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...

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...