirted some Big D Fly Killer all over the place and sent #1 in, replete with Hoover and gas mask to do it for me. Within minutes, she was squealing like a gurlie poof that the flies were 'still buzzing in the vacuum cleaner...Urrrgggghhhh!'

I found that divine retribution, actually, since I feel the same revulsion when I have to collect her skanky undies, which she has surreptitiously (lazily?) stuffed down the side of her dressing table, for the wash...

So, it's not quite my sanctuary yet. I am still waiting for Mr P's leather sofa to come up once he gets the removal men in to clear out his house which is now, thankfully, in the process of being sold (touch wood!) and then I am going to ensure that I possess the only key to the conservatory doors so that I can block out spotty belligerent teenagers and baccy-shedding husbands. I shall smile and wave at them from the far end when they are clamouring to get to me and pester me with demands for cake, drinks, talks and sex (the girls don't request the latter from me, I hasten to add...) and shall claim profound deafness. I shall keep a loaded wine rack next to the settee, a healthy (is this an oxymoron?) supply of cigarettes and have some soppy Don Williams or the theme from Local Hero playing. I shall become maudlin and tearful, bemoaning my mis-spent yoof, and thoroughly enjoy myself!

So yes, Keli, perhaps the images you have of our conservatory are not that far off the mark?

A Day in the Life...

2008-08-31T11:10:00.007+01:00

Mr Parsnip told me off on Thursday evening. He came into the house, full of high dudgeon, and stated: YOU BLOGGED ABOUT ME AND MY SPOT!

Yes, I replied calmly: I did. I experienced that filth; I have a right to blog about it.

Are you going to keep blogging about me? he asked, fearfully.

Probably, I replied. And walked out of the kitchen...

And so, I think to myself each time he makes a faux pas, that's one for the blog...

Such as just ten minutes ago. The silly old hypochondriac saw black marking all down his index finger and rubbed at it plaintively. Is it a bruise? he asked.
I dunno, I replied. Does it hurt?
He licked it, rubbed again, and the black marking went.

Last week, our local friendly priest came round to visit, armed with his holy water and proceeded to tell Mr P all about the forthcoming trip to Lourdes - there are 29 of them going.

Mr P has no knowledge of the Roman Catholic religion whatsoever (a bit like me, who only converted last year so the girls could receive a decent education in this village...) and just about refrained himself from asking who was playing. For our non-British visitors, Lords is a famous cricket ground in the south of England. Mr P thought 29 priests were going in for six...

Cricket is a bit of a sticking point for Mr Parsnip. Whilst on honeymoon in Sri Lanka, our taxi driver pointed out the national cricket ground. Being quite aware that Mr P knows as much about cricket as I do about black pudding hurling, I was rather astounded to hear the tripe which started to issue forth from his mouth in his attempt to be 'a bloke'. So I turned to him with a raised eyebrow and sweetly asked, Who's the England Cricket Captain at the moment, darling?

He nudged me hard, turned a little pale underneath his Fab Lolly tan and mouthed at me to shut up.

A red rag to a bull, I'm afraid...if there's one thing I don't like to smell, it's bull sh*t and so I proceeded to question him about the current line-up and whether he thought Ian Botham or Graeme Gooch would represent us in the next World Series (or whatever the daft name is for an equally daft, and boring, sport).

It seems a little unfair to Parsnip-bate all the time, though, so Charles, that's all I'll throw out on you today!

Daughters #1 and #2 return to us tomorrow from their Spanish holiday with the ex. #1 has fallen 'in lurve' with a 15-year old and has proclaimed that her current boyfriend (the callow, spotty yoof I cannot abide) is 'a bit of an ass, really'. Music to my ears! 'Dan' (the new one) even has #2's approval, so he can't be bad - or possibly he bought her an ice lolly...

I am really looking forward to seeing the little angels. My ears haven't bled with white noise, I haven't said, uhum; aha; hmmm; yes, whatever; STOP IT! for two weeks and I fear my vocal cords may be seizing up. They go back to High School on Wednesday - indeed, it is #2's first day and year at Big School and she is petrified. She keeps trying on her uniform and showing us various different looks. I keep telling her to knot her tie properly and then her big sister takes her to one side, tells her she looks 'a spoff' and adjusts it so it is hanging down almost to her navel.

I have, personally, got rather broody just recently, and even mentioned the pitter-patter of tiny feet to Mr P who looked rather dyspepsic for a while. Then I realised there's no room in the house; it'd have to sleep in the new conservatory, 'cause I'm b*ggered if any mewling, puking thing other than Mr P is sleeping with me...So I may get a budgie instead...

I feel fairly certain that, upon the return of the girls, all broodiness will vanish like the Autumn dew on an Indian Summer's morn (how's that for a bit of prosaic claptrap?). I will crave my solitude and silence, will desperately want to clean kitchen floors, trouble-shoot silly websites, visit pharmacies in the middle of nowhere to see how their TV installations are going, and bake coffee cakes. The image I uploaded above is a bit of jiggery-pokery performed by Mr P using his PhotoShop. Four #2 daughters surrounding me...no wonder I had to have the glass of wine.

Two are definitely enough!

PS. For the concerned amongst you, Arthur reared his ugly 'head' again yesterday for Round 2. I won. I await his resurgence. Although I will miss him when he is gone...

Mr P, Arthur and Me...

2008-08-28T06:55:00.006+01:00

It's way too early for me to be awake considering I am not at work, but as it was the longest night in the history of Agnes Mildew-Parsnip in that I had recurring dreams where I kept telling Mr P that the CD-rom I was waving in front of his face was 'both downloadable and upgradeable', I bored myself rigid, got up with him as he made his preparations to leave for that pretty town known as Slough, four hours drive away, and decided to potter until possibly boring myself even further in tackling the massive pile of ironing which sits, in the hallway, waiting to trip me up.

I haven't surfed the Internet for days as my old PC has now been installed in #2's bedroom where I am not allowed to (shouldn't? (shhh!)) smoke (as she is currently holidaying in Spain with the ex, she will never know). Mr P's PC has gone on the fritz and it would appear that all the photos he has taken of the Mildew tribe have been lost to cyberspace forever, much to his chagrin and my semi-relief. There's nothing worse than seeing your phizog staring out at you from a computer screensaver on rotation and it's even worse when it has been PhotoShopped into submission so that you suddenly, falsely, appear on the attractive side. 'Pity PhotoShop couldn't be applied from a bottle', has been my most recent thought. I'd give anything to have my blemishes, shadows, misshapen nose and grey hairs miraculously removed with one morning application of PhotoShop-In-A-Bottle.

I've started noticing that it takes me longer and longer to get myself ready to go out. I now have three moisturising unguents which need to be applied (one of which is supposed to act like Polyfilla and applied delicately to the 'lined areas' of the face. A 15ml pot lasted me one application) and each needs time to set and dry before the application of the next. Then there's the foundation which is 'light and frothy and whipped with a million bubbles'. I feel like I am applying Cappuccino to myself at times, but it doesn't taste as nice. Applying eye shadow and eye liner is a real feat. Where once I had taut eyelids, now they move with the brush, providing great resistance and thus great big clods of 'mocha', 'taupe', 'bandage' and 'anthracite' build up in the crevices. It really is tiring being a female at times...

Mr P has me to groom him and care for his facial features - although his gratitude can be a bit thin on the ground. He tells me he feels like a Science Experiment at times. As he comes round in the morning, his first sight is of me peering over his skin, checking it out for blackheads, whiteheads, spots and anything else I can lay my fingernails on. I pick at his ears, scalp, complexion, back...anything I can reach depending on how he is lying in bed. He thinks that I enjoy this, but I don't. It's horrible for me. Honest...

I have never really suffered with spots - which has been a double-edged sword for me. Obviously, one does not want to parade gloop heads across one's face, but there is a certain satisfaction in extracting the gunge from them. #1 daughter has taken after her father who did suffer with teenage acne, but she is a delight, as she frequently gallops up to me on her imaginery pony and asks me to pick her zits. We can spend hours of quality time together doing this. Thankfully, this is one of the few ways she takes after my ex - who I am pleased to report has, over the last 12 months, become rather aged and fat. I feel like offering a marvellous diet tip to him: how to lose 12 lbs of ugly, useless fat; but that would mean him chopping his head off, so I guess that wouldn't go down too well...

The other day, to my shock (and glee; OK, I admit it), Mr P asked me to check out a lump on the back of his neck.
He went into a (very) lengthy explanation of how he had suffered one of these before and how, rather than trust a doctor to excise it (he has an aversion to needles, scalpels and anything sharp - including my wit - haha!) he decided to attack it himself. I was treated to an amazing description (which still beggars belief) of a 'cone' which he extracted. So, when he asked me to have a squeeze, I proclaimed that although I could feel the lump, there wasn't a 'head' and thus what on earth could I do?

Boy, how wrong could this Agnes be?

With the slightest pressure being gently applied, the dirtiest, foulest pus started oozing out like a massive worm, and my eyes widened in amazement. It just didn't stop! Had it been crude oil, I would now be swanning around my mansion wearing nothing but Gucci furs and Prada heels. I was now getting into my stride and decided to really get my nails working. Unfortunately, when further pressure is applied to something which is already under pressure, that extra force can lead to an almighty explosion.

And I caught it a wallop, right in my left eye, across my fringe and down the side of my face.

I shrieked Jesus Christ!, at the top of my voice and proceeded to retch violently with the smell, which was like Satan's toilet paper. Urgh, Urgh, Urgh!!! You Minger! I cried, not very diplomatically. I flapped around the bedroom like a demented pigeon, wanting to get away from the pong and trying not to bring up the contents of my colon. No matter how I scrubbed, that smell would not go. I felt like Lady Macbeth (Out! damned spot...), washing away at something which could not be seen, but was definitely there.

Mr P was panicking somewhat - he often does when I blaspheme so vociferously - he knows when I take the Lord's name in vain, I am often scared stiff by something: usually #2 gliding up behind me, wraith-like, and making me jump violently out of my skin, or a dirty big spider scuttling across the floor towards me.

Well, I showed him the cack I was collecting and then forcefully shoved my soiled fingers under his nose. He tentatively sniffed, pulled a face, gulped and proclaimed: Stilton cheese.

Very ripe Stilton cheese...one which had been maturing in a hot car for three weeks and sat on by a wet dog with a flatulence complaint.

That was more like it...

Thankfully, I remembered to wash my fingers once more before next picking my nose. There is nothing worse than having a lingering smell stuck up your nostrils. Once, having changed #2's soiled nappy after I had fed her curry, I hadn't quite washed under those fingernails briskly enough. One root of the left nostril later, and I was left with a pong up there for the rest of the day. Not one of my better days if I recall.

Anyway, the boil was drained as much as I could manage. Mr P reckons that is just Round One and within a week or so it will have refilled, ready for me to have some more fun. I have been nurturing it with tender loving care, applying Germolene to 'draw' it out, and poking it each morning, like a lump of rising dough. I have even given it a name - Arthur - and I ask after him every day. I can see Arthur growing with all my TLC and I will have him plucked fairly soon.

All good things come to those who wait...

An Update and Apologies for the Absence...

2008-06-07T05:45:00.003+01:00

I have just stumbled across an unmoderated comment from Karen which asks if married life is now so hectic that I do not have time to post. Well, first, Karen, please accept my apologies for not responding, but my Yahoo! mail account, where I receive these alerts, will sometimes work and allow me to see my messages, and other times, it just cannot be bothered and tells me it 'appears to be having a problem loading this message'. I think it may be menopausal to be honest...One type of message it never fails to deliver is an offer to extend my penis. Since I still can't find my penis, despite years of looking, maybe this is a valid suggestion?

Is married life hectic? I guess attempting to get Mr Parsnip's breakfast right in the morning has become a bit of an ordeal...there's not enough golden syrup on his porridge; I have used sugar instead of golden syrup; the dried fruits aren't sweet enough and thus he needs sugar; he doesn't want mackerel...I have since gone on strike and told him he makes his own from now on. You can only kick a dog so many times before it turns and bites you on the bum. (Caveat: he has been so sweet recently, he got an omelette this morning...)

But, it's not so much married life which is hectic, it's being a full-time mother (as well as a full-time whipping boy to my boss, The Fat Controller) to a full-time teenager which is now starting to take its toll.

#1 has become the nightmare daughter. Not only does she do the usual things such as slamming doors, leaving dirty clothes everywhere, turning her bedroom into a filth magnet and decreasing the temperature of the room to sub-zero with her glares, she has now been in detention for kissing her boyfriend (a callow, spotty youth with a mono-syllabic vocabulary), flirts remorselessly with any male of her age, uses her dinner money for chewing gum or chocolate and La Senza underwear (which even I struggle to afford from time to time, hence my George at Asda (Walmart for our US reader) knickers) and lies through her back teeth to me.

Fortunately, I am blessed with one of the most suspicious minds known to man: I trust nary a soul, and can smell a set-up a mile off. You have to get up jolly early in the morning to get one over on me, and since I rise with the birds, you're not likely to get a lot of sleep in your endeavours...

After yet another saga last night which has resulted in two weeks' grounding, a ban from parties/sleepovers/breathing, a ban on the use of the house phone, and confiscation of her mobile once I can find the damned thing, and the application for Boarding School prospectuses, I remarked to Mr Parsnip that I was bewildered at how I could beg, plead, cajole, encourage, or threaten the same things over and over again, only to be ignored repeatedly. I was staring at the kettle at the time.
"Look at that kettle. You ask it to boil. It says, OK, and Bob's your uncle. One pot of boiling water. Simple isn't it? Why can't she be as compliant?"

Mr P, for some odd reason, found this hilariously funny, and shook with laughter so much that he nearly fell off his perch on the kitchen worktop.

She has started to go through my wardrobe and shoes racks (of which there are many, I must confess) and asks if, when I die, she can have X, Y or Z pair of shoes. There are then the 'dumb blonde' questions (she is blonde by nature, but has enhanced with a dodgy dye I did for her last year) such as, 'Mum, if I put on three different deoderants, each with 24-hour protection, does that mean I don't have to wash for three days?'...The mind boggles...

#1 and I are now of similar dress sizes. It is not that she has put on weight, it is just that the weight has fallen off me with worry. (For our American reader, I weigh in at a size 4 and look like Cruella de Ville). She hates me for it, berates me for it, and tells me that I ought to be like all the other Mums. Her friends' mothers are all on the very short side (unlike me); bleached blonde (unlike me); work part-time or not at all (unlike me) and have the propensity to enjoy the occasional pie or double fish and chips. I am deemed 'un-Mumsy'. She still likes to nick my Karen Millen dresses, though...

She has her moments, though - such as when she wants to go horse riding, she will do all the family's ironing, as long as she gets in that car. She will also 'baby-sit' her 11-year old sister for unlimited use of the house phone to call her spotty boyfriend and she can make a mean lasagne.

When I am reincarnated, I will not return as a Mother. I will return as a hedgehog. They have fun...

The Aftermath...

2008-04-24T13:56:00.007+01:00

Dear All,

Just a wee postcard from Sri Lanka for you...

Ah well, you were all wondering, weren't you: will she, won't he, will he, won't she? Well, we did. And it was beautiful, and when I get back from Sri Lanka, you will hear all about it, and I may even upload a few photos so you can finally get to see what Agnes Mildew, Charles Parsnip and Daughters #1 & #2 look like...If you want...

So, here we are in the Mount Lavinia Hotel, Sri Lanka. I was somewhat perturbed a few weeks ago, to know that our honeymoon was here, as in February there were a few problems, what with the Tamil Tigers kicking off and deciding to blow up a public transport bus not far from our hotel, killing a number of civilians. Hmm...that is what had put me off coming here with The Ex some years ago. But, ever the trooper, I was determined not to let a few terrorists intimidate Agnes Mildew-Parsnip this time!

We left Manchester on Sunday morning in a flurry of late spring snow. We had both dressed for the prospect of warmer climes and thus, when Mr P suggested a final cigarette outside the airport terminal, I, in my ignorance of the lack of designated smoking areas, declined, preferring the warmth indoors. I was most distressed, after check-in, to discover that a very long, nicotine-free nine hours lay ahead of me, and got somewhat mardy at one point...

The flight itself was very uneventful, excepting the exchange of foodstuffs between me and Mr P. I no longer eat any other meat but fish and the only options were lamb or chicken. So Mr P had my chicken (from Business Class, as Camel Class had run out), his own chicken, and I had two salads and two smoked salmons. He also had two cheesecakes. And two biscuits and cheese. And two bread rolls. Is he carrying twins, I wonder?

Our stopover was in Dubai airport - a place I am very familiar with, due to my sojourns in the Middle East. Indeed, arriving in the Irish Village (the airport pub) was like being home from home. We were a bit fuddled with the time difference, and Mr P started to get agitated by my blasé attitude towards making the gate exactly 37.63 minutes before take-off. I have a more Middle Eastern IBM attitude - In sh'Allah Bukrah Mumkin (Tomorrow, God Willing, Perhaps, if you care to...) and thus ambled along to gate 53. Which happened to be the wrong gate, approximately half a mile in the wrong direction.

Mr P turned a strange shade of red, refused to talk, look at me, or breath properly and strode out like a man possessed towards the correct gate. I hopped and capered alongside him, making reassuring coo-ing noises, telling him things would be fine.

It didn't wash...At all...

I won't describe our first 'discussion' as husband and wife, but suffice it to say, I won.

And so we arrived here, and haven't we done well for ourselves? The Mount Lavinia Hotel is a fine specimen of Colonial architecture and we happily ensconced ourselves in what the Brits abroad do best - bugger all: drinking, eating and getting sunburned.

Mr P is mortified to discover that the Asiatic Crows are so bloody cheeky and will blatantly dive-bomb you as you partake of breakfast to nick your toast and marmalade, and he was horrified when one sat upon his clean shorts and emptied its bowels. I suggested to him, in between bouts of hysteria, that it was either a very poorly bird, or someone had emptied a pot of muesli yoghurt onto his kecks.

He didn't see the funny side...

I, on the other hand, thought it hilarious, and that is because he wet his pants laughing when a pigeon plopped on my head during our four day break to Barcelona (first time round), two years ago. Revenge is sweet, Mr P. So, so sweet...

We haven't done anything but sit around the pool, talk rubbish, read books and buy gorgeous Sri Lankan jewels. Well, I have snuck off to buy jewels, but don't tell my new husband that. He must never know, OK?

So, he is currently pushing out the zeds as he has had such a hard day of it, sheltering from the tropical storm we have experienced, drinking red wine, reading his strange Sci-Fi novel which looks like something to come as a free gift with the Sunday Express, and eating Tandoori Chicken butties. Ah me...such is life.

The hardest part is to ring daughters #1 & #2 up tonight and ask if their day has been as good as ours...

Will keep you all posted!

Wish you were here *ahem*

Agnes x

It's the Final Countdown...

2008-04-15T06:15:00.005+01:00

It's been a bit quiet on the old blogging front at HexMyEx. That's simply because I have found myself in the unenviable position of juggling three full-time jobs recently: those of marketing manager, full-time mother (daughters #1 and #2 refusing to see their father) and housewife. I strongly object to being married to a house but it certainly feels like I am chained to the sink at present, so I definitely understand the expression.

I have only ever wanted a quiet life. My idea of larks is to jump out on Mr Parsnip when he is least expecting it and scare him witless...Indeed, I attempted to do this some months ago at our local cinema, by hiding behind a life-size cut-out of Jonny Depp as Sweeney Todd. After standing there, braced and ready to jump for about ten minutes, I pondered as to whether Mr P had fallen down the toilet, so long was he taking. I poked my head around Jonny's and, much to my chagrin, there he was on the other side, wondering where the hell I was. I had missed him leaving the gents' and my ruse fell flat on its face.

So, considering that I am now in my final week of being a single woman (the big day arrives this Saturday, 19th), I am now wondering what has happened to my sanity as daughter #1 screams that she is not coming to this 'flippin', God-forsaken wedding!'. This, dear reader, is because I dobbed her in it at High School. She has been taking £2 each day from me for lunch and then spending it on sweets. So I did what any normal, indignant, but sneaky, parent would do and reported her to her Year Head who is now going to monitor her every move in the dinner queue. The fact that she is being treated like 'a spaz' has left her mortified and hating me for the rest of my life. I can live with it. Really, I can...

The bridesmaids have been the bane of my life. They are daughters #1 and #2. Trying to find something that is both girly (#1) and tomboy-ish (#2) has been a task even Trinny and Susannah would find difficult. Therefore, they are both in cappuccino coloured (brown, for the plain speakers), simple dresses, but with a splash of beading and lattice work to appease #1's girly tendencies.

Despite ordering these dresses before Christmas last year, they only actually arrived in the shop six days ago. My hair has been turning greyer and greyer, I shake like I have the DTs, and I cannot sleep properly for envisaging #2 getting the hump and pitching up in combats and wellies. The seamstress at the bridal shop has a strong, drawling Scouse accent which has served to drive me up the wall: Don' worreeeee, Agnessssssssssssssssss. Ir'll all be all rice.

But #2 goes away for a week on Monday and won't be back till Friday. She doesn't have time for a fitting. What am I going to doooooo???

[It's at this point, that an observer would be reminded of Edvard Munch's The Scream]

Don' worreeeee, Agnessssssssssssssssss. Ir'll all be all rice.

It wasn't alright.

The girls went for their dress fittings on Saturday, and the supplier had sent the wrong sizes. #1 who is a slim 13 year old was fitted in a woman's size 16 which would have swamped me, and #2 who could hide behind a river reed comfortably was fitted in a woman's size 8, which might have just fitted me with a bit of shoe-horning. I was suitably distressed, turned a few shades of crimson, stuttered, came out of the changing rooms to find Mr P looking furtively at posh frocks and wailed. Mr P offered to go out and get some veg from the grocers if that would help...

In order to stop me from panicking about the girls' dresses, the seamstress, Julie, offered to let me try my hoop on. I'd also panicked about that as the last time I had tried one on, the Saturday girl gave me a size 20, so the only way I could walk in it was to spread my legs as far as they could go and take giant strides around the shop floor. I could really imagine arriving at the ceremony to the dulcit strings of Mozart, clomping like a fairy elephant...

This hoop fit me perfectly, thankfully, but it was as I was stepping out of it, still in my jeans and boots, that Julie ducked to her knees to assist me. She had just, at that point, told me not to 'worreeeee' again, and I kneed her in the forehead. It was an accident, really it was, but she was sent flying across the changing room and got up a bit shakily. I hope it served as a warning to her, despite it being accidental...

My work colleagues tell me I am exceptionally cool, calm and collected, considering I marry in four days time. I tell them I am an exterior Ice Maiden, but beneath this frosty surface, I am a nervous wreck. One colleague continually tries to take my mind off things by telling all and sundry that she marries in 87 days, has rubber Calla lillies in her bouquet, and the guests' favours are sample size perfumes she has extorted from one of the perfume suppliers. I ignore her, preferring to keep referring to the Foreign and Commonwealth Office website to see whether the terrorism in Sri Lanka (where we go for our honeymoon) has changed yet from being High Risk to Don't-Go-There-Whatever-You-Do...

It's also throwing it down in Sri Lanka: thunder and lightning storms. Semi-monsoon season.

Great...

Forecast here for Saturday is scattered showers, 7degC and a bit on the breezy side. So, I will certainly fulfil that old wedding rhyme of 'Something Old, Something New...' I'll be the 'blue' and Mr P is the 'Something Old'...He wasn't impressed when I jocularly quipped this to our travel agent, and asked for seperate seats on the plane from me.

Some people have no sense of humour...

So, next time I blog will no doubt be upon my return from Colombo. Unless the Tamil Tigers kidnap me and use me as their domestic for the next five years. I'd be good at that.

Goodbye for now. Next time we meet, I will be Mrs Mildew-Parsnip. Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?

Dating Disasters #...I don't know, having lost count...

2008-03-06T09:47:00.004Z

Now one of our two dear readers may consider it rather imprudent for me to continue to describe my dating disasters now that I am ensconced in affianced bliss to Mr Parsnip, but as he also gets a kick out of reading how bloody awful my single life was, I don't have too many qualms.

Peter was my very first date after Mr P and I initially split up. Always one to get back on the horse after falling off, I went out with him within days of our break-up, utterly determined not to waste any more time in mourning.

Peter had chatted to me some time previously, during my initial foray into internet dating, but we never seemed to pin each other down to actually organise a date. He was a very, very handsome chap judging by his photographs, and also held down a very good job as an accountant. He told me all about his property development ventures: his six houses and the seventh he was purchasing; and his little Mercedes SLK sports car. Being of quite a mercenary mind at the time, this all screamed money to me and as I quite fancied being treated by somebody loaded down with pots of gold, as soon as he offered to meet me for a drink, I jumped at the chance.

As some of you may recall, I am a bit of an anal retard when it comes to short men. I discovered to my delight (and surprise) this weekend that I am actually 5'8 1/2", not the 5'7" I thought I was and so, sometimes, it can be very, very difficult to find a date over whom I do not tower, particularly as I like to wear 4" heels most of the time. Trouble is, I don't like to be with a man upon whom I look down. I do that in my head with most blokes, but I don't actually want to do it physically, so when Peter confessed to me that he was 5'7 1/2" and in my ignorant state that I was only 5'7", I thought, Blast! Another short-arse, but at least he has that upper 1/2" over me...Flats tonight, eh?

Well, I did consider wearing my flip-flops, but as it was December, bitterly cold and I would have looked somewhat daft in them, I thought, Sod it! Heels it is.

For some strange reason, despite Peter having an enormously lengthy jouney to meet with me, he whittered on about aftershaves, designer labels, what perfumes he liked ladies to wear and his SLK on MSN long after I wanted to jump in the shower and get myself sorted out. Weighing up the merits of John Paul Gaultier versus Versace did nothing for me as I am most definitely Woman at Oxfam or a George at Asda girl and would find it fairly difficult to know my Farhi from my Farah.

Eventually, I encouraged him to stop talking about what he was going to wear, and just wear it.

An hour and a half later, I arrived at the meeting place and there was his sports car and he was sat in it. I climbed out of my beaten up Yaris, as gracefully as is possible from a heap of junk, and shimmied over, attempting to ooze as much sexual magnetism as possible. I seemed to make an impact, as his eyes lit up and he emerged from his car...all 5'5" and Cuban Heels. I don't think my face fell quite as much as my heart did, but I pulled myself together and shook his hand whilst delivering him my most beaming smile.

As was expected of me, considering he had banged on about it enough, I Ooohed and Aaahed over his little motor, which was, I have to confess, sex on wheels and I wouldn't have minded leaving him at the Leigh Arms for the night while I went off out on the pull in his car. But, ever the lady, I accompanied him inside where I got the drinks.

Yes, I bought the rounds all night! Considering he went on and on and on about how much money he earned and his six (soon-to-be-seven) rental properties, and his three foreign holidays a year, I did think he was a bit cheap for not dipping his hand into his pocket and treating me to a lime and soda.

I have to confess that Peter bored me rigid. Apart from Master Chef, I have never encountered a date who could talk a glass eye to sleep like Peter could.

Despite having already given his car a massive ego boost, I then had to sit in the pub and look at photos of it on his (new) mobile phone. The photos were taken at different angles, all on his ex's driveway (with whom he was still in touch, and which is always a no-no in my book if children aren't involved) and all showed...a car...

Yes, it was a lovely car. I had stroked his ego about it for the first ten minutes of our meeting, but I didn't fancy having an orgasm over a car that night.

I think he could tell he was losing me, so he then showed me his new watch. It was some posh make, but I cannot remember what now. All I know is that I had to watch the hands spin round while he set it to different time zones and the hands played catch-up to France, Japan, Brisbane and back to the UK. It was stultifyingly dull, and even when he confessed that he had procured it by his Nectar points, I didn't bat an eyelid, despite being ever a one for a ruse or bargain.

It was time for the analyses. His first question was: Do I look like my pictures? Well, to be perfectly frank, I am pretty sure he buys miniature furniture with which to decorate his homes because he looked enormous in these photos. And in real life, he was a perfect specimen of a midget. I was also considering using the Trades Descriptions Act, as I am blowed if he was only two years older than me. Either that, or he'd had a bloody hard paper round as the lines on his face could have directed me to London if I'd given them closer inspection.

It seems I did look like my pictures, if a little thinner in real life (hardly surprising, since I had shed about two stone since they had been taken) and he informed me that he was pleased with his choice.

Now, I don't like it when blokes come over all proprietorial like that on a first date. I am not his choice - I see it as a contract: he has invited me out on a date, and I have accepted. Offer and acceptance. That's it. I don't belong to him. This raised my hackles, somewhat, and I started to wonder about an escape route.

My trustworthy pal, Tracy, was out on a date herself that night and was therefore unable to imitate the sound of a dying child, in distress, down my mobile to me and I was thus stuck. Guilt overcame me at the distance he had travelled to meet with me, so I suggested that we went back to my house for a coffee. He readily agreed, much to my chagrin, as I really quite fancied an early night by this stage, now feeling as though the life blood was draining from me.

He followed me home and I let him in to my Mott and Bailey where I offered him a coffee and a bite to eat. He was singularly impressed by this, for some reason, and launched into a speech laden with pathos, about how much he yearned for a woman who would care for him, make his meals for him, and who would allow him to shower her with endless gifts in gratitude. Hmmm...I thought, I could do the latter...but what about sex? I'd have to be stoned every night...I metaphorically shook myself and continued with the coffee making while he annihilated his past girlfriends (with whom he kept in touch - yeah, right!) and told me how much he liked tall, dark women who could cook.

I nodded at all the appropriate points, smiled graciously, and kept him well at arm's length, going insofar as to sit at the opposite side of the living room from him, just in case he decided to propose to me.

At some point, he got onto the subject of his job, and, dear reader, it is at this point that I can tell you no more as, apart from him being some type of accountant (and not a 'normal' one, if you will excuse the oxymoron), it was like white noise. My last memory is of him catching me totally unawares and asking if he was boring me. Unfortunately, as my guard had slipped right down by this point, I bluntly replied, Yes.

Much to his utter horror...

I apologised profusely, and stuttered that I basically didn't understand what he was talking about, that I was tired, that the goldfish had kept me up half the night crying with earache, and that I wasn't quite myself.

He got the message and left in a hurry...

I decided that I wasn't going to pursue this date in any way shape or form, so he was promptly deleted from MSN and my mobile phone. Unfortunately, he didn't delete me and thus bombarded me with text messages for many months, sometimes being suggestive, sometimes being pathetic, but always being irritating. In the end, I told him I had found the man of my dreams (it was a new kitten in the household) and that my new chap wasn't happy with this contacting me.

That was the last I heard of Peter, thankfully. I am sure he now has an eighth property to brag about, and no doubt he has exchanged his SLK for a Mitsubishi Starion, but the fact of the matter is, I am 3 1/2" taller than him and that will just never do.

Present Presentations

2008-02-27T17:01:00.002Z

I am not very comfortable in Public Speaking situations, despite being able to talk to any loony, alcoholic, tramp or lawyer on the street.

So, when I was informed that I would be accompanying the commercial director and the marketing manager on their ‘Roadshows’ to present the work I have done on their e-commerce site, my knees wobbled slightly, I paled dramatically and my voice broke like a teenage boy’s.

For weeks, I have fretted about the forthcoming presentations, but resolved to use Power Point to the best of my (limited) ability and put on such a good visual display that they wouldn’t really bother to listen to me and my stammering deliveries.

The boss, a blunt Northerner if ever there was one, hauled me in to go through the presentation with him.

So, what the f*ck’s this mean? Whatcher on about ‘ere? Talk to me in Northern speak, not yer tecky stuff. I only just understand bits of what yer say, so f*ck knows what the rest of them’ll think if yer don’t speak normal.

But, I protested, I have to use these terms because...well...that is their name. Search Engine Optimisation does what it says on the tin. You optimise the site for the search engines. Moves you up the SERPs...er...Search Engine Results Pages...

Look. It’s all boll*cks to me. I know you’re bringing in the sales and I know we’re gettin’ loads of visitors, but I want you to show off to them. Actually, keep talking yer tecky boll*cks ‘cos then they’ll realise that you know what you’re on about and give us a load of online deals. Just make them visuals bigger. Can’t f*ckin’ read anything...

Off I went to make the visuals bigger.

The visuals were then pulled apart again as, unfortunately, we weren’t showing ourselves quite as favourably as the boss wanted in comparison with other sites who’d had an online presence for many years longer than us. I was called in to account for my action as to why I had left one particular slide in which didn’t look brilliant. This was first thing Monday morning, the morning of our first presentation. I had thought of this on the Saturday night and realised I had been a wally about it. Unfortunately, so did the boss.

Get it sorted out, he barked.

Yes, I know, I had thought about this over the weekend, and it was my first job today. Sorry.

S’alright. I don’t have the monopoly on being a tw*t, you know, he informed me, quaintly...

The presentation went OK, I guess. As I stumbled out of the meeting room with knees knocking and lit up my cigarette with fumbling hands, the boss came out after me.

Alright, Tiger? He asked me. What d’yer think of that, then?

I dunno? What did you think of it?

You were OK. You talked your tecky boll*cks and nobody knew what the hell you were on about. That’s fine by me. Just try to tell them what meta information is next time, though. That’s really weird stuff.

The next presentation was on the Wednesday. We were flying to Gatwick from Manchester in the morning, which meant a start of 5am for me. I was most distressed that Mr Parnsip refused to rouse himself from his pit to make me a cuppa as I showered. It is the last time I do it for him when he is travelling at ungodly hours, I have since vowed...(Charles, are you reading this?)

I was told to tailor the presentation for the second supplier by using slides of their products and some of the online collaborations I have supervised. I attempted to get it sorted out whilst rushing around like a headless chicken as my phone rang repeatedly with calls from my colleague in the e-Pharmacy who was having a panic about a knackered refund system which was deciding to credit a customer’s credit card with almost half a million pounds for two tubes of haemorrhoid unguent. I deemed sorting this out with our developers slightly more important than the presentation and thus only had half an eye on it all.

As the boss waddled off to the toilets and passed me as I skulked back to my desk from a sneaky fag, I asked if all was OK on it.

Aye, apart from not screen shooting the home page, and getting the procedure of purchasing in the wrong order. So, apart from it being sh*te, it’s fine. Gerrit sorted.

I did. I got it sorted, and as I went right through the presentation, slide by slide, I realised that yes, I didn’t actually have to take on the mantle of being a tw*t: rather than go right through to the end, the boss had left up the name of the supplier to whom we had presented on Monday. My somewhat sneering query as to whether I should alter it to the more appropriate supplier was greeted with: Stop being a smart*rse! And meet me at Boots in the airport tomorrow. 7.30am. Don’t be late. And don’t forget your passport.

I arrived at 7.15 and parked up in the long-stay car park, to which I had been ordered and where I handed over £19.00 for a day’s parking. It was bitterly cold and there had been freezing fog all the way. I deeply yearned for the warmth of my bed, where I knew Mr P slumbered and pushed out the zeds as his mouth gaped and slobbered across the pillow. I was not happy.

I was even more unhappy that I couldn’t, for the life of me, find Boots. Off I went to the Bureau de Change to ask where it was. Upstairs, I was duly informed.

Upstairs I went. No Boots. Not anywhere. So I then asked Security where it was. Through Departures.

Harumph! I was a bit narked that the boss couldn’t be fagged meeting me before check-in, but I did my bit, got strip-searched, bleeped a few times going through machines and finally got to Boots.

My phone rang.

Where are you?

I’m outside Boots. I couldn’t answer the phone immediately because I was going through security.

Worra yer goin’ through security for? I told you! Meet me at Boots!

Well, I was told that the Boots was in the Departures lounge. That’s what I was told by security.
No, no, no! When you get to the top of the stairs, it’s on your right. You can’t miss it. Got that dirty big sign B-O-O-T-S outside it.

Well, I’m here now. So I’ll meet you at this Boots, eh?

Fifteen minutes later, he and another colleague pitched up. He wouldn’t meet my eye properly and so I asked R where the Boots was.

The silly s*d, she expostulated. There isn’t a Boots on the other side. You found the only one.

The boss had the dignity to look suitably sheepish and blustered about being sure it had once been a Boots but was now trading as WH Smith. It didn’t wash with R who shot him down. She’s a hockey player, so she takes no cr*p from anyone.

We stood and waited...and waited...and waited...

Eventually, the captain came to us and informed us that, due to a technical hitch, the plane would not be taking off and Gatwick was fog-bound.

We were not flying to London that day.

We left Departures, having queued for an eternity to have our tickets validated for refund and headed out.

Right, we’re off this way, said the Boss. Where are you? In Long Stay? Oh. Thought I told you to park in Short Stay where I am?

No, you bloody didn’t, I snarled.

I waited at the shuttle bus for 15 minutes in the icy wind and the -2degC temperatures, shivering in my short skirt and thin suit jacket.

Then I realised that I had left my parking exit ticket and couldn’t leave the car park. I rushed back in to the machines and some kind soul, bless his/her heart, had had the decency to leave my ticket atop the machine. That person will go to heaven one day.

Another fifteen minutes wait for the next bus.

And eventually, I got to the office. I decided not to stay long and made an excuse to slope off up to our internet pharmacy where I sat and drank lovely hot coffee with my opposite number up there until 3pm when she told me to clear off home and put my feet up.

I did.

And in a few weeks, I will be attempting to make the rescheduled Gatwick trip again. Wish me luck...

More Shopping Tales...

2008-02-13T19:53:00.007Z

I, Charles Parsnip, am happily engaged to be married to one Agnes Shirley Bandage Petticoat Mildew - the love and light of my life. Last weekend, she walked out on me...

It was during a completely innocuous shopping trip to the local shopping centre. We had a lovely coffee, and walked arm in arm through the ranks of ill-dressed northern oiks to find something nice for dear Agnes to wear.

After an hour or so, Agnes proclaimed boredom with the whole sojourn and so we began to make our way back to the safety and comfort of the car. No cigarettes in the shopping centre these days: indeed, Agnes remarked that she was considering cutting down on the volume of tar she lines her lungs with which pleased me greatly. We were nicotine free for around an hour. As a smoker myself, I agreed with her decision that we needed to get out into the fresh air and suck some smoke into our lungs tout de suite.

So it was with some surprise that, as we walked past the huge "Sale" signs hoisted in shop windows, I noticed the red neon of the "Anne Summers" shop. Regular readers will note that this is a subject that Agnes associates with some embarrassment and, in an effort to reclaim some form of upper hand, after the Scrabble-annihilating episodes, I nudged her and nodded towards the almost-nude plastic models in the window, two of which were in the process of having sexy air stewardess outfits removed and replaced with latex policewomen.

"Look! Anne Summers...."

It was a strange force of nature that caused me to take her by the arm and guide her towards the doorway. Shop assistants dressed in black nodded and smiled as we walked in, and immediately, I began to look at the wares on display with a sense of wonder akin to a small child given £500 to spend in a sweet shop with no threat of dentists in sight.

Agnes and I have a very strong relationship. There is little we cannot discuss, or indeed have not discussed, so I was confident of her ability to strike down any "looks" with either her dagger-like stare, or razor sharp wit. Failing that, Agnes can deliver a rather painful and unerringly swift roshambo when it is required. As a consequence, I was not prepared for the reaction I received after five minutes of browsing.

I think it was the air stewardess uniform that did it. As I took it off the rack to examine the quality of the material, shaking my head somewhat at the plastic tray and authentic sick bag attached, I turned to Agnes and made a comment. An innocuous enough comment at the time, but I think it was one of those moments similar to when you shout at someone in a pub (in order to be heard over the noise) and the entire place falls silent.

"I think you'd look a bit daft in that don't you?" I said, as I held it up to Agnes' face for inspection. Heads turned, silence reigned supreme, and briefly, I wondered whether I had perhaps once again engaged my mouth before putting my brain into gear.

The response confirmed my fears. In a quiet tone, her gaze flickering from me to the gaudy uniform she uttered a few choice words... "I have to get out of here... I'm leaving".

And with those words, the lovely Agnes left me there feeling rather foolish and unsure of the best thing to do next.

When your loved one walks out of the sweet shop what do you do? Do you dutifully follow them in order to determine what was wrong, or do you look at the £500 in your hand and think "More for me!!". Unfortunately, I am not blessed with an oversized brain.

I moved past the gentleman towering at least a foot over my own six foot frame who was staggering around on crutches examining the various lubrication oils on offer. Every time he moved his crutch, he groaned (an ironic choice of words for a gent in a shop such as this) and idly, I wondered whether some form of sexual deviance had got him into this state. The obese woman examining a "Spank-Me" schoolgirl outfit smiled up at me as I regarded the nurse's outfit which was coincidentally identical to the very same outfit mentioned in this post by Agnes. I imagined the large lady, crammed into the size "10-12" (yeah right!) outfit, on her hands and knees receiving a spanking and the raw potato I'd had for breakfast began to inch its way up my throat. I swiftly moved on. Rounding the corner, a couple were perusing large plastic replicas of male genetilia. The young lady was holding one in each hand, carefully measuring the weight whilst her male companion looked on with a strange look that I could only describe as disdain. I struggled to stifle a snort as I moved past to the darker recesses of the shop.

As I debated the comedic value of purchasing a PVC police-woman's outfit, simply to see Agnes's reaction, I realised that I had now spent Too Long in, not only the bondage section, but the shop proper, and that it was time to leave.

Exiting the premises, I cast my gaze over the hordes of Manchester as they hurried about their business, and out of the corner of my eye caught a rather subversive-looking Agnes leaning casually against a shop window three stores down

Worriedly, I hastened over to her, expecting the same look of derision reserved for my lengthy browses in DIY stores (paint section) and Jessops. Instead, all I received was a tight smile and a slight pillar box red complexion. Grabbing my hand, she frog marched me through John Lewis and out to the safety of the car park, where she lit up with a speed that would make The Stig nod his head in satisfaction.

Agnes was blushing...

Career Woman versus Kept Woman

2008-01-30T13:10:00.000Z

Have any of you ever worked in a kindegarten? Or a zoo? Or even a loony bin? Well, I am unfortunately in the position of working for an amalgamation of all three which masquerades as the Retail and Online Marketing department of a large pharmaceutical company in the UK.

I have six immediate female colleagues and one male boss. He hides in a goldfish bowl behind us and never hears the cacophony of burping, belching, farting, impressions of Borat, choruses of Fraggle Rock and the ubiquitous 'baby talk' which comes mainly from my 30-year old 'assistant' (I use that term very loosely - if she understood the meaning of the word, no doubt she would choose to ignore it in favour of sucking her thumb).

She is not one of the slimmest girls, nor was she first in the queue when God was handing out good looks. Consequently, she garners attention by behaving like a two year old having a temper tantrum most of the time. In order to show she is happy, she skips her 20 stone frame down the corridor, singing songs from The Muppet Show (her relatives, probably), which makes my coffee pound in a way reminiscent of the glass of water in Jurassic Park when the T-Rex is on its way. If she is cross that we are not paying her attention, she falls off her chair in the middle of the room and petulantly pouts, You weren't listening to me! Look what I had to do!
I've even known her to faint when she trapped her finger in a door. Poof? Probably...Put on? Yup...

I feel like ramming my fist into her mouth half the time, and I deem myself a bit of a pacifist, deep down...

Another girl suffers with IBS and don't we know about it! We hear, in minute detail, about her daily bowel movements, smell and hear her flatulence problems, and are subjected to her medical history with vivid, gesticulative accounts. She is marrying her long-term partner in July. I guess OK! magazine will hear about it at some point, because, by Christ, we do, in stultifyingly dull detail, every five minutes. I, conversely, keep my mouth well shut about my own nuptials. Nobody knows much about my wedding, apart from the date and venue, and none of them are getting an invitation, either, let alone organising a Hen Night for me.

If I am asked about my own arrangements, and answer honestly, I discover next day, that she has done the same, but bigger and better. Boring? Yes. Irritating? Most definitely. Resolving to keep my mouth firmly closed? Absolutely.

She bought her wedding dress a few weeks ago. It fits her perfectly, we are led to believe. However, oddly, she is now trying to get pregnant. Now, call me old fashioned, but weren't children supposed to traditionally come after the wedding? And is there anything more off-putting than seeing a Bride, in virginal white, waddling down the aisle with a 6-month lump protruding from her dress? Yes, I know it's the 21st century, but I know what looks good and what doesn't!

Then we have Animal. I call her that in my own head because she reminds me of Animal, the Muppet drummer. She even talks like him when she is on the phone to her father. She has a very chequered love life which involves jealous lesbian ex-wives, homeless criminals, men on the verge of drawing their pension, and her most recent, a white Aborigine (her words, due to his plethora of tattoos). She regales us with her most recent 'romantic' mishaps (again, I use that word loosely because any story of love punctuated with every expletive known to man doesn't exactly conjure up images of doves, red roses and Barbara Cartland to me) in an exceptionally loud voice every Monday morning. I find them amusing to a degree, and somewhat smug in that I have been lucky enough to only ever get embroiled with peaceful loonies as opposed to violent ones. There but for the grace of God go I, I guess...

Out of the other three females, one is part-time, a new mother, and exceptionally quiet. I like her. Another is a middle-aged harridan who has had a sense of humour bypass and has become a bit of a diet bore. She goes on a new diet every month and has lost a grand total of 3lb. The last girl makes me laugh, but has a tendency to get rather over-emotional from time to time and can take off into day-long crying sessions. It must be her hormones, I reckon.

The boss is the best of them all. He possesses a fantastic sense of humour, is one of the laziest blokes I have ever met, wants us all to do his work for him, and effs and blinds like a Merchant Seaman. For some reason, he appears to view me as 'One of The Lads' as opposed to one of his 'Bitches'. He also told me at my staff review that he found me one of the scariest women he had ever met - Psycho Hose Beast were his exact words, which threw me marginally, until I recovered and held a carving knife to his throat until he retracted.
I've never had a boss like this before, and I would be very, very loathe to leave him...

And then there's me: The Techy Freak. That is their name for me because I understand what an XML feed is, I know how to write in HTML and I remember ALT functions. I also say very little because I realise that my sense of humour simply wouldn't be understood by them and it is easier to keep my thoughts to myself than to attempt to make some intelligently witty remark which would only be assimilated if they could interpret words of more than one syllable.

I actually enjoy my job - it is stimulating, full of new things to learn, and fantastic opportunities to develop oneself, but I cannot abide working with Morons. You never know until you get there, though, do you?

I continue to press home to Mr Parsnip that I would make a fantastic Retro Housewife as I enjoy having a clean home, can bake bread as well as The Dough Boy, and would love to wear gingham dresses, and sport a demiwave and bright red, indelible lipstick. I can also grow my own vegetables, shoot and gut pigeons, and dig over gardens, all whilst wearing aforesaid gingham frock. He doesn't seem to take the hint, so if there are any gents out there who fancy making me their 'kept woman', drop me a message with an outline of your earning potential, your bank account details and PIN number, as well as a photograph, and I shall assess your competency as My Hero and let you know...

Driving Me To Madness...

2008-01-15T14:09:00.000Z

There is a TV programme in the UK called Top Gear, presented by James May, Jeremy Clarkson and Richard (the Hamster) Hammond which I watch on a fairly regular basis since the installment of Mr Parnsip in the house.

It's all about cars: sexy cars; sleek cars; sports cars - cars which I covet. Now, I am not a petrol head by any stretch of the imagination, but when I lived in Oman, as cars were so cheap out there, I was lucky enough to own two Jeeps - a Grand, and a Regular Skinny Low Fat - amongst others, as well as having the loan of a Mini Cooper S for a long weekend which I razzed up and down the highway until Sultan Qaboos himself was sick and tired of seeing this blue bottle zipping around.

But for someone who does like a jolly nice car, I don't especially like driving. And this is for a number of reasons:
a) I get severe road rage when somebody is doing max 5mph below the speed limit unless there is a jolly good reason for it: old age and learner drivers do not constitute good reasons to me, I'm afraid.
b) I am a bit night blind since I had my eyes lasered for short-sightedness and find myself slamming on my brakes when driving along dark country lanes, of which there are many near where I live (this is, however, a 'jolly good reason' cf (a)).
c) I always, but always, get hopelessly lost when having to drive to a new place.

Yes, yes, I know. There are these wonderful gadgets called SatNavs which you can install into your vehicle, but I know that the only way I would get one due to their cost would be for a birthday or Christmas and I am buggered if I am going to accept a gadget when I could have shoes, jewels, candles or toiletries.

Yesterday, I had the 'pleasure' of driving to Leamington Spa in Warwickshire to attend an Adobe Photoshop course for work. Having previously been quietly excited about it, I was devastated to learn that Mr Parsnip had discovered a similar course being held at our local college, three miles away, for a fraction of the price. The thought of driving 200 miles, round trip, was anathaema to my soul.

A work colleague was accompanying me and she was charged with navigating our route from supposedly very concise directions I had printed from AA.Com. Don't ever use AA.Com. They are rubbish.

She was rubbish, too. We had a dead straight route down the M6 and all she had to do was look out for the A452. She missed the turning, thus did I, and we ended up driving 5 miles down a road with no junctions, plenty of speed cameras, and lots of police until I could do a very illegal U-turn, shriek with fear, swear a blue streak, and get back to the roundabout where we should have taken the A road turning.

This was where it all went really wrong due to the AA's directions. The A452 didn't take us to Leamington such as it suggested using their 'take a right at the pillar box with the dog poo sticker on the front' and 'left at the off license which sells Carling Black Label to underage school children'. No. It took us into Loonyville country where everyone was rake thin, wore blusher up to their browline, stared at us as though we bore wellies on our heads and missed out numbered junctions on their Motorways.

I ended up on a Motorway heading for London. I got on at junction 14, aiming for junction 15. As I got on, I had a horrible realisation that the next one might not be 15 - it could quite easily be 13. As chance would have it, the next junction was 12. Eh? My forehead knitted in consternation. Was I dreaming? OK, I was obviously heading the wrong way, but had I just gone through a time warp? Saying many silent prayers to my Guardian Angel that coming off at J12 would at least allow me to get onto the opposite carriageway and thus find J15, we got on at J13. Eh? again. How could J12 suddenly morph into J13? I drove along, peering at each blue sign, hoping that even though we were already very late, that the Tutor would understand that you can't be 'later than late' and empathise with my dreadful navigator and my complete panic attacks.

There was no J14.

Either I am going barmy, or some Civil Engineer is playing a trick on unsuspecting, crap drivers, like me. I suspect the latter, to be perfectly honest with you...

I set off from my course in driving rain and a howling gale. I missed the turning for the A46 which my tutor had painstakingly explained and drawn for me. I ended up on the A45 which is painfully slow due to the lights at every 100 yards (I almost wrote 'years' then, which was obviously a Freudian slip), all of which were against me. Red, Red, Red. No wonder I never wear that colour, even though it suits my Raven Beauty hair dye...

I was supposed to return to the course this morning but due to personal issues (a mild nervous breakdown, some harsh critics might suggest), I was unable. My only relief at bombing the course was avoiding the journey. I was also supposed to attend a Flash Animation course at the same centre on Thursday and Friday. Thankfully, I have rescheduled this until May and I shall most definitely take up the company's offer of bed and board for the night.

When will somebody invent a Tardis for eejits like me?

Second Time Lucky?

2008-01-09T07:45:00.000Z

As our two readers are aware, Mr Parsnip proposed to me on 5 November 2007. As none of you are aware, we have set our wedding date for 19 April 2008. To this end, most evenings and weekends are a social whirl of meeting photographers, wedding planners at hotels, registrars, florists, chauffeurs and hairdressers. It’s all a bit alien to me, to be honest, and I have taken a bit of a back seat, really, allowing Mr P to take command and be masterful, as he is My Hero. Don’t puke…it is what I say to him when I am being sarcastic…

I was married once before, as you both know – hence, Hex My Ex. That wedding was totally organised by me under the strict monetary guidance of Anal, the ex. As I couldn’t organise a Piss Up In A Brewery, you can imagine that it was a bit of a Mickey Mouse affair. Everything was done on the cheap – marrying a staunch Yorkshireman with his eye on the purse strings and having an interfering mother who demanded that I bought a pink nylon lace wedding dress from Albert’s Stall on the Market and marry over the anvil at the Blacksmith's in her village made me feel as though I had to save as much money as possible – even my underwear was bought from Oxfam…(that’s a fib, to be perfectly honest!).

Our wedding rings were the first saving: he had been jilted the year before and had kept the bands and engagement ring which was returned when she declared that she couldn’t marry the most selfish man she had ever met. I also had a wedding band passed down to me from a deceased relative. So, into the melting pot they all went and two new bands were created. Were they already hexed? I was even offered the former fiancées engagement ring until the ex realised that he could get a better deal by pulling an insurance scam, obtaining a new ring and flogging it to raise funds. As a bit of a nube, I concurred to his initial suggestion and wore aforesaid ring until his bright idea pinged into life.

I worked as a personal tax consultant at the time and two of my clients were in the bridal industry. So off I went to see them, offering to get them as much of a tax rebate as was possible if they could do me a deal on my dress and flowers. I ended up with a dress, which wasn’t my first choice due to costs, looked like a meringue with a dash of squirty cream, and the tackiest silk flower bouquet known to man. The ex deemed fresh flowers a waste of money, and at least the silk ones ‘would keep’.

Next up, the wedding breakfast…we went to a local pub, Harewood House, which is quite a pretty place and booked the cheapest set menu offered. I think the menu consisted of Heinz tomato soup, Bernard Matthews roast chicken and Chivers jelly…maybe not, but you get the picture. The ex refused to shell out for champagne so we went to Food Giant, bought their cheapest Asti Spumante and then got charged £7 per bottle, corkage. He saved £10 per bottle by doing that.

Our wedding vehicle was a Mercedes. It was actually quite nice and one of the few things for which we paid full price, in effect. But as it was only driving us for approximately six miles round trip, they discounted that for us, too.

The photographer was an old buddy of his grandfather and smelt dreadfully, but gave a discount. Many of my photographic proofs show me wincing in distaste at his BO. Thankfully, the distant shots were OK and we just about managed to garner an album’s worth. Ever frugal, the ex ‘hired’ his mate to video the whole shebang. Phil, who had never used a video camera in his life thought that if the camera was turned on its side, a ‘portrait’ view would be seen. For the first 20 minutes, we are all horizontal. We have a scene of me sneaking a cigarette from Phil’s wife horizontally, attempting to keep it secret as my parents didn’t know I smoked at the time, and thus expostulating to Phil to clear off in case the evidence was filmed; we have the ex sneaking horizontally behind the graves at the back of the church to urinate which caused me so much embarrassment I cannot tell you how much I remonstrated with him afterwards; we have the most excruciating Best Man’s speech, vertically, which bangs on about aforesaid ex visiting prostitutes in Paris, of which I was not aware until that point in time; and we have me permanently holding my hand in front of my dress, both horizontally and vertically, as, when I got into the car, the hoop caused the skirt to hit my mouth and a smeary pink stain can be seen with the naked eye from space.

THIS WILL NOT HAPPEN AGAIN…

Mr P wants this wedding to be special. He claims I am ‘special’ because I went to a special school and thus, we deserve it. I think he is right, actually. It has been a bit of an effort not to suggest traipsing off to the Charity Shops for a second hand wedding gown, and to go to the local pub for our ‘do’, but I am reigning in my pennywise attitude to a greater degree.

So, I have the gown of my dreams; the bridesmaids, #1 and #2 are kitted out in ‘cappuccino’ coloured dresses, despite #2 wanting to wear combats and camouflage teamed with wellies; we have a fantastic venue which is palatial, yet elegant and discreet; we have matching wedding bands which are unique to us; and we have Sir Matt Chingduvé as my giving away chappy as my parents no longer talk to me because I decided to live my own life instead of theirs.

One of my main concerns is not to fluff the first dance. Mr P has booked us some private dancing lessons. I can only hope and pray that my two left feet don’t let me down…

My other concern is whether Mr P wants to become Mr Charles Mildew…!

A Real Christmas Cracker

2007-12-26T18:06:00.000Z

I'd love to actually tell you that Christmas in the Mildew Household, with the addition of Charles Parnsip, was a total disaster, but, actually, it went fairly well.

Mr Parsnip is more excitable about Christmas than a bag full of monkeys on Ecstasy and so went around jumping out on me and daughters #1 and #2 shouting maniacally, 'It's Christmas Eve!!' until #1 turned to him with such disdain that he visibly withered. #2 entered into the general theme of things, though, and carried on where Mr P had left off. It became a bit of white noise to me in the end...

Christmas Eve was a family oriented evening. Mr P had devised a game of charades for us which included such beauties as 'The Muppets' Christmas Carol' [mine]; 'The Nine O'Clock News' [#2's, who suffers with mild dyslexia] and 'If I Said You Had a Beautiful Body (Would You Hold it Against Me)', [put back in the hat by #1 who was suddenly stricken with an abnormal attack of embarrassment).

We then sat down to a game of Buzz. Buzz is a family quiz game for the PS2 which has hand held buzzers, coloured option buttons and it's a game of knowledge and speed. I suffer with an excellent general knowledge of trivial facts which is a sign of a mis-spent youth in pub quizzes, playing strip Trivial Pursuit, and devising Rugby Club Charity Quizzes in my capacity as Social Secretary during my Muscat days. So, no matter how hard I try to NOT win, in order to let aforesaid daughters win, my natural instinct to get it right takes over, and +300 points comes my way...

Unfortunately, this is where the fun ends...#2 is the most competitive creature I have ever come across and takes the hump immediately, berating us vehemently if we press the right answer one millisecond before her and thus get awarded the points. It got to the point where she was so angry with me (in the lead by a long chalk, even after the other contestants were allowed to take pot-shots at me and take my hard-eared winnings) that she stalked off to her bedroom with her thumb in her mouth and hid behind my old skanky double mattress which is waiting for the Local Council to take it away...

It took cajoling and then threats from #1 for her to remove herself. And believe me, when #1 starts threatening, you don't want to be around for the fall-out.

We debated whether to walk to church for Midnight Mass, but we were all dropping, and added to this, it was heaving down with rain outside, so we decided to hit the sack fairly early...

After repeated warnings to the girls NOT to wake us before 6am, as there was NO SANTA CLAUS, I woke up at 6.30am to a quiet household. OK, I thought, I shall go and have a cuppa, see if Sir Matt Chingduvé is online and shoot the breeze with him - after all, I had prepared everything for the day: all the veggies were sorted out; the chicken was oiled and stuffed; the crap had been cleared from the dining table and the plethora of presents I had received from work had been opened so as not to cause presentism between the daughters.

Sir Matt was not around. I sat there, staring at the fairy lights around the French doors, the lights on the tree and the presents under it.

Nothing was happening.

So, I decided to clatter about a bit and turned the radio on - low, mind you - in the hope that the murmering, dulcit tones of Aled Jones would rouse somebody.

Nothing. Still.

I was starting to feel a bit like a brass knocker on a lavatory door. Where was everyone? Where was the excitement of Christmas Day?

At 8.30am, #2 daughter sleepily roused herself and plodded downstairs, thumb still in mouth, wondering what on earth was going on. 'Happy Christmas!!' I exclaimed, excitedly...'Mphmphm Harumphem,' she replied...

After ten minutes, Mr P surfaced, also bleary-eyed and tousled. #2 yelled, 'Guess What?' 'What?' we both chorused. 'It's Christmas Day!!' She had woken up, and with that yell, so did Mr P.

Well, we had to wait and wait and wait for almost teenage #1 daughter to surface from her pit. By ten o'clock, #2 was like a cat on a hot tin roof, desperate to open her presents. At this point, to stop her brains exploding from her ears and her head spinning round reminiscent of The Exorcist, I allowed her to disturb #1. This was probably a very bad move, in retrospect, as #2 returned, limping and in the wars. #1 was not a happy person being woken up from her reverie, Christmas Day or no.

And so the present unwrapping ensued. #2, who can be quite anal like my good self, put all the presents into individual piles and enforced the rule that we had to open a present in turn. It was taking forever. #1 suggested that we just get stuck in and open our gifts there and then. We agreed and a flurry of torn wrapping paper, bows, tags and ribbons quickly filled my once clean carpet.

The rest of the daylight hours were spent mainly in the kitchen for me, preparing an enormous roast dinner. I am not an especial dab hand at this meal, much preferring to do something exotic to a dead fish (as opposed to a live one), but I feel I excelled myself, particularly as #2 actually had seconds.

There was only one interlude where it all felt a bit too much for me. Whirling and dancing my way around the kitchen, bumping drawers shut, sharpening knives, regulating heat settings, I heard #1 shout me from the bathroom. 'Muuuuuum!' I heard. 'Can you come here please?' Oh flippin' 'eck, I thought, What does she want now?

She had the grace to look very sheepish...She had blocked the upstairs lavatory. With something not very pleasant, and not something one wished to see or smell prior to eating. The water was up to the rim of the bowl, and I stared in dismay, wondering how on earth I was going to sort this out, not possessing a plunger of any description. After repeatedly leaving it to settle and having another flush, and noticing an enormous lack of Mr P who had hidden in a neighbour's outhouse, I attacked the S-bend with the loo brush and plunged. My beautiful velvet dress suddenly felt wet as a sloosh of icky water shot up my arm and between my fingers. I retched uncontrollably as #1 got a fit of the giggles in between profuse apologies...

It quite put me off my dinner...

There were further, minor incidents, such as #1 troughing out on chocolate cake which, due to its ingredient of palm oil, caused her to blow up and her face to resemble a Red Snapper, and the vintage port whose cork had rotted and which had to be seived through my brand new stockings in order to remove the sediment and cork bits which were simply not palatable. A somewhat pointed question regarding my sex life which left me gasping for breath and which I refuse to divulge here, and there was also the visit from the ex who was graciously allowed into the living room to see the girls and who resembled, on Christmas Day, a tramp going to a funeral. Nice to see him make the effort for a change. Normally he just looks like a tramp in every day garb.

So, a success all round I would say! I am quite looking forward to New Year's Eve when it will all start again and by Wednesday, when I return to work proper, I shall, no doubt, be glad of the rest.

I hope your Christmasses were as uneventful as mine...

PS. I have been told to inform you all that Mr P's Yorkshire Puddings were fantastic.

"CHARLES' YORKSHIRES WERE FANTASTIC..."

Happy?

Agnes The Snob

2007-12-22T05:44:00.000Z

I have to admit to both our readers to being the most terrible snob. I can turn my nose up at those whom I deem of lesser social standing to me at times, and am able to form an almost instant assessment of these characters by gauging their attitude, stance and [in]ability to string a coherent sentence together. I am unfortunate enough to live near a town in the North West of England which appears to attract the most illiterate, unwashed descendants of the apes one could ever have the misfortune to meet. Generally, I avoid this town like the plague...but I work in it, and thus work with its denizens.

Most of these people work in the warehouse sorting the medicines and toiletries. If I need to visit the warehouse for products so I can image them, the women glare at me and zoom past in their forklift trucks threatening to impale me on the tines and the men undress me with their eyes. It is rather disconcerting and although I could stay there for hours marvelling at the sight of massive stocks of shampoos, conditioners, creams and, my personal favourite, Cocodamol, I scarper as quickly as possible.

An indicator of their mentality was the 'Quit Smoking' initiative introduced by the company last year. The offer was 50% off all Nicotine Replacement Therapy items, which actually brought the prices of some patches and gums to below the price paid for an NHS prescription. Initially, it was bandied about that the NRTs could be collected from different branches upon sight of ID cards. Then the CEO realised that as they already nicked the stuff from him at the warehouse and fenced it on the streets, why should he pay carriage on the items and lose out even further?

So the point of collection remained at Head Office. The staff were then informed of the initiative...And all hell broke loose! Instead of seeing it as an incentive, these pikies decided that it was a breach of their civil liberties and all downed tools and threatened to walk out...A strike...just because they had been offered the chance to extend their lives by a few years. This has come to be known as 'The Pikey Mentality' in our neck of the woods. Po' White Trash will probably be more familiar to our American readers!

I am a smoker myself, as I have admitted on more than one occasion, and so every two hours, or whenever our web developers have left me a gibbering wreck, I stalk down the full length of the HO to the designated smoking area. The trek to get there, and the concomitant exercise sort of negates the effects of the cigarette...in my head at least...Most unfortunately for me, I always seem to get there at the same time as warehouse staff are on their breaks. The tiny smoking area (outside, under some corrugated plastic, next to a compressor which kicks in the minute I stand near it and makes me jump out of my skin) is then crowded with pikies.

Now, when enraged, I can swear like a trooper. I can also use big words, too, not needing to intersperse my sentence with blasphemous modifiers every ten seconds. They can't. Take a simple sentence such as 'I am going into town this evening' and suddenly from their mouths it becomes, 'F*ck, I am f*cking going into that b*stard f*cking town this f*cking evening'. Seems like an awful lot of hard work to me, actually. And knowing how lazy they are, it almost feels as though they are compensating for their dilitory work ethic by making their mouths work ultra hard.

The other day, I was standing by the bin, having the legs whipped from underneath me by the howling winds which came around the corner and warehouse were crowded into the area on their break. A huge, fat woman was eating a meat and potato pasty and talking at the top of her voice. Meaty slop and pastry flakes were spat around everywhere with each aspirated palative and expletive. I don't know how much went down her throat, but I bet she was still hungry afterwards...The sight was so ghastly that I stubbed out my cigarette forthwith and went back inside. It had not been pleasant.

I know one of the warehouse staff girls. I don't know her very well, but she has decided to make me her best friend. I don't want to be her friend as she taps me up for money the minute she sees me and like the sucker I am, I give it to her. The last time it happened, I gave her £20 which was passed to her in the toilets. I told her to fill her car up with petrol, get herself sorted out and give it back to me when she could, after her payday. As I turned to go, she grabbed me and growled, 'Give me a f*cking hug, you little f*cker'. Well, as terms of endearments go, that's right at the bottom of the list for me. And nor did I want to hug her...she had admitted previously that she hadn't had a bath for over a week and needed one. Indeed...

The next day, I saw her again. She was carrying a packet of cigarettes [mental note to self, £20 - £4.50 = £15.50...hmmm, that's not much petrol]. Every day, she had a new packet of fags. Obviously my money hadn't filled her car. It had filled her lungs. Two of her paydays passed, then a third, and then I got brave and asked for the return of my money. If looks could kill, I would now be six feet under. Ridiculously, I felt obliged to offer her an excuse as to why I wanted the money back, and cited Christmas, presents etc. A week after my debt was settled, she demanded to know exactly what I had bought with the money.

Is it me?

I am much more careful on my fag breaks now. I know that between quarter to the hour and the top, it is likely that one of the shifts will be there. I ensure that, desperate as I may be, I will not have a cigarette until five past the hour. It is a form of discipline to me.

And it is helping me cut down, I guess...

Lies Will Get You Nowhere

2007-12-17T14:48:00.000Z

I have had the pleasure of my daughters’ company this weekend, which is always a never-ending whirl of picking up, tidying, nagging, cooking and answering difficult questions, as our two readers well know. And this weekend was no exception to the rule.

It started when Mr Parsnip was entertaining daughter #2 with the recently released DVD of Transformers on the television. As I pottered around, in a totally foul mood, having spent a day of hell at work where everything, but everything, conspired to go wrong on our website, I could hear her barrage of questions being fired at him. To his credit, he didn’t do as I do and threaten to place masking tape firmly over her mouth, but answered her calmly and informatively. She was in safe hands, so I knew that I could head off for a bath and wallow in my own self-pity, anger, and let my cares soak away with the bubbles.

The bath was idyllic. I had my candles lit, had performed all the incantations necessary to hex our dreadful web developers and was settling down to play out some confrontations in my head where I always won, got things sorted out and earned a massive pay rise. However, good things don’t always last, and I suddenly heard #1 snarl at #2, Don’t ask her! Leave her alone!

I sighed, wondering what was on its way.

#2: Mum?
Me: Yes?
#2: What is masturbation?
Me: ::thinks:: Oh Gawd, not again.
Me [after deep reflection] Well, it’s when you play around with your bits.
#2: Eeeeeewwww. That’s DISGUSTING…

It got rid of her. I discovered later that she had addressed the self-same question to Mr Parsnip who had bottled it completely and told her to ask her Mother. I guess I would have done the same if roles had been reversed, though…

Now, some of you may realise that I work for a large pharmaceutical group. We have pharmacies and depots across the UK but I work at the Head Office and am privy to all sorts of freebies, which come to the Marketing Department. We currently have a bit of a deal going on with Durex, the makers of all things mucky, who, in turn, have a deal going on with Anne Summers, which is basically a soft porn sex shop. In order to woo us, these suppliers send us samples to take home and use accordingly…

A kinky nurse’s uniform came in, replete with jaunty cap and stethoscope. It was in a size 10, and as I am the slimmest person there, and it fit, I was told to take it home and give it some use. Well, it was utterly hilarious, sent Mr Parsnip a strange shade of crimson, and a hiding place under lock and key was sought before the girls descended.

But I had forgotten to hide the cap…

As I shouted to the girls to lay the table for dinner from the kitchen, where Mr P and I were enjoying our evening banter when I annihilate him with big words, #2 came in wearing aforesaid cap and asked from where I had procured it.

After I had picked my jaw up from the floor and tried to re-pop my eyeballs back into their sockets, I stammered that it was a sample from work, out of a children’s gift set. #1, who is more on the ball than Frank Lampard, ripped the cap from #2’s head, checked it out and read the label, “Anne Summers”. Her face suddenly reflected mine [cf. eyes popping and jaw dropping]. The fact that she knew about Anne Summers disconcerted me somewhat, though, I must admit.

#1: ANNE SUMMERS? ANNE SUMMERS??? WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH ANNE SUMMERS STUFF???
Me: It’s just from work, that’s all. Nothing else. Stop it. Leave me alone. I am a really nice person, honestly…
#1 YOU’RE DISGUSTING!!!
Me: Look, you know I get lots of free stuff from work, and you know that because you have just been on the receiving end of perfumes and jewellery, so give over. I was given this because there is a bit of a collaboration between Anne Summers and Durex and us. That’s all. So stop.
#2: What’s so bad, Mum?
Me: Nothing’s bad at all, darling. Erm…erm…ahem…It’s just that some couples find dressing up a bit of a turn on and things get a little…erm…fun in the bedroom, shall we say…
#2: What do you mean?
Me: Well, it’s called role-playing.
#1: Like kinky Doctors and Nurses, you div! [snarled at #2]
#2: What’s role-playing?
Me: Well, it’s when you dress up and pretend to be somebody else and act, sort of…
#2: OK. I’m Doctor Who!
Me, Mr P, #1: Raucous Laughter…

We fell about laughing. It dissipated what was one of the stickiest situations I have ever been in. #2 couldn’t really understand our hilarity, and considered if we were laughing at her meanly. We weren’t: I know from my own stand-point, that my laughter was verging on the ‘relieved hysterical’, and I’m pretty sure Mr P felt the same…

Later that evening, #2 confronted Mr P about his family, whom she has not yet met. Her own paternal grandmother fell pregnant with her father outside of wedlock and as her cousins on that side are also born out of wedlock she is very familiar with the somewhat antiquated term, ‘bastard’ and uses it as frequently as possible, in context.

Mr P informed #2 that his mother had been proposed to by his father within a week of them knowing each other [which is so romantic it makes my heart leap!]. Her father, though, would not countenance this at all, as she was very young, and denied her the marriage until her 21st birthday. Consequently, they married a week after that momentous day.

For some odd reason, the fact that Mr P’s mother had got married at a young age rang warning bells in #2’s head and she rounded on him stating:
So! You’re a Bastard, then?

Well, after he, in turn, had picked his own jaw off the ground, he rejoindered that, No, he was not ‘a bastard’, and that his parents were quite happily ensconced in a legal wedding before he had become a twinkle in his father’s eye.

She looked disappointed. She mentioned the word a few more times and gave up, knowing that she was pushing it a bit too far. She knows it is used out of context as a swear word, but also knows damned well that she can get away with it when it is used correctly. We had a very subdued #2 who would have had great pleasure referring to Mr P as well as her cousins and her father as ‘a bastard’.

I, personally, call him this anyway, when he hasn’t cleaned the bath out after him, but that’s by the by…

I realise, in retrospect, that I need to get my house in order better so that I don’t have to face these uncomfortable moments. But I also realise that, if I did, what would I have to blog about?

I hope you can both rest on your laurels knowing that it is I who takes the rap…

Young Love...

2007-12-14T06:17:00.000Z

Every night, I ask my daughters how their days at school have been. #2 generally just dismisses my question with an OK, fine thanks, which is enough to satisfy me, but #1 launches into a blow-by-blow account of who has affronted her, who has fallen out with whom and who has committed the cardinal sin of looking twice at her geeky boyfriend. For a 12 year old, she is having an awful lot of trouble with this young man, whom she believes doesn't appreciate her, doesn't understand her, and puts computer games before her needs. I'd like to tell her that this is life, get used to it, but I don't want to shatter her illusions of hearts and bells and romance just yet.

To be honest, I think 12 is rather young to be 'in lurve' and exchanging gifts of over £30 in value this festive season. I know I will be lucky to get a bag of tea lights and a card from her, so for this spotty oik to be on the receiving end of some designer fragrance irks a little.

I was a rather reluctant High School girlfriend if truth be known. I would occasionally be asked out by boys, consider it briefly and then refuse resolutely, preferring to 'concentrate on my studies', being the gurlie swot that I was then. Sometimes, though, I felt obliged to bow to peer pressure and would spot a chap who appeared to be able to string a fairly coherent sentence together and get one of my friends to ask him out for me (this was the way things were done at my school).

One particular chap, Russell, was a bit of a favourite of mine at the time and indeed, only a few years ago, we did have a brief fling which was great fun while it lasted. He was witty, good looking and we attended the drama group together every night. I also did all my chemistry experiments with him in class, and as we were both as dreadful as each other, we had some rather hair-raising experiences, which seemed to me to be as good a reason as any to have him as my boyfriend. Best friend was duly despatched to ask him out on my behalf and returned to me nodding her head. I was quite chuffed. At least, for the next two hours until I got cold feet and decided this wasn't meant to be.

Best friend was nowhere to be found to dump him for me, so I bit the bullet and marched up to him.
Russ, I declared, I'm really sorry, but I don't want to go out with you any more. The look of bewilderment on his face was astounding.
But I'm not going out with you, anyway, he replied, still confused. I don't fancy you.
Ahahahahaha! I cackled. It was only a joke! I was just testing you out.
Weirdo, he responded.

Best friend got a whip-lashing for deceiving me. Her plaintive cries that she knew it wouldn't last just didn't ring true to me...

A few weeks later, Keith invited me to be his girlfriend. Keith was a very handsome older boy who was a leading light in the drama group, and I felt quite privileged that he had picked me to be his current squeeze. I accepted quite readily, thinking this would all be fairly easy - no commitment, see him at drama, and bask in the glory of having such a good-looking boyfriend.
What I didn't bank on, was that, as he was older than me, he expected me to be seen with him outside of school and do the proper boyfriend/girfriend thing. Anathaema to my soul.

He invited me to town with him on the Saturday and arranged to meet me outside the Superdrug where the bus dropped off its shoppers. I was really not a happy Agnes about this at all, and felt sick to the pit of my stomach all through the bus journey. What made it even worse was, on the return journey, he tried to kiss me, much to my extreme horror. I swerved my face as quickly as possible and heard Keith lip-smack to thin air. He didn't look pleased. He then stretched out one arm behind me as I sat next to him like a coiled spring waiting to go off. I turned to face him, caught a glimpse of his arm pit and realised that he shaved under his arms.

Oh No! No way! I was NOT going out with a lad who shaved under his arms. That was Just Not Right. At All. I still had four stops to go before my village, but that was four stops too many to sit with this person. I stood up, rung the bell, and garbled as I retreated, Sorry. Don't like you. Go away! and legged it...That was a lucky escape.

My first serious boyfriend came when I was nearly 16. Just before I was about to sit my O'level exams - you know, the ones your parents really, really want you to pass because they are the start of greater things to come? The ones which you really shouldn't screw up if you can help it? The ones my teachers anticipated I would pass with all As and Bs?

Serious boyfriend threw my head into a whirl and all studies went out the window. He was 21 to my 16 and came from a very well-to-do local family: Daddy was a popular GP and Mummy was a senior sister at the local maternity hospital. It was my dream to have a doctor related to me so I could ask all sorts of interesting questions such as, Why do I have cellulite? How do I get rid of these spots on my chin? Do you recommend liposuction on teenagers?

Rob studied and lived in digs at Liverpool University, so I had my first foray into student life at quite a tender age. Spending nights in a houseful of drunken adults was a bit of an eye-opener for me and I was somewhat confused by the importance placed on building a curtain of beer cans for the living room and getting told off when I crushed my cans. Most of the time, all I wanted to do was hole up in his room and try out the latest Jackie Collins techniques on him. He was cool with that for a bit but then the lure of drinking, fishing and rugby would beckon and I would be left pent-up, frustrated and vowing to read Pasternak from thereonin.

O level results came and went. My parents refused to speak to me all summer due to the dreadful grades I 'achieved' and Rob and I split up because his mother deemed me too stupid to be his girlfriend and advised him to get rid. I was a bit cheesed off by this, knowing that she had only got a handful of qualifications during her lifetime and she was on the receiving end of a fair few hexes for many years to come. Particularly when, much to her horror, I served her in our local shop where I worked on a Saturday and purposely short-changed her. She didn't have the backbone to query her change and left rather rapidly. At least she would have been able to inform her best beloved oldest son that his former girlfriend really was thick as she couldn't give change from a pound coin correctly.

I didn't care. I bought myself a Mars bar with the money I pocketed and thoroughly enjoyed it.

So, in retrospect, I guess #1 has all this fun and games to come and even if it cannot be considered character-building, at least she might do as I do and blog about it when she is old enough to realise that there is a world outside of MSN on the computer. As she's a bit of a silly girl, though, I shan't hold my breath.

I don't know. Teenage love, eh? Excruciatingly painful at the time, but what a laugh it can afford you when you revisit it as an adult. Give me Pasternak any day...

Dog-gone Lucky Escape...

2007-12-11T05:49:00.000Z

As days go, it's not been too bad on the Mildew-madometer. Traffic was monstrous coming back from a town 13 miles from where I live and what should have taken 25 minutes took 1 1/4 hours, having negotiated 19 sets of traffic lights, all of which were on red. Desperate for the loo when I got in, I ran to my bathroom to do the necessary and, whilst in mid flow and reaching for the loo paper, a whopping spider revealed itself to me, right next to my left thigh. I let out a highly unladylike squawk, fell off the toilet in fright and just about managed to 'contain myself'. Aforesaid spider is now cruising through the Cheshire sewage system on its way to the River Mersey. Divine retribution, I say...

However, sh*t doesn't always happen to me, so sometimes my blogability dries up. I know that none of you want to know about the good things which happen to me, such as finding a tenner in a coat I was just going to throw out, or missing a huge lump of dog poo in my path, so I hold off until things decide to go belly up. But it did come to my attention that I still have a few disastrous dates to tell you about and one that sticks clearly in my memory is a double date with Brian and Wilf.

To clarify, Brian was the official date, and Wilf was his dog. He refused to go anywhere without Wilf, as Wilf was a psycho Rescue Dog and couldn't be left on his own without his personal psychiatrist, for fear of tearing the house apart.

Now, for those of you not in the know, I don't 'do' dogs. I don't like the way they are wet and 'panty'; I don't like their smell; I don't like the way they lick their genitals and then your face; and I certainly don't like the way they try to hump my leg, hip, or my youngest daughter. However, I was feeling in a charitable mood and offered to entertain Wilf as well.

To this end, I chose a pet-friendly pub as our meeting place, and agreed to wait outside in the beer garden for the two males about to make my acquaintance. Brian had informed me that he was 6'3" (Goodo! I can wear my heels again!), 52" chest, 42" waist, and built like a scrum half. This all appealled. I don't like skinny, small blokes, as to me, they just cry out 'Pathetic'. I want a Manly Man: someone to watch over me, attempt to tame me (no chance, really!) and make me feel all gurly-femme...without calling me 'cute' (another post beckons...).

So, I had really gone to town this day. I was super slim at this time: for the Kookai readers amongst you (Linda?) this meant a size 1. I was wearing my new jeans, a rather slinky psychedelic yawn top and a fantastic bright blue suede jacket I had procured for a fiver from our local TK Maxx. I felt good. Indeed, I felt really good, until this tall, fat bloke attached to a dog on a lead rounded the corner of the beer garden and introduced himself to me. At that point, I felt the life blood leaving me.

Ever the optimist, though, I introduced myself gaily, attempted to be nice to the dog, in the manner of a confirmed bachelor who despises kids but can see that the only way into the pants of his latest squeeze is to coo and goo over babies, and offered to get the round in.

He readily accepted.

We commenced our ice breaking. I learned that his limp was due to a near fatal accident when he was a World Famous dragster driver (I am not actually sure he didn't say Drag Queen, to be honest); that he had been madly in love with a gorgeous, successful blonde; that he had built his own mansion with his bare hands; and that the blonde had gone off sh*gging with another bloke and he had left her everything. But he was Not Bitter. No...

I listened attentively, as much as possible, but couldn't help my eyes dropping to the 52" waist, which hadn't defied gravity and had slipped to the belly region. I also couldn't help noticing that 6'3" was a bit on the optimistic side. Wilf was starting to look the better bet...

I was pretty hungry by 6pm and suggested that we had something to eat. For a man as large as he, he demurred, stating that he ate like a bird. Soup, then? I suggested. No, no, nothing for me. I am fine...

Well, I was getting rather bored sitting in the bitter cold beer garden, the only place where I was allowed to smoke, and so I suggested that we adjourned to my house, pre-warning him that I kept a marble rolling pin in the house in the event of any monkey business, which I was certainly not afraid to use, Wilf or no Wilf. He accepted readily and followed me back to my place.

Wilf got out of the car as we arrived and ran straight across my back garden, yelping, yapping and tearing around the rabbits' pen. For once, Lambert (Lambert & Butler, after my brand of fags) had met his match. He generally terrorises Norman and Ollie the cats, whilst his brother, Butler, mildly watches on, but this time, Lambert was petrified himself. So, I took umbrage and booted Wilf. Nobody, and no dog, terrorises my bunnies without a kicking...Luckily, Brian was still getting himself out of his Land Rover and oblivious to the carnage going on.

Upon our entrance in the house, he announced that he was ravenous and could eat a horse. This confused me. Surely, only 15 minutes ago he had said he ate like a bird and didn't want anything from the pub? As I am always a gracious hostess, I dragged out all sorts of vegetables from the fridge and set about making a Pav (pronounced Pow) Bhaji, which is a red hot Hindu vegetarian curry that I learned whilst living in Oman. Brian advised me that he liked his curries as hot as Hades, and as I have a mouth and stomach like asbestos when it comes to spices, I took him at his word, launched in two birds eye chilli peppers, replete with seeds, and an over generous dollop of pav bhaji masala. It was enough to ignite the Olympic Torch.

While we waited for the curry to cook, Brian decided that Wilf needed some exercise (to defacate, really) and set off. Hang on a minute, I thought, this is a poop scoop zone. No dog is going to leave a great big dollop of turds for me to stand in whilst pegging out my washing - Norman does that for me, any time he feels like. So, I banned them from my garden, armed them with a plastic bag, and told them not to rush back. Even though Wilf had only been in the house for ten minutes or so, I could smell dog. I could taste dog...and worst of all, he had shed all over my lovely new carpet. I was not a happy Agnes at all.

When Brian returned, I dished up, we ate up and sweated profusely, and he started to reveal that he was completely skint, hence why he hadn't bought a round nor had he wanted to eat at the pub and was looking for someone to care for him. Alarm bells started going off in my head. No wonder, during our MSN chats, he had been so keen to hear all about my work and what I did, my financial status etc. Here, I had a classic example of a sponger. And I didn't find it endearing. Not One Little Bit.

To be perfectly honest with you, it was when he started bleating that he really missed smoking proper cigarettes rather than roll-ups and asked could he try one of my L&Bs that I took the hump. Too many dates of mine have stated that they want a non-smoker, then approach me for a date - me who trumpets it quite brazenly that I am a smoker and proud of it, and then they scrounge the cigs from me. It's enough to make you want to spit! Fags are now over 20p each in the UK, which is daylight robbery as it is. But I am not having some dole-ite nicking them off me to boot!

I did what all sensible women do in a crisis. I texted a dear friend, asked them to issue a state of emergency by phone and got rid of him and his rotten hound.

The next day, during my daily MSN to Sir Matt Chingduvé, I moaned about the pong of dog in the house and how bloody miserable this rotten internet dating lark was. Sir Matt was as sympathetic as ever, and offered to stick some rotten fruit up Wilf's backside for me, but I refused. I try to avoid cruelty to dumb animals...so that ruled out Brian, too.

Brian was my last ever internet date. It put me off, physically and mentally and I withdrew from every single dating site thereonin. For that, I must thank him profusely. He preserved my sanity...

Never Send a Man To Do A Woman's Shopping

2007-12-08T16:36:00.000Z

Saturday.

It's a day of many flavours: some people spend the day in bed; some go out into the garden; and some wake up and decide what to do depending on their mood.

After a disappointing morning consisting of a lack of kinky boots in the post for Agnes, a lack of anything exciting in TK Maxx, an utterly wasted journey to find Stinking Bishop cheese, and getting my backside handed to me at Scrabble, things mainly got worse.

I think the turning point was the Scrabble. I could say that I had a poor run of letters. Indeed, during the first few turns I had nary a vowel to my name. Marque, Marquees and Ozone killed me off though, and I was comprehensively beaten. Agnes (like the rest of the Mildew clan) is quite competitive. Although Agnes loses to me at Scrabble more than she would like, winning today provoked such a visible euphoria in her, that I felt, all in all, it was worth it to suffer the gloating I would surely now receive.

As Agnes gave me her best grin, the finger and thumb formed an L on her forehead. "You'll have to go round like this for the rest of the day now," she proclaimed, chuckling.

So, in addition to signing the scorecard indicating I "had my arse kicked", I had to go out to the
shops to get a pair of tights, a face pack and some wine. I added some headache tablets to the list as all of Agnes's dancing and singing was giving me motion sickness and a mild buzzing behind my eyes.

Into the car I sloped as Agnes went off to have a 'long victorious soak'.

The local village shops have always annoyed me. There is parking outside the shops, but invariably this becomes a traffic jam at busy times with people stopping to "just pop in" and causing mayhem in their wake. Apparently 3pm on a drenched Saturday afternoon is just such a busy time. Indeed, it seemed that the entire village had turned out just as I had arrived for my few essential supplies. You remember the list? Aspirin, Tights, Face pack and Wine. Good.

I found a spot to park at the very end of the parade of shops. The last spot. Gratefully, I reverse parked into the space and jumped out of the car. As I walked towards the cash machine I cast a sideways glance into the launderette. A lone man was visible through the part-steamed windows. Hugely obese, he sat with his back against the industrial dryer fishbowl windows. A baseball cap perched tenuously on the back of his head, his tattooed arms resting on his prodigious belly and shovel-sized hands supporting his chin as he stared thoughtfully into space. To what was he going home? I wondered as I hurried past, collar turned up against the foul weather. Probably a crisp butty was the later reply from a still good-humoured Agnes.

As I stood under a leaky gutter and drew out some cash from the hole-in-the-wall, I planned my visit. Pharmacist for everything except the wine, then Tesco. Back to the car, then back home to present the no doubt still-gloating Agnes with a mud face pack and a non-laddered pair of tights.

The warmth of the air-conditioned pharmacy was a welcome respite from the howling gale and torrential downpour outside, but only for a moment. It seemed as though the entire village had not only come down here to shop, but all needed the pharmacy. The queue was a mile long. The in-store radio was playing music even the Cheese Police would be offended by, and a group of spotty teenagers were crowded around the lipstick and skincare section giggling to each other as they primped and preened themselves with free makeup from the samples on display. The staff were harried and disinterested and everyone was wet and steaming, and judging by the look of them, suffering from some ailment that was, without doubt, contagious. I walked around the shop, studiously avoiding the most diseased, looking for tights. Couldn't find them. I huffed and puffed near the teenagers, looking over their shoulders at the display, searching desperately for anything looking like a face pack. No joy. I then did what every good Englishman does under these circumstances. I queued.

Time passed, my life slipped away, and idly, I listened to the voice of the bright young woman broadcasting on Pharmacy FM. What qualifications are required for this job I wondered? Doubtless she would be sat in a warm comfy studio somewhere. The lone girl behind the counter was giving an elderly gentleman loud and sagely advice on the use of an anal cream. She looked about 12 and I watched as she spoke to him in a calm and even tone, giving application advice and warning against him putting his fingers near his mouth afterwards without washing. The rest of the people in the queue were unmoved, each in their own little world. Probably hoping to God that something would strike them down so that they wouldn't have to queue any longer and listen to the dreadful George Michael singing about his Last Christmas. Oh why couldn't that just be true?

Eventually, I made it to the front of the queue. "Do you sell tights?" I asked.

"No." The answer was delivered with no apologetic look and my ire rose.

"What about face packs?" I rubbed my hands against my cheek as if that would somehow help illustrate what they were. She just looked at me with a look clearly reserved for what she believed to be idiots.

"No."

I asked for my aspirin.

"Have you ever taken these before?" the girl enquired.

I was mildly annoyed at this point, and briefly considered saying "It's f*cking aspirin. What do you think?". Instead, out of a mild and masochistic curiosity, I said "no". This is why I lose at Scrabble. I am that stupid.

So now, with the Parsnip-Anger-Meter hovering at around 4, I walked out into the rain again and went to the local supermarket. Agnes had mentioned that the Co-Op sold tights, so in I strolled. I found the tights within a few minutes and then spent a further 15 minutes wondering what a denier was, and whether 15 of them was good. White, Tan or Black? Long or Medium (no 'short' option, which I found odd...). I picked up what I thought was right, and wandered down the aisle.

Pausing at the shower gel/toothpaste/hair dye section, I had a quick look for face packs. None. However the Saturday part-timer, a snotty youth of indeterminate age, looked up and gave me some Co-Op customer care.

"Looking for anything particular mate?"

"I'm looking for face packs." I did the face rubbing thing again (big mistake - don't ever do this) and the lad grinned lasciviously, glancing at the tights in my hand.

"Oi Dave!" he yelled to his colleague at the other end of the aisle. Needless to say the entire shop was now privy to this conversation. "Do we sell face pack thingies?" His grin threatened to split his face and he nodded at me, clearly believing I was about to rush home, don a pair of 15 denier, almost black tights and cover my face in mud. Anger meter = anger meter +2, and I considered smashing my fist into his face. Were it not for the legal repercussions, I would have had no restraint.

Dave sniggered, shrugged and shook his head.

As I stood in the lengthy queue that had clearly migrated from the pharmacy to the Co-Op and as I left to walk out into the pouring rain, I decided that Tesco would be my last stop. Wine. I needed wine.

The Tesco shopping experience was much better. No face packs, but plenty of wine. The queue, however, had been following me and was now beyond the guide ropes and down one of the aisles. One of the sales assistants piped up, saying to me that the self-service tills were just as fast for those who didn't need cigarettes or contraceptives, and as I fell into neither of those categories, I hurried to the lone empty machine.

Unfortunately, Lady Luck was on the toilet, and I was underneath. One man made it to the machine before me, and I stood dutifully behind him, smiling smugly at the queue and the jealous looks being fired my way. It looked like I was going to make it home whilst still on solid food.

I was wrong.

The gent in front of me had a hand basket crammed to the handles with stuff. Slowly and ponderously, he placed his basket on the side and began to read the instructions on the screen.

"SCAN YOUR FIRST ITEM AND PLACE IT IN THE BAG". Even I could read the instructions on the screen from six feet behind him. He paused, held up a bottle of urine and asked the assistant, "What do I do with this?"

"Just scan it sir and put it in the carrier bag."

He nodded slowly and placed the bottle in the bag. I stood there and watched as the queue for the human tills went down, but not in proportion to the shopping in the basket of the man in front of me. The same assistant walked up and smiled brightly. "It might be quicker if you went over there," she said, indicating the now non-existent queue.

Anger meter = anger meter +3.

Back in the car, I glared at the tail-lights of the moron parked two inches from my front bumper, squeezing into a space that only existed in his tiny bereft-of-intelligence mind. I turned my headlights on, hoping against hope that the bull-necked, shaven-headed thug would pull forward a few inches to let me get out. I was still out of luck.

Furiously turning the steering wheel back and forth, I eventually made it out of the space, glaring at him from the safety of my car. If I had possessed a shotgun, murder would have been added to GBH for me that day. Maybe not murder though, maybe manslaughter on the grounds of diminished responsibility.

As I sit here typing this now, I feel the anger has totally dissipated. Writing is definitely cathartic, and in this instance Agnes, you were right.

Cheers!

Naughty but Nice...

2007-12-08T05:53:00.000Z

Another meme crosses my path, this time from Karen

Here are the rules:
1. Describe your earliest memory where this memory is clear, where clear means you can depict at least 3 details.
2. Give an estimate of how old you were at this age.
3. Tag 5 other bloggers with this meme.

My earliest, vivid memory revolves around a day off play school when I was about 3-4 years old due to being sick. I seemed to suffer with tonsilitis on a permanent basis as a youngster, and only got better once the rotten things were removed when I was 14.

This particular day, I was well on the road to recovery and thus, exceptionally bored. Play school was boring, too, but at least they served really nice blackcurrant juice there which my mother refused to purchase. I had retired to my bedroom upstairs armed with my dolls and simply couldn't be fagged making Tiny Tears wee so I could change her nappy again. As my brother had also shaved her head and drawn tattoos on her backside, it was difficult to feel much love for her any more - I am rather fickle with my love...

My bedroom furniture included a deep drawer dressing table. If I needed a boat or other form of transport for my dolls, the clothes would come out and a deep drawer fitted the bill perfectly. They were also watertight.

As I was sick, in my egocentric state, I assumed other things in my life weren't too chipper either. And that included the cat, Tibby. Tibby was one of the most vicious felines you could ever have the misfortune to cross, but that didn't stop me attempting to make her love me. Admittedly, I often went about it the wrong way, but my intentions were good.

So, I went on a Tibby hunt and to her great fear, found her, tucked her under my arm and manhandled her upstairs. There, she shot under my bed, hissing and growling and waiting for the next instalment in her own personal nightmare. It didn't take long...

I plodded downstairs, armed with the drawer, filled it with water and took it back upstairs. I then returned downstairs and got my medicine from the fridge and a teaspoon. If I was sick, Tibby was likely to be sick, too, and therefore required some medication.

Tibby was dragged from under the bed, bringing half the carpet with her as she embedded her claws into the pile and was unceremoniously plonked into a drawer of freezing cold water for her bath. Despite the raking she gave me, I held her down firm, and started to 'wash' her. She didn't like it, and my hands were getting a little bit sore from the gashes, bites and the blood dripping into the water. This confirmed it for me: she was definitely ill and required urgent medical treatment.

As I reached for the pseudoephedrine (great for making crystal meth, folks!) she returned to her own corner of hell under the bed and I undid the bottle cap. Back out she was dragged, clamped under my arm, and a teaspoon of bright pink medicine forced into her wailing mouth. Bad move, Tibby - keep your mouth shut around a bored child.

At this point, my mother burst in to the bedroom to spoil my fun, Tibby saw her chance of escape and a bottle of Sudafed went flying as I jumped out of my skin at the roar of, "WHAT ON EARTH ARE YOU DOING TO THAT BLOODY CAT?!". My insistence that Tibby had caught tonsilitis from me didn't wash with Mother, I got the hiding of my life and was forced to stay in my room until my father returned from work.

Not only did Mother inform my father, she also told my older brother who is a peaceable, tree-hugging, hippy animal lover if ever there was one, and he came in to give me a rare kicking. I retaliated by battering him with my vandalised Tiny Tears.

Tibby and I never saw eye to eye after this incident and to get her own back, she took to lying in wait for me as I walked past her and raking me with her claws. She was always too fast for me to catch again so I just hexed her in my head.

They say only the good die young. Tibby was 17 when she snuffed it...

I shan't tag anyone for this meme, but be my guest to continue it should you wish.

Bored to Tears...

2007-12-05T07:04:00.000Z

I stumbled across a strange little website (it's probably massive, actually) called Jyte this morning whilst attempting some research. (I honestly wasn't trying to find the website Matt and I encountered once where a white woman was taken by two black men from both ends. That research was over and done with long ago...) Jyte appears to be a type of polling/claim forum where one uploads a statement and waits for visitors to agree (thumbs up) or disagree (thumbs down). This particular statement claimed that people who say they are bored are, in themselves, boring. I have heard this many a time from the ex who fires it at daughters #1 and 2 when they want him to entertain them and he wants to watch the rugby; thus I have always deemed it to be of the ex's making.

However, to find that somebody else thinks this, too, was a bit disconcerting. You see, I have a terribly low boredom threshold at times. And the trouble is, when I am bored, I become either very constructive, or very destructive, depending on my mood. Many a time, the ex would return from one of his boozy nights out and I would have mooched around the villa, wondering what to do with myself (no TV, only pirate videos, and dark at 7pm) and suddenly the paint on the walls in the living room had changed colour (constructive); the furniture had altered position to become more symmetrical with the marble pattern on the floor (constructive); or his underpants and socks had been cleared out (destructive).

I am actually able to tell when my boredom limits are about to be reached. I become a bit restless, narky and then suddenly, as if a switch has been flicked on, I am completely disinterested from thereonin. This happened to me quite vividly whilst studying for an accountancy A level at night school, and continued whilst studying for the professional Taxation exams through a former employer, years ago. I have claimed ever since that accountants must have had either a charisma bypass or a frontal labotomy in order to do their job.

Charles Parsnip asked me one night if I felt that my life was fulfilling, and I replied that, yes, I found it very full and very exciting. And that was sort of true. But it's the little things in life which I can find unutterably dull, such as explaining for the nth time to daughter #2 who has interrupted a film 200 times in the first five minutes wanting to know the ending that I have never seen the film either, So. I. Just. Don't. Know. Please. Shut. Up. (She is now on her guard that when I tell her to be quiet through gritted teeth, the masking tape is about to come out. And she really doesn't want that...)

When these things happen, the switch flicks instantly. And I am then officially bored.

I think a lot of people without a technological bent would find my job very boring - indeed, my work colleagues have now labelled me the Geeky Freak which came about because I knew how to create é by pressing ALT 0233. And I was only trying to help one of them write Michael Boublé for her Secret Santa list. Ingrates...So, whenever a techie question comes up, there's a piping chorus of Ask The Boring Geek! Thankfully, I am pretty quick with the acerbic come-backs so they are left in no doubt that, boring my job may be, when it comes to put-downs, I leave my geekery far behind!

I do, however, find many minor aspects of my day deadly boring. Such as when my work colleagues analyse the latest goings-on in a dreadful soap opera called Hollyoaks, or when they are discussing which Z-list celebrity has got herself knocked up with another equally untalented Z-list celebrity. I also found, yesterday, talk of how the Secret Santa presents would not be recognised by putting the present in a bag, within a bag, in a black bin liner, with printed labels (so nobody could recognise anyone's handwriting), left in the stock room and the boss alerted by secure transmitter via Interpol deadly dull...At the time, I was attempting to run some link checks on our website in the hope of finding massive errors so we could leave these particular web developers and take our business elsewhere. Listening to the cackling, giggling, whining and Carol singing left me so distracted and drained my IQ so rapidly that I stalked out of the office for an illegal cigarette. I say illegal because I had only put one out about 15 minutes previous and a second in that space of time was taking the p*ss somewhat. Well, the boss wasn't in...

Other things which bore me are receiving credit card bills, final demands, and cold calls from salesmen desperate for me to change my internet service provider. Because they bore me so much, I decide to have a bit of fun with the latter and feign interest, let them run right through their spiel, making encouraging Ooh-ing noises to them and then inform them right at the end that I don't possess a PC. This really angers them and some, you can tell, if they were in front of me at that point, would probably give me a couple of black eyes. Ah well, such is life.

Conversations I have endured which have made my eyes glaze over have generally happened on internet dates and which I have shared with you on many an occasion. However, my mother can talk a glass eye to sleep, too, when she gets on to her favourite topic of What Are We Having For Dinner? This starts just before breakfast, continues through the muesli and toast, onto elevenses and right up to lunch when the decision is finally made, the meat brought out from the freezer and left to defrost on the work top. The debate then focusses on which vegetables can accompany aforesaid meat, what time dinner will be served, and will it be ready on time. Let me just put you in the picture here: this little scenario happens every day. And it happens even more when she has decided that I need some company so she is stopping with me for a few days. I generally feel the life blood slipping away from me and inform her that I will be eating Ryvita as I am on a diet and she can therefore help herself to whatever is in the house.

So, does my low boredom threshold make me a boring person? I'd like to think not and consider that I simply find the mundane doesn't fire off my synapses like it does for others.

Well, if I am being honest with you, outlining all these dull, ghastly things has now bored me. So, I shall head off and go and do something less boring instead. Like rearrange my collection of empty cat food cans or watch some paint dry. Don't let yourself get bored and become destructive like I do. Telephone a car showroom and ask for the specs on all the sports cars, arrange lots of test drives and then reveal that you are only 16 and haven't yet passed your driving test. It'll set you up for the day...

Stormy Weather

2007-11-27T17:48:00.000Z

Some of you may have realised that, once upon a time, I lived in the Middle East. I spent almost eight years there, happy as an animal (not a pig: it was a Muslim country) in poo. That was, until the ex decided he preferred my best friend to me and felt I had to clear off as I was cramping his style.

The expatriate lifestyle in Oman is such that you are fortunate enough to meet many new people, from all walks of life and can engender such friendships that last a lifetime. Your social circle is not just quality, but also quantity, and great fun can be had on a daily basis...

The ex worked as a Design Manager for a large construction company, building palaces for the Sultan (who collected them like I collect credit card bills) and came into contact with many sub-contractors with whom we ended up socialising and becoming good friends.

One such couple, Chris and Dave, were firm favourites of ours and we were thrilled to be invited to their wedding, to be held at the British Embassy. It was a small gathering, with only a handful of guests allowed to come and I felt very privileged to have been invited.

Chris had selected the two young daughters of a work colleague to be her bridesmaids and they looked beautiful carrying their posies aloft and attempting to carry Chris's train as she hobbled up the steps in too-tight shoes and a definitely too-tight skirt. My own #1 daughter was in a foul mood because she hadn't been asked to be bridesmaid, but as she was only about six at the time, and a bit daft, I think Chris made the right decision.

As is the bride's prerogative, she was late. So late, in fact, that Dave (Hobbsy) told us we might as well all clear off to the pub and have a skinful as he 'wasn't waiting around for any bloody woman'. He proceeded to chat up all the other women in attendance, liberally poured the Moet & Chandon into any empty glass and started singing Oasis songs. I think he was somewhat disappointed when Chris did finally show in a vintage Rolls Royce as he was having such a good time. Where Hobbsy got that Roller from is still a mystery, but he was a wheeler-dealer if ever there was one - if you needed anything in Oman, Hobbsy was your man...

The ceremony was lovely and we all traipsed outside for the obligatory photographs. Hobbsy didn't want anything formal, and ended up lying on the grass with me hovering over him, my right foot holding him firmly to the ground by his neck. In retrospect, this may have been because he wanted to see up the women's skirts as he had been rather flirtatious all day...Chris's photographs consisted of her in the arms of pretty much every bloke in attendance, and then they all carried her à la Madonna's Material Girl which really tickled her fancy.

The reception, unbeknownst to all of us, was to be held on a dhow, which is an old, galleon-like vessel, and which would set sail for the afternoon with all of us on board, getting more and more drunk as the day wore on.

Well, let me put this question to our two dear readers. When you think of Middle Eastern weather, I am sure the image which is conjured up is one of glorious sunshine, clear, limpid blue skies and searing heat.

OK...it started off that way...but the minute the last guest had got on board the dhow and we had cleared the marina, the clouds closed in...

Dressed in all my finery, and getting merrier and merrier with each bottle of Corona I imbibed, I briefly wondered whether my unsteadiness was due to the ever-increasing, wind-whipped waves (God, my alliteration improves with each blog, doesn't it?), or my ever-increasing inebriation. My balance was starting to go, somewhat, and in order to cover it up, I decided to put on an impromptu line-dancing display, having put myself through a crash course by DVD so I could help a friend out and teach 10 nine year olds the basic steps at a birthday party. The rocking helped me to look almost professional until I tripped and fell heavily into the mainstay mast where I decided that it would be easier to cling on for dear life than attempt any more Fuzzy Duck.

I felt nice and safe holding on to the mast. Unfortunately, other people started to feel the same insecurity as I was feeling, and after a few minutes, there were four of us fighting for the same piece of pole.

Buffet was announced and I considered that if I was going to be sick, I should at least attempt to have something other than Corona with which to feed the fishes. I ladled myself out a large portion of Prawn Cocktail and attempted to eat it. I felt sicker and sicker - so much so that when Hobbsy saw that I didn't have a beer in my hand, was shocked at my request for 'some water, please'.

I felt a trip to the lavatory might be prudent at this stage, but was summarily informed that there was a queue. My only port of call (pardon the nautical pun) was to get to the side of the boat, pronto. I moved as far from the bulk of the guests as was possible, but there's always some bleeding heart liberalist who deems himself your saviour and feels he should be mopping your fevered brow as your rectum hits the back of your throat, isn't there? My 'saviour' was Simon - one of the most handsome, lovely men in Muscat, and I really, really didn't want him there as he watched technicolour yawn after technicolour yawn come hurtling from my guts.

'Urghoahgggoooo aaarghway, Ssimmon!' I growled at him through retching.
'No, no, you need someone here with you, you poor thing,' he replied. 'Where's Anal (this is an anagram of the ex's name, by the way - work it out for yourselves)?'
'Urghodunnnnoooo, anna don currrr, gooo awayyy, pleeeeeeasasse, urghoahghghh!!'
'Oh dear, this isn't good. No, this isn't good at all. Stay there, I'll get something sorted out right now.'

He left me in peace to dry-retch with tears streaming down my face, my hair covered in all sorts of nasty stuff, and feeling very sorry for myself. I pathetically brought my head up to view the horizon where I saw forked and sheet lightning scudding across the skyline, heard the rolling thunder, saw the roller coaster waves and wondered what I had done to deserve this.

We were way out to sea, but on the other side of the dhow, land was still in sight, in the form of Marina Banda al Rhowda, slap-bang in the middle of nowhere.

Simon returned...

'Right, we are putting you off on the outboard. One of the crew will take you to the Marina and you can wait for us there. OK? You can't carry on like this.'

Relief - I was eternally grateful to my saviour. He helped me stagger across the deck - Christ knows where the ex was at this stage - and gently assisted me down the ladder into the waiting inflatable outboard.

I climbed aboard and the guests gathered at the side of the dhow, cheering, jeering, making vomiting gestures and calling me lots of rude things. As we set sail, the sun came out, the wind died down for a few minutes, and a fantastic rainbow appeared in the sky...In the half mile journey, I lay across the sides of the dinghy and vomited while the young Omani sailor stared at me with distaste. At least he didn't charge me five rials for soiling his transport, though.

Suddenly, he stopped.

'You get out now,' he stated.
'But the marina is over there,' I stated rather obviously, at a distant speck.
'No. I cannot get any further up to the beach. You will have to swim now.'

I stared at him, askance, pleaded with him; offered him my wet, vomit-stained body; was refused; and thus walked the plank...

I landed in icy cold, choppy water, wearing some of the most expensive shoes I have ever owned, a Oui Set dress which had cost me my last pay-packet, and a beautiful pure wool jacket. Remembering my Swimming Certificates from Primary School, I trod water and removed the shoes, buckled them together, clamped them firmly between my teeth, and swam for safety, being unable to touch the sandy bottom of the sea. I have never swum in tights before and I must say, I do not recommend it to any of you, male or female.

Ten minutes later, I reached the safety of the beach, and crawled up it, exhausted, still hearing the jeers coming from the dhow which had stayed moored in order to watch me arrive safely...or was it basically to video me for viewing at the party later? I have my own suspicions...

I was bitterly cold. My clothes clung to me and the biting wind made my extremities turn waxy blue and white. The Marina's café was deserted, and I plaintively knocked on the locked door until a waiter showed his face...

'I have no money, but I can open a tab, and when they come to collect me, I will settle up with you. Can I have a black coffee, please?' I begged forlornly, looking like something the cat had dragged in.
'Yes, ma'am. No problem, but you will have to stay outside as we have Pest Control in at the moment and the buildings are off-limits, hence why the café is shut.'

So, I sat by the beautifully-lit swimming pool as the sun set, soaked to the skin, shivering with the icy wind, sipping my coffee and choking as the DDT fumes were pumped all over the premises, inside and out, to eradicate Malarial Mosquito.

With a spirit of adventure, I wrote this event up for the happily married couple, who actually managed to consummate their vows on board without regard for their guests, and published it for them using Microsoft Publisher. I framed it and presented it to them a few weeks later.

What's the bets it's now hanging on their toilet door?

Charles Parsnip Presents : An Evening With Agnes

2007-11-25T08:38:00.000Z

One of my greatest failings as an ex, was to sit back and put my feet up as the lovely Agnes went about her daily chores of gutting fish, analysing psychopaths, and trying to maintain decorum in a house of screaming children. Yesterday morning, I felt moved to correct that mistake by offering to take up some of the household chores myself.

Now I must confess at this juncture, that I have lived in comfortable solitude for some time now, so moving back into the realms of shared responsibility would be something that needed careful planning. Agnes has a sharp eye for detail, and I was sure that any attempts to do household tasks with my usual carefree attitude would be met with a critical eye from the Wicked Witch Of The North.

So I offered to do the ironing.

There was a slight pause. Disbelief hovered over her features as the dawning realisation that one of her least favourite jobs was soon to be removed, and then slowly began to manifest itself as a twinkle in her eye.

"Sounds fair to me."

Later that evening, I began to realise just what I was in for. The Parsnip household has one person in it. Me. Ironing is something that occurs with the television on, preferably an amusing movie, and more time spent watching the box than what I'm doing with the hot electrical device filled with water in my hands. Creases build character, and by the time I have commuted to the office, the stress and tension built up from manoevering past maniacs and lunatics on the M1 have added a good few dozen more creases to whatever I'm wearing. Add to this, the fact that I work occasionally from home (negating the need to get dressed), and the fact that most of the people in the office wear T-Shirts and jeans (shorts and flip-flops in the summer), you begin to build a picture of someone that neither sees the point, or enjoys ironing; hence doesn't bother to do it too well.

I was informed of the best place to iron (out of the way, in a corner, behind the sofa and next to the broomstick) and the correct method for assembling the ironing board. As the iron heated up, I looked at the small pile of clothes with some trepidation. Agnes was perched on the sofa, sipping her coffee and pretending to be interested in the movie, seemingly suffering from some nervous twitch. As I plucked a simple black top from the pile and stretched out a sleeve I discovered that in fact, the nervous twitching was a subterfugal attempt to see precisely what and how I was performing.

"Are you all right?"
"Yes, yes, I'm fine."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes... Well... If there's anything too... complicated in there, just leave it for me to do."

I arched a curious eyebrow. "Do you really want me to do this?"

Her shoulders dropped, and relief gushed out of her. "You just do your stuff, ok?"

I nodded. So be it. Two shirts and a pair of trousers. No problem.

I got on with the shirt, Agnes relaxed back into the sofa and I chuckled. Out of my peripheral vision, I saw her Raven Beauty dyed locks begin to jiggle as she turned her head once again.

"Hmm?" I looked up to see her regarding me with a look of exasperation.
"What are you faffing about at?"
I looked down at the iron in my hands, the shirt stretched out on the ironing board, and for a brief second I considered answering her with the truth. I was ironing a shirt. Seeing the look in her eyes though, honesty was unlikely to be the best policy. I decided to feign stupidity. I looked at the shirt, then at her, then put on my best confused look. The one reserved for when women ask you what at first glance appears to be an obvious question, but is in fact a subtle trap designed to draw you into something that will assuredly make you distinctly uncomfortable.

Agnes was watching me as if I were a small child playing with adult toys "I never bother to iron the collar."

"How do you do it then?"

This was her cue. She jumped up off the sofa and came to the ironing board. I stepped away and watched as she picked up the material with practiced grace and began to rotate it on the board. Deftly hefting the iron she began to press the material slowly and with precision. I watched. Awestruck.

After my lesson, Agnes allowed my to try my hand at her cloak. She moved back to the sofa and settled down as I pulled a top out of the way, pausing to try and turn it the right way out. Straps got tangled, and as I frowned, trying to master the technique of untangling women's strappy clothes, Agnes' hand appeared.

"Give it to me."

The cloak was ironed... Eventually...

Eight Random Facts Meme...

2007-11-25T06:47:00.000Z

Keli over at Counterfeit Humans tagged me for this meme, which greeted me in my message box this morning. Mark over at the Uncanny Broadcasting Brain Blog also tagged me for it some time ago, but as it was my first time, I was a bit thick, didn't really know what I had to do and then felt a bit bad for passing it on...I think this was around the time I had received about ten threatening chain emails advising me that if I didn't forward them, the fleas of a thousand camels would infest my armpits or somesuch fate worse than death.

So, eight random facts about me:

1. When I first got engaged and babies filled my empty head, I determined to call my first born daughter Lorelei Fleur (this was the 80s). #1 daughter has got away with an infinitely more sensible name.

2. I love Marmite. I can eat it straight out of the jar and frequently do. Forget your cream cakes, chocolates, biscuits: Marmite on toast is my comfort food and I can't get enough of it. "Man cannot live on bread alone, but Agnes Mildew can survive forever on Marmite on toast".

3. I despise 'Sunday Drivers' - the ones who drive 30 mph in a 60 zone and hold up the traffic. They make me very, very cross which leads me to swear quite profusely no matter who is sitting in the car with me. I am a firm believer that these types of people are more dangerous on the roads than terminal speeders. My theory behind this is that so many people get irate and impatient to overtake that they take more risks thus leading to more accidents. That's my personal experience, anyway.

4. I once owned a cat called Scrofulous - Scroff for short. She was fantastic and used to go for long walks with me on the trading estate in the woods. There, she would attack rabbits in front of me and drag these huge bucks home with her where she would sling them over the cross-strut of a table and systematically eat every part of them apart from their stomachs. She was incredibly tough, but with a fantastic nature. Unfortunately, she tried to wrestle a 4WD one day and came off worse.

5. I have only ever cried at three films (although I have been marginally choked by others). These were Schindler's List, Moulin Rouge and Edward Scissorhands. That's a bit of an embarrassing one to admit, actually!

6. I am petrified of underground travel. I hate it more than Sunday Drivers. I have to go to London in the New Year and I am already fretting about how I will be expected to get around and about. As I will be with my boss, a Northern Pie-Eating man who calls a spade a shovel, I don't anticipate much sympathy for my plight.

7. I have been on TV once, when I was 17. We were invited to a Young Conservatives meeting for a friend of my (then) boyfriend to give him some support. None of us were political in any way, but we were promised free beer all night if we pretended that we were going to vote Jeff in. I was directly behind the camera view of Jeff and behaved rather rudely in retrospect. My (then) boyfriend appeared to enjoy himself, though.

8. A Victorian relative of mine, on my mother's side, was a besom-maker. A besom-maker, for those of you not in the know, makes broomsticks. Quite fitting, don't you think?

OK, that's all the random facts you are getting. In turn, I should like to ask Hope, Linda and Death Sweeper to have a go, too, if they have the time!

Christmas with the Mildews...

2007-11-17T08:39:00.000Z

Have you ever felt as though the weeks pass by without you being able to catch up on yourself? I am sure at least one of our two dear readers does. This year has flown by with much event - my mother has sent me to Coventry at least five times; I have had three jobs; hexed my ex three times and got engaged once. I'm quite a busy bee, wouldn't you say?

I am 100% convinced that it will be Christmas Tree-putting-up-time soon. I always try to hold off until the very last, as I tend to put all the chocolate decorations on the tree and then worry about them melting, so I eat them within 24 hours. But this year, I am resolved to be a bit more stalwart.

The week before last, as I was driving home, listening, as is my wont, to Radio 2, Chris Evans was interviewing a chap from Fortnum and Mason, about their £20,000 hamper. The interview itself was just a load of blah, but I was rather disgusted that Mr Evans proceeded to play a Christmas song and banged on about what a 'marvellous time of the year' it was. No. It was bloody November. Just after Bonfire Night: nothing going on. IT IS NOT A MARVELLOUS TIME OF THE YEAR...

Everywhere I go, I am being bombarded with Christmas. As I am one of the most disorganised people you could ever have the misfortune to meet, I find it rather offensive that I am having reminders of Christmas stuffed down my neck.

Christmas in the Mouldsworth B.M. (Before Marriage) household, was a very sedate affair. I can't remember the tree ever going up (if at all) before 20th December, and there were never any presents or cards left under the tree. This lack of tradition engendered in me an impatience and inability to maintain a surprise which still lives with me today: for example, four weeks ago, I went out with the view to attempting to organise presents - I bought stacks...then I gave them all out the following weekend. Rubbish...

I have to be honest and say that, on the whole, my Christmas Days are a total wash-out. I have this ridiculous notion that they will be romantic, snowy, sparkly and wit-filled, and in reality, they are boring, damp, grey and twit-filled. Last year, I spent Christmas alone, excepting a bottle of Toilet Duck and the bog brush - and I was in my element! I had been to church; made a sarcastic comment to the priest about Church Service +1 (having attended Christmas Eve, too, and discovering a repeat), eaten a bit of smoked cod and brocolli, and girded my loins for the presence of an ex who was most unwanted, but had begged an audience to personally present me with a Christmas card on his own miserable Christmas Day. It was unutterably dull, and had I had the opportunity to work, I would have done.

My first Christmas with the ex was a very excitable affair as he liked real trees, whereas I was used to plastic naff ones. I smoked myself into oblivion, as the trend, in 1992, was for sparkly parcels dangling from the tree, which were exorbitantly priced. Each joyfully smoked packet of 10 or 20 B & H was wrapped in purple or gold spangly paper, tied with a bit of gold string, and suspended from the branches of the tree. I saved us a fortune in decorations, (but not in fags) which appealled greatly to the ex's frugal Yorkshire mentality.

In order to save even more money that Christmas, the ex went out shooting and bagged a couple of hares. I had frozen loads of blackberries from the autumn hedgerows and blanched plenty of organic (read, covered in caterpillars and grubs) vegetables and planned a Christmas lunch fit for a poor, young couple, living in sin.

Having marinaded the hare in left-over lager from the night before, and glazed it with honey and blackberries, the ex and I decided to cycle up to the local pub for a cup of cheer while the hare roasted. The weather was foul: sleeting, bitterly cold, icy wind, and the roaring fire in The Hare and Hounds was most welcoming...so much so, that we got stuck in to a fair number of pints of Old Scrotum before I realised, with a start, that I had a hare to care for.

We precariously cycled back, wobbling more than was quite safe on an extremely fast country lane, and fell into the house...to be met by a wall of black smoke.

The hare had shrunk to the size of a small guinea pig and was totally unsalvageable - apart from giving it to the cat. The ex and I looked at each other in dismay, and, ever one to make light of a situation, I rifled through our tiny freezer compartment and rustled up some chicken nuggets to go with the carrots and broccoli. It wasn't actually a bad meal, all things considered, and the cat thoroughly enjoyed his offerings. It took until New Year for the smell of smoke to vanish from the kitchen, even though I kept the back door open as much as was possible with the bitter cold - then again, the gap under the stable door was so enormous, allowing mice to walk through upright if they so wished, that it didn't make that much difference.

So this year, I vowed that the girls and I would be going out for Christmas Lunch and there would be little, if no, palava. However, all the best laid plans go to waste with me, I have left it way too late to book anywhere, and I now have another mouth to feed in the shape of Charles Parsnip. I am considering how to complain enough to get out of doing it - if it was just the girls and myself, no doubt there would be three different meals to cook: I would be on my fish or seafood, #1 would be on the chicken, and #2 would pick at bread and Nutella. However, Mr P appears to like his traditional meal with all the trimmings as has been evinced by mention of joints, roasts, Yorkshire pudding, sausages wrapped in bacon etc. and I am starting to get frown lines above my nose from thinking too hard.

It's a pity the chippy isn't open...