Friday, 25 March 2011

Wish You Weren't Here

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!

Wednesday, 23 March 2011

Special Needs

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!

Friday, 18 March 2011

The Twickenham Husband

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!

Monday, 14 March 2011

Shock Treatment

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 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!

Monday, 7 March 2011


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!