The Cigarette Diaries

Horses for Courses

2012-01-29T06:01:00.000-08:00

Sob! Saw War Horse the other night. I knew I shouldn't have. I knew I'd get emotional and upset! Bloody Pick & Mix coming to £3.10!

Anyway now I want a horse. But its got to be brown with white markings, like Joey in the film. Won't tell Husband, be a nice surprise for him, how he'll laugh!

But where does one get one? I got the cat from the Pet Shop, and my fish from a garden centre. Do they sell these creatures too? I never saw any.

Is there a Horses-r-Us anywhere? Or does one go to one of those cute little farms? I'm sure they're quite easy to keep. I've got an old blanket he or she can put on. And don't they eat sugar lumps? Like Dougal in the Magic Roundabout? And I'm sure a friendly blacksmith will do their shoes.

If anyone's got a horse they don't want anymore, let me know.

Me and Husband went out on Saturday night. Just us being out together is a rare event. Let alone this hallowed time exclusively for babysitting, and the occasional step-family supper.

We went to our local comedy club. It has a very good reputation, and, allegedly really good stand-ups there.

Well, what a load of old shit! Standing outside in the freezing and boisterous queue, despite having booked our tickets, I realised I was too old for this caper. And just one look at Husband's face told me he felt the same way.

It was when I told the nice bloke with the clipboard that he'd ruin his eyes, squinting at names on there under the streetlight, that I should have come home to my cardigan and rocking chair!

We eventually get in there. Loud music, like you wouldn't believe. And could I get to the seated smoking area outside? Could I shite! There was, like, loads of people there and everything. All drinking and talking shit!

Is this what people do then on a saturday? Worse, did I used
to do this on a Saturday? I think I did. And most of the time, I waited for it to be over.

The first comedian bored me to tears, the second one a little better. Then the third, an Iranian woman whose name escapes me, who has been on Mock the Week and that, was miserable and dire. Husband, who had been a big fan of her's, was most disappointed. I guess sometimes they go flat. Some more than others!

We legged it after that. Never again! Next Saturday it's Borgen on BBC4, or even better, Babysitting!

Racing Grannies

2012-01-17T02:52:00.000-08:00

What the hell's going on here? Haven't been able to get into my account for days!

Belated Happy New Year to all my online pals.

Mum out of hospital now, and zooming around on a zimmerframe akin to Billy Whizz. AND not smoking! Though the Doctor warning her that another cigarette would kill her might have something to do with it!

There are two schools of thought on this. One is to heed this white-coated young man's advice, the other is to think I'm 82, and bollocks to it. Beside, my old mate died recently of two tumours, never having smoked or drank in her life.

But I don't think my mum can face that dreadful hospital again. Neither could I actually.

Me and Daughter went to visit her the other day. She fell in the hallway. It was her own fault, she's trying to do too much, and luckily it was on thick carpet. One second later, my daughter fell too, tripping over the kitchen mat. That was it for me, I pissed myself laughing! So much so, that I fell back too. Don't think I'll have much of a career as a carer really.

The ultimate lesson of course, is that you can never take anything for granted. Things, as in my case, can change overnight.

Been listing my jewellery in a little posh book, and writing down who I want it left to, ie the kids. Is that morbid, do you think?

The Monkey's Tenner

2011-12-16T08:48:00.000-08:00

O my brothers, things have changed so very much. In such a very short time.
And I know it's all my fault.

Last week I found a tenner on the floor of the shop where I work. I knew it belonged to some kid or other, as the place was swarming with them, there being a match and everything. And I knew the heartbreak they would suffer when they found it missing.

I kept in my pocket for a while, scanning the crowded floor for some red-eyed or anxious-looking kid. There were none, o my brothers. And the tenner burnt a hole against my uniformed skin, stealing by finding. The very thing my First Year teacher used to bang on about. Mind you, the old cow banged on about a lot of things. But I was trying to be sincere, and would return it to the first brat who hollered. But there was no such sounds. Only whinging about all the small balls being sold out.

So, I resolved to put it into some sort of Poor Box, or to the Salvation Army. You know that one who stands outside M&S. Well, did I shite?! 20 fags, 2 packets of Knick Knacks and a can of coke later....
But the memory of this illicit tenner did not desert me and I began to feel the chill of vengence.

On Monday, when my mum didn't answer the phone, I told my brother, who went round her house and had to break in. Finding her ill and helpless, they called the ambulance. Brother then rang me at 4 am to tell me it was a heart attack (and not the suspected food poisoning), and that she was being moved to The Chest Hospital in Bethnal Green, and that she may not make the transition. The chances are that she could die before she gets there!

I lay back in the bed. Did my punishment HAVE to be this cruel? Because nothing could be more brutal than this. The Monkey's tenner had slapped me coldly in the face. I mean, true, mum was 82 and had smoked 60 a day for about the same number of years, but still I felt responsible. She wasn't ready to leave us yet. I couldn't see her not opening the Christmas present I had brought her. Nor could I see her departing from this world the same time as Ken Russell!  While a hero to me, he was odious to my mum. It would be insult to injury!

In less than an hour, bruv phoned again, to say she'd arrived there safely and was sitting up. Now you would have thought my punishment ended there. Teaching me a lesson and all that. But no, it has been relentless. Traipsing to Bethnal Green - WHAT a shit hole! How long has THIS place been here?

Then on to Whitechapel and intensive care.  Working my way all round the Monopoly board. She seems to make progress, then takes a step back. They have put a pacemaker in, but she had a very bad night. Do I lose my mother the same way I lost my Dad? In a cold institution full of strangers?
In somewhere I had never set foot in before, and never likely to again?

Of course, my wish came true. I am no longer going to that awful, hot Florida (Husband and kids are tho'). But like the Monkey's Paw, I got what I wanted in such a horrible way. Be careful what you wish for, eh?
Thank God I didn't wish for money!

Not allowed to visit mum, because of the bad night and everything. How dare a load of strangers tell me not to see my own flesh and blood! But I am powerless to argue with such a big insitution. They also don't want relatives phoning all the time, they told my brother, but that's tough shit, if they've got phones, they can fracking answer them. It's a hospital, they're gonna have visitors and callers, aren't they.

Oh dear, this is a grim post, sorry.

Puff!

2011-12-09T12:40:00.001-08:00

Just writing a few words while I still have some Puff left.

Been so busy lately. This thing called Work mainly. How do people DO that thing! What a nightmare!

Teachers' Strike was brilliant last week. Brought back so many memories of 1972. There were a lot more then tho'. Nearly everyone's mum and dad at school were on strike! The buggers were never at work! And don't think they did picketing either, or fight for their cause. They were at home watching telly and that. No wonder so many of my contemporaries wanted to get themselves into factories and labouring.

My birthday was on Sunday. What a load of crap THAT was! Still, my mum gave me £50, so that wasn't bad. Bought a 100 fags and some lipstick. Could be worse I suppose. But don't see why turning 53 is anything to celebrate.

Going to Florida for Christmas. Really don't want to go. Should never have agreed to it. I'm dreaming of the 30th, when we arrive back in Heathrow, especially to outside the building where I can have a fag.

Gotta go. I'm doing supper!

Fined!

2011-11-08T04:32:00.000-08:00

Oh my brothers, I am crushed. Really ground down. Just like the fag butt I threw down on the ground and got fined £50 for!

Am suffering from Post Fine Stress. Two community Police officers, one showing the other what to do, keeping me there on the street while they radioed in my address from my library card! (For Frack's sake!). I mean it had my photo on there, and everything.

They said they'd write on the fine that I had a lot on my mind, that being the reason for my serious crime. I suggested they actually put that there were no fag stubbers and those metal things on bins, THAT could be the reason really, couldn't it?!

(Or that they could actually do something important!)

Think I'm suffering from Police brutality. Gonna phone that European Court of Human Rights, or whatever they're called. Are they on Facebook? Does anyone know?

Fifty-seven pounds I had earned the week before in that shop. On the Friday that same fifty pounds went to the Council. Leaving me with seven quid. That went on a packet of fags!

Despite my ordeal, have forced myself to go to Starbucks and the off-licence. Theraputic, really.

Quaint!

2011-10-23T07:53:00.000-07:00

Mate's mum died. Got the message on Facebook. Didn't have the mobile number to text the bereaved. Had to actually get out my black book of (proper) telephone numbers and look it up, and dial it on one of those quaint appliances that stands there quite redundant in the hallway.

What a sweet and old-fashioned process! I hear everybody used to do such a thing.

My moleskin phone book, immaculate with crisp pages, compared to my mum's of twenty years, faded and dog-eared from constant use.

What about those telephone diaries that had an actual dial on the cover? How chic were they? You wanted someone with the initial B, you had to stick your finger in this receptacle. They never really worked properly. They seemed to get stuck a lot. Still hanker for one though.

Took me right back to 1970 when we first got a telephone. With the round dial and everything. Took you about five minutes to dial a number, usually getting the last digit wrong.

Standing proud and new on our telephone table by the front door. The only ones in our street to possess such a sophisticated item. One of the reasons our phone bill was so low, apart from the fact we didn't know many people who actually had one, was that it was so bloody freezing in that hallway! Of course you kept it short!

I used to ring my mate in Norfolk and you had to go through the operator. Loved that. Was sorry when those stupid STD codes came in. That was the highlight of the call for me!

The second highest was when my mate, 200 miles away, asked why I was shivering? (Her's was in the kitchen, a rare thing then).

Sometimes I would have to speak to my cousin on there. I don't know why. Could never stand the bitch. The feeling being quite mutual, there would be a silent eerie echo on each side. My mum standing over me (never quite knew why), would urge me to say something. Then the cousin would join in with the same sentiment. Witches, both of them!

Found their number, dialled that long and inconvenient code to Southend. Bastards weren't in. Couldn't be THAT upset and bereaved, could they?

Gloom!

2011-10-18T03:12:00.000-07:00

Feeling very sorry for myself today. Am staying in with the blinds shut - and 40 fags!

Two short story rejections in the space of two days. One by email, one by post. Don't know which was worse! The former, which had a big twist in the tale, was reported to "have no surprises there". What's the point of having Readers when they don't actually read it properly? The latter just said the characters weren't engaging enough.

I wouldn't mind, but the first magazine had sent me a contributer's letter, saying they needed more stories urgently. Kind of raising my hopes. Bastards! Good mind to start one up on my own! Only it would be biased towards stories about smoking. There may be a limited readership for this.

Don't want to look at my nearly completed novel (62,000 words), but I may have to.

Put some Lime-lite on our grouty shower tiles. It stinks!

Thirteen

2011-10-13T07:15:00.000-07:00

Son is 13 today. Would you believe it? That's my toddler! And, after waiting patiently on the cusp of adolescence, he has finally become a teenager.

I can't believe it was 13 years ago that I was flat on my back in that delivery room, huffing and puffing, dying for a fag. Painfully delivering a boy child into the world. And did I get a word of thanks? Did I Shoot?

For his birthday, he got a BMX and an Inbetweeners book (filth!). The cat got him some coloured gel pens, and his sister got him a PC game. And he had m&ms and Coke for breakfast!

He put his Inbetweeners book in his school bag, and set off happily for the day. The promise of a Burger King tea followed by birthday cake keeping him warm on that silly little bike.

When I was 13, I got one of those crocheted waistcoats. The older ones of us will remember these were all the go in late 1971. Mine was bright red with tassels hanging down. I also got some Holy Cow tights. White thick ones, with holes going down the side. The last word in chic round our way.

I also had a Ben Sherman shirt with a button on each collar, and it was yellow with blue checks. A bit last-season, and it was my brother's old one.

I also had, like, a feather cut. Thankfully, this style has not been brought back into vogue at all. Where half your hair stays long, and the other half resembles Rod Stewart.

Every year, this first teenage one being no exception, my mum made a fruit cake with pink icing on top. Never did like it, but I ate a bit anyway. And every year I would tell the woman I couldn't stand this type of cake, and yet she would still make the thing.

However, to give her credit, I would get chops and chips for tea. So it wasn't all bad really.

I didn't smoke then. Still had a couple of years to wait for that one.

Son really doesn't know he's born. Couldn't see him in a crocheted waistcoat anyway!

Tacky!

2011-09-27T02:33:00.000-07:00

Well, would you adam and eve it? There's me strolling around Leicester Square (as you do), and what has replaced the long-lost Swiss Centre? An M&M shop! I mean, for frack's sake, how can you build a four storey shop out of a packet of M&Ms?

Easily, it seems. M&M keyrings, back-packs, plastic bowls, stuffed toys, anything but a packet of bloody M&M's! I mean, you can get them loose from big dispensers, at two quid a time! But no blue or yellow packets like from the Co-op.

Got two bags for the kids, but my mate declined, saying he was getting some from his corner shop at a fraction of the price.

I mean, what a tacky place! The Swiss Centre was of this calibre too, I admit. But a nice class of tack! Seventies sort of tack. I mean it was a pretty pointless sort of place, with that stupid clock outside and their extraordinarily expensive cheese. Plus the one cup of coffee I had in there. But it was like a reassuring sort of establishment, and a great meeting venue (when I had a life!). And compared to the M&M shop, it's almost a focal point of one's existence.

Oh, and another thing, the music was so loud in there! When the lady at the counter asked what I thought of their new shop, I told her the music was up too high. She said: "Pardon?". I rest my case.

But then it's not for people like me, I suppose. It's for Son and Daughter, all willing to spend their money on shit! The Swiss Centre was for people like me, sigh!

Nearly time for the Woman's Hour drama. Joanna Trollope! Better go

The F Word

2011-09-12T06:51:00.000-07:00

Daughter (15) got 3 A*'s, an A and B for her module things. Son (nearly 13), by a hare's breath, managed to remain in Set One for Maths. Daughter's friend only just scraped by with 3 D's and an E, and Son's pal has gone down two sets for Maths. Neither of them giving a rat's arse. Bringing back sunny memories of my own schooldays, myself not giving a flying fart either. Parents, like the rest of our street, also that way inclined. Further education leading to long hair and drugs and that.

Husband then cast a deep black cloud over my sunny disposition. He said the F word. Yes, after years of being nagged, I have finally caved in and agreed to go to Florida for Christmas.

Twenty-two degrees, they say. Whoever contemplates spending yuletide in such a ridiculous climate? And whats wrong with staying at home cracking nuts, and leafing through the bumper Radio Times? Watching the James Bond film, the lights on at 3 in the afternoon, Husband sleeping it off upstairs. Swept aside without a second thought.

And what about Boxing Day? So cruelly snubbed by our Transatlantic cousins. No visits to my mum for cold meat and pickles. And what the hell do I do about my Christmas cake? And New Years' Eve, without our traditional KFC Bargain Bucket?

Palm trees will replace our fir one, and Christmas stockings will be nixed for endless theme parks. There will certainly be long hot afternoons, this so-called "comfortable" climate prickling my skin. In fact, there will be nine of them.

Watched the Deer Hunter the other night. Would rather go to Vietnam. So would Son.

The Path to Enlightenment (via Tesco's)

2011-05-18T00:21:00.000-07:00

Got an Alexander Technique lesson today. At the library. Free. Gonna have to nick my daughters camping mat, and wear black trousers.

Now I don't mind this, obviously. I signed up for it and everything. But also my heart sinks. Have to tidy the whole of the house before I go.

No-one's ever demanded this of me. Even when the children were little, Husband never used to say a word about the Teletubby floor puzzles and upturned beakers that greeted him when he came in. But somehow I have to.

Beds made, Shoe rack and coats tidied (a vital and underrated hallway factor), washing up and floor swept. Luckily I don't have to blacken the fireplace or clean the silver. But I like it to be nice for when kids and Husband walk in.

Think it goes back to when I was a child. My home being a shithole and that. Bed never made, lino never swept, the settee never cleared. So demoralizing to come back to. Think my mum couldn't be arsed. She never went to work or anything.

I like reading about the fifties and sixties and that. When housework really was a full-time occupation. When it was more laborious. Monday would be laundry, Tuesday ironing, Wednesday baking day, Thursday floor cleaning and Friday was polishing. Good days them!

When the children were toddlers, one day a week we would go round to my mate's who had a child of similar age. We would trash her house good and proper, and return to a serene and immaculate home. Of course it never stayed that way for long. Especially round teatime, but somehow it was soothing pshcologically. (can never spell that bloody word!).

And to return the favour, she would come round to me and do that same. Fair do's and all that.

Anyway, it would be suicidal to discover enlightenment at the local library, then come back to crusted oven dishes and that.

Will they let me smoke in there?

Mean that most sincerely....

2011-05-09T05:41:00.000-07:00

Well. Watch that Hughie Green play, don't I. The one where he's played by Trevor Eve. All the memories of ITV dross coming flooding back. I remember Mr Green doing his nut, in 1971, when Myra Hindley went out for a walk over Hampstead Heath (on loan from Holloway). Shouting and raving the silly bugger was. All I wanted was to see if Bobby Crush had won again!

Probably '71 was really the last time I watched Opportunity Knocks. I don't remotely recall Lena Zaboroni or anyone.

Anyway, I get the book on Ebay, don't I. Hughie and Paula, Their Tangled Lives by his son Christopher Green. Expecting to keep hold of it for about a week, then passing it on to my mum.

Can't put the bloody thing down, can I! Two people I hadn't the remotest interest in before, are suddenly urgent and fascinating.

Supposed to be writing, yet all I can hear is Hughie calling for me. Pick me up, read some more, the ghostly voice wails. Never thought you were anything but a silly sod, I wail back. But my words are hot air, no more. He has me right by the armpits. Just like he did in '71.....

In fact, what am I doing on here......?

Dark Days!

2011-04-25T05:12:00.000-07:00

It can't still be Easter, surely?! This must be the longest one on record!

What gets me is this one is even worse than the last! Which makes me sad, as I fondly remember cherishing such a time in the olden days ie 1986. Four whole days off work, pigging out on an Easter egg, going round me mates and drinking Pils lager! Such larks!

Now, of course, it's as barren as anything! With the kids and Husband, and cat getting on my nerves! Why are they here? I mean, its a monday, isn't it? And this hot weather! What's that all about? Easter's are cold and grey, that is their rightful setting.

The final blow today, is that I've got to go round my mum's for tea. She's got my auntie and uncle coming. Which is not so bad in itself, but my bloody scrounging nephew will be round there too. In fact, he's round there right now! And she'll be fawning all over him, won't she!

Was hoping this loving relationship would cool down by now. Hoping he'd slip up, showing his true colours, or that my mum, not as daft as she makes out, would actually see through the git. This hasn't happened! I've watched this thing hot up between them, but there is no sign of coolness, and this has been going on for about two years. I've got a real problem with this - is Marge Proops still around, I'll sit and write to her about it.

Ah Christ! Can someone get me out of this - please!

Round The Elephant & Castle!

2011-04-23T03:28:00.000-07:00

Where are we now? Christmas, or somewhere? Oh yeah, Easter.

Don't think much of it so far! Yesterday, my mate said she'd pay me if I helped her load these pictures into a storage place in South East London. Well, did I see any money? Did I, shite!

The only thing I enjoyed was going to South London in an Addison-Lee cab thing. I have to say, that Elephant & Castle place hasn't seemed to have changed since I last went there in 1972. On a Red Rover thing on a bus. Still the same grey sort of sprawl, and people walking around looking bloody miserable! Kensal Rise and this place, we ended up at. Seemed exciting at the time. But then, so did Harlow once!

I hate those storage units! They're so spooky! Corridors and corridors of yellow doors and eerie silence. Any number of zombies could walk round them undisturbed. Or a simple common-garden murderer!

Anyway, one bad back later, and swollen wrists, and I'm still just as skint! Son wants a tenner to go out with. Can anyone lend me such a thing? There might be some change down the back of your sofa, I could use perhaps? You'll get it back later. Much later.

Out - Now!

2011-04-10T06:07:00.000-07:00

My little girl (nearly 15) has been made a prefect. Tears of joy reached my eyes on having heard such news. Something I and Husband have never been, and Son never likely to. Already she has reported me for smoking, and chucked me out of the toilet. Bless her! They don't appoint you any more, it seems. You apply for the role, with a form and everything. Jings! I said at the time, its not a job, you know. At our school, you became a prefect the moment you entered the sixth form. Just had to turn up for that one! But our sixth form was very small, like most schools then, jobs being so much easier for school leavers to get and everything. However, in the fifth year, you could be chosen to be a Sub-prefect! (Whatever the hell that was!) It really was a golden finger that pointed at you then. One that didn't point at me, but at my mate next to me. I still remember my eyes stinging red, and the fact that the bitch had got one over on me yet again. "I see you haven't made the grade.", our drama teacher drawled at me, and the others who were not asked. Carlton cigarette smoke blowing out of her huge nostrils. Bitch ! Whore ! Anyway, my mate gave the badge back, saying she wasn't turning out first years who were blue with cold. She was trying to impress this stupid boyfriend of her's, who was at art school or something. The truth was, she couldn't be arsed. I'm over it now, I really am. erm.... sob! (oh no, not again....)

Fat Men

2011-04-04T07:08:00.000-07:00

Mien Gott! Took my clothes off in a changing room of a well-known shop today! Lordy! What a grim sight stood before me in that mirror! Bloody hell! Diet for me! Even when I put on this pretty dress - a sort of retro floaty one - I did not resemble that blonde one from Mad Men, as I naively thought I would. You know, Don Draper's ex-wife. I mean, I've got the same blonde hair...... Mind you, I'm sick of Mad Men now. The novelty that they smoke and drink anywhere has worn off for me. Once Don Draper got engaged to his secretary, and Roger lost his witty charm, the infactuation waned. Its gone to Sky Atlantic now anyway. And we don't have that one. Us being tight and everything. Husband in tears because that curvy woman, Joan's not gonna be in it anymore. Good riddance, I say. Four series - sorry, seasons has said it all really. Got to tell my mum I don't want an Easter Egg this time. Not after the debacle last year when she gave my nephew a far bigger one than me. I'm holding a grudge, and I don't care. Shame really, all those happy past Easters swept aside by one thoughtless gesture. But that's how it goes really. Lovely sunny memories of past pets ie rabbits and fish, all buying me eggs from each of them, little china mugs and egg cups that I've kept for years, just blown away. Never mind, eh? She can give me money though if she wants. Quite fancy that film, Logans Run. No, its not been remade like Husband thought. I am referring to that one with Jenny Agutter and Michael York, the one from the early to mid seventies. My mate told me the plot the other day. Have any readers fancied films that are nearly 40 years old? And have only just had the plot explained to them? There's a Superking Light in it for them. Answers on a postcard please.

Wish You Weren't Here

2011-03-25T07:25:00.000-07:00

Husband gleefully sent me an online article, with the above title, about Jaywick (in Essex), claiming it was the most deprived seaside area.

Now I know it's a rathole. Many a time I have stayed in a mate's chalet next door to multi-occupants, and Hari Krishna houses. The dust blowing in our faces. But my childhood memories are too strong to slag the place off like Husband can. All of the Clacton area is magical to me, in fact. Walton-on-the-Naze (getting chatted up by boys), Holland-on-Sea (Gran's house), Leigh-on-Sea (can't remember!), and of course, Jaywick. Drunkenly stumbling down that dirt track to a chalet with frozen pipes and rotten windows. And that was one of the posh ones!

But so what? Husband likes Brighton. Wonder why that is? Because there's like, posh people there, I expect. And they have antique shops there - what a surprise! I mean, big deal! Their beaches are shit, with all that shingle and that. Jaywick has proper sand - albiet filthy.

Well, bollocks to Brighton and thumbs-up to old Jaywick, thats what I say!

My bloody ankle!

Special Needs

2011-03-23T13:05:00.001-07:00

Well, my week has turned to shit, hasn't it. Just like my entire life, in fact.

Working in the frackin shop yesterday, I walk straight into one of those mobile units, the ones with wheels on and sharp corners, where you hang things up. Tore my ankle virtually apart. Ultra pain!

And then, as I was limping in agony, some German comes up and asks if he can try one of the boots that are on display.

Two world wars, and the 1966 World Cup, and he asks me if I can get him a size 8! The cheek of the bastard! Me, virtually crippled, only his type would dare impose on a disabled person like that! The stupid pratt!

Swollen to buggery today. Got one of those support things from Boots. Like an extra thick sock. I guess stilettos will be out for the weekend. Got the Pet Shop Boys at Sadlers Wells too. Bollox!

Got two more days at the shop - oh wah! Will this suffering ever end? Hang on, only got 10 fags left. Just gonna hobble to the off licence!

The Twickenham Husband

2011-03-18T06:29:00.000-07:00

Bloody hell! Sitting here working on my book, aren't I. Guess who storms in! Husband. Said the Ideal Home Exhibition was crap (well, I could have told him that one) and he was bored and came home.

Never mind the disruption to my bloody work! No, that doesn't matter, does it! Then he demanded the shopping list for a nearby supermarket to be done then and there!
Can't you go later? , I disinterestly suggest.
Well, I won't tell you exactly what he said, but the answer was no.
He's passionate about supermarket shopping (don't ask...)

Its like having a third bloody child! How many more people round here are going to hold me back? And it's no good telling him, either! I've let him have it straight. He'll still do exactly the same thing tomorrow! Worse than his bloody son!

Listened to that Woman's Hour drama, The Paris Wife. Hemmingway's first wife Hadley and their lives together in Paris (obviously). Well, she was a stupid mare, wasn't she! Lost all his manuscripts on the train journey there, and get's pregnant! Hemmingway would certainly understand about being held back, him being in the same boat too. Despite his work being inferior to mine, we would still be brothers. Suffering and smoking together.

No wonder the poor sap shot himself. Mind you, that was some years later, but still..... Fancied F Scott Fitzgerald out of all his mates. He seemed the best bet!

Shock Treatment

2011-03-14T12:08:00.001-07:00

Hands throbbing, excrutiatingly so. I can see the veins and everything. Osteo something. Doctor gives me exercises - they hurt, the silly mare! Has she ever had any medical training?

Heat, the old cow says. Does she mean the magazine? Or one of those things with electric bars? No, apparently. Like Deep Heat, out of a tube, and those thermal glove things. I now look like some goulish surgeon, with the fingers of the gloves cut off. Feel like doing a burglary or something, tho' it would be bit redundant I suppose.

Go down the local high street. I have been living in this sh...house for one year now, and I have never set foot down there. Neither have I gone down the pretty walkway by the river, that leads me straight there. It was like an urban yellow brick road - without that annoying girl and yappy dog, and lion and that, obviously.

Well, what a marvie time I had! Loads of charity shops, butchers, bakers and greasy cafes! Proper ones, run by families and that, not those Starbuck things. Well, I get a take away coffee from one of these, and the young girl hands me a hot stylofoam cup. So accustomed to those poofy protective things round the cup the BIG chains hand out, I burn my bloody hand off! She apologetically hands me a serviette.

Funnily enough, down the road, my right hand feels so much better. The sudden and brutal lunge of heat seemed to penetrate my poor veins. Now there's an article for The Lancet: Don't bother with all that exercise shit for osteo-arthritis, simply go into a small cafe that stinks of grease, get a foam cup of cappuchino, and stick your mitt straight round the thing. There you go - Deep Heat my arse!

Going there next week. What great therapy!

Frankenstein

2011-03-07T11:28:00.000-08:00

Well, for frack's sake. All I'm trying to do is find is information on how to make a make-up or wash bag. Got some spare oilcloth, and was going to make some Christmas presents. (I know. I know).
Could I find anything on this internet thing - could I shite! And when I finally did, it just printed out adverts and that, not the actual thing what to do. Bastards!

Saw Frankenstein at the National on Saturday. Directed by Danny Boyle and starring that nice Benedict Cumberbach. Started off dead creepy, this bell ringing really loudly, and like, electrode things going off and that. Then it kind of went off into nothing really.

The Creation creature was okay, felt a bit sorry for him really. I mean, he had a nice personality and everything. I reckon I could have fixed him up with a bird, but Husband gave it the thumbs down. He weren't that hideous. They said it took 3 hours to put that make up on, well, you could have fooled me to be honest! A few scratches on the head and face, and that was it!

Frankensteins' dad was really shite! I mean, shite! He looked like Ainsley Harriott, which is a disadvantage from the start, if you ask me. I mean, did Danny Boyle sit round a table and say, I want a black actor for Frankie's dad, but one that's really shit at acting!? And who looks like a TV chef that gets on everybody's nerves. I mean, he's an oscar winning director, he can probably get what he wants.

Did he also say : I want the supporting cast to be pretty thin and ropey too - or else!

Anyway, Dr Frankenstein didn't know he was born! What about me? I'm trying to create a make up case, he only had to make a human type thing - bloody lightweight!

Erm.....

2011-02-27T07:15:00.000-08:00

Come back, haven't I. Had to cut away at the overgrown grass and weeds to get through here, but I made it! The windows are all smeared and there are cobwebs everywhere. It was an effort to pull back the dust infested curtains - nearly catching them alight on the flames in the fireplace.

Been writing my buggering book. It's shit! - I think. And even if it wasn't, can't let no-one read it until everyone in my family dies (my mum and brother and that) because they would quite literally have my guts for garters if they read what I've written about THEM. Not that they haven't deserved it of course! I think. Anyway, Salmon Rushdie thought HE had it tough with mobs trying to lynch him - wait till he sees MY brother and kids in action - I tell you! My book is far more interesting than that Satanic Verses by the way. Don't know why he went to all that bother to be honest.

Been brutally rejected by Woman's Weekly - again! No lifeline there. Even my beauty tips are getting the cold shoulder - not by Them tho'. My writing career is as dust! Just dust! I am truly washed up!

Went to the Titanic Exhibition at the 02 dome thing. (Ugly place!). We all got a boarding pass each of a real passenger. I was Edith Evans from New York, 36 and first class! Was in with a chance of survival there!

The testimonals of the survivors written around the walls were very moving. Also the stories of the one's who didn't get there. There was this posh old American couple in their '80s. They owned some of Barneys or Macy's or somewhere - and they were rich and first class. Anyway SHE wouldn't get in a lifeboat. She said her and her old man had been together for years, and she was not going to let him face this alone. So she joined him back on board for certain doom.

I wondered if I was capable of being a Big person like that. Assuming me and Husband were of retirement age - kids grown up and not with us and everything - and we had just collided with an iceberg. Would I get in that lifeboat? A new life in New York and the prospect of living it up with the life insurance? Or would I stay with Husband? Could I really drift away in a lifeboat and watch him there on deck?

They say drowning is a terrible way to go. I mean, all untimely death is, I suppose. But they say your lungs burst and you don't lose conciousness for a very long time.

But then, suppose it was a non-smoking lifeboat? What did I do then? No-one's going to stop you having a fag on the Titanic, are they? They would be preoccupied with the boat sinking. If I had say, 40 fags, and get Husband a few bottles of wine, we could have a bloody good time until The End, couldn't we?

Anyway, Husband said if there was one space left in a lifeboat, he would give it to The Cat. So that's answered that question then.

Wasn't one of the bloody survivors, was I! There was a list of them all at the end, who had been lost. Was furious! Went and let those bastards have it! They still remember me from Julie Andrews!!!

A swift half..

2010-10-24T12:39:00.000-07:00

Just a quick one, Treasures, while I've got any Mojo left at all.

Off to Centerparcs tomorrow. Broke and spent, burnt out, and Husband books the most expensive place you can go to! AND it'll be cold! AND there'll be sport and stuff there, which leaves your Humble Narrator cold. Still, there's cappuchino and I've put a hundred fags in my case. So things could be worse.

What a brutal week it has truly been. Got stood up the other night by the Polish workman next door. All the trappings we had prepared, candlelight, soft music, Pomagne on ice, see-through negligee and full make-up. I have to say I looked very nice too. (Old Basil Brush joke that one) And the bastard didn't turn up! He was supposed to be looking at a crack on Son's wall. Git!

And then, my mate from Dubai was over here for a birthday party, and agreed to meet me at church this morning. The bitch also stood me up! Got a pain in my neck from keep looking behind me. What is it with these bastards???

Still, humilation and rejection - they're mother's milk to me. I am no stranger to heartbreak.

Gotta go. Will moan and bitch when I get back.

Where is it???

2010-10-20T02:53:00.000-07:00

Greetings, Treasures.

Sorry about my poor timing of posts. The truth is my mojo has gone a bit.
Well, its sort of gone somewhere else. Been writing my frackin' book, haven't I.
And what a load of shit it is too, I tell you!

Printed the bloody lot off, didn't I. ONLY 71 pages - good grief! I mean, I haven't finished it yet, but I can't see me writing much more! A literary agent in Trade Secrets advises you to send the first hundred pages with a synopsis. Well, Love! Thats going to be the whole novel at this rate. How do they DO it?

Desperate for money as usual. Post my pictures onto Photonation, don't I. The online picture agency who will pay you for any downloads. Put on five of my very best. They rejected the lot! Bastards! Thats it! I'm getting some snaps of my day out in Southend in 1985, and putting THEM on there! Only they're not on the computer, are they? They're in a Trueprint wallet somewhere at my mums! Still, if my nature photos aren't good enough for these bastards....

Cat's just gone in the litter tray. Bollocks!

Pampering!

2010-09-18T00:14:00.000-07:00

Husband away for one night this week. A sleeper to Cornwall. Always wanted to do it apparently. Like a birthday present to himself. Up to him I suppose. Bet you can't smoke bloody anywhere tho'! Not a problem for him of course.

So as there's me and the kids and the cat, all fatherless, this can only mean one thing. A pedicure. I mean don't get me wrong, Husband wouldn't remotely notice if I did it in front of him. But somehow, with the living room to myself and the TV off for once, it somehow beckoned.
The Voices were telling me to Do It.

Well, what a load of old shit! My plates of meat in this foot spa thing, going cold, and me bored and wanting a fag. Dried 'em off, and painted my nails green. With kind permission from daughter that is. I mean my days of buying disco magenta nail polish and that, are over!

Didn't occur to me until I'd done 'em, that I couldn't go to the kitchen for a fag then either! My nails being so wet and that! Well, I tell you, I don't think much of this beauty stuff! And my toenails now look like I've got some kind of weird green infection! I mean, what was the point of that???

Also rubbed hot almond oil in my hair and put on a disposable shower cap, and slept in it overnight! Ena Sharples! Look out!

What was that all about? What is going on with this beauty shit???

Tight Bitch!

2010-09-12T13:46:00.001-07:00

Hi Chums

Just time for a quick one while Husband and kids are at the Help for Heroes concert at the rugby stadium. Robbie Williams is on - so I should be safe. I think he's just embraced Gary Barlow actually.

Had a mate stay the weekend, didnt I'. Used to work with her when I was a dancer (don't talk about that much). She was a go-go one (I wasn't!) but she was hot! Danced in a cage in posh clubs in London. Why don't they have those anymore? These lap dancers aren't the same.

Anyway, hadn't seen her since 1983 - good old Facebook eh? - and she came to stay at the weekend. Well, I wish the bitch hadn't! Didn't look any frackin' different, did she? Celebrated her 50th birthday in May, and looked as young as she ever did! Long glossy blonde hair, 18 year old figure - the lot! Bitch! Cow! Was soooo despressed!

But the real wounding thing - I mean the real crux was - that she slept with a black bloke, and HE said she had the tightest vagina he had ever known! After four kids too! I hate her so much! It is very unlikely that anyone will ever say that to me! I mean I don't really want them to - but that is so not the point! I am so eaten up with jealousy! And she pulls loads of blokes ! Bitch ! Cow! I don't want loads of blokes really - but that is NOT the point!

Am obviously on the scrapheap! Broken, used, looking every inch my fifty-one years, while SHE looks all young and that! I am broken inside, truly in pieces. And the tight vagina really put the seal on it all!

Wonder how Robbie Williams feels about tight vaginas and that. Does anyone know?

Gonna get pissed!

Turn Back.........

2010-09-06T05:38:00.001-07:00

My brothers, I can explain everything.....

I was running away, with my cat, and carrying one of those poles with my meagre belongings wrapped up in a tatty ball over my shoulder, when these bells chimed and told me: Turn back, Jenny Smith, turn back..

Alright, the truth was that they gave me 30 years, and while I was looking through the bars, thinking of you all, I started to make friends with this little bird......

Alright, Alright, I had a bloody headache all through the summer! There! You've got it out of me! Happy now?/?

Yes, this headache has another name, a more technical one, known as bloody kids on school holidays! Bastards! I am quite certain that this has been the worse summer ever in that respect. Daughter, 14, has given me such GBH of the earholes, and Son (nearly 12) well....he's just Son really. They're not very lovable ages I can tell you.

Daughter has really been the worse. Bursting into tears in the middle of M&S while shopping for shoes. A kindly saleslady offered her a drink of water. I gave her a sweet smile which read Why don't you sod off and leave us alone? Is this not embarassing enough, you old busybody! But what I actually said was No thank you. And that was the least of it!

At least Son buggers off out!

They've gone back to school today, and good bloody riddance I can tell you! Sod 'em, its just me and Jeremy Vine now, until half bloody term!

So how come I've still got a headache then????

To Sir with love.....

2010-07-21T03:51:00.000-07:00

Well, stormed up the school, didn't I. To see Sir (Son's teacher). Said he'd been expecting me and ushered me into a "group room" opposite the classroom. We sat round a small table, with water and glasses and that, not that I got offered anything!

Sir whipped off his glasses, and tears came to his young and beautiful eyes. He declared he wasn't gay at all really. And that he no longer wanted to be married to this other bloke, as he now thought civil weddings were new age nonsense. He will get a divorce immediately as he now likes birds. Especially older ones with big breasts and that.

I begged him to control himself and think logically. But it was too late, he had buried his gorgeous head in my chest before I could say Bats For The Other Team.

Actually, what really happened was Sir said He'd knew why I'd come. And I said Don't you think you were a little harsh in Son's end of year report? Maths and English were his strongest subjects. And he got level 5's for Gods Sake. He shouldn't be graded in the Need to Improve category. And he said He had been ruthless, yes, as he wanted to give Son a wake-up call. A shove to do better in Secondary school. He was capable of so much better things, rather than keep mucking about with his mates.

He assured me he had been in turmoil about this. (I was in turmoil about him, I tell you!) and Son's report took the longest to write.

I said Thank You. And Sir said he was glad I came. I said So was I - but not for the reasons he thinks. I was glad, because I was this close to that gorgeous Jarvis Cocker look-alike teacher. . Better not tell him that , eh?

Anyway, after Friday, he will be history, as Son is out of primary school for good. From now on, Son has a lady teacher for the next five years, so Husband can clean up on that one!
Sigh!

Anyway, afraid Georgie Fame is well packed-up. Its Sir all the way for me now! Though I don't think the feeling's mutual.

Treasures.....

2010-07-16T07:01:00.000-07:00

Desperate to get back on here again, o my brothers. That nasty bully Virgin had a fault and we were offline for a few days. That was their story anyway. That Richard Branson looks dead shifty to me - with that stupid beard and his wandering eyes and everything. What kind of fault eh? Thats what I wanna know. Something sinister, I bet.

Week before. Had to work. Would you believe it? Bastards! Stock-taking, babysitting, school stuff - the lot. I virtually had to get on me hands and knees and scrub the workhouse floor. Thats what it felt like anyway. Look at my hands! They're shaking like frack! Me poor nerves.
Got kind of itchy and tetchy by the time that long week finished. Wish people would leave me alone.

Sent off a sample of my book to some agency or another. Their rejection was brutal and cold. Bastards! A terrible shock after the warm and embracing arms of "Womans' Weekly". Gits!! Me with my nerves too!

Went to my mates' boys confirmation party last weekend. They forced me to smoke and drink - AND eat cheesecake. Fell right off that wagon! And then on Monday, Son was in a school production of Oliver. His heart not being into drama and showbusiness at all, he stood at the back of the chorus, dressed as a pickpocket, bored senseless. I don't think we'll be buying the video somehow.

Anyway, afterwards, these two blondes (mums) made me drink a big glass of wine. And forced me to have a fag too (outside the school gate). They said "drink this, bitch.." - I choked back tears and gave in to their evil demands.

Tomorrow night, another party. Husband's nephew's 18th. Got a strong feeling I'll be falling off that wagon again!

Decided I really fancy Georgie Fame. Saw him in Twickenham recently - playing that is. Not walking the street or anything. He's even sexier now he's older. I wanna hold his hand and go to the pictures with him. And snog and that. Thats all you do, isn't it? Can't remember to be honest. Can someone put in a good word for me?

It was a hot afternoon.....

2010-07-03T22:50:00.000-07:00

Where is all this heat coming from? Does it never relent? I don't understand all this shit!

I go to Son's school to bollock the teacher. Its a lunchtime. There is classical music playing. Children are allowed to sit in the corridors, and the very forbidden trim trail.
"They're hot", a teacher tells me, "They probably didn't sleep well"

Good grief! Has she wiped their bottoms as well! What about a bit of wet-nursing!

Sunshine should never be missed was the policy at my primary school. Despite the heat bringing out the worst in everybody. Boys had vicious fights, girls were ultra-bitchy and the teachers more slap-happy than usual.

We were dragged outside on any pretext on a blindingly hot afternoon in the late sixties. Mostly to the threadbare school field, not a scrap of shade in sight. And despite being off ill several times with heatstroke, "I'll give you something to cry for", was the most sympathetic response from teaching staff.

Sportsday was a real bastard. Dragging your wooden chair miserably across the sportsfield in 90 degrees, skin angrily red and fat thighs bulging out of tight shorts, you had to run whether you liked it or not.

Miserably trailing last, only my mum cheering me on, the boys would throw stuff at me as I went by. My mum bollocked them if she saw them but no-one really gave a shit. My face as red as a beacon, I would miserably put on my team band to take part in some sort of tedious relay where I really would let the side down.

Did me plenty of harm, I tell you. I touch the red roughness of my neck. 1967 wasn't that long ago, was it? Surely there's still some bugger there I could touch for a settlement?

Meanwhile I cluck my tongue at such outrageous mollycoddling.

Long hair and on drugs!

2010-06-25T14:12:00.000-07:00

I can't believe it! I've actually been watching pop stars and modern music and that. Its been on the telly, in a field somewhere in England. Looks bloody hot! And there's all tents and that.

And what is wrong with that Scottish girl doing the announcing thing? Has she never seen a hairbrush then? And what about a bit of mascara? I mean you're not THAT young, love, go and smarten yourself up - eh?

There was a young man on there with a microphone, called Reg. Well, I immediately thought of my cousins' husband of the same name, who was such a miserable bastard. And despite that one being bald and fat, while this one on the telly was young, trim and black - still hated him for having that very same name.

And what's that Rascal bloke about then? Talking crap and that? And what's HE wearing, for Gods sake? An England T-shirt and white plimsols and shorts? Does he not realise he's going to be on stage and TV and that? If I was his mum, I'd grab him and put him in a suit with a tie and that. I mean these pop stars!!!

Saw a nice lot of young men singing and playing guitars. Vampire something or other. And I'm going to see a pop group called Monkeys or something at 11 pm.

What fun this modern pop thing is. But if I had my way, I'd have Rolf Harris, Willie Nelson and Stevie Wonder and Pet Shop Boys on there. The oldies and goodies. Oh, hang on a minute.....

She's a Witch

2010-06-22T13:46:00.000-07:00

Well, my treasures, I am really going to be burnt at the stake. And bloody right too! I am covered, I mean covered, in warts. Head to toe - quite literally. Yes, there too. Vincent Price will appear at my door any moment now for my trial.

Can't say I blame the man. They look pretty hideous.

I reckon its gonoreah or syphilis or something. Husband's probably been with a prostitute. A really cheap sort of one. And spread it to me. He was most perplexed at the silent treatment I gave him tonight. In fact he looked bewildered and hurt - but then they do, don't they, those types.

Or perhaps I caught it from Tescos'. I seem to be living every moment in that bloody place! Every little bit does NOT help actually! Yes, thats it, I can get those bastards for such an affliction.

If not , then its down to the cat. Perhaps its HER who's possessed. Better get down to the doctors tomorrow. A bird one that is. Not having some bloody bloke look at me down there!

Got some loose marigold flowers from Neal's Yard. What a load of old shit! They do not work at all. Nor does my dad's old theory of a banana skin. For Fracks sake!

What am I gonna do? I'm so disfigured, I'm not sure I can leave the house!

The Damndest thing....

2010-06-14T05:00:00.000-07:00

Hi Treasures.

Poverty and cold are wearing at your Humble Narrator's bones. I don't know where my next packet of fags is coming from....

I mean this invigilating shit is all very fine - but Lords knows when I get paid. End of the month? Don't make me laugh! End of two months has been the case before! They don't treat me like YOU do, o ' my brothers, with kindness and understanding. They treat me like something they've found under their shoe, I tell you.

In my old stomping ground, wasn't I. A big supermarket to be exact. I used to be on their checkouts. When I started this blog, in fact. Every little helps apparently. It ain't helping me at the moment, mate! And I nearly ... so very nearly, asked them to take me back.

Now, I know this seems a step backwards but there are still so many things about that sweatshop that I miss. Nosing at people's shopping, chatting to customers about the menopause (birds anyway), the fag breaks, er ........

However, my wrist has still not recovered from that RSI shit - they warn you about that in their pamphlet - and if symptons persist, see a doctor. Well, they are persisting, loves. My wrist aches now after only a handful of typing. My smoking one too!

And another point being, that I can't piss them about again. If I stay there, I stay there for good. And that frightens me rigid!

The manager said that because I left on good terms, there's a strong chance they'll take me back. Well, I legged it then and there!

However, sulking in the kitchen, I lamely thought of looking up the personnel managers' number. Just then, something came up on the Blackberry. It was an email from the assistant editor of Woman's Weekly! My heart and liver! Oh God, I thought, she's going to tell me my latest story for consideration was shit! I still can't get over the brutality of these emails. I miss the subtely of a brown envelope through the letterbox.

Well, I lit up there and then, and with shaking hands, opened the thing up!
We like your story, it went, predictable but nicely done (cheeky cow!), and we offer you £150.

Thats two stories I've sold now. Was this a sign that I was now a proper writer and didn't have to work at the supermarket anymore? Or was it a coincidence, and that I should get off my arse and go to work like lesser mortals?

A walk up to the fag shop, I think.

Do what?

2010-06-10T03:33:00.000-07:00

Well, for frack's sake, Husband off sick from work for the last two days. And do you know why? Because he can't hear properly in one ear! I mean, poor didums! There's me walking around like John Wayne (my little trouble has not gone away, o my brothers) with a shit-load of housework and kid type stuff, and there HE is, pissing around in bed.

He eventually crawls to the Doctors, who simply arranges to have his ear syringed. I mean fair enough, but couldn't he have done that in his lunch hour?

I took no prisoners with him. This shit-hole, I mean house, is MY manor in the daytime. Its bad enough the kids take it over at a quarter to four, let alone Him loafing around. Anyway, I told him, You'll have to be quiet, 'cos I'm writing! This taking place in the kitchen, being the only place I'm allowed to smoke. (Though I have had a crafty few out of the bedroom window before, between you and me, o my brothers).

The book is not going well, o my only friends, so I've written a frackin short story instead. A real godammed personal one about my sister in law and brother and everything. Have sent it off into the magazine orbit with some trepidation, it being such a raw and autobiographical subject. None of this shit about boy meeting girl and that. This is Real stuff!

However, HE is not to know that. And part of me protests at being such a battleaxe. But you know, how would he like it if I walked around in his office all day - eh? The shoe on the other foot - tell me that one, eh!

Got invigiliating this afternoon. Not gonna stick at this much. Got bad-tempered the other morning. It can only get worse. Gonna get a bag of bloody chips and eat 'em in the car, bollocks to it!

My Little Trouble

2010-06-06T12:05:00.000-07:00

I think Sunday night must be the most treacherous of half-term. Because its the slowest of them all. The dim light of Monday ahead in a dank tunnel. The weak glow glimpses normality and the house back to myself.

Its not just me tho' that is so ill-humoured, o my brothers. The kids are bored and burnt out. Though it is the last thing they'd admit, they really do need the routine of school. And Husband, well, he just gets on my tits.

I've got my little trouble back. Thats the trouble, if you see what I mean. A dreadful and painful swelling " downstairs". I think its related to the World Cup. Because I had this little trouble in 1990, especially during that grudge match and penalty shootout with Germany. I felt England's agony - quite literally.

Tho' it could, of course, just be cystitis. Anyway, would help if they could all sod off! And what is it with this heat shit????

Do you think smoking fags is a good cure for cystits? I do. Along with a cappucinno, beer and wine? Those are the cures I would subscribe from my private clinic in Hounslow.

That was the week that was!

2010-06-03T05:14:00.001-07:00

So sorry for my absence, o my brothers, have not had time to even fart!

Busiest half term I have ever known!

Foodie Fair at Hampton Court on Monday (WHAT a load of old shit!)

Ikea on Tuesday (same sentiment)

Market with mum on Wednesday - marginal improvement - she's all over me this time,
said she wants to come and stay for a long weekend in the summer holidays. Well, that'll happen! I've heard that one before. Next week, she'll be all over my fortune hunting, grasping nephew!

Today will be frack-all! Well, apart from hand washing, machine washing, sheet changing, Son dropping-off, washing up.... When, oh when, will I have time for my fag? I've already missed my 1 pm one! I'll never catch up now!

What a hard life I have !

Meanwhile, back at the coalface...

2010-05-26T05:42:00.000-07:00

Work has been lurking around again, oh my brothers, a sword of Damocles hanging over my head.

This time it was in the form of invigilating at Daughter's school. Year 11's English Literature "O" level - or whatever fancy name they're giving themselves these days ! And do you know what, kids are given the book they are studying, along with their exam papers! Good grief! Why don't we just get our breasts out and wet-nurse them while we're at it!

My English lit exam would have been marked null and void if I'd had carried in my Wuthering Heights in with me, I tell you. You had to study the thing and know about it by the time you put pen to paper. You weren't allowed to pick up and study the bloody thing in exam time!

And I tell you what else isn't fair! They were studying "Catcher in the Rye". I love that bloody book! Why couldn't I have studied that one! Bastards! Wanted to pick one of the copies up and read it then and there. If a kid complained, I'd tell her to use her memory and brain, and if she'd done proper revision, she wouldn't have needed the bloody thing would she? And then slap the bitch and tell her to shut up.

However, o my brothers, as you have probably gathered, this is all Big Talk. The cheif invigilators, ie mums like me, are completely terrifying, and almost screechingly pedantic. I would not dare speak up in this way. I had to keep my notions of cossetted kids to my oddy-knocky.

This cheif invigilator - Marguerette - as it happens, was actually alright. A bit pinickety but actually not that megolmaniac - yet. But her number two - oh yes, there is always a number two - was not dissimilar to Gareth in The Office.

Whenever number One sat down (which is actually a bit cheeky), so did number Two. Until me and this bloke glared at her. And the minute number One walked down an aisle, number Two immediately took her place under the clock. It was almost hilarious, if my bloody feet didn't ache so much!

And then number One asked me to gather up all the books (CitR AND Mice and Men! Its not fair!) and leave them in the room for the afternooon exam. Which me, being number Six (I am not a number, I am a free man!) was happy to do. I don't mind that sort of shit. THEN Gareth said they should be moved onto the bench, rather than on the table. Well, I ignored the bitch and rolled my eyes at the bemused bloke. Isn't life really rather too short?

Do you know the most frightening thing? Neither number One nor number Two had read either of those books? The majority of parents at Daughter's school are university educated. Twice the education I have had. And these bastards do not know great literature. I mean a mother the other day, quite middle class and everything, had not heard of The Monkey's Paw! Still, at least this bloke invigilator had, so that brought some comfort.

Don't think I'm gonna last long at this one.

Some pictures what I took

2010-05-19T02:38:00.001-07:00

Took this at my local park this morning. Poor cow must be dying for a fag!

Remorse!

2010-05-14T01:45:00.000-07:00

Feel so bad about slagging Julie Andrews off like that. I have mellowed and calmed down, and am loyal to JA again. I realise life is too short - and that Front Row said there was no chance of getting your money back. Will live with What Might Have Been.

Would you believe I've got to stay in all day? To await a package. And do you know what this frackin' package is? Lady Ga-Ga tickets! I mean for Fracks sake! I'm not even going to see the bitch. Its for Husband and kids.

I mean I've waited in for many a thing (see my post: Great packages I have waited in for!), Daughter's phone, a mattress from Dreams - but poxy concert tickets? Why couldn't they have come through the post like my Julie Andrews tickets? Never did her any harm, Royal Mail, did it? But oh no, that would be too simple, wouldn't it. Its from a second party or some such shit. Stopped listening by then. It was time for my fag.

Bollocks! Anyone got a light?

My Night Out With Julie Andrews

2010-05-10T04:12:00.000-07:00

Julie Andrews is so on my Bastard List. Do you know how much that hurts, o my brothers? Fraulein Maria. That wonderful woman on the big screen, singing aloud to the green hills and that? The last person I thought would ever get there.

But I think that after saturday's concert, the people from Walton on Thames should hang their heads in shame, I really do. So should the 02 arena! What a dreadful place that is! Makes the Barbican look attractive. And at £85 a ticket, why the hell was I seated up in the Gods, looking straight through a bloody safety-bar! And why, oh why, did the performance start 30 minutes late, when we were told by email that Julie started strictly at 7.30? Oh, did I let those bastards have it this morning! Such tardiness was inexcusable. And how much money do they want to screw out of people! Gits.

The sad thing being if Julie Andrews had actually sung, if she had delivered what she led us to believe she would, £85 and a £12 programme and the tube fare would have been cheap at half the price. She is - WAS - my idol after all.

But no, five cheesy "friends" she hauled on stage to sing the songs for her. One cheesy hour of boredom - except when she sang Do Rei Me at the end of the first act. Was so glad that was the last song I heard from her as I got the hell out of there. Unlikely too that I would ever see her again.

I was initially thrilled on saturday night to be in the same room as Maria from that film my mum took me to see when I was 10 years old. That life-changing, iconic film from where I cried and cried in my bed that I could not be one of those Von Trapps. But this all fell flat, o' my brothers. Mainly by Julie getting on five cheesy "friends" of hers to sing what I thought was an odd array of songs in the first place.

And then the second half was to perform the children's book she had written with her daughter: well, I and many others got the hell out of there at the interval. Plug your bloody book somewhere else, Love!

The hills are no longer alive. Certainly not around North Greenwich station anyway.

Husband and kids are going to see Lady Ga-Ga at that dreadful place. At least the bitch will sing.

The Grocer

2010-05-07T02:56:00.000-07:00

Good grief, o'my brothers, what is all this umm-ing and ah-ing? I come down for my fag and coffee at 6.30 and switch on radio 4, fully expecting that John Humphries to tell me who is prime minister, and the stupid sod doesn't know! Well, really , this is not good enough!

Although I laughed at Husband staying up to watch the election while I snuggled down at 10.30, there has been many a time when I have awoken on the sofa in the early and mid eighties. After a night of vote counting and gains and that. And I didn't take the next day off work like wimpy Husband had done. It was a quick change of underwear, a fag and straight back into the jungle! Margaret Thatcher would have been proud!

Daughter (14) asked me who was prime minister now, on the way to school. I recall asking that question myself to my mother in 1970 when I was 11. The difference being that she could give me a straight answer . Conservative, she told me, a nice surprise apparently.
I remember being glad that I wasn't going to see that stupid Harold Wilson and his pipe very much now. Or listen to that Andy Capp type voice - or see his wife Mary. I don't know why she annoyed me so much really.

My mum, despite being a true blue, and although pleased Conservative had got in, really hated Edward Heath and her, and many others, called him a Traitor. I was always confused at this, as when we went to the Conservative Club (cheap beer and a colour telly!), there was a big photograph of him. Why would that be there when they hated him so much?

And I remember him getting red paint thrown on him. And the very few working mothers of schoolfriends constantly being on strike. And don't get me started about the miner's strike and those bloody blackouts..... I've still got the scar on my hand where I burnt it on a candle. Thanks for that!

But at least you knew who the leaders were! When I closed my eyes during that TV debate thing, I couldn't distinguish between Cameron or Clegg and which one was talking. I could Gordon Brown 'cos he had a Scottish accent. But that was all!

How did I get on to this shit? Must be time for a fag.

Went to vote last night only to find there was no Smoking party! How was that then? Think I'll have to start one, can someone lend me the deposit tho'?

Sort of Rainy Monday

2010-05-03T04:11:00.000-07:00

They're off again! These bloody schools! Is it worth them going at all? AND Son is off Thursday 'cos his school is a polling station. Well, so what? So is Daughter's Secondary school but they still go there! Can't this dreadful insititution cope with people coming in with cards and putting 'em in boxes and that? Can't they just not have assembly that day? Half-wits! Ten more weeks and we're out of that place! Mind you, Son's new secondary school apparently shuts for any reason at all!

Went to see the film Life During Wartime yesterday. Don't ask me what it was about, just wanted to get out of the house. A sequel to Happiness - which I did actually enjoy 'cos it was about people even more miserable than me! And who had it much worse! Always cheers me up that one!

Having a drink by some pub or other in Richmond before the film. Outside of course so I could smoke a fag. The bloody Thames rose up and started lapping at our feet! Had to paddle to get to the cinema. Had to dry my bloody pop socks out during the film. And a duck was looking at me funny! Don't trust those bastards!

Thats about it really. Ultra-miserable today. Husbands' taking Son to see Ironman2 later so at least I'll get a bit of peace! Mind you, Daughter can give me earache when she wants.

Only got six fags. Might end it all.

Gloomy Monday

2010-04-26T03:55:00.000-07:00

My brothers, your humble narrator is despondent today.

Tried to write my frackin book. Couldn't get anywhere. And neither smoking, strong coffee or the cat could pull me through this. Why is God punishing me? Is it because I haven't been to church for 3 weeks? Well, if it is, then please stop the Vicar from doing christenings during the service then! Do 'em Sunday afternoons once a month like the old Vicar did! Like my own kids had! Do you know what a nightmare that is? Havin 4 brats christened before Communion?
Godparents hovering uncomfortably while the guests take up all the regular seats? Keep it to yourselves, loves!

Anyway, I digress. My motives are sincere for writing this book. I wanna make a fast buck so I can get out of this shithole! My feelings have not changed, o my brothers. But my fingers and mind remain stiff and unmoving.

I've run out of fags! Could things really get any worse? Actually they could, got a pain under my armpit!

You Shall Go To The Ball

2010-04-19T05:02:00.000-07:00

What a hard weekend it has been, o my brothers. Saturday going to a friend's house in Fleet for lunch. And drinking. And smoking. Well, I closed my eyes and kept a stiff upper lip as I forced myself to do all three of these things. It wasn't easy, my only friends, it really wasn't.

Then Sunday, off to my ultra-insensitive mothers, another round of drinking (coke), smoking and a huge Sunday lunch. I prayed for strength that morning, I can tell you.

Then nightime comes around and I was forced to go and see Georgie Fame in a one-off concert up the road in the big stadium. I went on my own-ie as it seems I have no real friends - except you o my brothers.

What a brilliant man he was! And his two wonderful sons. Did all the stuff: Yeh, Yeh and Gotta Go (or something) and Bonnie & Clyde. I can still see him doing that one on Top of the Pops! (I know! I know!).

Made friends with two gay guys sitting next to me. Had a drink and a fag outside. "Can't believe you came on your own!", one kept saying. Despite my fog of lager and smoke, I wished he would keep his voice down.

Said they would invite me to an exhibition at their house in Fulham. But I don't know how long this friendship will last.

Back to ironing and washing tonight for old Cinderella here. Then sleeping in the old fireplace I expect. Never mind, perhaps the Fairy Godmother will come back next Saturday - eh?

Snappy-Snap!

2010-04-15T05:46:00.001-07:00

Ultra quick one today, o'my brothers. More important than fags - no, this is not a misprint - is the Archers at 2 o'clock. And I think there's a good play after. Couldn't tell you what tho', as i've forgotten.

There was a good one yesterday on Albert Speer. During his 20 year prison sentence at Spandau, he went around the world in his head. Now, if that had been me, I would have been truly fracked. I've hardly ever been abroad. Mind you, I've been to Clacton on Sea a few times, but even then not for years.

A few years ago, when a book about Albert Speer was out, my daughter being a toddler then and liking books herself, I went in Waterstones to buy Husband Albert's book for his birthday. Not being able to resist getting one for my little angel, I put Speer's book on the counter along with Miffy Cleans Her Teeth or something. How me and the cashier laughed. And I said:
"Albert Speer, Hello Magazine, they're all the same to me."
How we guffawed.

Well, I suppose you had to be there really

Bloody Hell! Fag AND the Archers! ta-ta

Bloody Kids!

2010-04-08T07:01:00.000-07:00

Well, my brothers, the rot has truly set in. The long Easter break is taking its toll. And there's another bloody week to go yet!

Daughter (13) gave it to me straight this morning! I awoke her at the crack of dawn (a quarter to nine), the sun streaming in, and reminded her we were going shopping at Kingston today. Well, that was it! What a tongue-lashing Yours Truly received. "You're such a bad mother!" was one of them, I think. "Why am I never allowed to sleep?" was another.

My little girl. In the thick of adolesence. Going through that horrible gangly awkward phase that I remember so razor-sharply, o my brothers. I treated her torment with consideration and sensitivity. I shut the door on the little cow and went downstairs for a fag. Bollocks to her!
Went by me bloody self! Bought some black trousers!

Then Son. In the front room. Television blasting, him covered in a blanket, watching in that dead-eyed fashion youngsters do. A crushed packet of crisps by his side. How I hate this Homer Simpson thing that he does, o' my brothers. That Bill Clinton was spot on! How I would love to see a little John-Boy Walton out there, enjoying this sudden burst of sunshine.

I wouldn't mind but he's only 11! He's not even in adolesence yet! At least Daughter has an excuse!

Mum sounded very humble on the phone. So she bloody should! But its too late. She's not getting another tablecloth out of me! Rather make it for my mother-in-law! Yes, thats how bad it is!

Time for fag .

Happy Easter - sob!

2010-04-04T07:51:00.000-07:00

What was this? Tears at five o'clock this morning. Couldn't sleep, went to the loo, lay in the half-light with tears falling down my withered cheeks.

Got up. Fed cat. Had fag. Had been to my mum's the day before. She gave us Easter Eggs - one for me and Husband. She gave me money for the kids the week before so they could chose one of those dreadful violent games they like.

My crafty nephew round there as usual. As he was (finally) leaving, she gave him a huge Easter egg. I mean a really big Maltesers one. Now I know I'm 51, not 11, but this really upset me, o my brothers. And she bloody knew it. And as much as you can build up a wall of Past Caring, these harsh dawns take no prisoners and allow the barriers to come down.

I made her a tablecloth, sewed Easter eggs on it and that. Got a plain one from Ikea and did applique type stuff on it. YOu know, where you iron the bundaweb stuff on. Took me bloody hours - not possessing a machine or anything - my mum barely glanced at the thing. Mumbled something about starching it later and threw it into the ironing basket. Wish I'd kept the fracking thing.

These bloody mothers, they cut you to the quick. Could say something, have said something before, but you just don;t win with her somehow.

She's always been like this. When she favours someone else, she does it quite blantently. Sweeping away the fact that I've taken a 50 minute drive to come and see her once a week.

Bored with talking about this shit. Really do hope you're having a lovely Easter, I mean that.

Here's a photo of the wasted tablecloth, my brothers. Tip from Me: If you make one, keep it for your bloody self!

Polish Boy

2010-03-28T11:47:00.000-07:00

Am deeply in love with the Polish painter next door, o my brothers, he finished my new kitchen in one day! What a real man he is! I gave him a packet of Rothmans. Thats true love that is. It takes a lot for me to part with Rothmans.

We will run off together to His native Gadansk and begin a new life there. I'm not afraid of hardship and poverty. Tho' I get the feeling he is, and wouldn't dream of going back there in a million years. I can only get these feelings about Him, brothers, because he doesn't speak a word of English. And my Polish is slightly dim.

So thats another idea screwed then. I'll never get out of this goddam shithole. Still hate house. Its nicely painted and that by my Eastern European "pash" , but still unhappy here.

Had another cunning plan. The A316 runs at the back of us. My mate tells me there were several compulsory purchases of nice houses to get that road there. Brilliant! Will put a proposal to the council to extend the motorway down this crappy street. I mean, no-one will miss it! Its such shit! And we'll get money to buy a decent house! Excellent! Why didn't I think of that before?

Will take Polish guy with me. Haven't written book yet .

Changed My Mind

2010-03-18T13:22:00.000-07:00

I'm back again O my brothers.

Slumped on the sofa, my head aching, I felt I had to turn to my Real pals. Especially as my new Polish ones next door dont' seem to be in. Pieter and Paul and someone or other. Probably out knocking back vodka. Wouldn't offer me any of course. Just out for themselves, aren't they! Someone told me once never to trust a Pole - or was it a pilot? Can't remember now.

What a frackin' day, readers. I;m amazed I heard God's calling with all the bloody row going on here. Today, the stink in this God-forsaken-hole really got to me. It seemed to come from the walls. My mate's husband suspects cadavars are buried there and someone similar to Fred West or Christie could have lived here. (who was that one in Muswell Hill?)

I knocked next door (not the Polish side) and there was no-one there. I seriously suspected foul-play. I looked through the letter box. I dialled 999 and told the nice bloke there about the smell and my suspicions that someone could have died. They sent round a Police car and Paramedic immediately. And this poor cow had to jump over my fence to get in the house.

Anyway, a nice bloke called round, saying he lived next door but one, and he had a key to next door and "John" just worked odd hours and wasn't there a lot. Wanted the frackin floor to open up and swallow me! Why in Gods name, did I not just knock at his door? Lovely bloke tho'. Sweet. What a good frackin' start this is!

And then "John" himself knocked. Was really sweet about it all. After all, he had almost been accused of serial killings. Luckily we both have a cat so this smoothed things over.

And then we lost Son's bloody i-pod! Got ultra-depressed. Ask Polish painters next door if they'd seen it when they'd been painting upstairs. Knew they would never dare nick the thing, not when they're building up a painting business. Found it in the soft toys.

Mate bought round a candle - purple one - lit it up. It drowns out the stink - just.

Bloody hell! late for my fag!

You know what I'm going to say......

2010-03-17T01:55:00.000-07:00

Brothers, friends, only friends in fact: my posting has been so sparodic. The truth is we have moved house and my misery is deep and bottomless.

It smells, and there is a view of a motorway. Whatever possessed me to come here? Daughter hates me because its further away from school. And Son and Husband just hate me. Even the cat's given me the cold shoulder. There is no-one to turn to, o my brothers.

I'm going to have a take a break from the blogging thing, o my loves. My heart is just not in it at the moment. I will miss you all.

The truth is, besides contemplating suicide, I'm gonna try writing a book. Don't ask me why. Like Joan of Arc, I had a calling. The literary world needs you, God has told me. And even though he has been so very brutal with me of late, I will heed his words and go forth.

The truth is, if I write a bestseller, I can get out of this shithole.

Bless you, you really are my only friends at the moment. You and the young Polish painter upstairs. And his English is a bit iffy, if you want to know the truth. But he smokes, so we are like brothers. Tho' no-one can take the place of you, my friends.

Sob! You mean so much to me. I will always treasure the moments we have all had together and do you remember that time..... Bugger, only two fags left, the new local shop for me.

Healing Wounds

2010-03-08T03:43:00.001-08:00

Well, readers, the pain seems to have lessened slightly. Only one boy got into the grammar school out of Son's pals. And he's fat and shit at football - so it could have been a lot worse.

The smug overbearing parents who assumed their daughters would get a place there, turned up at school wearing dark glasses. Only felt sorry for them, didn't I! Me being as soft as shite and everything. But I have been through their pain - twice! Assuming my own daughter would get there.

Some parents didn't get their children into the school Son is going to. They've been offered some notorious rough place near Richmond. And I read how a lot of parents aren't getting their first choice. So this could have been so much worse. And at least he's with his mates - and a lot of grammar school also-rans. He will take refuge with them - and the football team.

Son got his heartbreak present of an x-box game and I'm getting mine tomorrow. Want a ring - a cheap one - to remind me of this significant and painful era. And that all this bloody shit is finally over!

Going to get a heartbreak service wash done now. Thank you all for your support.

Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

2010-03-03T05:38:00.001-08:00

Forgive my wicked absence, o brothers and only friends, I have been in pain. Physically - toothache and a botched filling - and mentally, Son did not get into the grammar school. I mean I knew this was inevitable but it did not make it any easier somehow.

I begged God to be merciful with me this time but he did not come up with the goods. I begged the dentist to cure my pain, he didn't come up with the goods either!

This pain has not made me any stronger. I have diminished inside. Thought of seeking out Fatso for spiritual comfort. Selfish git was watching the cricket wasn't he. Not a friend in sight, o my brothers.

Now I've either got to get to the dentist again for an emergency treatment - or go to school and find out who DID get in the grammar school! What a choice, my brothers, what a choice.

Spilt tomato juice on my best jumper. Bugger.

Whoops!!!

2010-02-20T10:30:00.000-08:00

My Treasures, I have returned. That horse rode me away from you good and proper this week! To Norwich in fact.

Went to see an old mate I've got back in touch with - hence my preoccupation with Facebook - and rode away in my little car towards East Anglia. No kids. They wanted to stay at home with Husband. So sod 'em.

Gosh! Norfolk is such a lovely place. A beautiful slice of English countryside. It's all - green and that. With trees and everything. Thats as far as my descriptive powers go, o my brothers.

Get back. Have fag by back door as usual. Son has unlocked a particular door I lean on to put my fag out. And guess what, o my brothers? I went arse over tit. "This is gonna hurt" were my thoughts as I met the grass with such force. Right on the buttock! "Where's my bloody fag?" were the words my Son and Daughter heard from the brutally torn apart French windows.

Am now limping. And think twice before sitting down. And I am forced to admit, o my brothers, that smoking really is bad for you. (some more than others!)

Please Sir!

2010-02-10T05:22:00.000-08:00

Been hauled off into the outside world again, o brothers. This time in the form of Son's year 6 teacher. In fact, we were hauled in to see him by appointment one morning - again.

Gad! That man's criminally handsome. Young, earnest, well-meaning. All bed-worthy stuff. He bats for the other team, a dinnerlady told me. But thats probably just a phase he's going through! I mean, he's only about thirty - what do you know at thirty -eh? He loves birds really. Especially experienced ones who are at least twenty years older!

I mean he goes on a bit. Talks a lot about that fancy book-learning and teaching and that. But bless him, he can talk about that for a while if he wants. I'll indulge him. Anyway, told Husband I was getting married to Son's teacher, and do you know, he just laughed. Said HE'd have more chance with him than I would. What does he mean?

Anyway, Son is not doing the work. He has a high ability but mucks about. I start gazing at Sir's hairy chest poking through his shirt. Does he know how many times I've heard this? From year One , was it? I can't come in and do the learning for him, love.

And a girls mother had phoned and complained to him that Son and his mates' made her daughter "uncomfortable" because they'were talking about Grand Theft Auto and other X box games and that. This was allegedlly in the playground. Well, I had no time for that shit! Can the silly cow not walk away then? Wanted attention from her career mother , did she? What a load of old shit.

er - thats it. Lunch is ready

Godamm it!

2010-02-05T02:34:00.000-08:00

Three lots of heartbreak this week. The outside world is so unbelievably cruel, my brothers.

Two stories I sent to a weekly woman's magazine came back in my stamped addressed envelopes on tuesday. Do you know how heartbreaking it is to see your name and address written and posted by you coming through the letterbox. You know full well it is definitely a heartbreak post.

Too gloomy was one of the responses to my story. Gloomy!? That was a comedy sketchshow compared to my real gloominess! They want to see proper gloomy, mate! What sort of world do these people live in? Gloomy, my arse!

And then, two days later, my handmade cards came back by my own submitted envelope. A card company in Kennington - we cannot say why these cards would not work with us but they won't! Godamm it! Maybe try Etsy - or whatever its called.

Two good things tho' - got money for pussy picture in My Weekly and Son got into the school newspaper as a sportswriter. Little drops i know but they are goldust to me at the moment.

Got a godammed Blackberry. Its shit. Don't get one.

Going to the godammed hairdressers xx

The Catcher.....

2010-01-31T10:35:00.000-08:00

What do you think of old J D Salinger then? How many of us have read that book? That was where I first learnt to speak American. And learnt the word Godamm. In 1975, there was a whole load of schoolgirls going round saying "Godamm it!".

The damndest thing being, I picked up Catcher in the Rye again at 40 something, having read it at 16, and do you know I couldn't get into the bloody - sorry, godamm thing again! Couldn't get past the first page. Wierd isn't it.

And wasn't he a lovely bit of stuff in 1951? That was the date of the photo in the obituary anyway. I would have gone Godamming with him then,, I tell you - if I'd been born then, that is. Anyway his most recent photo, he looked like that dad out of Steptoe and Son. But then he was 90 something and drinking his own piss so you've got to make allowances.

I was impressed that he started his writing career with selling short stories to magazines. I myself have sold a story to one of these. Some time ago. But his stories went in the New Yorker, whereas mine went in Woman's Weekly. Husband says the New Yorker is shallow, a bit like Hello magazine, where Woman's Weekly is very highbrow and distinguished. AND the NY doesn't have a problem page! And where's its recipe's, thats what I want to know.

Also recently, my little cat's photo was published in a journal, on her third birthday. I had emailed this gem months before. So when I was regaling this to my mate on the phone, he said even Holden Caulfield - or whatever his stupid name is - didn't have that glory. His pet, as far as we knew, had never been published in a magazine. My mate reckoned thats why he became a recluse and odd and that.

He must have been so in awe of me.

Made a croissant chocolate pudding. Ate a bowlful, feel sick

Whisked away....

2010-01-25T07:15:00.000-08:00

Lovies, Treasures, forgive my not posting on here.

The only way I can explain is to liken it to a serieal I've been reading in My Weekly. There is a little girl somewhere in Texas who gets hauled away on a horse by some Comanche Indians. She grows up, marries the big chief, has kids, and then gets hauled back again by her brother to Texas . Well, thats what the outside world does to me sometimes. I get pulled from one culture to another.

Anyway, the equivalent of one of those red Indians was my new career, Invigillating at Daughter's school. Well, what a complete load of shit. It was a disaster! It was not the walkover I thought it was going to be, I tell you.

I mean, my old maths teacher used to read his paper, have a fag under the desk and walk around humming during our exams. Not now, mate, oh no. Had to take the labels off all drinking bottles, had to give triple science to some candidates and double to others. Then you had to make sure their keys and things were on the floor. I mean, for Gods sake!

I think I made one girl fail. One girl put her hand up for a tissue (you would have been told to lump it in "my day") and I got her one. But then I couldn't find her again. They all looked the same. I mean they really did. With their heads bowed, identical hairstyles and blue sweatshirts. Anyway a girl started sniffing so I barged in there and gave her the tissue! Wrong girl! Completely interupted her chemistry paper! Oh Lord!

Oh and then, collecting up the papers - well, that was fun too! Reverse order they told me just after I had scooped them up in my arms. And even the canditates little name and number cards had to be done in a certain order too. Think I'll go back to babysitting.

Been on Facebook lately. Got in touch with an old schoolmate, who the last time I had spoken to her was during a screaming row at a holiday camp in 1977. So there was a lot of ground to cover. Anyway, this boy - well, 51 year old bloke now - but one who was in our school year, has been in touch with her and they have met up several times. "He just wants to get into my pants," she writes to me (on a private message), "I don't want to know". Then why do you keep meeting up with him then? I wanted to say. But didn't want to start another screaming row.

And I know the answer really. She wants to feel young and wanted again, like we all do. But surely not with some little snit who used to shout at us from the back of the maths class! Think I'll deactivate my membership.

Spare a thought.......

2010-01-11T07:25:00.000-08:00

Tossed and turned last night! Turmoil seeped into my fitful sleep. Was so worried about my ashtray. It was getting pretty battered now - being forced to live outside and everything - but, and to semi-quote the Clash - should it stay or should it go.

This indecision's bugging me (thats enough Clash now). But you see, its a nice ashtray. Husband and the kids bought it for me at the Transport museum in Convent Garden. Its only a tin thing but it has the London Transport sign on it - No Smoking. The irony is not lost on me. Not that you can remotely SEE such an irony as it has long been covered over with 5 year old ash and burn stains.

I mean, don't get me wrong, I do wash the thing but time has not been kind to it. But to replace it with what? I remember my mum and gran would wash all the ashtrays in the house every morning - or at least run a cloth over them. The same cloth that you would wipe the table with too. Never done me any harm tho'.

My Gran had a beautiful ashtray and a cigarette box. It had a picture of Piccadilly Circus on the front and when you opened it, it would play a tune - don't ask me what it was, I can't remember - but I coveted it like you wouldn't believe. It was so unbelievably glamorous. At the age of 7 or 8, Piccadilly Circus seemed as accessible as the South Pole! Even if I did live in Greater London.

I didn't ever see it after she died. I didn't expect to really. Not with three aunties and an uncle (whose wife was apparently a scrounging cow, according to my mum). But the ashtray - I thought the ashtray could be mine. But that also became as dust.

It was a lovely heavy red glass round thing, with a polar bear sitting on top. Much too nice to use but my relatives used it anyway. This could well be in some aunties' cupboard.

As way of compensation, my mother in law let me have a similar one of her mum's , when she passed away. It had that same lovely red glass and shone proudly at me. I was thrilled and touched but I secretly dreamt of that polar bear thats now lurking somewhere round Clacton way. If you see it, let me know.

In fact, I bet everyone remembers a lovely glamorous ashtray at one point in their life. Whether they're a tin thing with an advert for beer on or whether they're some rare china creation. And the thing is, where the hell do you buy one now?

New Year's Bastard List

2010-01-04T02:59:00.000-08:00

The list has been announced and this prestigous honour goes to:

The sadistic cow who shaped my eyebrows in Westfield
(She knows who she is!) And I don't care what people tell me, I swear
blind she used a blowtorch and a chainaw. Bitch!

Daughter's Nintendo DS that has gone missing once again

Mother - in - Law who emotionally blackmailed Husband
all through Christmas

Son, who threw a tantrum on Boxing Day round my Mum's
("That boy needs a good hiding")

Whoever it was who banned smoking in public
(a long-standing award)

New Years Day for dragging on so long

and Fatso (because I feel like it)

That was a pretty pathetic list. 2009 was obviously a bit of a thin year, lets hope 2010 is better, eh?

Happy New Year

A Christmas Fag

2009-12-24T08:39:00.000-08:00

A lonely and lean(ish) figure appeared against the snow on Christmas Eve. Her old coat wrapped tightly around her, clutching the last of her Superkings. A poor (and brave) waif in rags begs for a snout and urged her to remember it was the season of Goodwill.
"Bah! Humbug!", Smith growls, kicking him up the arse.

That night in her old delapilated home, she dismisses Husband for the night and sits by a lowley fire, eating thin pot noodles. Smith lights up her snout in the dismal and barely decorated room. Her watery eyes catch the beginnings of a shadow. It seems to come through the wall.
Smith chokes on her cigarette smoke and drops the ashtray.
"Bugger", she manages.

The shadow gets bored of standing there, not being noticed.
"I am your old friend from the seventies. The ghost of your Christmas past."
Smith looks bored and somewhat irritated. She was enjoying that fag.
"But you're not dead. I was round your house the other day. And you owe me a fiver"
But before another word was mentioned, they were swept back in time to 1977.

There stood before them was a cigarette machine.
Smith melts. "I used to get Senior Service out of there."
Finally her eyes lose their coldness
"Yes, " says the ghost, "And then made random nuisance calls in the phone box outside."
"What wonderful innocent days. I was such a different person. Before I went all hard and
that and started smoking Superkings."

Then without any words mentioned at all, they were swept along to the heady days of 1979.
Two young girls walking through the streets of Soho, amongst all the rubbish from the dustmans strike. One of them lights up a Silk Cut.

'Smith breaks down. How naive and pretty she was then. So fresh to the world with that white box and red writing on it. She turns to the ghost:
"Do you remember the wonderful days of those low tar tabs?"

But her words went unanswered and she was back in her dismal room alone.

Thank God for that, Smith thought and lit up one of her few remaining Superkings.

Another shadow emerged - what the frack was it now? It was like Picadilly Circus in here!

A great fat bloke appeared with a beard.
"I am the ghost of Christmas Present!", he boomed.
"Yeah, yeah. Can we get on with this so I can enjoy my fag in peace. "
"I have come to show you..."
"Dying for a piss," Smith said, "Be right back"
"Not going for a bloody fag are you?", the bearded figure accused.
"Well, the bog seems the only place I can get some bloody peace"

Smith stayed in the bog until that old bore left. Smoking the Superkings, she realised the error of her ways and longed for the good old days of Consulate and Rothmans (blue). Tears filled her eyes.

The fat one may have left but another ghost was waiting for her. A hoody type. Smith had seen his sort before.
"Look, I know what you're gonna say," she blurted out, "But I'm changing my ways. Not yet tho'. Wait till Fatso opens. Now sod off."
"Its alright," the sceptre sulked, "I didnt' want a coffee anyway."
"Good. Now frack off!"

That night, Smith tossed and turned, dreaming of a time before she turned to cold and hard (and cheaper) Superkings and before she knew it, the grey morning and the church bells were creeping through the shutters.

Smith slammed them open: there was the same surly youth of the night before:
"Hey,. you there boy! Yes, you! "
She threw the coins out of the window.
"Go and buy me the biggest box of Rothmans you can find! There's 50 p in it for you if you're quick!"
"Make it a quid or I'll tell everyone your old man touched me!"
Bless the boy! So sharp witted!
"Frack off, you little dunt", she thrilled merrily, "Or there's a good kicking in it for you!"

The youth scampered off and soon Smith was clutching the box of fags and was off to see her neglected family.
"Merry Christmas all!", she came through the doors.
"Uncle Smith!", Tiny Tim on his crutches limped towards her.
And how the family laughed when Smith kicked them away from under the thin little boy.
"Gis a fag!", Tiny gasped, crawling on the floor.
"Yes! My boy!" and she lit it up for him.
"Fags for everyone! Just like in the old days when they weren't so dear and that!"
"God bless everyone!", Tiny Tim coughed and they all lit up in Christmas cheer.

Random Acts

2009-12-21T07:06:00.001-08:00

Am getting too much of this human kindness shit, especially when I'm trying to have my fag and coffee at the bus stop (AND I have it under the shelter!). Some poor bastard, posh bloke, slid straight over on the ice after getting off the bus. His shopping went everywhere. And I could see from his face that he really was hurt - although he stood straight up.

I was in a real dilemna. I could put my fag out and walk over to help pick up his shopping. But suppose the same fate awaited me? With a hot coffee too? Wouldn't I make the whole thing worse? All the same I attempted to clamber over the shiny and ultra icy pavements. I thought it strange the bus hadn't gone off tho' and then, the bus driver got out and shouted to posh bloke as to whether he was alright. I was touched by his concern. He hadn't zoomed off to the next stop and kept to his schedule, he was genuinely worried for his passenger.

The man nodded, somewhat embarassed and the bus went off. Leaving me standing there with a stylofoam cup, looking a bit stupid. And then posh bloke turned to me and begged me to be careful on that part of the pavement as he had just slipped up there. My eyes watered in gratitude. Nearly offered him a fag.

Why can't people just be horrible? And miserable like they usually are? I don't need these random acts of kindness interferring with the only two pleasures I know. Can't people understand that i haven't got time to melt at this sort of thing.

It was like when I broke my toe and had to limp for a while. Nearly everyone at the shopping centre opened doors for me or kept the lift open. They took a break from being nasty. I mean good for them and that but really.......

Bloody car's up the creek, kids have lost their bus passes and I'm fracking cold and miserable. Good to be back to normal.

Chilli Sauce?

2009-12-14T07:08:00.000-08:00

Well, for fracks sake, look forward to a nice morning clearing up the place when there are five phone calls (all rubbish!), a workman outside keep wanting half a bucket of water and the 95 year old lady next door who had taken a parcel in for me. Good grief! No time for Jeremy Vine or bloody anything! And my lunch I was heating up went all dry. Bastards!

Of course I squeezed in time for a fag.

Yesterday we had Husband's relatives in for our traditional Christmas drink. The burly Welsh faction. Also my mate and her husband and my other mate, Mary. A lovely, four foot tall Irish woman who I wouldn't dare dream of mentioning Blogging to. She would cross herself, I'm sure.

My Tesco Value brandy and vodka causing more laughter and entertainment that any six piece band fronted by Dick Emery, I began to make my own champagne cocktail. A glass of Cava, or any sparkly wine, with a nip of vodka poured into it. (Listen, if its recommended in Woman's Own, it must be alright!). There was also much merriement when these buggers saw me go outside for a fag. Their memories of last Christmas in my old kitchen being but a fug of cigarette smoke. Had a good mind to make them drink outside, who'd be laughing then, eh?

I could only take 3 of my cocktails before I switched to sparkling water. No-one else wanting to go near them. But the damndest thing was that about 4 o'clock as I was sitting on a wooden chair next to Mary, I was so reminded of my childhood christmases. The wintery darkness of late afternoon, the unlovely overhead lights and the bareness of the kitchen and uncomfortable chairs. And sitting talking through the noise. To any nearby cousin or aunt or mate.

Thats how it always was at home. Relatives round without fail, tho' usually on christmas night, and people sitting where they could, kind of squeezed together. Only thing missing was the barrell of beer and my dad getting his bloody guitar out. God, I was dragged up! But it was strange how fate forced my hand through that brief time tunnel thing.

Son's school carol service tonight. His last one. Its the winter equivalent of sports day for us. We go along dutifully, our faces caked with boredom and misery, trying not to look at our watches. However, this particular night, we are going for a kebab afterwards, (Daughter's having chips). Why does this make me so happy?

Does anyone else fancy a kebab? Tell me how much chilli sauce you want and that. Or we could just meet up outside the kebab shop. You know, that really rough one on the high street, with all the fag ends outside. And afterwards we could take turns knocking on the Vicar's door and running off, or have a whip round to buy one half shandy between us at the Barmy Arms. What a night out! Hope you can make it

Crushed and used!

2009-12-10T11:35:00.000-08:00

Well, my brothers, it happened. The 11+ exam at the sought after grammar school in Kingston. I queued up with Son, among a million others, in sheer disbelief that I was going through all this shit again. And once again, I had the urge that I had with daughter, to grab him off some caring prefect and run off into the Christmas crowds. Son's pale, Oliver Twist face looked at me as he and several boys were taken off into some building somewhere. Parents not allowed to go any further.

I go into a well-known coffee shop and catch sight of an acquaintance holding court at a table with a load of mothers. I dimly recalled her son was the same age as mine. Good Grief! She was putting her third child through the exam! I'm finding it hard to do it twice! (Her other two didn't get in). I shake my head in disbelief and go by the river for a good wallow and sulk.

A pair of shoes and a Kath Kidston flannel and a Crabtree and Evelyn bath oil later, I go and collect Son near lunchtime. His face red with misery tells me all and my guts cave in.
"Don't say anything," I tell him, resentful because I didn't want to do this fracking thing in the first bloody place. And we walk along with the crowd of other parents, whose kids actually all looked distraught.

But were the parents dying inside like I was? Son wanted to go to Subway but I'm not sure I could cope with being crushed and that shitty smelly place too. I persuade him to go to Patisserie Valerie. I sit at a table and eat scrambled eggs and feel better. Son has some obscene looking ciabatta thing. He begs me not to go back to school.

Just tell everyone you did okay, I suggest. Its none of their business. Just say it went well. Son opens mouth to speak but I put my hand up, don't say anything it says. I'm more angry at myself that all this shit meant so much to me.

We change the subject. I tell him that all the popstars go to the Soho version of this over-priced cafe. Well, Sparks did anyway. I don't bother explaining who they are.

We go home together and make some fudge. It sticks to the fracking pan. Bastards, all of them!

Santa Baby.....

2009-12-04T05:38:00.000-08:00

Hi Treasures. Thought I'd get one on here before the Archers, and sardines and boiled egg. (Listen, its my birthday and i'll have what i want!).

The disadvantage of a birthday in December is that you're thinking of presents for someone else eg the kids. So I' thought I'd take time out to give you all a list of the presents I want at Christmas. This'll give you three weeks or so. And please - no underwear like last year! I mean those rubber basques gave me hell in Tescos - and please do not mention those crotchless knickers. So I'd like more practical presents from you this year. The usual address of course. And don't forget the posting deadline, like you did last year.

List:

Lambert & Butler (200)

Superkings Black (not blue) (200)

Bailey's (prefereably from Nettos)

Bunty Annual

Rothmans (200) (Blue not Red, like you got me last year!)

Molton Brown Bath Salts (nicotine flavour)

Jo Malone perfume (Essence of Tobacco)

Balkan Sobranie fags (taste vile but look beautiful)

I urge you NOT to get me that book about letters to your sixteen year old self. Whoever thought that one up? I mean I don't want to be funny or anything but do you really want to read Julia Swahalia's letter to herself? Or Brenda Blethyn's? I mean perhaps I've got this all wrong but it seems a bit of a polly filler thing to me. I wouldn't dream of writing to myself at 16 - I'd get so depressed. So please please do not send me that frackin thing. Nor one of those little books on Wisdom that line the tills of Waterstones. What a load of old shit.

I hope this is okay. Now what would my lovely pals want?

Stir-up Tuesday

2009-12-02T05:17:00.001-08:00

According to the Archers and My Weekly, you should have made your christmas pudding last Sunday. Advent and all that. But what happens if you can't stand all that shit! That inedible load of dark fruit that you need a machete to get through? And as for brandy butter, don't get me started.... What is that all about? You don't even get sixpences in them any more! The only good bit is when they catch fire! Sadly, it doesn't burn very long. Not long enough for me anyway.

However, the creative side of me (as opposed to the smoking side) wanted to stir up something. And Sunday I was sitting in traffic in the pissing rain trying to get to my mum's. (And don't think she appreciated it because she didn't!) so thought I'd stir up something on Tuesday.

Did a Christmas cake didn't I. Put loads of Tesco Value Brandy in it. And tonight its sausage rolls and mince pies. And tomorrow its orange slices covered in Orris Root and dried out in the oven. (Don't ask me what that one's all about!). I wonder why Christmas brings out the creativity in people. Especially me. This is valuable fag time.

Birthday this Friday. Had coffee with a mate yesterday, one today and due another on thursday and friday. I don't mind having dalliances with outside-world people but I can't do anything else. It buggers up the rest of the day. AND you can't smoke in any of these places! As Dennis Leary said: the reason man invented coffee was that you could smoke even more.

Got a bastard of a head. Its either Jeremy Vine or too much Starbucks. Whatever do they put in all that shit? Time for a fag

The Laptop Affair

2009-11-24T05:37:00.001-08:00

Sweeties, lovies, once again the treachery of fate has taken me away from the only friends I have ever known. The small crumbs of comfort I have ever been able to pick up from the cold floor. The only.... oh alright, I'll tell you. There have been laptop issues - or baggage as my mate would say.

A stork is bringing a new one. Why can't that bloody Dell have a frackin' shop? Its alright for them looking smug on their advert - lease out a premises, mates, and put a sign on the window. Never did PC world any harm!

So am furtively on this one (Husband's) for now. Bloody pain in the arse.

There was also the Thumb Affair. Bloody breaking Pistachio nuts with me thumbs, suddenly got this terrible and evil pain go through one of them. Bastard was throbbing all last week. I was this close to going to Casualty. NOT that anyone in this bloody house cared! But I am used to lack of emotion and love. Grown up with it.

Anyway, was on the verge of going, then the bloody pain lessened. Just like Rosemary's Baby - spooky!

Got my Christmas booze in. Tesco Value brandy and Tesco Imperial vodka (the small size), this'll do me. Husband has sneered at their cheapness but I bet if he had to put HIS hand in his pocket - well!

My one xmas outing that I'm really looking forward to is : "Its a Wonderful Life" with James Stewart is on at the Richmond Curzon over christmas. Have always wanted to see that on the big screen. Will be first in that queue. Who wants to come? It can be our little seasonal outing. Bit like an office party if you will. I'll bring the fags - hope everyone likes Caption of Strength. Couple of you can bring some Baileys (supermarket brand of course) and someone else can bring the sweets. Let me know when's a good time

Turmoil!

2009-11-12T01:15:00.000-08:00

Been up Richmond, haven't I. The one in Surrey. What a one horse town! I mean, don't get me wrong, if its culture you're after then you're laughing all the way to the - er - programme seller but otherwise what a load of old shit. Anyway it was the scene of a dilema, o brothers.

Had five minutes between Snappy Snaps and Robert Dyas. And had to choose between getting strawberries for the kids (from Waitrose) or a fag by the car park. Oh it was agony! Which one was it to be? I was torn in half, o my brothers, quite literally torn in half.

It was like one of those On the Road films with Bob Hope and Bing Crosby where a little old lady with a harp is on one of Bob Hopes' shoulder and a devil is on the other. And he can't decide what to do! The old lady sternly told me I cannot fob off the kids with a chocolate cookie for dessert again, it was time for fresh fruit! Meanwhile old Nick was tellin me the joys of inhaling that smoke by the A316. I was broken, brothers, just broken.

I like to think I eventually made the fair and right decision. And anyway Waitrose fruit is a complete rip-off.

Had to really smoke a lot this morning. It was Victorian day for year 6 and Son was going as a chimney sweep and was desperate for ash to put on his face. Well, I was happy to oblige. I told you smoking is good for you!

Eye of the Tiger !

2009-11-05T00:41:00.001-08:00

A quick burst on here today, brothers, between fags. Because its that time of year again, isn't it. At least for Son anyway. Its the frackin' bloody 11+ exam. The one where millions of kids try to all get in one school.

Daughter went through this shit and didn't get in. In fact, she bombed it. And yes, loads and loads of heartbreak followed. In fact, it was that that got me blogging and everything. I needed to tell people. But thats all behind us now and she goes to a super girls school down the road and that. So when Son came up for secondary school, we did not want to go through all that shit again and planned to put him down for the comprehensive where all his mates are going. I mean they have sport and maths and shit, don't they? I wanted an easier ride this time.

But oh no, Son wanted to try and get into that bloody school, didn't he. That unobtainable building six miles away. And Stupid here listened to all the advice - it would be a lot crueller if you didn't let him take it, you shouldn't deny him the experience - I should have said Bollocks but didn't. Got on the phone to Daughter's old tutor and it all went from there.

But even then, it seemed safely far away. But not now! Early December in fact. Oh Bloody hell! He won't get in! Unless they have a special exam for kids who do no bloody work - he will never do it. And I'm gonna go through this heartbreak again!

And it does matter, you know. You can tell yourself what you bloody well like - it does matter!

As Liza Minnelli once said about the Oscars - when they're opening that golden envelope, it matters!

Have ordered a hundred fags from Fatso to be collected on that date. That woke the old git up I tell you! And have booked a triple cappaccino from the nearest outlet.

This is a vital time. Why won't he do any work? Why can't it be like Rocky 2 where the wife in hospital tells Rocky she wants him to win? And he goes out training in Philledelphia and all these kids follow him up the stairs and that? Why can't that happen with Son? (Bloody good film that!)

Well thats it. Time for my fag - and my hands are throbbing..

Cutting Edge!

2009-11-01T06:45:00.000-08:00

Applause!

Welcome to our alternative poetry readings. live from the Avant Garde Club.

Now I know you've all come tonight to hear Fatso's new anthology "No Superkings, sorry" - (perhaps his most brutal work of all) but let me introduce our newest and freshest warm-up poet - Jenny Smith

(polite applause amid murmers "but I wanted to see Fatso!" and "I hope he doesn't fall asleep this time!")

JS clears throat:

"This is my most radical piece to date:

Half-term! What a load of shit that is!
Its not even christmas. Or Easter.
And the kids get on your tits
And they hog the laptop all the time
if you're not driving 'em to sleepovers that is!

And don't get me started on Halloween...!

(Sounds of "boos" start to erupt dangerously amid murmers of "doesnt' even rhyme" and
"where's the irony? thats what I want to know...")

Look! Its a work in progress, okay?

When the hell is it Monday?
When I can get rid of the bloody lot of them
Daughter says she's got a sore throat
well, I tell you, she's bloody going.......

Ow! No, stop it! Hey! Thats not very ladylike!
(tomatos and paper cups are being thrown now)

"Fatso! Fatso! Bring on Fatso! Get off, you talentless waste of space!
AND you're not allowed to smoke in here!"

Well, sod it then. Did Philip Larkin ever have this trouble, I wonder.

Quick....!

2009-10-23T03:28:00.001-07:00

Just a quick one before I go to work, o brothers. (yes, work, me! With my nerves and aspirations and everything..etc etc. .....)

Went on a train the other night to that O2 place. Got off at Waterloo. Told Husband I was having a fag before we got on that funny Jubilee line thing. Went out the station and opposite was a cage(!) with Smoking Area posted on it.

"I am not getting into a fracking cage to smoke!" I told Husband politely. What is this world coming to? Its a side entrance at Waterloo where lorries drop off things and that. Whyever would you have a designated smoking place there? And I'm tossed if I was entering a buggering cage?

There were a few meek smokers in there and I glared at them, trying to make them aware of their betrayal and stood directly outside it and lit up. I noticed a few others did beside me.
Husband looked worried. Let 'em call the Police, I told him. And who exactly were going to call the police? The porters? The men in the lorries? The man at the Costa stand? For fracks sake! A cage , my arse.

I mean I've gone along with this No Smoking shit quietly so far. Simply because I've had no choice. But there are times when you need to kick out at these bastards.

Will be back soon for part two. This will include not being able to smoke near that dreadful shitty dome thing and how high up I had to frackin' sit. Oh yeah, and about the pop group I went to see.

Eye of a Needle

2009-10-20T05:20:00.000-07:00

Have such a stinking cold, my brothers. Fate is a very cruel mistress indeed.

Have been taking Aspro Clear like it was lemondade and now they've given me the shits. I was telling Son's teacher about my tummy antics just this morning. And do you know, Brothers, I suspect he has the same symptons as me. He kept clearing his throat and had an uncomfortable expression on his face:
"...through the eye of a needle ", I explained
"....yes, mrs Smith, now about Son's algebra...."

Me and education just do not mix. I don't mean just the fancy book-learning stuff either. There was an insufferable 9 months when I was a dinner lady - sorry, I mean SMSA - and do you know, my working space was full of kids! I couldn't talk to the other SMSA's about Big Brother or periods or anything. Some bloody kid was always interupting us blithering on about scraping knees and that. And whenever I suggested a bloody good cuff round the ear, they would look at me funny!

And now I'm back in the frying pan. Just when I thought it was safe to walk by a school. The Invigillators reach out and get me. Yes, I've applied for that at Daughter's school. I thought you only needed 'em for "O" levels in June and that was that! I mean , there's no sixth form!

No, they have them all over the bloody place! And then this lady kept talking about modules. I mean this isn't bloody Brunel university. Anyway, the poor cow needs hundreds of invigilators apparently.

I have hazy memories of my Maths teacher invigilating several exams and smoking a fag under the desk. Even in those very politically incorrect times of 1974, smoking was still not allowed. His fingers were as yellow as the sun. The only person I would swear blind died of smoking. The only one I would concede to anyway.

But no, these teachers can't do it anymore, they need someone like me. They prefer Mums apparently. Well, I haven't even said I'd do it yet - and I remember that when I became a dinner lady. They don't actually offer you a job, they just assume you're doing it. And this lady is sending me on a course without a bye or leave. Did anyone see those invigillators on Armstrong and Miller? Thats what I want to do.

Whoops! Son and Dad back. Gotta go xxx

Bloody cheek!

2009-10-16T02:42:00.000-07:00

Would you adam and eve it? Of all the nerve! I mean Really????

Babysitting at mate's house. Dark already! Go outside for a fag don't I . Felt something fall spookily over my shoulder. Screamed - assuming it was a zombie - it was only a bloody spiders web! Walked right through the bloody thing!

Beside me was a spider hastily scrambling up on what was left of its web. It gave me a filthy look. Look where you're going, you stupid cow!, it glared. I told it: Excuse me mate, we'd all love to put down webs where we'd like, haven't you heard of consideration and Council tax? And how much rent are you paying here? I keep forgetting.

Spider tutted and went on making a new web. The cheek of these scrounging buggers! I mean I know they're Gods creatures and that, but really! Anyway I took a shot of the cheeky sod, threatened to expose it and sell it to the Sunday Sport. It went pale at that one, I tell you!

Interfering with my fag like that! Bloody cheek!

Oh Woe!!

2009-10-12T03:18:00.000-07:00

They making me go to work AGAIN! Does no-one understand how they're holding me back! Does no-one understand my pain!

Son's birthday tomorrow - he will be 11! Thats my baby boy. He's getting an X-box - the spoilt little git! Do you know what I got at 11? A construction set! Never forgiven my old Gran for that one! Never knew what happened to it. Never touched the bloody thing. And I tell you what else I used to get, year after bloody year. A bloody post office! They still have 'em today I think. A box with pretend stamps and sweet jars and that. What a load of old shit! Never forgiven parents for that one either!

And he's not having a cake - oh no! He's having a box of Krispy Kremes. My mum used to make me one of her fruit cakes with a candle on top! And it tasted vile! Burnt and everything!

(30 minutes later)

Funnily enough that was my mum on the phone! Talk of the Devil! Didn't mention the crap birthdays I used to have though. Funny that.

And now, I have to go to work! Bollocks! Am going to try that foxy thing that Dotterell suggested later .

Parting is such sweet sorrow, Treasures

Oh Me Mates.....

2009-10-04T14:16:00.000-07:00

Oh woe! I'm worried about me mates!

I can't get my lovely Suburbia anymore 'cos she's gone all email only or something. And I can't seem to do that thing. I don't understand about internet server and all that shit. I will miss her so much.

And my lovely Dotterell 'cos Microsoft can't show me Bringing up Charlie due to some shit or another. They always have to abort it. I've reported the problem but I've got more chance of getting a doctor's appointment.

Why are my lovely mates being snatched away from me?

One good thing is about Marie from the BOGOF blog who has come through a hard and difficult operation. At least I can get access to her and John.

Gotta see the teacher tomorrow about Son's lack of homework. He requested an appointment on Friday. Need that like a frackin hole in the head. Will he let me smoke in the classroom?

Crueller Still........

2009-09-28T10:41:00.000-07:00

Oh my brothers, they have forced me out on to the streets once more. To a place called Work. Me, with my nerves, having to go there. With my nervous disposition and everything. I have a condition, you see. Husband got it diagnosed for me: its called work-shie - I think its Latin. More commonly, the last word is pronounced Shy.

I begged Husband to go and get some sort of herbal cure while I lay down. And also begged him to phone in sick for me. He returned from the Pharmacist empty-handed. He told me the nice young man advised a verbal cure. I looked at him weakly with non-comprehension. Husband recited the ancient mantra passed over to him from many generations: Get off your big arse and get to work like everybody else, you lazy cow. The insensitivity of it, o brothers, thats what I find hard to live with.

In the stockroom at the sports shop, unloading stuff with some 17 year old boy. Worried about a girl he's seeing. Thinks they might "do it". Scared about his nether regions. Frightened he's too small. I told him every boy thinks that because they saw their Dad's one when they were little. They grow up thinking their's is smaller than their Dad's and inadequate. I mean everyone know's that shit.

He begged me to look at it and give my opinion. He felt he could trust me, he said. So we locked the door and he presented himself to me. He was bloody enormous! The silly bugger. He was huge! These bloody blokes. Put it away I told him. That would satisfy any bloody girl!

Then he had the cheek to scrounge a lighter off me! Haven't I transformed his life enough? Bloody hell! Still, all in a day's work. Back to the stockroom tomorrow - new England shirts arriving. What a load of old shit!

Too near Home

2009-09-21T05:15:00.000-07:00

Greetings my brothers, once again I have ventured into the outside world and once again I have come a cropper! By someone nearer home than you could ever imagine - my own mother. There, even writing it pains me.

Last week She said to me on the phone, you're not coming on Saturday, are you?
As we go every bloody saturday, I somewhat sarkily replied : yeah
Well, I've got a hair appointment at lunchtime, she says
Oh, I says

Now, me and the kids get there every saturday at about a quarter to eleven and sod off about twenty past two (in time for the afternoon play in the car). Why couldn't that woman (because thats what she is to me now, o brothers, that woman) have booked it in the morning or after two thirty? Or come to that, any day of the week actually. How many bloody departmental meetings is She gonna miss?

Well, you know, I'm a soft sod and I let it go. Went down there yesterday without the kids - they were doing that London Freewheel thing with Husband - and it was all fine until she let slip out that my nephew had taken her round M&S and the big Tesco saturday afternoon. She stopped short when she saw the hurt look on my face.

Let me explain about my nephew, o brothers. As a person of 30 something (when was 1974 again?), he is okay. He resembles Al Murray and is quite a "good egg" -or at least he was. My Mum did not see him for years and years when he grew up but as soon as my Dad got put in a home and was not given very long to live (dementia) he was round here like a wasp near a jam pot. And he's stayed ever since.

He has two siblings - my neice (1972) who would make Waynetta Slob look classy and my youngest nephew (1982) who comes and goes when he feels like it . But at least they're not hypocripts! At least they're not sniffing round the honeypot as my mate puts it.

And now He really is a homing pigeon. And my mum is like "Grandson this, grandson that..." And somehow he is allowed to see her and my own kids aren't.

Anyway, even for such an insensitive person (which she is, o brothers, ultra-insensitive), she realised she "had crossed the line", as an American would say, so out of guilt she gave me a gold necklace. One of the ones my Dad used to sell. Well, if she thinks this will buy me, brothers, she has another think coming. Gonna pawn the bastard thing. That'll show her! And don't think I won't either, 'cos I will! You can watch me do it! And my Dad wouldn't have given a rat's arse either - he'd have been down there himself by now!

Only thing is - where is a pawnbrokers? Or do you go down an alleyway and ask for Fagin or someone? Never seen this side of life before, me being so sheltered and everything!

Well, thats all changed now, brothers. As my own mother doesn't want me, the seamy side of life is all I'll ever want to know now, I tell you. And don't think this necklace is nice either, its shit! its one of those belcher things that blokes wear on hairy chests and that. And that black man on the A Team, he would have had a couple of these. He can have this bloody one in fact. This mere piece of concious currency.

Or perhaps someone, one of my true friends, could offer a good price

Being Silly

2009-09-15T02:37:00.000-07:00

Well, at last, O my brothers, I'm on my oddy-knocky. But not for long, so I'm getting this in quickly.

Call up some woman who I was good friends with at one point: Bring yourselves and the kids for lunch, I say cheerfully, its been ages since we've got together. Come and see the new house. Well, she falters, Georgina's got horse rangers and George has got some shit or other (this is paraphrasing), perhaps its better if I just pop round in the week.

Call up sister in law - come to lunch and bring the kids and see the house. Well, SHE falters, we've got weight boarding and rugby and..... Me and Paul can pop round for a couple of hours on Friday night.

Invite a mate for Son to go with him to Thorpe Park on his birthday next month. Well, the mother falters, he was sick last time and he hates this ride and that ride.... can he come and not go on any rides????

I won't even repeat my reply to that one.

What is it with these bastards? Why do they have to get silly about bloody everything? Bollocks to it - am having a bloody lunch on my own! Because I don't piss about like people round here! Does anyone wanna come for lunch on Sunday? Please? If you do, let me know if you're vegetarian or not and you can have a courgette or something.

Coming out of the Cold

2009-09-08T04:39:00.001-07:00

Oh my Brothers, a nice young man from Virgin called round yesterday to "see me right" - ooer!

A black man, tall and slim. Spoke, and had the same bawdy laugh, like Bob Grant in On The Buses. I half-expected him to have a fag behind his ear. He left me with a square box with Broadband written on it.

Husband went up the wall. Did I not tell him to install it? he demanded somewhat rhetorically. I shrugged. Give it to the Kids to set up, I suggested. Isn't that what we normally do? He went a funny colour. I went outside for a fag.

I have no sympathy. He knows I know nothing about this kind of shit. Even to leave me in the same room as someone technical is a disaster. Don't know what his bloody problem is. We've got thricefold the crap programmes on TV now, haven't we? We've got a landline, haven't we? We've got internet, haven't we? Why should he get het up over a bloody square box?

This bloody technology shit. Two hours in and it causes aggrevation. I wind up my clock and sit down to write a letter like in olden times.

Out in the Cold

2009-08-29T03:36:00.000-07:00

Forgive me, my brothers, for once again straying. But it was not my fault. They have stripped me and abused me and taken the only thing of value I possess. Shame overcomes me and I shake as I tell you, my brothers but I am now off-line. Oh cruel, cruel. And those nasty Virgin people cannot come till next Tuesday, O my brothers and only friends, I am forced to make a life for myself in that nasty and cruel Outside World.

I dragged myself into the heartless High Street, wincing against the snow, rags on my back, my stomach empty, my soul barren, and crawled up the steps of the Dispensary. I begged them to take pity and asked if they could spare some vitalls and some cutter. They got the supervisor: She was harsh and cruel, Readers:
"Look Mrs Smith," the old bag said, " I have told you, you need to book in advance for a terminal. And you are not Alex de Large, you are not dressed in rags and my colleague saw you stuffing a Big Mac by the river an hour ago, you greedy cow!" I shivered and begged for mercy. And assured her, tho' my skirt was from Gerry Weber, it was purchased in a sale. She was unimpressed. She heartlessly continued:

"And incidentally, it is 27 degrees outside and we are a public library. If you call us the St Vincents Dispensary again, the council will sue! You are not Frank McCourt and this is not Angela's Ashes - which by the way, I think is very overrated!"
Not enough bodice ripping in it for you? I suggested meekly.
She went a funny colour. And really, such a barrage of bad language followed. And from a Vicar's wife too!
You see the conditions I have to put up with.

My life is like a large and open void. I am friendless, fruitless, miserable. And I've only got an hour on here! And most painful and humiliating of all is that I can't bloody smoke! Oh my brothers..........

2009-08-20T12:32:00.000-07:00

Forgive me, o brothers and only friends, your humble narrator has strayed and gone over to The other side - the Outside World. And such a wicked cruel place it was too.

Eight months this house selling business has been going on. Decided this week I could not Go On. Put my head in the oven and waited - before realising we were electric. (I know, thats an old one), asked Fatso if he had any arsenic - and would he like to come on this journey with me. I would take comfort from dying with Fatso. The fat Git woke up abruptly and offered me the only ware he could in the circumstances. Extra strong Annadin.

Mind you, they say you look bloody terrible after swallowing arsenic and other poisons. They burn your insides and you go all blue and that. Not serene looking like Snow White and that. And I'm already two stone overweight and lardy, I don't want to look any worse.

My mate's got one of those big paddling pools, quite deep. Considered putting my head under but they say drowing is an awful way to go, your lungs burst and it hurts and that.

I considered running to the kids for support. And in my head, I knew what they'd say to their poor mother - Good Riddance, daughter would say. Sod off, son would say, now we can get a decent stepmother who won't stink of fags and hold us back. And don't expect us to come to the funeral either. Except to dance on your grave! By the way, we want money for Westfield.

The little buggers! It seemed the whole world was against me. I ran to the Cat for comfort and that furry featured little cow just bit me!

Today, drawin on my Polish fag, trying to find a huge building in my A-Z to jump off, Husband texted. We have now exchanged contracts, it said. The sun came out.

Off to a wedding in Holland tomorrow. And even tho' I'm down to my last £100 - I'm having a Beano in Duty Free!

Lovies, Treasures.......

2009-08-06T10:45:00.001-07:00

Thank you for such lovely and supportive comments on my last post. Unfortunately I was legging it to Eastern Europe at the time. Thought it easier to start a new post. Bless you all!

Well, for Frack's sake, Poland went on my Bastard list before I even got there! They've only joined the bloody EU haven't they. That means no duty-free fags or booze within EU countries! Oh, you can buy all their tarty bloody trinkets and perfume and that but no important things! Who the bloody hell does that benefit? Am getting on to my bloody MP about this shit. Vincent Cable - he's always lurking round Twickenham, mouthing off and making a bloody nuisance of himself. This time the idle bastard can do some work. I'm getting that banned for a start.

And what was Poland thinking of? The bloody EU? I had a go at the sods, I tell you.

Camp young man at the till in duty free was sympathetic. Try not to think about your cigarettes, he soothed. Despite my glowering, I was touched by his kindness.

Poland began to redeem itself when we arrived in Warsaw and booked into this super hotel. It had remained standing all through the war, not bombed or anything. Of course it is quite Americanised now but was still impressed. Not impressed with the Zloty though. When I was last in Cracow, it was 20,000 Zloty to the pound. Now its only 5. They need to be saved from themselves, I tell you.

The first afternoon in Warsaw - 32 degrees - we walked the 8 km (5 miles) round what was once the Jewish ghetto wall. There is scarcely anything left of it. But there were still some traces of how these poor people must have lived - so walled away and persecuted like that. And there was a very big momument to the Jewish people but the most moving one was the one where the station used to be and where so many families got on the train to Austwitz and their terrible fate.

A lot of post war appartments were built on the rubble of the ghetto and they were raised very high. I was surprised how leafy the streets were. Almost pretty. I mean I think i expected something grim. Why should it have been though.

Collapsed back at the hotel. Cherry vodka for me and Polish lager for Husband. My flesh scorched by the sun, the skin falling off my feet, my head dazed and confused from another culture and language. I could not begin to know what terror and trauma those people went through before meeting a terrible end. Hopefully I never will. But at least I'd made the effort to try.......

Tune in to part two where I get pissed on cherry vodka and we meet a handsome young Pole called Poiter (an ideal candidate for my gay mate over here) and I buy Polish fags from a kiosk.

This Time tomorrow....

2009-07-31T07:47:00.000-07:00

Got a coffee in the park (my normal bench was bloody taken!). A kiosk-seaside-type-stand thing. Does brilliant cappuchinnos. Woman before me creating havoc because the man did not do Baby chinos. You know those little cups of coffee you get for kids in big coffee chains.

"You're opposite a playground," she shrieks, "You should do them!"

Give 'em a can of Fanta, love, I think sleepily. Or sod off to Starbucks. The man does ice cream doesn't he? What more do you want?

Bloody Richmond types! Glad I'm sodding off to Warsaw. I hope Polish mothers don't carry on like that! Mind you, it won't matter, I won't be able to understand a word they say!

4.30 this morning we have to get up for our flight but I don't care. It'll be nice to get away.

Two problems it seems with renting: smoking and pets. Well, the first one I can deal with. Will have to pretend I don't smoke. I have never wanted to stoop to that. I wanted to be like Oliver James, who says he's not proud of smoking but not ashamed of it either. Didn't want to compromise that one. Looks like I've got to - and certainly smoke outside.

The other is pets of course. I can't pretend we haven't got Rose the Cat. And as much as I moan about her, we semi-worship the little cow. And of course all the catteries will be fully booked up. Thought we could shove her there for a couple of weeks, then kind of sneak her in.

Will ask my Mum if she'll have her when I get back. But I bet the answer will be bloody No.

Teacher Man wants to go with the end of August. Frack!

Now tell me who wants Vodka brought back and who wants fags.

Wah!!!

2009-07-28T01:28:00.000-07:00

Teacher Man wants to complete mid-August! Wah! We will be homeless! But I don't want to piss the buyer off - and this has been going on since January. I feel wicked about our once-treasured home but I really want to get the hell out of here!

Husband came over all pompous and said its about our convenience , not his. Arsehole! We have lost two buyers - I do not want to lose another one. He agrees to bloody August or else! Stupid sod. Rent city for us.

Went back to the agents of the house we lost. Their move is going badly! Well, what a bloody shame that is! He said he will tell them about our impending move but we've heard bugger-all back. And I tell you one thing - they are not having any more money. (We got a bit more with this offer). The greedy bastards went to another buyer because of a higher offer but it sounds like they've had that one! Thats the thing now. Its all very well making higher offers but convincing the mortgage lenders to give you a higher loan is quite another matter.

Viewing a house tonight. Got to take our shoes off apparently. Gone off that one already.

Cat bit my foot

2009-07-21T02:01:00.001-07:00

Haircut 100

Now don't you laugh! I know they've cut it a bit short but there's no need to snigger.

I mean I'm the first to admit that this harsh haircut makes me look a bit Big Bertha-ish out of a prison but I assure you it will grow (soon, i hope).

Was that someone laughing over there? And you, next to her, in blue, you can wipe that smile of your face too. Now look! Its not that short - ok?

You can really see the grey in my hair now. Oh Lordy! Has anyone got some peroxide? I've got a paintbrush here somewhere.

Whatever got into me? What happened to that nice little trim I was going to have? Why did I get it shorn off like a bloody sheep? Did I think I was on a farm somewhere?

I think I've got a brown paper bag somewhere. Just got to cut out two eyeholes!

Gawd Blimey!

2009-07-16T09:35:00.000-07:00

Three days now I have been trying to post on here! Three days!!

Wednesday we had another surveyor round here (one the third buyer paid for himself). Welsh bloke , nice and that, reminded me of that one in Marion and Geoff - Keith Barrett wasn't it. He told me to just ignore him while he went round the house. Then the minute I touched the keyboard, it was yak, yak, bloody yak. The silly sod.

Kept telling me about the last house he went to, where the woman was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Well, I mean, bless her and all that but let me get on with my bloody posting!!! And then he was banging on about our slate roof. The stupid git! I just gave up and logged off.

And yesterday, we went to a private screening of the new Harry Potter film on Tottenham Court Road. A corporate thing from this bank Husband uses at work. Run all the way up that bloody long road in me best shoes, didn't I. We got a free pack of sweets as we went in, popcorn and a bottle of water by each seat. And the film started promptly.

Now, I don't want to be like that Jonathon Meades and call all Harry Potter material complete shit like he did. (In the Radio Times too!). I think thats very ungenerous of him - and also a bit of Green is in there I think. But the prospect of sitting through this bloody thing.....

However I got lost in it as best I could and then the wonderful climax and highlight of the film suddenly appeared before me. The Fag Break. Daughter said she wanted to go to the loo. Well, how could I miss an opportunity like that? Grabbed my bag and followed her out. And just kept going. I knew I was going to lose the plot. But then I'd lost it about two hours ago!

Puff back here and fell asleep before I even entered the password.

And this morning, I get logged out by the computer itself, telling me its putting in updates or some such shit. Bloody machines - telling me what to do. Bastards!

School breaks up tomorrow. Oh Lordy!!

My Giddy Aunt!

2009-07-10T00:54:00.000-07:00

In the words of the great Supertramp - what a day, a year, a life its been.

Monday, our car is fracked and we get screwed for £300 from the garage. Wednesday, the tap won't turn off and the (quite nice ) plummer charges £230 for his trouble. And yesterday, we find out we have lost our potential and dream house for good! (3 toilets!).

What is it with this ill-fortune? I try to be good and God-fearing and that. Why is the world punishing me like this?

Ironically our third buyer (!) has a survey booked for Monday. Well, he needn't rush now, need he??

Hoovering the bloody carpet then I'm off out to get a double strength cappucinno and a pack of triple strength fags! Anyone wanna join me? I'll be at the park bench in about an hour!

Anyone see that Pyschoville last night?

Phobias

2009-07-03T12:17:00.000-07:00

What is it with this work shit??? I'm back there again, at the sports shop, stocktaking again!!!

Why??? Why am I stifled like this???? Why am i being held back as an artist - again!!! Tho' I suspect the £8 an hour has something to do with it.

But I have a phobia about work and that. I've had the tests and everything. A bloke in an office in Hounslow High St told me that I'm scared of work. Had to pay him £50 first tho'. Funny, i can't seem to get hold him lately. And they're very unimpressed at work with the certificate he wrote out.

Got a photo published in the local rag. As above. Bloody twats chose the worse one! Shit-for-brains two penny publication! Not even good enough for bog paper.

Am miserable. Time for a fag. And a drink. The cat bit me.

What a scorcher!

2009-06-27T09:16:00.000-07:00

Sorry to borrow a headline from the Sun. Couldn't think of anything else.

At least it wasn't the one about eating the hamster.

Still suffering and really sick of this woman pissing us about. Put the house back on the market. Cracked up about it on thursday and Husband said Enough Already!. And if we lose the house we want, then sod it, I'm miserable of being miserable - if you see what I mean. And I hear sheltered accommodation is very nice these days.

Have mixed feelings about Michael Jackson's demise. That bugger stood us up in 1992. All day long we sat in that Wembly bloody stadium and then this fat git who called himself a manager announced at 7.30, the time he was due to come on, that Michael had flu and wouldn't be appearing.

We're going to Have the Git - I think were the words me and my sunburnt mate used at the time. Had to trudge back to that shithole 3 weeks later to see him.

But I didn't know it would be THIS sort of revenge! Oh Lordy!

I really liked him at the time of Billy Jean and Thriller. He really had it on board then. None of this going white shit and bubbles the chimp. He was healthy looking, black and slim and talented. That must have been his peak now I think about it.

Went to Richmond park to do some more suffering. Photographed this old thing and told him all about the house move problems. His eyes look a little glazed as you can see.

Do they have problems with nests and nest-viewers and that? guess I'll never know.

Our Two Additions

2009-06-21T11:09:00.000-07:00

Here are our two little additions to the family. Picked 'em up in a sale at some posh design company down the road. I really relate to them.

Now, am I that desperate for comfort? Or have I really cracked this time?

The only dogs I've only ever related to before this dynamic duo are : Henry the Dog, Snoopy, Gromit and Scooby Doo.

I wonder what the Vet will make of them. I don't have any names for them yet. Answers on a postcard please and the winner gets awarded a Polish fag that I will purchase in Warsaw - (will talk about that another time) - but please note they will almost certainly be out of date. Gives it that sort of authentic feel.

Tried to get you a night out with Fatso but the lazy bugger was asleep watching the cricket so I couldn't ask/tell the stupid sod. Should set these dogs onto him.

Thanks a bundle .......

2009-06-18T05:30:00.000-07:00

Well, as if my life isn't in tatters enough.

It was McDonalds night at the Smoking household - our fortnightly treat - when my chip-loving daughter announced she didn't want one! They'd been showing that Super Sized Me film at school. The one where this bloke lives on McDonalds and exposes the fast food corporations.

Well, thanks a lot, Morgan Spurlock - or whatever your stupid name is! I had to bloody cook instead! Look mate, if you want to stuff yourself with McDonalds to prove to us what we already know, thats up to you, you fat git. But Please keep it to yourself ! I go with Nigel Slater that there is no such thing as bad food, just everything in moderation. Whatever you do in America is up to you! But please don't flaunt it at my vulnerable daughter!!!

Bastard. Gonna find out what food gives him an easier time and will write a dry and humourless book and get it financed as a film - see how he bloody likes it!

Don't get me wrong, I don't like big greedy corporations either. I don't like to see them dominate our towns and change their characters. I was saying this to someone in Starbucks just this morning. But I was very sad when our local McDonalds was closed down about five years ago. What people really didn't get is that it was the only place to meet in our dead and alive high street. Yes, the food was shit but the sense of community flourished.

They say there's a community here but there isn't really, only if you know who to ask. Where McDonalds, everyone and anyone walked in there. And you spoke to virtually everyone. It was a bit like that place in Grease where Danny and Knickie used to meet for sodas with their birds and everyone. There isn't anything like that now since its become a Superdrug.

Now answer me that, Morgan Spurlock, eh?

Where's my fags?

Forgive me....

2009-06-15T13:20:00.001-07:00

Sorry I haven't been on for a while, O brothers and only friends, there is so very little to say. And yet so very much. Well, if you count whinging. And no, we have heard frack-all about the house. Why is God punishing me like this? I know I've hit rock-bottom when I start blaming The Man himself. But what is going on?

Went to Brick Lane yesterday to the Car Boot Art Fair. What a load of old shit! Where did all those people come from ? And that loud music! I'm just too old for all that shit. In the eighties I used to walk through Camden Lock without a qualm - and it was just as noisy and just as crowded. My poor mate and her boyfriend and mum were really going through it, standing under that gazebo all day, that loud noise penetrating them. While Boyfriend did charcoal portraits for £25. Didn't make a penny all day apparently. Why am I drawing comfort from someone else's misery?

Saw Peter Blake there. And Gavin Turk. The only two contemporary artists I really know.
Wanted Peter Blake's autograph. Too scared to ask! Forget what an old man he is now.

Got the hell out of there as soon as bloody possible. What a shit-hole!

Son announces at bloody 8 o'clock tonight that he has to do a powerpoint presentation for tomorrow. For this Critical Thinking thing he's on. The little bugger, leaving something like that at the last minute. Was furious with him. So once again someone else hogs the computer and does a big project that eats into Adult time. Can't remember where husband's gone - a brothel probably. Or an opium den. He's probably at Brick Lane.

Cat's birthday today. She's 3 years old. The little cow didn't like her new basket or her card or her catnip toy. Ungrateful brat! Worse than the bloody kids!

Going to Brentford tomorrow. Don't ask me why. I just feel it calling me somehow.

Carry on....where?

2009-06-07T11:42:00.000-07:00

Am at my wits end. Lady buyer was supposed to have paid for a surveyor a week ago. Have we heard anything? Have we shite? Why are they being so slow? So absolutely terrified we are going to lose the house we want. So absolutely terrified we will be stuck here forever.

And once you have the survey done, it doesn't stop there. The buyers have to ooh and aah at all the shit things in this house that need to be done. That would slow things up too.

Saw a house for sale that I've always liked up the main road. Cheered me slightly, thought we'd go and look at it. Until I looked up the price - £454,0000 - yes, I know. Three bedroom, fifties semi detached. So prices are creeping up again. Well, thats us screwed! There might be a one bedroom flat in Feltham we could afford. Am so broke up.

To comfort myself I watched Carry On Loving on BBC2. People generally slag off this film but I think its great! Nearly every line has a double-entendre! My top three are Carry On Camping, Carry On Cleo and this one...

Son walks in in the middle of it. What year was this film? , he asks. 1970 I reply. Oh, he says , are they still alive? (bless him). And everyone I point out - I realise that no, they're not.
Tell Son Charles Hawtry was an alcoholic and presumably died of drink. Sid James had a heart attack and Kenneth Williams killed himself. Don't know how any of the birds died - was too depressed to think about it by then.

By the time the credits came up, I was suicidal Syd. Bloody kids!

What a rotten sunday! Next week I'm off up to bloody Brick Lane, I tell you!

Return of the Bastard List

2009-06-01T12:14:00.000-07:00

Another bloody rugby match this Saturday. When will this madness ever end?

Anyway Lady Luck fell into my lap (or so I thought) and I got a position on the Tills in the shop. However Bitch cow assistant manager spotted me and put me on bloody security! The old whore!

If popular fiction is to be believed, in a prison, the top and most privilleged job is in the kitchens - and the lowest of the low is in the Laundry. Well, the Tills are the former and security is definitely the latter! And they made me wear a green top! Bastards! Don't they understand how unlucky that colour is! And it wasn't even a nice soft green, it was a cheap and brutal dark and deadly shade! I read recently that Belle Ellsmore, Crippen's wife, recoiled in horror at the colour Green and regarded it as ill luck. Well, she had bloody good reason to, didn't she.

And don't think there was any violence either. I didn't get involved in one good kicking. Not even a bloody strip search! Bastards! Are they on my list or what???

Inset day today. Will this half-term ever end?

What Time is it now?

2009-05-28T07:14:00.000-07:00

Well, its been a long week. And only Thursday already!

Have sneaked out to the library to print some things off my memory stick - only to find the informations' not there! What have I done This time?
Was really stressed and hot in this subdued and closed in room so lit a fag. Do you know they gave me really dirty looks!

Husband off this week as well as the kids - so thats made it more stressful than ever. Doesn't he see that its too much ? And don't think he's any help either - he always wants a lie-down or is always moaning. I know that sounds a bit mean but from having the house to myself, I've suddenly got the 3 of them there!

And he's mad. I would have taken the time off when the kids were at school! Anyway told him I wanted to go out for a couple of hours. And now the fracking memory stick won't do it - whatever its supposed to do, that is.

Half terms are funny things. At least for me. You make preparations for the actual holidays but this funny week stuck in the middle can get you by surprise. I remember such lonely half terms: the one in 1973 was probably the stinkiest. Went to a party on Saturday at my mates, got off with a boy (one snog) and then the rest of the week went dead. No friends about, not one word from The Boy, nothing. Spent it laying on my bed and a trip to the library - bit like now really.

And then there was a terrible one in 1976, that terrifying heatwave around the corner, and likewise I lay on the bed all frackin' week. What a miserable cow, why do i only remember the stinky ones. I'm sure there were some good ones too - I think........

Slum Landlords

2009-05-24T12:29:00.000-07:00

Nothing to say these last few days really. Just been buried in hopelessness.

Went to Fatso's for sympathy about the house. Told him all about my crushed dreams and disappointments. He looked at me intently. Some would say blankly.
"You want carrier bag?" he said in the end.

This was the only kind of comfort he knew how to give.

I walked out the shop, shoulders hunched.

Go the young Poles' shop next door thats quite good for vegetables and that.

"You have room?", he says to me
"Do what?", I say
"You know room I can rent?"
What? I'm Rackman now am I?

If I wasn't a better person I would say: yeah, I've got a house round the corner going for £269,999 but we're open to offers!!
Instead I merely said: "Where are you living now?"
"Its ok," he replied, "I'm married."

Well, for fracks sake.

That afternoon a woman from Northern Ireland made an offer on the house.

Screw you Copper....!

2009-05-19T01:36:00.000-07:00

Sacked the worry dolls. Told 'em I was kicking their arses all the way back to Mexico.
Phoned the Home Office - didn't know what to do about deportation. They told me they were up to their eyes in it and to go to my local copshop and give those idle sods in blue something to do for a change. "Crime won't crack itself", they chortled as they put the phone down.

After handing the dolls in over the desk, the Policeman told me it could be a few years in "chokey" for me for harbouring illegal immigrants. I said You'll never take me alive, copper and legged it as fast as I could. They gave chase in their police cars. Regan and Carter in one and Gene Hunt in another. Luckily I managed to dog them before I got to the bus stop.

Apparently the dolls made an appeal - something to do with swine flu. They are in temporary accomodation in Harlesden - and they told me I was a "marked" woman now.

Husband said would I like to give it a few weeks before we have viewers round again. Was I up to it? I told him I wasn't Miss Haversham! The silly sod! I'm not ill! Of course I want bloody viewers round.

Off now to the park with my cappucino and fag. Going to think about Life. Better go in disguise.

What a week...!

2009-05-15T05:08:00.000-07:00

What a week this has been, my readers and only friends:

On Wednesday, Son didn't get through the football trials and today, our Buyers have pulled out. Made redundant - what sort of excuse is that? Their Lenders have immediately withdrawn their offer.

We have lost at least 1500 quid and we've got to go back to viewers tramping all over the fracking house. And of course, our dream home, a quarter of a mile away is sailing out to sea as I write.

Oddly enough, according to our gutted Estate Agents, the original builder of this house has also had a property fall through today. He is going to tell him about this one. But whyever would the bloke want to come back? He built it in 1985, thats it for him, isn't it.

AND I've got to work all weekend at that fracking rugby stadium! It doesn't bear thinking about. Oh Lordy!

Have any of our readers got a worse weekend than this one? A Superkings fag will go out to the most grimest and miserable of prospects.

Heard on Jeremy Vine that some MPs may consider suicide after this scandal about living expenses and second homes and that. So things aren't all bad...........

Forgive me....

2009-05-11T07:24:00.000-07:00

Treasures, forgive me for not appearing on here recently. How I've missed my loyal mates. I sort of lost my way last week. I kind of floated and didn't get anywhere. Walking in Space - wasn't that a song in the musical Hair?

Been working at that wretched rugby ground shop. There's been a match virtually every weekend. And last week, 2nd May, I had a bit of a spat with the supervisor, left me feeling wretched all last week.

Have always had a good relationship with this woman but since she's got her best mate a supervisor's job too, she's been a nightmare. I don't know why. Its like we're back in school and she can act Big when her mate's around. Or its like at my kid's school, when an angelic little girl can be a bitch when she pairs up with the class show-off. Anyway, complained didn't I. By e-mail, the cowardly way. But it didn't stop me feeling bullied and wretched.

Spent the week pacing around, wondering whether to quit or not. I took my turmoil to church the next day. Did i get peace of mind? did I shite! 3 christenings that day! There wasn't room for inner sanctum! That idle bloody vicar! Go back to doing 'em in the afternoons!!! Not sure that man's ever been ordained!

Not much else to report. Bought some wooden coat hangers from John Lewis. Its my dream to one day have a warderobe and cupboard full of wooden ones - making the nasty metal and plastic hangers a thing of the past. They laughed at me - told me it couldn't be done - but I'll show them! I'll prove them wrong one day! Then who'll be laughing then, eh?

Er - thats enough ambition for now.

Bloody Doctors ........

2009-05-01T04:26:00.000-07:00

Sneezing and coughing this week, have a hell of a chest (ooer!). Convinced its Swineflu - tho' my mate suspects its Wine flu. But she doesn't understand. I was too scared to tell her I went to Mexico in 1994, I am potentially at risk.

They were bloody filthy over there. They boil their kettles with the hot tap and they sneeze without putting their hand to their mouths. And God knows what else - i was too afraid to look. And I reckon this has all crept up on me slowly!

Took Son to the doctor yesterday because of his (nit-free) itchy head. Didn't want it to get all painful and inflamed like mine did. Appointment was 9 am and despite a quiet surgery with two patients waiting, we still didn't get to see the old cow until a quarter to ten. Right in the middle of Son's head consultation, her phone rings and she tells us to wait back outside. 10 minutes we were bloody stuck there till she called us back in. I really had the hump by then. Had a go at the old bitch. Its been chaotic today, she said by way of explanation.

Now listen, i've worked in Tescos, i've seen and experienced chaotic. There was nothing remotely chaotic in that tin-pot surgery and i suspect the old whore took a personal call. Wrote a bloody letter to the practise manager and gave it in today. Get the old bag struck off! If nothing else, it'll give the cow a kick up the arse. Bitch.

Going now. Hungry.

Where is it?

2009-04-27T04:31:00.001-07:00

can't find Son's Nintendo DS - along with the game he got on Friday for Daughter's birthday. Always been incredibly careful about that thing due to its size and now its slipped away from us.

Am devastated. I mean really heartbroken. Where the flip could it have gone?

It brought back interesting memories of 1967 when I was playing Sindy dolls with a girl up the road. We were playing outside her block of flats and i went away for a moment. I return and a little girl told me a dog had run off with my Sindy doll. Floods of tears and crying myself to sleep. My heartbreak was raw, with permanent red eyes.

My Mum, desperate herself, put an advert in the local shop appealing to any dogowner who may have brought home a strange doll. She put our full address - well, you had to then, there was no email number nor phone - and coming home from school one day, I found my little Sindy tucked behind our empty milk bottles.

Now why can't that happen with son's Nintendo? Has anyone seen it please?