Thursday 24 July 2014

What The Internet Has Taught Me

This week The Lounge is being hosted by Tegan at Musings of the Misguided and the theme is:

What The Internet has Taught Me.

Well ... Yes ...  Well, ACTUALLY I like to think that I may have taught many people many valuable lessons and that at some point I may be acknowledged with a letter from the Queen or may be a medal or a bar of chocolate or something ...

But that doesn't mean that I haven't been learning too!

Mostly I've learned that people often ignore my totally hilarious updates and that they don't appreciate me at all ...

I know!!!

If I didn't find myself so funny there really are times that I might GIVE IT ALL UP!!

Anyway, this is a post I wrote a while ago which I think outlines the problem - please note, there is a little RIPE language for which I apologise if it offends you (but I WAS provoked!).

There's nothing worse than thinking the hamster's dead and then discovering the hamster is indeed dead!

This morning I discovered Figgy in his wheel.  the wheel is sealed and fits to the rotostack with entry by means of a tube.  How the fuck are you supposed to get a dead hamster out?

It's pretty hard to tell if a hamster is dead or just sleeping so I span the wheel a bit just to check.  A live hamster probably would have woken up rather than just thudding around (in a solid fat hamster kind of way ...).

The only solution seemed to bury poor Figgy in his wheel which is kind of gross as it's not biodegradable so next year Id probably be accidentally digging up his decomposed remains in a bright yellow plastic coffin.

Anyhow, turns out Figgy isn't dead at all, phew!

This is supposed to be a post about my frankly hilarious (judge for yourselves and then lie and tell me I'm right ;) and completely ignored Twitter tweets (seems there should be a better way of putting that).  I re posted a couple on FB because, well because I require the adulation and gratification which was sadly lacking in Twitter land. For good measure I may throw in a couple of FB status updates that didn't make it as far as Twitter and maybe just one or two random thoughts that ought to really just stay in my head.

So to start you off, here are the tweets that the twits ignored ...

'Hormones may turn me into a complete bitch at times but boy they get the house clean! (and, if I don't want to clean it, I just break it')

'Arse, gloss paint - elbow, emulsion - yes doubters, I KNOW the difference! '

'Without GHD's my hair would probably qualify for it's own postcode! ' (this one had previously appeared on FB but given the state of my hair on that day was worthy of a rerun)

'just looked in the mirror - it gonna be another day of relying heavily on personality and mouthwash - mostly mouthwash to be fair ... '

Friday 18 July 2014

And The Award Goes To ...

Well ME actually ...

A couple of weeks ago I got a letter from the school telling me that Miss Mac had been given the Form prize and inviting me to the awards ceremony.

I was so proud that I posted a photo of the letter on Facebook.

'Well done Miss Mac' said one of the comments, 'I don't know what that means but it sounds great'.

I had to confess that I didn't really know what it meant either but hey, it was recognition of something so well done my beautiful girl.

Places were limited at the ceremony to the children actually collecting awards and up to two family members.

Miss Mac was very nervous about being called out to collect her award in front of roughly 500 people and very keen that everything should go smoothly and I didn't do or say anything to embarass her.


Seriously, I KNOW I have a habit of making an arse of myself and for the most part I have little or no control over those 'damned things'  BUT it has to be perfectly possible to contain my inner arse (so to speak) for just one evening doesn't it?

I followed the 3 P rule (two of which I've forgotten but the 3rd is PREPARATION!).

I consulted Miss Mac on the appropriate dress.

'Nothing too short, too loud, too flimsy, no flip flops, turquoise nail polish or slogans'.

Wednesday 16 July 2014

Words To Live By ...

Linking up with Maxabella for The Weekend Rewind.

The Lounge this week is being guest hosted by Emma at Five Degrees Of Chaos and the theme is:

'Words To Live By'

Well, I had a long hard think about this and a bit of a rummage through the blog to see if I could come up with any words of wisdom ...

The words 'EPIC' and 'FAIL' sprang to mind ...

Seriously, you really don't want to take too much notice of ANYTHING I say let alone try and live your life by it - I sure as hell don't.


That doesn't mean I have nothing to offer - I've written LOADS of self help guides based on very little knowledge of anything much whatsoever because I don't believe in limiting what you do by the things that you CAN actually or even SHOULD actually do.

So I thought I'd look at this again from a different angle and, while I may not be able to offer you any wise WORDS to live by I CAN offer you a few dance moves to shake your way through life to and here they are:

I Am (A Self Confessed) Expert

It's been a while since I brought you my last 'experts' guide.
As you know I am a self confessed expert in many areas ranging from kissing to sheep wrangling, dating to sock buying with a particular genius for relationship counselling.
But, there's an area I've overlooked ...
I spent a couple of hours last Friday night down at my local YMCA where they were holding an open evening with taster sessions and displays and cake (I was, to be honest,  there mostly for the cake).
The following evening Surfer Dude and I met with friends at a local pub to see a band and, in a moment of genius it hit me - a huge untapped area in the market just waiting to be exploited.
I spent Friday evening rocking to Rumba, shaking to Salsa and salivating to Street Dance (seriously, Lewis who leads the Street Dancers should come with a government health warning, if Miss Mac hadn't held me back whilst SD implored me to, 'for the love of god' remember my dodgy knee and weak back I'd have signed up there and then  for a little one on one!)
Hmmm ...  Moving on ...
So, there I was on Saturday night grooving away to the band along with an eclectic assortment of like minded rockers when the idea began to form in my mind.
I've got YEARS of experience and observation to share and, to my knowledge there's no-one else out there doing it.
All I need is a dressing up collection and a few cardboard boxes, I don't even need music - everyone knows the art of proper pub dancing requires you to be totally tone deaf and out of time - although, thinking about it, I guess the advanced class might need to include singing along very loudly and out of tune to the chorus of Come On Eileen (complete with foot stamping and hand clapping for the more experienced).
I've been practising a few moves with the cats this morning.
Bears (my cat of little brain) is a big fan of the 'knee trembler', an almost imperceptible move specifically designed for the first half of the evening where, substituting a pint of lager for a mug of tea, I stood, apparently rooted to the spot, my patella vibrating gently.  At first I don't think he was fully convinced and seemed unimpressed but once I'd rolled my PJ's up to thigh level he could properly appreciate the subtlety of the move.   Buoyed up by his enthusiasm I tried some slight head nodding and lip pursing.
Pouting is probably going to need several sessions all on its own - I must make a mental note to book one of the dance rooms with mirrors for this one ...  Once I've emptied the content of the vacuum bag over them and dimmed the lights I'm sure it will be really authentic.
I also need to come up with some really cool names for the dance moves, I'm thinking of going with:
The Staged Stagger - you combine it with the pulsating patella and lunge slightly to your left. Bouncing off the person next to you, you raise your glass silently in their direction before lunging back and shouting 'Tooo Ra, Too Ra Loo Ra Laaaaay' as you resume the patella position.
On the off chance that there IS no one to your left you can follow through on the staged stagger with the complete:
'Jukebox Jive' - with nothing to hinder you, you carry on across the floor River Dance fashion leading with your head until you hit the nearest solid object - this is where the cardboard boxes come into their own simulating a juke box (once the classes are up and running I may have to consider investing in a few breeze blocks for the totally authentic  thud or maybe a real juke box or maybe I'll just paint the boxes ...  or something ...  I'm still working on the details ...) - the resulting spillage of lager will bring us on to the next move which, in true English pub tradition I shall, from now on be spelling - LARGER.
And so, we move seamlessly on to:
'The Larger Lambada' this only really works in proper English pubs I'm afraid where years of spilt larger have built up a rich and very sticky patina on the floor (it works even better on carpet) - having spent the first part of the evening perfecting the pulsating patella with a few staggered lunges and the odd jukebox jive, the pub dancer will stand a while lip pursing, pouting and, at odd times, giving a loud, 'TOOO RAAHAHA - LOOOOO RAAHAHA' completely unaware that their feet are becoming slowly welded to the floor.
This only becomes apparent (and then only to those around them) when they fling the remains of their pint down the back of the person standing in front of them and, having 'finished' their drink, they attempt to make their way to the bar in order to refill their glass in preparation for the second set, this is when the inadvertent Larger Lambada come into its own.
They twist and they turn, give a few hip shimmies and knee jerks but remain firmly rooted in position glued to the floor with a combination of barley, oats and toad droppings (an essential ingredient of any self respecting English larger)
The pub dancer may at this point believe that the person to their left has extracted revenge for the Staged Stagger by nailing their feet to the floor. Much teeth baring (an advanced form of lip pursing and pouting) may follow  combined with muttering (mostly words that It's fair to say do NOT appear to my knowledge in any of Dexys Midnight Runners songs) and veiled threats of violence (something else I may consider adding to the agenda along with air guitar lessons).
They may think that they are in fact sitting down which they will find most confusing when they realise that, despite this they are still the same height as everyone else - this can lead them to believe that they have developed super human strength and hulk like abilities to expand (and is obviously something I will strongly be discouraging in my classes!!)
I'll be combining all of the above with head tossing (hair optional or, for a small fee, I can provide hair extensions, toupee's or hats with built in ponytails) - beer belching, magic tricks (that one's especially for SD) and fire eating for the smokers puffing away outside (as you know, I'm a stickler of inclusiveness!).
I told you it was ingenious didn't I?
I'm off to Primark to invest in some faux leather leggings and lurex legwarmers to wear with my leopard print stilettos and frilled spandex bra top.
* Full kit list available on request - advanced booking strongly recommend

Friday 11 July 2014

A Poem (and some poo ...)

Do your pets embarrass you?

Mine do ALL the time!

Not as often as my children mind and certainly not as often as I embarrass myself but, on a pretty regular basis one of them will do something that has me hanging my head in shame.

Now I DON'T have a kitten ok?

I know I dont have a kitten because I've been saying that to SD several times a day for the last 3 weeks which is about the same time we brought 2 kittens home from the farm to re -home and one went almost immediately but the other one stuck around for a bit (and she's still here).

I mean, I KNOW I don't have a kitten right  because if I did then she would have a name wouldn't she?  But she doesn't.  (Miss Mac and I just call her squidgy and she's a lovely, lovable ball of tortoiseshell fluff with a very loud purr.)

Anyway, Big D popped round yesterday morning and, after opening my fridge and all the cupboards and the tins on top of the cupboards and discovering ... (all before actually saying hello to me I might add!)


He turned his attention to the kitten I don't have who, having never seen such a big man (Big D is 6ft 3" and very broad!) had shot under the kitchen cupboard and refused to come out.

With a little cajoling I persuaded her to come out and I scooped her up and handed her to Big D.

She wasn't too keen so, after making a bit of a fuss of her he put her back down on the floor.

'OMFG!!!' he shouted - 'I HAVE CAT SHIT ON MY FINGER!!!!'

He waved the offending digit in my direction - I backed off ...

Are you SURE it's cat shit?

Mum he said, it looks like cat shit, it smells like cat shit, I'm saying it IS cat shit unless you want me to check if it TASTES like bloody cat shit!

Poor squidgy was terrified by all this shouting and shot back under the cupboard bless her.

Big D stood there totally transfixed by the smear of brown, evil smelling kitten excrement on his finger.

For goodness sake just go and wash your hands I told him, you think that's the worst thing that can happen?  I'll have you know that I've had your ....

Big D held up his hand for silence, the action slightly marred by lump of poo clinging to it and then I started to giggle and then I retched a little (it really DID stink ..) and then I giggled and retched at the same time.

ITS NOT BLOODY FUNNY he shouted - I'M SUPPOSED TO BE COOKING A BBQ TONIGHT - which only made me laugh even more ...


I stopped giggling ...

I'm sorry - did you just say you SHED your whole skin every 24 hours ....??

Good GOD - what did I give birth to??

I'm going to gloss over that conversation now because actually, that wasn't supposed to be what this post was about at all!

This post was SUPPOSED to be about romance and poetry and that kind of stuff.

I'm going to have to write another post about SD and the gold hot pants at some point but now is NOT the time!

SD and I often take a walk down by the canal or the river in the evening just to wind down.  It's usually fairly quiet and can be quite romantic apart from me slapping at the blood midges.

The other night my thoughts turned to poetry.

Actually, they didn't, they turned to how much I hate the bloody great building Viridor have built at the end of my road right on the canal, a building that now blocks my view of the hills.

To be fair, they have tried to make the surrounding area nice with some careful landscaping and part of this is a perspex board.

SD and I stopped to read the board which turned out to be three boards set one behind the other with writing on to give a 3D affect.  On it was, rather surprisingly, a poem.

SD was very dismissive of the poem, in fact he said it was crap.

So, I said, what do YOU know about poetry anyway??  If you know so much about it then why don't you write one for me.

Ok, I will said SD, in fact, I'll do it right now!

So, taking both my hands in his he looked deeply into my eyes and, after clearing  his throat he began:

'Ola' ...  he said (which I thought was a little odd seeing as my name is Sarah ...)

He paused for dramatic affect before resuming

O LA ... (pause)  Paloma ...

Another pause, more soulful eye searching ...

O LA Paloma Blanca ...


I am just a bird in the sky ....!!!

 O LA ... (pause)  Paloma ...

Another pause, a little more soulful eye searching ...

LA Paloma Blanca ...


Over the mountains I fly ...

Ooo I Ooo I Aaayy ...  Ooo I Ooo I Aaayy

(which I'm fairly sure doesn't belong in that song at ALL and SD had in fact strayed into Worzel territory!)

Linking up with Maxabella for The Weekend Rewind and Have a Laugh On Me for the Laugh Linkup.

Thursday 10 July 2014

I Do It Because ...

There's this meme going around.

 A meme  (if you don't already know) is like a virus, almost everybody catches it eventually, all you have to do is hang around the infected for long enough and one day BAM you got it!

Or, you may prefer to think of it like a party invitation that's been extended to friends and to friends of friends, people spreading the love and just GROWS.

So ...  well ...  I DIDN'T catch it OR get invited to it so I thought, sod it, I'll do it ANYWAY!

All you do is answer some simple questions like:

'Why do you write?'

Well, that's simple, I write to stop my head from EXPLODING.  I've often described my head as being full of spaghetti, a kind of jumbled up mess of pasta that periodically (or sometimes more often) splats itself right on to this blog.

I find I have little or no control over what ends up here.  I've included some video aids for those of you who may find this principle hard to grasp.

This is me:

'What are you working on?'

Working on?  Working on???

That's the trouble, I DON'T tend to work on anything which is why I never get anything done!  I've started SO many initiative over the past three years and I haven't EVER managed to maintain ANY of them (remember 'Shooting From The Hip' - 'Antiquoties' - 'Photo For Friday' - 'The Kindred Spirit'  'Cheer You Up Tuesday' and many, MANY others) so I'm going to STOP pretending that I'm actually WORKING on ANYTHING and admit that writing for me is more a process of osmosis (see below for more detail ...)

'How does your writing differ from others of it's genre?'

Genre ... ?

Ummm ....  Well ...

So I googled genre for clarification and it said:

"a style or category of art, music, or literature."

Ok  ...  I don't think I have one of those ... I don't HAVE one of those do I ... ? DO I have one of those ...  DO I ??

Actually, you know,  I DO.

It's a little known genre known as the Clanger Spaghetti genre and, thinking about it, it could just be indigenous to me ...

Basically it involves a lot of whistling and some messy knitting (with spaghetti of course!)  and a monotone voice over which I somehow combine into a senseless ball of yarn (see what I did there ...?)

No? then watch this:

'How does your writing process work?'

It's mostly knit one, purl one, drop a stitch and untangle the wool to be honest ...

Like this ...
(image source)

BUT, I do take a lot of inspiration and ideas from reading other blogs.

I'm actually very ABSORBENT!!

For instance, having just read Slapdash Mamas post (she didn't invite me to the party btw ...) I'll type a lot in capitals and use a fishing net to grab all those words floating around in my head so I can (as NS so eloquently puts it) get them down on that 'bally jolly buggery paper' '

BUT, if I've read a post from Cranky Old Man then I might start calling people Jerk or spelling tyre in a weird way or even try driving a car on the wrong side of the road AND I DON'T EVEN DRIVE!!!

Where as if I've taken a trip over to see Brighton Pensioner I'll take a step back, look at things from a gentler point of view.  Appreciate the beauty around me or maybe take a walk down memory lane.

And when I've visited Emma Kate I'm inspired to make my house more beautiful, to dig out my inner crafter and dive into skips and Charity shops.

And so on ...

Each and every blog I read has some kind of impact on me.

And then, just occasionally, I'll be ME.

Messy, disorganised, scatty.  Trying to avoid that head explosion because seriously?

Pasta sauce STAINS people and ain't nobody got time for that!

So there you have it.  Feel free to give this one a whirl yourself, you are all invited.

Linking up to The Lounge today at Robo's new pad.

Tuesday 8 July 2014

When I Grow Up

I've decided that I definitely DON'T want to be a postman!

To be fair, it was never high on my list anyway but after last week I realised that even when the sun is shining and the pace is my own it really isn't something I was cut out for.

Last Thursday as you may remember (if you read this post), Roger finally got the leaflets sorted for our Fun Day at the park last Sunday and Bob and I were designated leaflets droppers.

Roger often forgets to do things but, when he remembers he doesn't do them by halves and he had 1000 leaflets printed!

Bob and I are pretty game though and we set off after dividing up the area between us.

It didn't take me long to appreciate how truly shit the job of a postie can be and 9/10ths of it is down to bloody letterboxes!

Some are really easy, lift the flap, stick the leaflet through and Bob's your uncle, job done!

Others, well ...

There are the ones with the brushes, now I have one of these and they keep the draught out so I get it but some are almost impossible to force anything through they are so stiff and my poor leaflets took a bit of a battering.

Some have a flap, brushes and then ANOTHER flap on the inside - WHAT'S THAT ALL ABOUT???  I'm lifting the outside flap with one hand, shoving the leaflet through those bloody brushes with the other and then my knuckles are skinned by the flap on the inside which easily opens as I put my hand in but them GRABS it trying to close as I pull my hand out again!

There are letterboxes at ground level -   WHY??  I just don't get that one at all.  I don't want to grovel around on your doorstep with my bum in the air with everyone passing by getting a birds eye view of my knickers! (and that may be the reason why the posties uniform doesn't include short summer dresses ...).

Letter boxes that are upright, these usually have REALLY strong springs and can either open from the left or the right or even occasionally the bottom, I hate these most of all, they are really bloody difficult to use and, if you have one of these and you DIDN'T get a leaflet then tough, change your letterbox!

There were people who I swear saw me coming up the road and thought it would be really funny to wait until I had the leaflet half way through the box before snatching it out of my hand scaring the crap out of me.  Dogs that ripped them out of my hand before ripping them to shreds and some very cranky people who had stickers saying ' no free papers, no charities, no leaflets' etc (which I assumed DIDN'T mean leaflets advertising a local fun day but it seemed I was wrong ...) who took exception to me shoving things through their letterboxes.

Other than that it wasn't a BAD way to spend a sunny afternoon and I'd almost finished when disaster struck!

In the window was one of those ' no free papers, no charities, no leaflets' signs which (as before) I ignored.  I pushed me leaflet through the first flap, through the really stiff brushes, through the second flap and then ....


I froze with my hand still inside the house and looked up.  A very pissed off looking lady was hanging out of the window.

'I'm just ...  It's only ...'


I can take a hint ...

As I whipped my hand out of the letterbox leaving most of my skin and all of my nail varnish on the other side I heard a tinkling sound, as I examined my poor bruised and bloody hand I noticed, MY RING WAS MISSING!!

The damned brushes must have caught it and pulled it off!

Now there's no real value to my ring, it's just a plain silver band but I always wear it and I like it and there wasn't any way I was going to leave it there but that woman was scary so I sent Bob back to knock on the door and get my ring back (which he did bless him).

And THAT ladies and gentlemen is why I DON'T want to be a postman.

More on the Fun Day, space hopper racing (and why it's just for kids), how not to build a gazebo, Sam the incontinent terrier, big breasted ladies and Rogers shoes coming to Fudge soon.

Friday 4 July 2014

Childhood Memories

I had a completely different post in mind for today but then I read a post By Brighton Pensioner over at Pebbles in the Sea and it brought back such memories of my childhood that I thought I would dig out an old post for an airing.

This is a post from a couple of years ago that I called:

Room With A View

The windows in the house where I grew up were big, old fashioned sash windows.

They rattled in the wind that whipped around the house in winter. The cold air would seep through the gaps and we would wake up to a beautiful tracing of hoar frost on the glass panes.

In the Summer I would throw up the sash and climb over the sill dropping down into the back garden.
The house, as I’ve explained before was a long bungalow.  At the back, to one end, was a short extension which gave the house an almost L shape.

The extension was to my left as I jumped out of the window.  It housed the kitchen which overlooked the garden and also what was referred to as the outhouse. Below the window grew great bushes of Hydrangea and sweet smelling Daphne.

The outhouse was where Grandad kept the food for the chickens, it had a warm oaty smell with an undertone of carbon from the coal bunker.  The coal bunker was attached to the outside of the outhouse and was filled to the brim with shiny black coal like black gold at the beginning of each winter. 

Inside the outhouse, under a wide shelf, was a small doorway which led to the coal bunker outside. Grandad would open the little door and shovel the coal into a big brass scuttle that sat beside the fire in the dining room.

Above the shelf, suspended from the ceiling were hooks where my Grandmother hung muslin bags full of fruit, a bowl underneath to catch the juice of the berries as it dripped through the cloth. She would transform the liquid into jellies and jams to store in the huge wooden wardrobe in the bedroom at the front of the house.

The garden was large and square, surrounded by a fuchsia hedge alive in the summer with the hum of bees gathering nectar from the beautiful vivid red flowers with the purple centres.

The back garden was Grandads kingdom. He could be found, flat cap on his head, digging and planting, tying up runner beans, the bamboo wigwams intercepted with bright orange marigolds because ‘the slugs would eat them first’ and sweet peas because, well, just because I think he liked them. 

He would plait onions into long ropes to hang in the garage, bring in the first of the tiny new potatoes, their waxy skins still covered in earth, a bunch of fragrant mint in his other hand. ‘Something for dinner’ he would say and lay his offering on the blue linoleum covering of the kitchen table.

The chickens lived in a large run at the bottom of the garden with a high wire fence surrounding it.  Grandad would cut the outer leaves from a cabbage and throw them in.  Whilst the chickens were feasting I would unlatch the gate and run to the henhouse opening the door to find the freshly laid eggs nestling in the hay filled boxes.  Carefully I would lay the still warm eggs in cloth lined basket and, tongue between my teeth, one eye on the hens, tiptoe carefully back to the gate breathing a sigh of relief as I dropped the catch behind me.

Around the edge of the garden grew gooseberry bushes, big, fat, sweet, yellow skinned goose berries I would pick warm from the bush and pop straight into my mouth.

There were always strawberries for pudding in the summer with bowls of thick crusted yellow clotted cream.  Red currents, black currents and white currents, cabbages, cauliflower and cucumbers.  We ate for the seasons and everything that couldn't be eaten was pickled and made into jams and chutneys to eat with the left over cold Sunday roast on Monday lunchtime along with a great pile of mashed potato.

The back garden was surrounded by a huge corn field, as far as the eye could see in the summer, the golden ears of corn rippled in the breeze, down through the valley to the blue sea beyond.

On a clear night the distant flash from the lighthouse could be seen from the window, guiding ships safely in to harbour, a reassuring twinkle in the inky blackness.

Thursday 3 July 2014

As Groucho Would Say ...

Linking up with Maxabella for the Weekend Rewind.

'I wouldn't care to belong to any club that would have me as a member.'

Except that I am ...

I mean seriously?  It's doomed to disaster really isn't it?

Take this morning for instance.  My phone rang with an unrecognised number.  I answered it:

Unknown person:  Roger ....  mumble, mumble, mumble ... 10:30 .... mumble, mumble, mumble ... leaflets, mumble, mumble, mumble ...

Me:  Ummm, what? what? What??

Unknown person: Roger ....  mumble, mumble ...

Me:  Yes ... Roger ....?  What??

Unknown person: OK, mumble, mumble ... See you there ...

I deduced from this that I should be at Roger's house at 10:30 for some unspecified purpose to which I had apparently (although inadvertently agreed).

Duly I trotted down the road at the specified time and knocked on the door.

Roger is our esteemed secretary and forms part of the motley crew that is our local park action group.

We do stuff like painting the benches, planting trees and of course run the monthly pensioners bingo which was the muse for my poem 'Bingo Boobs'.

Have you ever seen The Vicar Of Dibly?

If not then you possibly wont understand when I say that Roger IS Jim Trott (famous for saying 'No, no, no, no, no, no ... yes).  At this point I was going to include a clip but the BBC have blocked them all!

So, I arrive at Roger house, knock on the door and ..... NOTHING!

After several minutes Bob appears around the corner pushing his bike and all becomes clear.

Bob or Baaaarb as he pronounces it was my phone call mumbler but he has such a thick Somerset accent that it's hard enough to understand him face to face and I have NO chance on the phone.

On Sunday we are holding a fun day at the park.  It's an annual event and aimed at raising awareness of the park, it's facilities and generally bringing the community together.

Our group is a bit shambolic these days to be honest.

I'm the youngest by roughly 30 years and two of our members are over 80.   Incidentally both the 80+ year olds hate each other with a passion and there is much lip curling and stage whispering and remarks of 'Who does she think SHE is' whenever they are in the same room.

Unfortunately they have both volunteered to help with the teas on the fun day and, as both are VERY easily offended I said yes to both of them ....

Bugger ...

Back to this morning.  It seems that Roger has finally got the flyer's advertising the fun day (in 3 days time!) and, as the youngest and fittest of the bunch Bob (who is in his 70's) and I have been nominated to do a leaflet drop of the surrounding streets.

Okaaay ...

Bob bangs on Rogers door and eventually it opens.

Ahh, says Roger, just sending an email - he goes back in and shuts the door leaving Bob and I on the street ...

Two minutes later he comes back out.  He shuts the door.  He opens the door, retrieves the key from the other side and locks it.

He unlocks the door.  Goes back inside and shuts the door leaving Bob and I on the street ...

He comes back out waving his phone, locks the door and sets off up the road.

Ummm, leaflets Roger???

No, no, no, no, no, no ... yes - At the printers!

Ahh, so you haven't ACTUALLY picked them up yet?

No, no, no, no, no, no ... NO!

And then I notice ...

On his feet Roger is wearing one black Croc and one blue Croc ...

Did you know you were wearing odd shoes I ask him.

No, no, no, no, no, no ... YES!

I've got four pairs he told me but I seem to have come back from the caravan with 3 left shoes and only one right shoe - I don't know HOW that happened.

I bloody do Roger!

Roger I should add is a total star!  A lovely (if infuriating) man who would do anything for anyone.

But he is a COMPLETE nightmare to try to work with.  He loses EVERYTHING, his keys, his phone, the notes of the meeting, his glasses, his shoes (apparently) and on a fairly regular basis his dog who gets out when he leaves the door open and who then (after a little wander up and down the road) patiently sits waiting on the doorstep for a passerby to ring the bell so that Roger will let him back in again.

All in all I'm fairly sure our fun day is doomed to disaster.

I'm not convinced that Roger has remembered to book any of the attractions he's listed on the flyer.

I am convinced that it will be currant buns at 5 paces (with the aid of walking sticks) in the tea room.

And the forecast says it's going to pee down with rain.

So, what fun way are YOU planning to spend this weekend?

Wednesday 2 July 2014

Poetry In Motion

This week The Lounge is being hosted by Musings of the Misguided and the theme is 'Things You Couldn't Live Without'.

Well, after a trawl through the blog I came across this post I wrote a while ago.

On a fairly regular basis I find that the things I rely on conspire against me and rather than bemoaning the fact that yet again something has broken, blown up or (for no explicable reason) just stopped working I try to find a way to laugh and move on ...


After the HUGE success of my Bingo Boobs poem I thought I'd give a couple of others a bit of a re-run while I wait for the muse to strike.

These are for you Joe and Holly (and anyone else who happens along).

You may think it's odd that both of these poems centre around housework and/or my ineptitude ....

Actually, if you know me at all you wont find it in the slightest bit odd ...

So, here they are:

A Shitty Ditty

The wheels fell off my Vax today
It's really the last fecking straw
I kicked it's blue arse out of the way
And for good measure slammed the door

My washing machine exploded you know
With a great big fecking BOOM!
You should have heard my wail of woe
As the stench of burning filled the room

My dishwasher made a chirruping sound
But nothing seemed really awry
Until something flew out (it was small and round)
And almost took out my eye!

My steamer's bust (although there's still steam)
It's just nothings ever cooked
It's like my appliances are on the same team
As they laugh at me - 'YOU'RE FOOKED'!


The Ten Minute Tidy

Now I have theory
and I think its pretty sound
so listen up here deary
you may find it quite profound

I'm no domestic diva
my life is somewhat manic
but I don't get in a fever
and I do try not to panic

I really like surprises
and impromptu visits out
if one of those arises
you'll rarely see me pout

but if you knock upon my door
without a little warning
(Id like an hour and sometimes four
or preferably the previous morning!)

I may not want to let you in
(although I probably will)
I doubt I will have emptied the bin
which I ALWAYS overfill

there may be dishes the sink
the bath might need a clean
I may look like the missing link
my kitchen may not gleam

The hallway might just be a mess
I might just close some doors
but let's be honest, now please confess
Is there a reason we aren't at yours???

And a bonus poem for those of you who are dying to read Bingo Boobs ...

Bingo Boobs (a trueish story)

I thought I saw her bingo book
Lurking under there,
I didn't really like to look
It seemed so rude to stare.

Her chest was like a giant pillow
With room for several heads,
Across the table it seemed to billow
Enough for at LEAST two beds.

Where was her book? It was a farce
I felt I ought to say,
I just thank god it wasn't under her arse
Or we'd  have been there half the day!

I'd umm'd and ahh'd (and gestured too!)
And pointed at her bits,
Then I shouted out (what else could I do?)


Tuesday 1 July 2014

Quick Crafting

Yesterday was Miss Mac's first day of work experience.  It's hard to believe that she is so grown up!

She was very fortunate to be offered a placement at a local college working in the small animals unit.

I got several texts from her saying how much fun she was having feeding the donkeys and then later making scrambled eggs for the Armadillos!

I wanted to do something for her as a surprise when she got home, a kind of 'well done on your first day' thing.

I really enjoy making things and, as I've mentioned before, Miss Mac and I have slowly been turning her bedroom from silver and turquoise to one with a slightly vintage theme.  Many of the things she has have to stay so I've been adding little touches like these:

A wooden heart that I decorated

A memory box made from an old shoe box

More decorated hearts

All of which were fairly simple and quick to make using some pretty vintage style crafting paper, glue and some careful cutting out.

I like my crafting to give fairly quick results, I'm far too impatient to work on large projects that take weeks or months but I don't mind fiddly and painstaking.

As you can see, the theme also includes hearts because I do love my Miss Mac SO much!

A couple of weeks ago I picked up this wooden heart in a frame from a charity shop for £2:

It's already really pretty AND has a vintage print 

But, although I really liked it as it was it didn't fit in with her bedroom so:

I turned it over

Removed the heart from the frame

Picked the paper I wanted
Traced around the heart

Glued the paper on

Edged the frame with some of the other paper
Cut out a small label for the top

Being careful to mitre the corners

And voila! -  I'm not sure it's an improvement on the original and it's certainly not perfect (partly due to that extremely 'helpful' kitten getting involved) but it does fit in with the other things we have made for her room.

In case you are worried that you've somehow strayed on to the wrong blog here don't panic - I am not and never could be a crafting blog (so many people do it so much better than I ever could) and there is a far more 'Fudge' like post about Miss Mac first day of work experience to come soon