These are a few of my Favourite Things...

I have had such a lazy day today. I have done diddly-squat bar talk to myself, feed the menagerie and then treated myself to half the Amazonian rainforest by purchasing The Daily Telegraph on Saturday. I confess to a sneaky ulterior motive for occasionally buying weekend papers - the free catalogues aimed at the age 60+ population which are a source of smug mirth to me. Now, I know I have recently criticised I Want One of Those.com in this blog, but I have nothing but admiration and covetousness for the products contained within the Clifford James Saturday Supplement, and so I fell on it with voracious glee.

I now have my wish list for Christmas - forget the metallic snot - I Want One of These!


First up is the Crazy Hen which, due to its sprung legs, tail and wings, can 'wobble even in the lightest of breezes'! I would want about ten of these dotted in my back garden to confuse and confound the cats. I have no doubt that the bunnies would try to hump them, as is their wont, but I could also use the hens as target practise for whenever I need to barrel off a load of rotten apples at Norman (kitten) who persists in using the area under my washing line as his toilet, much to my chagrin. As I like to go barefoot as often as possible, you can probably agree that a foot treatment à la Norman turds is not particularly pleasant and I get my revenge whenever I can.


And what would I do without a Pet Ramp? Yes, I know that none of my pets would be seen dead in my car, unless they were going to the Vee Ee Tee's, but what a cracking idea? My one concern is that they are marketing them for the elderly and infirm canine who's not as steady on his pins any more, but wouldn't an older dog prefer to veg out in front of the fire, twitching and farting in his sleep? However, if you bought two, you could then wheel granny up into the boot, and take her for a ride instead!


In the Personal Health section is a corking offer - buy one ear cleaner, get another ear cleaner free! I know this wouldn't be of much value to the likes of Van Goch, but I could have great fun hoovering both my ears at the same time: "This innovative ear vac, gently removes the wax without prodding, poking, pain or damaging the delicate ear canal." My only reservation is if my brain started to come away with the wax.
(Just as an aside here, my ex used to suffer with bad ear wax and one day had his ears syringed. He returned home brandishing a test tube containing a huge lump of black ear wax which almost looked animal due to the protrusion of hairs, food and grit. He had a fine time displaying it to our dinner guests that night, much to my complete mortification.)


I also want a portable LED head torch, as I have always fancied trying out a bit of speleology from time to time. One minute of charging gives 20 minutes light, which is a pretty good return on investment, I am sure you will agree. OK, I might not get very far into the caves before having to make a run for it, but with the 'free wind-up charger for your Nokia phone', if I got into serious difficulties, I could always dial 999 (signal permitting) and get rescued by some brave, rugged, heroic Mountain Rescue sort (preferably male).

My final (literally) desire, is for A SOLAR POWERED MEMORIAL LIGHT!! Oh, I feel almost orgasmic at this! I so want this tasteful piece of garden ornamentry in my back garden. I could turn it into a sort of wish-list cenotaph and prop up a list of all my exes underneath it. Best of all, it is made of acrylic, so it won't rust, get mossy, and any bird poo can be wiped off with a bit of Cilit Bang! I'd like to shake the hand of the person who came up with this idea...


So, there you have it. Don't sit around fretting what to buy your loved ones this Christmas, just visit Clifford James online if you aren't as lucky as me to get the catalogue in your newspaper and get all your gifts in one fell swoop. You can guarantee, they'll not be getting duplicates from anyone else!

An Ode to Keywords...

Jayne, over at Blogging for Bitter Women, has had the excellent idea of using your keyword search terms to construct a fridge magnet poem. Ever up for a challenge, this is my attempt using our search terms for the last four weeks...

Beware of Internet Dating, Agnes Mildew!
My exes first time putting a hex on my ex.
Fig leaf boxers, earliest pants -
I was nude under the jacket, Doctor!
Knickers Up!

Fat knees, Norma Stits (not impressed clothing) - Fat Cow!

How come vodka cannot freeze? Knickers!
Can my ex take my house which was a gift? Smelly old ladies...
How do I get rid of lots of spots on my tongue? PERFUME IMMEDIATELY BECKHAM!

Turgenev, Dobrolyubov,"HAL PAIGE AND THE WHALERS", yof yofferson, Benicio del Toro - FAMOUS SLAPHEADS...

Celebrity knickers, gshohs, best hairspray to use for summer - How to make my boyfriend moan?

Agnes + Hexmyex, bitter exes, two exes blog - That's what friends are for.
Beauty secrets for girls - hamster bowel lump!
Hex Your ex - Briefs are forbidden, Boxers at all times...

So let the heartache begin
Poenas!

Bitter Dates and Better Nights In...

Are you getting bored reading about my dates or do you want to hear more? You DO want to hear more! Well, that’s unanimous. The little voices in my head, which just won’t go away, all sang a chorus of, “Yes, Agnes, pleeaaase tell us more.”

Are you sitting comfortably? Then, I’ll begin.

At one point, Match.com appeared to be a hotbed of activity. This particular ‘point’ was the three day free trial I had subscribed to, and I was going to make the most of it. So I was not quite as discerning as usual, reckoning that if I fired away a generic introduction letter to any bloke who wasn’t holding up an ID number on his photograph might be worth a try.

One such gent who replied was Karl. Karl was a German architect who had lived in many different countries with his teenage daughter and had recently settled in the UK. We arranged to meet at the Leigh Arms, where I had met many of my previous dates (and where the bar staff were starting to wonder if I was now some form of Call Girl, collecting my punters for the night).

I was running a bit late for Karl, and had texted him accordingly, so he had chosen the seats in the pub, which were, thankfully for me, in the (then) smoking** section (A Hex on You, Labour Government, for your public smoking ban!). I walked up to him, with a beaming smile on my face, and held out my hand. I don’t know if it’s because he was Continental or what, but he pulled on my hand, and suddenly, my face was squashed up against his lips, as he performed the ‘mwah, mwah’ kissy rubbish on me. He must have felt me struggling as he let go abruptly and I recoiled, tottering on my heels and bashing against the table.

Karl’s accent, despite his many years in other countries, was still very Germanic and I did struggle at times to understand him. “Vot vud you like to drink?” he asked. When I replied, just water, he, like most other blokes, stared at me in horror. “Vot? No alcohol? Vy? Vy no drink?”
“Oh, OK, then, make it a lime and soda,” I replied.
“But zis is not a proper drink! You must have vine.”
I could continue this volley for you, but you would have done your weekly shop at Asda by the time it had finished, and I can’t be bothered saying the same thing over and over again. Take it from me, I fixed him with my eyes, and said, finally: “A. Lime. And. Soda. That’s. It. Thankyou.”

At last we got down to the business of getting to know each other. Or at least, I got to know things about him. He talked, and talked and talked. And it was only about one thing – How horrific, unnatural and freaky his ex-wife was. He told me at great depth (and in quite personal detail, some of which made me squirm embarrassedly in my seat) about her – from her dogged pursuit of her career (she is a paediatrician) to her rejection of stereotypical stay-at-home Mum lifestyle, to her new bloke, to her almost non-existent relationship with her daughter…It was all quite alarming – particularly when he petitioned me to bitch about her too!

Now, people who know me, often get rather irritated by me when I am asked to judge others whom I don’t know, as, generally, I hate being drawn into a one-sided bitching session and will always attempt to see things from the other’s point of view – just to provide a bit of balance. If I know the person, however, and have witnessed bad behaviour, well, it’s a case of, ‘Get behind me, it’s my turn to tongue-lash’, but not if I haven’t experienced anything firsthand.

(Don’t let this put you off hiring us for Hexing, though, if you give me enough info, I will get suitably retributive on your behalf!)

It was, actually, quite disturbing listening to this man harangue his ex continually. OK, as a mother, myself, I cannot understand why a Mum would willingly give up her children, but it was her choice, her life, and not my business.

As with many of my dates, I sat for the rest of the night, having my ears bashed until they bled, interjecting with an ‘Oh dear’, ‘Mmm, I know’ etc. when it felt as though I ought to say something.


Karl was onto his third glass of red wine and getting a little bit frisky when he touched my knee and fondled it. In horror, I leapt off my stool with a clatter, and inadvertently kicked him in my haste. My rapid movement shocked the pants off him and he, in turn, threw a whole glass of wine down my new frock and splashed my lovely (suede) coat. The look of horror on my face must have been a picture.

“Ach, sorry, sorry, sorry,” he wailed, “I vil get napkins from ze bar and vipe you down.” He came to me bearing a wad of tissue, and attempted to paw my breasts, but my reflexes were lightning fast, and I grabbed the tissue out of his hand and informed him that ‘I would take it from here, thank you!’ My coat was ruined. You can’t chuck a glass of wine over a suede coat and expect it to escape unscathed, and I was pretty naffed off, as it was the only coat which was halfway decent for me to go out in.

“I think this is a suitable juncture for me to go home, Karl,” I said. “I am soaked through, and I don’t want to sit, steaming here in my red wine marinade all night.”
“Shall I come back to yours, for coffee?” he asked.
“Err…no,you shan't,” was my response.
“Vel, can I see you again, as you are very, very nice,” he continued.
“Err…let’s see, shall we,” I replied.
“Oh goody! Ven ve meet again, ve shall haf lots of kissinks, ja?”
“Nein, Karl, we will NOT haf lots of kissinks!” I retorted quite clearly.

We parted in the car park, and as he lurched towards me for more of that Continental kissy slush, I backed off faster than Carl Lewis off the blocks, leaving him puckering up rather impotently, to fresh air.

I drove home, closely trailed by the police who were ready to nab me if I went 31mph through the village, hoping that my lights weren’t faulty or anything. Had I been stopped, the pong of wine over me would have meant an instant breathalyser and probably some very awkward questions.

I never did meet up with him again - I would be better off at home, simply navel gazing. He persisted for a while, texting me, leaving messages, which I never returned, until one day, I sent him an email by accident, meant for a close friend, which contained information about a more recent date, in gory, HexMyEx-type detail. At last, he was able to learn something about me, and obviously decided he didn’t like what he had read. If only I had thought of that weeks previously…

**He also proceeded to smoke all my fags, claiming he never bought any, but did enjoy the occasional smoke. I really hate people who do that...

A Hex on Lawyers!

I tend not to post jokes on the blog, but I had to upload this. Lawyers are not as daft as you think, though - anyone who can receive their charge-out rates is pretty clever in my opinion!
This, I believe, is a true transcript from a court case in the States.

ATTORNEY: Doctor, before you performed the autopsy, did you check for
a pulse?
WITNESS: No.
ATTORNEY: Did you check for blood pressure?
WITNESS: No.
ATTORNEY: Did you check for breathing?
WITNESS: No.
ATTORNEY: So, then it is possible that the patient was alive when you
began the autopsy?
WITNESS: No.
ATTORNEY: How can you be so sure, Doctor?
WITNESS: Because his brain was sitting on my desk in a jar.
ATTORNEY: But could the patient have still been alive, nevertheless?
WITNESS: It is possible that he could have been practising law somewhere.

First Dates, Mashed Spud & Unending Boredom.

Dave was my first foray into internet dating. For some time we had been chatting using the site and then our relationship took a step further and we glided seamlessly to MSN Messenger.

He finally showed me a photograph of himself, (warning to ladies and gents thinking of internet dating: if they don't upload a photo, ignore the hokum about them being shy - they're generally married or incredibly unattractive...this I have discovered time and again ever since) and he reminded me immediately of my favourite uncle, Bill, but a younger version - such dark eyes; gentle face, muscular shoulders.

He told me he was a chef, and tantalised my taste buds with suggestions of exotic concoctions which made my mouth water. As I was a very big girl with an equally big appetite at the time, I was more keen than most to meet with this man.

I am still a bit of an old-fashioned 'gel' at heart and so I hoped and hinted that he would ask me out on a date. He told me he found me attractive and liked my personality, and so I waited for what I deemed the inevitable: a date...Nothing. Absolutely bugger all. In the end, I got fed up of waiting and, throwing the traditionalist values away, came out with it: Why don't you ask me out for a date?
I got the oddest answer in response: he didn't ask women out on dates. That was it, full stop. They had to ask him. As I felt pretty desperate at the time, I broke with my principles and asked if he'd meet me at a pub in a few evenings' time. He readily agreed. I danced (or should I say, 'lumbered') round the room with excitement and next day, rushed to the Famous Factory Store and bought some incredibly unflattering (in retrospect) pin striped trousers and a jumper. I looked like a monochrome beach ball.

I was so nervous that day. All my work colleagues quizzed me about the potential man of my dreams. My mother asked lots of questions; demanded every contact number I could give her; where I was going; what brand of condoms I was planning on using (I made that bit up), until she was satisfied that every base was covered for my safety. I felt 14, not 35. My mother seemed quite impressed by my description of Dave. She always thought her brother was a very handsome chappie (especially as there is a strong family resemblance between them) and her approval was metered out hesitantly.

I multi-mapped the pub's directions and proceeded en route, to get hopelessly lost, as is my wont. If I was an inventor, I would devise a box that could be attached to the boot of my car, or the rear windscreen which lit up at the touch of a button, declaring, SORRY, I AM LOST. PLEASE DON'T GET CROSS WITH ME. I think it would be a best-seller, actually. Getting lost added to my nerves, and by now, I had been forced to turn the CD player off so I could concentrate, and was onto my third cigarette, after only 15 minutes. I suddenly realised I would stink of fag smoke and fumbled, with one hand, for my perfume which I sprayed liberally over my head and face, almost choking on the over-powering pong. Not a particularly auspicious start to my first date, really...

I finally pulled into the pub car park at the same time as Dave. As soon as my feet hit the tarmac, in my Nine West wedges, I realised I would now be towering over him by a minimum of five inches. And he didn't have the dark eyes of my uncle - it must have been the lighting (or he wore coloured contact lenses) and his was not a broad-shouldered, muscular build - he was what I might quaintly term, 'petite'.
"Arice der, Agnes!" came the dulcet tones of a very Scouse accent. "Adda recognizzzed youse anyweeeerrr."
"Er herrler, Dave," I replied, unable to keep the poshness from my voice (I always become ever so posh when I am nervous.) "So delightful to meet you. I wouldn't have recognised you, I must admit. You look...er...different to your photograph." We walked together to the pub entrance, and I affected a Quasimodo-type stoop in order to compensate either for my too high heels, or his lack of stature.

It was mineral waters all round. I didn't drink at all, and he didn't drink if he was driving. Weren't we mature adults?

I'll hand it to him: he was very friendly; put me at ease straight away; chatted amicably in order to break the ice, and gave me lots of opportunities to ask questions. So I did. Because I am nosey...and I made the grave mistake of asking about his work as a chef.

Well, his days of being a chef such as we watch on The F-Word or Ready, Steady Cook, were long over. He now held the grand title of Development Chef for a company which made ready meals for big supermarkets. What he didn't know about mashed potato wasn't worth knowing, and I can quite safely say, that I, too, now know everything about pulverised starch. I listened seemingly attentively, not glazing over too obviously, to tales of cubed spuds being intensively heat blasted, rinsed, dramatically cooled through refrigerators, pumped full of E numbers and preservatives (all to strict percentages) and finally mashed and piped into trays for him to taste and work out whether an extra 0.07% of salt ought to be added or removed.

After 45 minutes (I tell no word of a lie), there was silence and I realised it was my turn to say something. "Err, um, do you ever work with chicken?" I asked.

A further thirty minutes later, I had been told everything I needed to know about pre-cooked chicken. However, I have no idea what I needed to know, actually, as my brain went onto screen-saver and I mentally prepared my shopping list, worked out which clothes needed to be ironed for the week ahead, wrote a letter to my solicitor and fretted about losing some weight so I wouldn't have to keep financing the coffers of Match.com.

At the end of the lecture, I generously offered to get in another round of water, only for Dave to decline graciously and inform me that he had to be in bed by 10.30pm as he was a creature of habit, and didn't like to stray from his routines. I was more than happy to leave, too. My next question was going to have to be about boil-in-the-bag cod steaks and I didn't think I could stand the excitement much longer.

NB. I have lost all the weight now. And I still don't have a bloke, so I might as well go back on the Dr Fatkins Diet.