Tuesday, 27 September 2011


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

Monday, 12 September 2011

The F Word

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.