Monday, 27 April 2009

Where is it?

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?

Tuesday, 21 April 2009

Bloody Football!

Haven't posted for a few days, my hand is killing me. Swollen up with veins standing up bright blue. Woke me up the other night. Its obviously a terrible curse put upon me. I bet Fatso knows something about this.

And don't think i got any sympathy from him either. He was looking a bit dejected when i went in there today. His last two novels "My trips to the Cash & Carry" and "There's no bloody Barcode on this one!" have not been well received. They can currently be found in the bargain basket at Wilkinsons. And his Groucho club mates have been seen wooing and flirting with the Polish Grocer up, the road. If you ask me, he's better off without them, all that bloody twittering from Stephen Fry and Jonathon Ross. But he hasn't asked me so i'll keep quiet.

Got wound up this morning. What a surprise! Some Dad at the school gates told me my Son was good at football but not exceptional. Bastard. And how funny this Dad should get such insight. And what a coincidence that his own son never ever gets picked for the school team like mine. How strange that is. Oh Lordy! Can't they just play lacrosse instead?

Hand hurts. Going for a fag.

Wednesday, 15 April 2009

Remember my name......

Well, what a day I had yesterday! A brilliant one in fact ! No moaning for a change.

Took Son to his football course at the local park. Mate was picking him up afterwards with her own boy. So after a leisurely cappacino walking round the park, got home, did handwashing - do not get that Kath Kidson detergent stuff for delicate fabrics - £ 6.00 and its a load of shit! Mind you, it looks bloody nice sitting there on the draining board with the decorative bottle and everything - sort out Daughter's room while listening Alan Ayckbourn's play Man of the Moment on i-player.

Stroll up to that brilliant cafe by Strawberry Hill for a slap up feast of Thai stir fry with pork and cashew nuts (£5.95 including drink), read my Woman's Weekly Fiction Special, stroll back with fag in time for the Archers.

Sort out more stuff. Have a cuddle with the cat. Phone goes at 10 to 6. Its Son. Mummy, can i stay for a sleepover? Bless him, of course he could. I don't know how parents can do that. I mean an afternoon of a child coming to play is one thing..........You think they'd be desperate to get rid of 'em at bloody 6 o'clock.

Childless night of supper with Husband (Daughter is away in Sussex) and watching the channel 5 documentary on Dr Crippen. What bliss! I dare any reader to top that one.

Of course this is where i start paying in sweat as they used to say in Fame (so much better than that High School musical) because i've got the little buggers this afternoon. And are they gonna be in a good mood after a sleepless football fueled night (Chelsea won thank God). So a quick trip to Hounslow then i'll pay my dues.

Sunday, 12 April 2009

Point of No Return ?

Well, my Mum wrote out a cheque as if she was making out a shopping list. So it seems we can conquer our dream house after all. All we can do now is just sit here until we hear something.

Have been talking to my Worry Dolls a lot. They seem to be badly needed this week. I got them in Mexico and they're tiny little peg dolls in a little box. You have to tell them your worries at night and then put them under your pillow. And they will solve your problems for you. And I tell you what, they really come up with the goods. Every problem i've had since 1994, they've worked on it.

I told 'em i was worried about asking Mum that money thing. They fixed it. Told 'em i was worried about helping with the wine after the Easter service yesterday. Went like a dream didn't it. I'm now worried about Daughter's party on Saturday, i really hope they don't let me down. There's no specific reason for worrying about this, I just happen to dread every party we've arranged for the past 13 years.

Mind you, they get a bit stroppy these dolls. They've started demandin things like visas and the right to vote. And now they want me to take them to Westfield - and pay! So you've got to watch the little sods.

Wednesday, 8 April 2009


Well, Fatso may be disillusioned with show business but not as disillusioned as I am about bloody houses.

Go to see one, don't we, last Saturday. Fall in love with it. And i mean head over heels, loss of appetite, everything. Husband too. Puts in an offer. They say No, higher offer been made. They contact us again. Could you "up it" slightly? Husband goes in there today to see one of their wiz-kid mortgage brokers. Enormously high mortgage. I tell him to say Frack off. He tells me to borrow money off my mother. My newly widowed, will-benefiting mother. I still say Frack off. There's cheaper houses.

How did i get into this? Less than a week ago, I was blissfully unaware of enticing houses, my only worry being how to taunt Fatso. Now, I feel the world is on my shoulders. How the Frack do i ask my Mum for money? I mean she's lent me money for fags before and that.... but this is so much more sinister.

When our offer was initially turned down, we went to see another house to lift our spirits. Well, it did in a perverse sort of way. What a load of old shit! £412,000 for some mid-terraced 50's house - all open plan and a recording studio upstairs! - those poor neighbours! You can build up in the loft, the estate agent says cheerfully. Oh I mean, thats alright then isn't it. I was worried there!

I mean does the Credit Crunch not apply to Twickenham then? They're still free to take the piss house-wise?

Estate agents emailed another house to us. Looked lovely. A chalet style thing with lots of character and room inside. Husband said he wouldn't dream of living in that "shit area".
He can be such a snob sometimes.

Wednesday, 1 April 2009

The Real World

Have had to spend time in the real world this week. Didn't like it much.

Went to go into Coffee Republic and some chunky kid closed the door in my face.
"Thanks Chubs", I mumbled to him as I re-opened it.
South Park are quite right. The fattest kids are indeed the meanest.

The posh woman he was with succumbed to his whinging for a cheese sandwich and then
demanded a receipt for it. I bet if that had been her own money,
he would have had to bloody well wait till he got home.

There was also a mean kid in the chip shop. Well, he whinged a bit anyway. And his mum was
telling him he had to share his chips with his sister.

I smiled nicely at the little..... boy. I conveyed my thoughts to him:

"When i was your age, i never had to share anything. I had chips all to myself. And sweets
and ice cream, I could eat it all by myself. And i was a lot poorer than you. All your life, you'll
grow up with tight-lipped people and will have to share everything. You'll never knew the pleasure of a full plate!"

His face screwed up and went red. I think i have ESP.

Why am i being so mean to kids suddenly? My own child is only 10 - it wasn't even that long ago for me. And here i am waging a war on them.

Still scarred from my encounter with the old woman last week, I watched warily as a senior citizen stood behind me in the M&S queue. With one item in her hand. Well, what could I do? The poor cow. I asked her if she wanted to go in front of my unashamedly extravagent and full basket. Of course then I was stuck making conversation with her, wasn't I. She asked if I knew if a certain restaurant was still open in Hampton Wick. She'd been there 25 years ago and it was very good. Well, I mean, bless her. I wouldn't know a restaurant if it lived next door to me! And then, just before she got scanned, she leaned up to me confidentially:
"Don't ever get old," she breathed, "its horrible!"

So I'm not old yet? Not according to her I wasn't. A smile spread across my face. My young face. What was I saying about old people? That they were the best? Bless her heart. She can go in front of me anytime. Even if she had two trolleys!