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Showing posts from June, 2017

Hold back the river...

I'm off to Henley Regatta this afternoon (under duress, as I am more a jeans and boots girl rather than frock and hat) so being super-duper organised, I started getting ready yesterday afternoon.  Little bit extreme, I hear you say.  How bad can she look to need 24 hours to prepare?  Well let me tell you.  
When you get to the ripe old age of 53, it is no longer enough to give your face a swipe with a wet flannel and hope that your dress will still fit. This particular assumption has caught me out many times before, so I laid out the dress which I thought might be ok, and tried on the whole outfit, hat and all.  What spoilt the overall picture was the fact that I had just returned from the patch of dirt to check up on my vegetables (the allotment has been renamed Death Row for obvious reasons) and I couldn't really be bothered to get completely changed.  The vision greeting me was one which should never see the light of day.  Jeans undone and pushed down to knee level (halted i…

Stitches...

I had a call from the husband yesterday afternoon telling me that he was on his way home.  As this was around 3.00, this caused the old alarm bells to ring.  
'Are you ok?' I asked him.
Taking a deep breath, he told me that he was just leaving a hospital in London having had his head stitched.  ('Nine stitches, they put in my head.  NINE STITCHES!')  Further interrogation revealed that he had head-butted a scaffold pole.  Well I was suitably concerned, naturally, and asked all the relevant questions, as to how bad it was and did he have concussion, but he was adamant that he had been the go ahead to drive, so I waited patiently for my wounded soldier to come home.
What I wasn't expecting to walk through the front door an hour later was someone looking like an extra from Gandhi.  Whoever had bandaged the top of his head had been a little over exuberant, even going so far as to add a useful chin strap.  
I'm not proud of what happened next, but I did try to control …

Sweet, sweet smile...

It was back to the dentist again yesterday.  The final fitting for yet another piece of porcelain for my 'row of bombed houses' teeth.  I have so much of the stuff in my mouth now, that I am convinced that this is why I am heavier than I would like to be.  Perhaps falsies are heavier than the real thing? That certainly applies to other things apparently. (I wouldn't have a clue with my 34AA trainer bra, but hey, who needs big boobs when you have a derriere which can do a passable impression of a jelly in a hurricane on a good day).
Anyway back to the dentist.  Prior to changing dentists about five years ago, I had spent the previous thirty years in a permanent merry-go-round of dental treatments.  I was either waiting for treatment, having treatment or just completing treatment.  It was never ending.  
But since leaving my extremely expensive private dentist, this seems to have stopped quite dramatically. I have a theory about this.  My last dentist was a private one, and ev…

Hold on to your hat...

Bloody hell, I hate Mondays sometimes.  
It's usually when I have had a tip-top weekend, and that glorious weekend feeling is still hanging around me.  Mind you, at 5.30am yesterday when the husband's alarm went off, once I realised that it was Monday, my tip-top weekend memories faded, leaving me feeling more like I was on the top of a tip, with all the other discarded rubbish.  While I am on the subject of the husband's alarm, it doesn't ever wake him up, however loud I turn up Radio 2.  He relies on it waking me so that I can wake him up. Perhaps my 'Are you not up yet you lazy bastard?' is more preferable to Vanessa Feltz' dulcet tones.
So husband up and out, all I had to contend with was son number two having A WEEK OFF. Talk about rubbing the salt into my already festering wound, but I let it go.  After all, the poor boy has been working his socks off for the NHS, squirrelling his wages away ready for the second attempt at university this September.  A …

Don't speak...

Well, what a fun-packed weekend that was.  Apologies for not putting a blog up yesterday, but copious amounts of Prosecco has a strange effect on my typing ability. You might have thought that I had invented a new language, my spelling would have been that atrocious.
We had a great time at Bat out of Hell (www.batoutofhellmusical.com).  I wasn't too sure what to expect, but we were all blown away by it.  I had the dubious pleasure of sitting next to the most hardcore Meatloaf fan I have ever met (I thought I was bad, but he knocked me into a cocked hat).  He sang (badly) to every song (loudly) and tapped his beige cords in time to the music. His partner, who looked like she was there under duress, kept looking at me and raising her eyes as he waxed lyrical about Meatloaf before the show started.  Unfortunately, when half an hour in, my neighbour and I were singing the boy and girl parts in Paradise by the Dashboard Light in perfect harmony, she realised that the eye raising was com…

Bat out of hell...

Well it's a fun packed weekend in store for the husband and me.  I know it's hard to believe, but I am a massive Meatloaf fan, so as you can imagine, when word reached me that there was going to be a new musical based on Bat out of Hell, there was no stopping me.  I bought the tickets that long ago, that I'd almost forgotten doing it, and it wasn't till Miss R mentioned it a couple of weeks ago that I remembered.  And boy, have I been a complete pain in the neck since then.  Singing the songs, reminding myself of the lyrics (as if that were necessary, the words are imprinted on my brain) and hardest of all, deciding what to wear.
Now.  If I were somewhere between 15 and 25, this would be easy.  Faded ripped jeans and a lot of leather fringing with massive hair.  Get a little older, say, up to 40, and it would be black skinny jeans, over the knee boots and a leather jacket, albeit without the fringing perhaps.  Unfortunately, I fall into the next category (40 to dead), s…

When I was young...

While driving to Binland yesterday for another morning of flogging wheelie bins to the businesses of Oxfordshire, there was a man being interviewed on the radio about International Handstand Day, which just happens to be tomorrow (that never came up on my Google calendar.  Can't imagine why). As I turned into the car park, I said out loud, 'I used to be able to do a handstand when I was younger', and this set me thinking.  What things did I used to be able to do, which I now can't, and why....
Handstands So I used to go to an acrobatic class on a Friday after school, and could do a most passable handstand.  I could even walk several yards on my hands.  Somewhere between primary school and the menopause, I have lost the ability to do either.  Mind you, who at 53 wants to be standing upside down, with the stomach and derriere obeying the rules of gravity?  I would imagine that even if I could still walk on my hands, I probably wouldn't be able to see where I was going,…

Feeling hot, hot, hot...

I don't know about you, but I have had enough of this hot spell we are having at the moment.  Now I love the sunshine and the heat, but these last few days have really knocked the stuffing out of me.  If only we had a paddling pool which I could lower my overheated body into, then I would be marginally happier, but unfortunately because my children are now aged between 19-26, I can't really justify having a Peppa Pig Pool in the garden.  My neighbours might assume that I have grandchildren on the way, and I can't have that, can I?
Yesterday, as the mercury soared, I moped around the house, going from the fridge (which is my favourite place to stand at the moment) to the shower, from the sofa to the kitchen but nowhere was cool enough to sit down.  So I did what every normal woman would do, and decided to clean the house.  Well, I figured if I was going to be wandering around the house aimlessly then I might as well be pushing the Hoover (other vacuums are available). 
So I s…

The spirit of radio...

Miss R and I hit the airwaves yesterday morning.  We were guest presenters on the Mid Morning Matters programme on Marlow FM, a local radio station serving a community of around a thousand people (on a good day).
We get invited to come onto the show every now and again ostensibly to talk about the things we love and hate about living in Marlow.  It's a bit of a secret, but I haven't lived in Marlow for almost thirty years now, so probably shouldn't even be on there.  But as I spend as much time there as many of my Marlow based relatives, I think I just about get away with it.  The time between our appearances is probably just enough for the DJ to forget just how terrible it was when we were on last.  He never learns and always seems very excited when we are on.  It's either that or fear, I haven't quite decided yet.
So for the past couple of weeks, Miss R and I have been discussing which topics we should throw out there for the poor unsuspecting listener.  You'll…

Rabbit hole...

I am going to now say what all of you are thinking and are too afraid to say.  

IT'S TOO BLOODY HOT!!
If I was a wax crayon, I would have melted into a slimy blue puddle by now, but as it is, I am sticking to chairs, desks and worktops, carefully peeling my skin away from the tacky surfaces to avoid leaving a fresh layer of skin behind, leaking through every item of clothing I wear, and wincing every time someone pats me on the back where there is a small patch of sunburn.
The dogs have turned into ornamental rugs with the heat, refusing to walk anywhere, choosing instead to sprawl with all four legs stretched out.  This peaked yesterday evening when I brought their food over to them.  Percy couldn't even be bothered to stand to eat his, and just dropped his head into the bowl, where it stayed till it was all gone.  I could see Reg eyeing him up as he did this, probably wondering that if Percy died, how much food would still be in there.  I am having to walk them at 6.30am and 9.…

Lazin' on a sunny afternoon...

I expect, that like me, you are all waking up this morning regretting not going to look for the factor 30 which you last used sometime in 2014.  Sunshine, the weekend and alcohol are not the best bedfellows for us lily white Brits, and it doesn't matter how many times we turn a lovely shade of lobster, we never seem to learn.
Take yesterday for example.  A beautifully sunny Sunday with not a wisp of air around  to give you momentary relief. Daughter number one and I were bikini-clad and stretched out on the sun loungers, like a couple of lizards on a rock. It was so hot, that I said to her that I doubted that I would last more than five minutes unless the wind picked up a bit. And then I had a great idea.
Heaving myself from the sunbed, I trotted upstairs and brought down son number two's electric fan.  I then grabbed an extension lead, a chair and after some military-style manoeuvres we eventually managed to get the fan ideally placed to waft some breeze over the two of us.  It…

Blue is the colour...

What is it about men?  You spend hours getting ready, wearing good supportive drawers, neat makeup, a pretty dress and a pair of wedges and not a comment is made.  Sun comes out, and I don a four year old bikini, with heavily padded top to aid non existent bosom, and baggy pants which do nothing to hold back the ravages of time and gravity, allowing my stomach and derriere complete free rein, and all of a sudden, I am the most beautiful thing the husband has ever seen and he can't keep his hands to himself.  
Don't worry ladies, I didn't let the side down - apparently a flip-flop has several more uses than I'd originally thought. So for three glorious hours, I lay in the sun like a heavily oiled Blue Whale, knowing (and it's a fact) that a sun tan makes you look thinner.  It would have helped if I'd turned over and done my back, but that's the thing with the British Summer. You never know how long it's going to last, so I never waste time doing the bits …

Back for good...

Son number one returned from university yesterday.  For the last time. Four years of living in a squat, swigging Frosty Jack and not getting out of bed in any hour which only has one digit have finally come to an end.
Anticipating his return, I had completely cleared all my washing, wanting to give him a clear run with his.  There was an ulterior motive to this of course, as the last thing I wanted was for him to say that he 'hadn't done his washing because there was one dirty tea towel in the washing machine and he didn't want to mess up my domestic activities'. Mmm...fat chance.   So I left home yesterday, leaving a house so tidy that it could have been in an estate agent's window.  Lady H (she with an eye for a cobweb) had been on Thursday, so my house was positively sparkling.
Coming back after work, there was a delivery on the doorstep.  A damp cardboard box which was slightly battered at one corner.  Peeling back the soggy cardboard I realised it was the 'e…

Hand in my pocket...

Apologies for depriving you all of my normal early morning bleatings, but yesterday was crammed from dawn to dusk.  
I was going to write about my trip to see The Red Shoes on Wednesday night, but something happened yesterday morning which has to take precedence over this.  To be honest, I still haven't got over the shock.  Let me explain.
I have fallen foul of the scourge of the dressing gown pocket.
Picture the scene.  I'm heading downstairs after my early morning cup of tea, and as well as my mug, I am also carrying my mobile, a hairclip, a spare pair of socks and a piece of foliage kindly left behind on my bedroom carpet by Reg.  I also had four towels and two bathmats which had to go downstairs.  Now any normal person would simply do all this in two journeys, calmly and efficiently taking everything downstairs where it could easily be put in the right place.  I prefer a different tack, not being prepared to do in two trips what I can do in one.
So I crammed everything I could…

Open up...

It was back to the local torture chamber yesterday.  This would be the one with the tray of shiny pointy instruments, the dodgy glasses and the mouthwash which looks and tastes like what is left in the saucepan after I've strained the sprouts.
Yes, it was back to the dentist yesterday to start the work needed to give me back my smile, because for the last six months I have had a smile like a row of bombed houses after a contretemps with a corn on the cob.  
So lying back in the dentist's chair, I prepared myself for what was to come.  You might recall that I have spoken about my dentist before.  He actually has a sense of humour, and is the most gentle of dentists I have ever had the fortune to know.  Lying in the chair with my head at a 45 degree tilt to the right, a pool of dribble forming on my shoulder while three separate pieces of metal probed, sucked and poked, he chatted away about sunshine, Tuesdays, roast chicken and colour swatches (for my tooth, and not curtains or u…

My ever changing moods...

Something very strange happened when I woke up on Monday morning.  For the first time since working at Binland, I wished that I had booked yesterday off as a day's holiday.  I was feeling a little bit miffed, and harrumphed my way around the piles of detritus lying around.  It's usually at this point that I start muttering under my breath, so it was just as well that the husband and son number two had left for work as they might have been surprised at the extent of my swearing.  
As I'd been up since 5.30am (how I love having a husband who likes to 'beat the traffic') it left me with some extra time, so I pounced upon the delivery which had turned up late on Sunday.  This parcel contained four dresses, bought with the hope that they might be suitable for work.  Pulling out the royal blue one, my heart soared at the beautiful colour, and I wriggled into it.  My mood plummeted once again as I couldn't get it anywhere near my ample hips, and it was a size 14.  Next…

Too much...

I've had 75% of my children back home this weekend.  How do I know this?  
1.  There's no food in the fridge 2.  Every glass is missing 3.  For a short time, there were phone/laptop leads hanging out of every kitchen socket 4.  The husband hasn't stopped smiling
The only one missing was son number one.  How do I know this?
1.  The bathroom cabinet door is never left open
The girls were back for the weekend because we were celebrating my god-daughter's 21st birthday and a big party had been arranged on Saturday night. The plan was that daughter number two would drive the five of us there and back, as she had to get up and revise for some up and coming exam.  But what actually happened was that all of us started necking Prosecco at around 6.30, peaking around 9.00pm when daughter number two realised that she had gone past the point of no return with regard to getting behind the wheel. 
Having spent the next hour trying to book a taxi, we were almost reconciling ourselves to the …

Not fair...

I headed over to Marlow yesterday morning for the normal Saturday breakfast.  It was a small gathering as the Mother, Miss R and Mrs Jangles had all had better offers (not difficult when you look at the fare on offer at our venue of choice).  So it was just me, my dad and his partner, putting the world to rights over a couple of crapuccinos (this is not a typo in case you're wondering.  The coffees are really that bad).  Unfortunately, I made the schoolgirl error of bringing up the subject of the election, which gave my dad free rein as to 'what he'd do if he was in power' for at least half an hour.  Needless to say this involved moving anyone who wasn't law abiding to somewhere like Alcatraz, where they would basically be allowed to do what they liked within the island's confines. 
The only location which I could come up with was the Isle of Man.  I went there once and it rained all day which I understand is a common thing throughout the year, so maybe the inha…