Something For The Weekend

Now does this low fat cheese really melt under the grill? Who cares... the ad's great. And mice prefer peanut butter, soap and biscuit wrappers...

Strictly Not Cricket

For chrissakes... what is wrong with me??? It just goes from bad to worse. I am developing a crush. I know the signs. Silly giggling, flushed cheeks etc. And even worse than that I'm now checking out old cricket matches. I'm sure Dave will have something to say about this.
I've had some bizarre mini crushes in my time, but... why am I writing a flipping post about it.....? I should know better and in future I will leave the fetish stuff to Leah.



...And Kerrie will have something to say about this Youtube.

Dreams and Schemes

There is a vague possibility that I may be moving into a 'Live/Work' unit; this is probably the funniest sentence I have ever written. People who know me well will be clutching their sides laughing at this scenario and may even drop dead through the effort of stifling their sniggers. I am not famed for my work ethic. It is also questionable as to how I've managed to survive so comfortably for so long. But as my looks are now falling to my knees I suppose I ought to start making an effort. Even my eyelashes are beginning to need support [I kid you not, the other day I found myself contemplating buying eyelash curlers - something I've never needed before].
So what will I be doing? There will be the removal of layers, rubbing down and touching up. It will involve paint splattered overalls; an electric sander [there is only so much that I can achieve by hand], and a splash of artistry. It will be fun.
It is true, I am a lazy bugger, but when I get the bit between my teeth I am something of a goer.

***UPDATE*** Blimey, it looks like this is actually going to happen. I feel sick. So I might be a little busy over the next few weeks. What a weird year. I've been in a packing and unpacking frenzy. I will keep you updated.

Happy Halloween!

It was a dark dark night. The moon was full of cream cheese and bats flapped around in front of it like they do at the start of all good scary movies. There were a few stars scattered around as well, just to highlight how dark it was.
It was 1970. Peter and Tracy were huddled to together on the sofa and were being forced by their evil step-mother to watch repeats of 'The Singing Ringing Tree'...



...which would lead to them having a life long fear of dwarfs; men dressed up as bears and beached whales...

Cold Calling

Cold callers can be annoying but also rather fun. They usually ring to ask you to switch your energy provider or broadband connection. There is a simple and effective method of dealing with them.
Firstly they will ask if you are the homeowner. Always say 'no'. It is imperative that you do not expand on this simple negative. 'No' will suffice. They will then ask if they can speak to the homeowner. Again, reply 'no'. They will then ask if you are a relative of the homeowner. Reply 'no' [can you see a pattern forming?]. At this point you might be able to discern a faint hint of frustration in the voice of the cold caller who may go on to ask if you are a friend or neighbour of the homeowner. Reply 'no'. The cold caller will then ask you who you are. You now have the cold caller in the palm of your hand.
Suitable replies:-
Vera Lynn
Princess Ann
A burglar. [My personal favourite]

Not About Bushes

For the time being I don't want to look at the dratted white flag when I come to my blog but I have bugger all to write about. Recent popular subjects have included slugs [slugs score very highly on this blog it seems], Smeg fridge freezers and Kent bashing. Bushes have been popular but I think I may have overworked my bush...?
Joan Collins was on the telly last night, doing her bit to give British women a shot of glamour.... so I'll throw her into the mix... she's always good value for money...



Anyhow... that's better than looking at the dratted white flag. And many thanks for all of your kind and supportive comments.

The White Flag Post

PHOTO CREDIT: JAN JACOBSEN. Worldpeace

I surrender to the black dog.
Sorry.
*wanders off whistling*

A Short Post

For his 200th blog post Mr Whirly ran an 'undulatory' competition. I entered and my name was first out of his hat so I won a prize!!!!!
.

It may look like a short post but it's so much more and I am very pleased with it.

Other news: At my request Z has named a cow after me! And you can see her here. I am extremely chuffed. No field or farmyard is complete without a Scarlet.
Further news: Mrs P is back and is taking requests.
More news: Monty Python is 40 and I think this Youtube ties this short post together quite nicely...



I am no longer sulking.

Sulky

Sulking is not pretty. I think it probably encourages wrinkles. But sometimes it's the only option available. So I am sulking. I'm quite good at it.
Playing merry with my bush is one thing, removing a whole tree is another.
Sulk.
Sx

Drive Sexy

Here we see Maureen from Margate. Despite eating five pots of yoghurt a day Maureen is still feisty and has plenty of verve. She has just stolen a wedding dress, a white dinner jacket, a picnic hamper and a Val Doonican CD from Bhs and is now cruising in her brand new Peugeot intent on snaring a man with whom she can share her booty. After turning right on the roundabout at the top of Bromley High Street, Maureen finds herself on the A30 where she spots hitchhiker Gavin.
Gavin is an unemployed petrol pump attendant from Plymouth seeking work on Bodmin moor. He has not been lucky. As he recovers from being knocked over by a coach load of pensioners on a day trip to Glasgow he is attracted by the sight of Maureen’s bumpers. They are wonky and need realigning. Pleased with Gavin’s attentions Maureen lifts her bonnet and displays her engine. Gavin is immediately drawn to her magnetic stack and is blown away by her gear head efficiency. After checking her big end and playing with her hooters Gavin collapses in the passenger seat and allows Maureen to give him the drive of his life. She does several miles down Fanny Avenue; enters Butt Hole Road; gets a bit lost in Lickfold before leading him astray in Ladygate Lane. Gavin is quite relieved when they arrive in Cardiff.
In Gretna Green, Mike, the Mexican Priest, is waiting to perform the wedding ceremony for Gavin and Maureen. He is fond of his nuptials. When they arrive he does his best Elvis impersonation, he wiggles his pistons, reaches a point of high excitation and blesses their future by writing a heartfelt message on the rear window of their filthy 207. They are wed. And Maureen is happy that she spent her money learning to drive sexy.

Wonderful Life [Jukebox Monday]

I have been tagged by Mr Gyppo to write a list of once in a life time experiences that I wouldn't like to ever, ever experience ever again... ever. Sounds straightforward.

1) Being Dressed up as a kangaroo.
2) Slamming my thumb in a train door [an oddly queasy experience when you realise what is preventing you from taking your seat]
3) Falling into a ditch of stinging nettles.
4) Being stood on by a donkey.
5) The sinking feeling I felt when I realised that the very very important document that the whole office had been hunting high and low for, for at least two days, had been on my desk all along.
6) Being dressed up as Humpty Dumpty.
7) Falling off a wall whilst dressed up as Humpty Dumpty.
8) Being stopped by the police whilst dressed up.
9) Being packaged as a doll in an art exhibition and not being allowed to move... or laugh.
10) Using a home hair colouring kit which may have turned my hair ginger. I DID IT ONCE, GOD DAMNIT, I AM NOT GINGER NOW.

I would like to pass this tag onto: Kerrie; Savvy; Pat; Madame D; Mr XL; Mr Swings; Mr Mags; ZIggI and of course... Dave.

Sigh. Meanwhile, here is a tune.

Slugging It Out

When slugs die they leave great big blobs of jelly on footpaths and doorsteps. If you come into contact with a great big blob of jelly you are likely to slip and cause damage to your rear. It is a national disgrace that more isn't done to warn the general public about the perils of dead slugs. I propose that every bush and herbaceous border in England is surrounded by that yellow tape stuff to highlight this real and very present danger.

I thank you.

I still haven't moved.

This Is NOT Goodbye...

...this is just an interruption.
I will be very busy over the next month or possibly longer. There is a glimmer of hope that my house sale is going through, so I am packing my bags... the biggest bag holds an awful lot of Estee Lauder products... and my hair straighteners.
I'm not sure where I am moving to yet... so watch this space... I will be around sporadically and will try to keep up as best I can with blogs. Hopefully everything will be done and dusted by Christmas and me and my Smeg fridge freezer will end up in the same place.

The Noughties

I have never really got used to calling this decade 'The Noughties', and it's nearly over. Is the next decade going to be called 'The Teenies'? And if [fashion wise] the noughties was about revisiting the eighties... are we now set to revisit the nineties... and in twenty years time will the eighties be back again? Is there ever going to be anything new or will we forever regurgitate old trends?
And finally, will trends change so fast that there are no trends?
I am feeling deep and philosophical.



In the eighties we were loved up with the sixties... and the seventies were thought of as the decade that taste forgot.... how times change.... or don't?!

Messing About

The evenings of my youth smelt of Jazz aftershave and tasted of Jack Daniels poured over glassy chinkles of ice. Nothing much mattered except good lipstick, mascara, big hair and reciprocated urges. Thursdays officially marked the beginning of the weekend, when my friend Gina and I would see if we could club solidly for three nights in a row. I always think of Gina as my sophisticated side-kick. Now she really could suck the creme from an egg without smearing her lippy, and she always looked stunning in Miss Selfridge black lycra mini dresses and six inch stilettos, whereas I preferred tight belted baggy trousers from Top Shop and ballerina pumps. She liked to pose, and I liked to dance. We were a good team, she could immediately attract and I would do the chatting. We never used to eat before going out, perhaps we'd share an extra strong mint and a squirt of Goldspot spray in the back of the cab before we arrived at the club, but we'd usually be too hyped to eat food. Anyhow, one night Gina had been force fed a curry before coming out and she said that her stomach felt a bit grumbly but reckoned she'd feel better after a drink... so she drank... half a bottle of Piper Heidsieck Champagne, four glasses of house white and two Crème de menthes [looks like washing up liquid, but pretty with a pink cocktail umbrella]. We left the club at about 2am and there were no cabs left, but I never minded walking home, I liked to burn off the buzz. Half way home and Gina began to complain that she needed the loo really badly. She was desperate. Busting. So although it meant taking a short-cut through a really dodgy estate, I said we could probably use the loos on the platform at the railway station. By the time we got there I also wanted to go, and being faster on foot than she, I dashed into the only working cubicle. Big mistake. When I came out something terrible had happened. On platform 2 of the railway station was a perfectly round cow-pat. Still steaming. Very odd because we were in town. And Gina must have been knocked over by the cow because she was crouching on the floor still staggering to get up....
Oh happy days. No CCTV, only the station manager to contend with...