Hex My Pets

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 House-Keeping

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.

Monday Morning Musings...

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...

Conservating Agnes

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...

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...

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...

Never Send a Man To Do A Woman's Shopping

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!

Bored to Tears...

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

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

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...

Hex The Boss

Now, some of you may remember that I wrote an educational post under a similar name a few months ago, but this post is to try to illustrate why I wish certain bosses would be hexed, as I have had a fair few clots in my time. The ones who spring to mind immediately are the crème de la crème of berks and I am sure that our two readers will be able to empathise with me in my descriptions of them.

My last boss, Bernard, was a jumped up, arrogant, little toe-rag who claimed that any woman (including me) fancied him, and that he had to ‘beat the women off with a stick’. Probably using their white canes, as a matter of fact.
It wasn’t just the fact that he didn’t have a clue about my job and would thus attempt to humiliate me in front of clients that makes me want to hex him; nor was it his turbulent, manic-depressive temper which made the other staff go into a huddle and try to work out if the temper was ready to explode or would just rumble away for a few more days.
It wasn’t even his constant boast that he attended an Oasis gig, needed to pee, urinated into a burst beach ball and lobbed it into the crowd where it drenched a young girl.

No, it was the fact that I rarely got any money out of him…

Salaries were never paid on time…Expenses? Don’t make me laugh. He still owes me around £100 for fees, petrol and bank charges for when he didn’t put my salary in to my account.

The first time I didn’t get paid on time, I was rather horrified to receive two snotty letters from my bank, charging me £60 for the privilege of having two direct debits bounce. When I diplomatically broached the subject of being paid on time with him, he took great umbrage, made me out to be a liar and gave me hell for the rest of the day.
The second time my salary wasn’t paid on time, I was left stranded over a long Bank Holiday weekend, penniless, with no response from him to my increasingly urgent voice mails which culminated in the question, ‘Where’s my f*cking salary?’ The next day, I didn’t even have enough money to fill my car up with petrol to get to work. It was only when I didn’t turn in that he decided to answer my calls. I had that day off deducted from my holiday entitlement…

A female boss of my acquaintance – let’s call her Bridget, because that is her name, and a nastier woman you could never meet - possessed the most revolting personal habits known to man. Everybody knows someone who picks their nose and eats it, but have you ever watched someone, in deep concentration, hook a whopping piece of earwax from their ear and chew on that? I felt my jaw seize up with the shivers when I caught her at it. She would adjourn to the Ladies, perform her ablutions, and leave, without ever washing her hands…When she had a cold, she found it hilarious to sneeze all over my predecessor’s work station – poor old Lou, who had suffered with an immuno-deficiency virus in her earlier years, was constantly off sick with colds and stomach upsets. When Lou decided she had had enough putting up with the Muppet Show and left without a job to go to, Bridget’s reference to potential employers made a major point of her sick leave, and Lou left each interview jobless…

Bridget’s husband, Mario, was equally as nasty. An egotistical, jumped up little oik, who claimed to have killed a King Cobra with his bare hands: he informed me on a number of occasions that he was ‘available’. After the third occasion, when I quite firmly told him that he was way too married for my liking, the atmosphere in the office suddenly became quite frosty.

Non-contractual demands were soon made of me, which I was totally unable to fulfil, and warnings of sackings dished out left, right and centre. I attempted to beat them at their own game, and succeeded in passing an exam with flying colours, despite not having studied for it in the stipulated minimum of 90 days – taking it after 44. This still wasn’t good enough and at the end of my probation, I was told that I didn’t quite cut the mustard. I did what all good Hexers do: bunged a load of laxatives into their drinks and breezed out and off to home where I proceeded to apply for every job advertised and was back in work within two weeks. For the next two weeks, they sat on the toilet, groaning…

One boss became a bit of a fling. I have mentioned him before in the excommunicated priest guise. For some very odd reason, I fancied him like mad, despite the massive age difference, and obviously, being a single 40-something, he was quite taken by the attentions of a 19 year old. When I realised he was interested, I stupidly, and mercilessly, dumped my stalwart boyfriend, who was heartbroken and called my mother every day, begging her to dissuade me from my actions. Her response was to tell me what I HAD to do: I did the opposite, so she sent me to Coventry (for our American reader, this means you don’t speak) for weeks. After meeting the boss (another Bernard) in Birkenhead Shopping Centre where he had attempted to look ‘trendy’ by wearing trainers (always a no-no in Agnes’s book), a sweatshirt and tight jeans, I knew this was not the Man For Me…particularly when he proceeded to compare the shape of my legs against former girlfriends…

When I quite gently told him that I didn’t think I wanted this to go any further (dear reader, it ventured no further than a furtive grope and lots of Confession), he got rather spiteful and reduced my lunch hour, denied me my study leave, and generally made my life hell. He fell very ill, and during his hospitalisation, I found another job and left without a trace. I was, however, rather sad to learn, two years ago, that he had actually died of the same condition…so he shall, despite his bitterness, remain unhexed.

My current boss is a broad Yorkshireman who says what he thinks, without any allusions to grandeur. He is shorter than me, standing at around 5’ 7”, whereas I am 5’ 7.5” (and that extra ½ inch is very precious to me!). He probably also weighs twice my weight. He is foul-mouthed, but finds it hilarious in that he has met his match with me. He brings out the worst in me – and I love it!

I think I may have found the boss of my dreams!