A swift half..

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???

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!

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???

Turn Back.........

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.....

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.....

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.....

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!

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

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....

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?

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

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.

Meanwhile, back at the coalface...

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

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

Remorse!

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

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

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

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

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

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!

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!

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 .

Changed My Mind

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......

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

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.

Please Sir!

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!

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.....

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....

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.......

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?