A Dirty Welsh Weekend

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 Your Boss...

Our only reader is probably sick and tired of hearing of ways to hex ex partners, and simply wants some wiley ways to throw a sickie from work. Well, having spent literally fifteen minutes hard research on this topic, I have come up with some water-tight excuses for getting out of that ear-bleedingly awful meeting, avoiding the end of the month accounts or even snarking from the collection for the miserable personnel officer who is leaving next week.

In addition to these wonderful ailments, I can also show you how to degrade your thick superior without him or her ever even realising it - these have worked for me time and again as my bosses have been so stupid, they have always thought I was showing adulation and kudos - idiots!

Sick Note Certainties...

1. APROSEXIA. A pearler for sickies. Means 'Inability to concentrate'. Dear Miss Jennings, my aprosexia was severe today and led to me requiring a day off in order to recover. With its blatant reproductive (and possibly gynae if mentioned by a woman) undertones, no-one is likely to query this one.

2. CARDIALGIA. Sounds like a severe heart complaint. Literally means heartburn. The minute you mention 'cardio', everyone tip-toes around you with reverence...

3. ERGASIOPHOBIA. To describe oneself as being a chronic ergasiophobe will allow you every sickie in the book. To suffer with this means you have an aversion to work.

4. Dear Mr Forbes-Smythe, Unfortunately, my doctor has discovered that I have succumbed to CLINOMANIA and has recommended that I take at least three weeks off to recouperate. This is a chronic illness and may recur in the future.
CLINOMANIA is the inability to get out of bed...

5. If you have the misfortune to have a total bitch as your line manager, go to her superior and explain that due to your CYNOPHOBIA you must ask to be moved to another department. Cynophobia is the morbid dread of dogs.

Insults Masquerading as Compliments...

1. If asked, by a dullard, what you think of his/her recent reports, exclaim, gushingly, that they are a total work of HEBETUDE and breath-takingly so. Hebetude is sheer stupidity.

2. So tell me, Polly, what do you think of our new manager, Marmaduke? He's a smasher, what? Reply that he is a wonderfully REBARBATIVE character, especially when he attempts to corner you at the photocopier and breathe garlic fumes up your nostrils. To be Rebarbative is to be repulsive, off-putting and daunting.

3. Your boss reckons he/she has been visiting the gym on a regular basis and now has the physique of a racing snake. When asked to inspect his/her toned calves and thighs, respond that they are positively TREMELLOSE and a credit to all his/her sweat and toil on the running machine. You are simply explaining that aforesaid legs are jelly-like.

4. Your hated colleague is finally leaving and you have been asked to provide the leaving speech. "OK everyone, let's hear it for Gervaise and give him the DYSLOGY he deserves." A Dyslogy is the opposite of eulogy and means uncomplimentary remarks.

5. The young upstart, new to the firm, has once again curried favour with the boss and now way surpasses you in salary. Inform him that you are so pleased to have such an OLIGOPHRENIC colleague to work with. He will latch on to the -phrenic suffix and consider it to be complimentary about his intelligence. Indeed, it means feeble mindedness and severe mental retardation.

Practise these words on a daily basis and soon you will be a master at nonchalantly throwing them into conversation. People will either scurry off to find a dictionary, only to forget what it is you have said, or they will think you are an eccentric nutter and leave you to get on with more pressing things such as answering your Blog comments.

Of paramount importance to these words is your delivery. Always behave pathetically when delivering your sick-note and be completely sycophantic when uttering your insults. You will continue to confuse and baffle, which is exactly how it should be in the workplace.

Flex My Pex

I guess, if I was into Blog name abuse, I could refer to this post as Flex My Pex. Actually, that’s not a bad title, abuse or not, so in it goes…

Once upon a time, before I saw the light and decided that I couldn’t care less about having arms like Madonna, legs like Catherine Zeta Jones and a backside like Jennifer Lopez, I used to attend the gym on a very regular basis.

By regular, I mean every day, even when on holiday – the hotel’s facilities must include a gym, I used to bleat to the (then) husband. He didn’t care. As long as he could sit by the pool watching the top totty slathering sun cream on themselves (A Hex On Thee!).

One particular morning, having dropped the wee babes at school, I tootled off to the gym to commence my thigh-jittering work-out. It was a jolly good one, I can tell you and I went ‘for the burn’ as they say…Although, I must confess, it never burned me, it just reduced me to tears on the odd occasion and made me shout curses which should never be repeated in a public place or whilst sober.

As I staggered out of the gym and hauled myself into my Jeep, I flopped like a lump of lard on the seat and lit up a cigarette as quickly as my shaking fingers would allow…yes, yes, I know that defeated the whole object, but I do enjoy my smokes!

Without due care or consideration, I swung the Jeep from the parking bay and heard an almighty can opener ripping into its side. Concomitantly, the Jeep’s bonnet went upwards, as did my eyebrows and I took my foot off the accelerator, pretty damned quick!

Being a bit of a muppet where cars are concerned, I decided that the best thing to do would be to reverse and attempt to rectify the initial manoeuvre. The can-opening sound intensified, but at least the car came back to level ground.

I hauled myself out, and stared at the side of the car. The Municipality, in all its infinite wisdom, had decided to leave a concrete lamp-post base, sans lamp, in the middle of the parking area, and my car had decided to have a fight with it…Indeed, I was not the first, judging by the veritable rainbow of stripes across this lump of sadistic tendencies. The poor Jeep looked like it had gone in for open heart surgery and the surgeon had nipped off for a coffee and a fag…

As I stood there, askance, wearing clothes which were illegal in a Middle Eastern country, a local chap pulled up and asked if I wanted some help. He kindly called the police for me…called them again…then again…and finally, an officer pitched up, rattled something off to me and told me to get out of the way. The young chap told me his name was A.D…or at least, that is what I thought he said, but he was actually saying Eddie. As he looked like Eddie Murphy…ahem…Well, if that’s the case, then I look like Nicole Kidman, despite being less than stick-thin, dark and definitely under 6 feet tall…He did invite me for dinner at his mother’s, though, as they were slaughtering a goat for National Day…I politely declined.

I got very little help from the insurers. Their main concern was if the concrete base was OK, which left my mouth somewhat slack in gob-smackedness.

I did get my lovely car repaired…eventually…and then the (then) husband decided we should sell it and get a new one…

Well, I did – I bought a Jeep Grand Cherokee, which was just bloody marvellous, even though it was automatic, which I don’t particularly like, and even though the (then) husband used to commandeer it whenever possible, even causing a veritable bash on the bonce one day as I leaned into the rear seats to sort out the ensuing WW3 between the children and he took off when the lights went green so I was flung at the windscreen much to the other drivers’ amusements.

I sold the Grand just before I left Oman to return to a life of strife, corruption, world famous psychiatry and crime in the UK. I still miss it to this day.

I now drive a Toyota Yaris…It has only one wheel trim; the bumper hangs off it; every single cup holder has crap in it: from coins to earrings, to fag-packet wrappers…But it goes…and it will do…

But at least, whilst getting rid of the Grand, I also got rid of the husband! HexMyEx!