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...
