CHILLING......

Yes, it's back with a vengance...

"The most chilling yet...."  Crafts and Sewing Magazine

"But I still don't get it...."  Fishkeeping Monthy

"Pure Hitchcock!"   Bunty Comic

"Rip off from Fatal Attaction, more like!"  Whizzer and Chips

Oh yes, episode six is up.  Be afraid.  Be very afraid!  The Amanda Ann family are in real danger this time!

louismarxtoys.blogspot.co.uk
     

OVER THE ALPS

My baby  boy has gone to Italy this week, ski-ing with the school.  

Sunday night we got some terrible text from him, saying that he's upset and homesick, and won't be able to sleep that night (despite 30 hours on a coach).

The next night we get a text saying he hates skiing, and he wants to come home, and he's so tired.  

I want to jump in that car and rescue the little tyke.  30 hours over some bloody Alps or other isn't much - is it?  And where does one park?  

If only it could be like old-fashioned times, when the only communication you got from abroad was a postcard that arrived two weeks after you did.  And phones being so expensive, and hard to get through a harassed operator, were rarely used.  
 Silence overseas is probably better really.

This bloody text business!  And Don't get me started on that stupid Skype thing!  Thank God Son wasn't doing that caper!     

I remember going to Germany with the school, on one of those overnight couchettes.  What a bloody nightmare!  Cried most of the time - and didn't sleep.  Then when I got to this town in a beautiful valley, I cried from homesickness.  It probably doesn't hurt a 14 year old to have an awful time.  A traumatic adventure on the Continent.  Bit of a learning curve for them really.  And something to talk about on your blog!  

Next Saturday seems very far away.  Perhaps he will like skiing by then.  

PANCAKE DAY

Pancake day is never how you think it's going to be.  You're too full of misty memories of coming home from school in the dark, and walking into your childhood kitchen where your mum's frying these things in six tons of butter.  And you eat them on a cracked plate, with blissful amounts of sugar, and one squeeze of lemon (too healthy).  Then you ask for more, and more ....

Mine never taste the same.  Yet I'm sure I follow the same pattern as my mum.  Light up a fag while the butter gets hot, chuck some of that egg-filled batter in, swear at the cat, moan when Son wants another one, then another fag after the washing up.  I'm sure that's the correct recipe. 

A mini-version of myself, Son demands about six of them just like I did.  But I'm damned if they taste the same!  I've even used the same burnt pan!

Frying these days seems very different to the frying my mum did.  I can't bring myself to use Lard, I have to say, but butter I'm all for!  Otherwise it's a little drop of namby pamby Olive Oil!  Something you would have got beaten up for round my way!  Bloody right an' all!

Whenever I used to ask my mum for chips, she used to say, between puffs:  "I'm not standing there, cooking chips!"  So whenever homemade chips are mentioned in this more sanitised household, I always imagine someone standing by the cooker!  Spooky!!  Especially as they're put in the oven now!

Quite fancy a pancake now.  Sod it!   

Hair Today and all that...

Had my hair done.  That's about as exciting as it's been today.  

But what I did notice, as I was trying to read my book, as the concoction on my head weaved it's magic, was how loud the hairdresser talked.  In fact, she belted out everything she said!  Great projection, my drama teacher would have said.

And that young man, whose salon it seemed to be, bellowed absolutely everything.  And God help the poor bastard who phoned and got him - I tell you!

I suppose it's the hazard of the job.  Trying to be heard over constant hairdryers, and overhead music, and curlers and whatnot.  Not that I've seen anyone in curlers in a salon for a long time.

I thought the hairdressers was a magical place when I was a kid.  I'd go along with my mum while she got her shampoo and set, and pretend to read me Bunty comic.  Now, you have to trust me, they did not remotely talk loud then.  They all spoke in whispers - adult talk - words I was itching to overhear.  Words not for little ears.  Especially about Mrs Green at number 8!  A strong and favourite subject around our way.  But the buggers were discreet then and whispered over my mum's beehive.  

Of course, once you were under one of those dryers out of Dr Who that came right over your head, conversation ceased anyway, it dominating you and everything.  I still love  those dryers with a chair, always swore I'd get one.  They were kind of glamorous - with a pull out ashtray in the arm.  

Once, when someone was doing a perm and it smelt of rotten eggs, as it did then, I assumed someone had farted, and gave this young girl a dirty look!

Swimming instructors and PE teachers also have extraordinarily loud voices - for obvious reasons - but I can give these a wide berth!  

I wonder if there's a whispering hairdresser in the phone book! 

Treasures!

Just a quick hello.

Been "offroad" for quite a while.  Being doing:

photography
Standup comedy
sketch writing

The latter being very difficult.  I just clam up, I mean it's all been done. 
Want to a sketch about smoking (what a surprise) but I can't think of bugger all
A smoking area where you stand on one leg, perhaps?  That smacks of the Two Ronnies
but there you go.

Son 14 on Saturday - can't believe it!  It's Thomas the Tank I miss the most.  Pleased to say
he's kept all his Spiderman toys and is enjoying a revival thanks to the new film.

The little bugger wants £200 towards a new computer.  Well, he's had that!  Did you ask
for that on your 14th birthday, I'm buggered if I did.  I got a mono record player, and a record
token.  Bought Rod Stewart's Never A Dull Moment, and a single by David Cassidy.  And I might
have got a pair of tights from my auntie.  Can't remember.  Have to phone up the woman and ask her!

Which brings me to my other activity - ebay.  Gotta get on there now and sell the clothes off my back to raise money for the little tyke.  Spoilt little bugger

Rave Reviews!

Latest reviews for the new Life with Amanda Ann blog by Jenny (fag-ash) Smith:

"Unbelievable!" - Posh Bloke, The Times 

"Nothing happens in it!" - Trendy Lefty, The Guardian

"What a load of old shit!" - Dodgy Dealer, Exchange & Mart

"Look forward to their next sparkling appearance on e-bay!" - Polly Filla, The Mail on Sunday

"Absolutely static performances!" - Pissed old Hack, The Sun

 "Bloody bore!  Slept all the way through it!"
- Another posh bloke, Financial Times

This has obviously caused a great stir in the literary world.  Things can only get better!  Don't miss part five.....
 

I have a new blog

Forgive me for being away so long, o my brothers.  
I lost my way (again)

Being doing a lot of photography these days, and have started a new blog.

Please have a look.  It's like in installments and everything.  

It's louismarxtoys.blogspot.co.uk  or Life with the Amanda Ann Family.

Something like that.  

Happy Reading Treasures

Wait a While

Whatever is that awful thing on the TV?  Like this advert thing, and this tall willowy girl talks into her little television screen, and asks it if it will rain today?  And this Thing talks back to her. 

I mean, wouldn't that machine say: Look out of the window like everyone else, or buy a newspaper with the forecast, you lazy mare!

The silly cow don't even have to buy one.  She could wait hours outside Richmond station, like me, for a free Evening Standard!  Never did Me any harm!

And like this bloke is waiting at a football or rugby game, asking his own gadget "has my brother left yet?" 
If I was that thing, I would say : look love, your brother's never going to amount to anything, is he?  So there's no point in him leaving the house really.

Or at the very least, it should say : You've got a mobile phone haven't you, you silly sod, phone him yourself.  Lazy git! 

It's extraordinary this instant type thing.  When I actually liked a pop record recently in the Hit Parade, Husband and kids put these little screens in my face with the same said song! 

What's wrong with listening to 14 hours of Simon Bates, waiting for this song to come up? 

Or getting one of these new-fangled cassettes, inserting it into the machine, and sitting down to the Top Twenty?  Admittedly you had to trawl through some real dogs before you get the song you want, but I still don't think this instant thing is all that really. 

Ten past one?  Sod this!  Time for my lunch !

And Another Thing!

(Part Two)

And even if that blonde bugger had given me one thought on my 17th birthday, it was still the shittiest birthday I ever had!  That, and my forty-first!

After sitting through a double session of English Literature, I went home expecting at least a cake or something.  Well, that happened, didn't it!  My Brother and his family, as usual, were sitting around talking about some crap or other, while I sat there completely ignored. 

My mum, sent my little neice over to say Happy Birthday, but not one word from anyone else.  Despite my brother leaving home about two years ago, it was always all about him. 

And presents?  Don't make me laugh!  My mum and dad gave me ten pounds - an awful lot in those days - and my gran sent me some April Violets bath cubes, and a Friendship Book.  A bit like the People's Friend, only loads of poems and shit! 

Didn't even get a decent dinner that day!
And as I said before, I ended up going to bed in tears, having seen the blonde offender that night.

And don't get me started on my forty-first....!

Why do you always remember the crappiest birthdays.  Never the happy and wonderful ones?  It's like when the most miserable of Christmases stand out, making the golden ones pale.

Anyway, while we're on the subject, all my childhood birthdays were shit.  Except when I was ten, and I bought myself a Beezer Annual with my birthday money (my special day being so very near Christmas and that). 

Otherwise, every year, my brother would buy me this revolting pink gloop that you were, allegedlly supposed to make stuff with .  A kind of looser playdough.  All it did was get in my fingernails, and make my hands stink for days.

And my Gran, every year, sent me a toy post office or sweet shop, which once I ate the tiny sweets inside and was sick, instantly lost it's appeal. 

The only highlight was getting egg and chips and birthday cake off my mum. After coming home alone from school in the dark.  Birthday parties were rare then.  And you had to have friends in the first place.  

 But when you shed these grim childhood years, you expect something a bit better really. 

Phew!  Quite grateful that my next birthday is 9 months away!

Dog Day Year

Saw "Dog Day Afternoon" last night, if you see what I mean.  Gad!  That Al Pacino was a fiery young man.  Holding up that bank and becoming an anti-hero and everything. 

Reminded me of an Italian bloke I used to fancy at school.  One of the few Italians round our way who didn't own a Capri.  He was obviously a snob, and shunned by the large local community. 

Loads of Italians lived round our way, their dads being prisoners of war and that.  And starting loads of nurseries and greenhouses and everything.  No food shops though, or nice restuarants, the selfish gits!

But the damndest thing was: I remember the film being released late-ish 1975, and Al Pacino becoming a household name and very big star.  This brought me pain.  I was at college by this time, and deeply in love with a blonde boy on my course.  He was really nice and everything. 

When each girl had their birthday in our group, he would buy them a single from Discland, and a card.  When it came to mine in early December, he was empty-handed. 
"Didn't know what you would want, so..." And he shrugged his handsome shoulders. 

I kept a dry eye until I got home (had to wait ages for a lift in those days), then sobbed and sobbed.  Returning to college the following afternoon, broken up inside.  A wounded woman.  I had been 17 for less than 48 hours, and already I had experienced heartbreak.  I knew then that this was a terrible and treacherous age.

I was shocked at how something so buried and painful could come to light like this.  How any, albiet good, film could trigger something so brutal.  I didn't even see it at the time, but Pacino's name was reverently whispered about, like he was some sort of demi-God.

Anyway, that treacherous git bought me a box of Matchmakers the following year, so the wounds sort of healed.  And 37 years later, inexplicably, he's still my mate!  And often turns up expecting a slap-up meal!  The scrounging bloody git!  Al Pacino would never do that -  would he? 

Horses for Courses

Sob!  Saw War Horse the other night.  I knew I shouldn't have.  I knew I'd get emotional and upset!  Bloody Pick & Mix coming to £3.10! 

Anyway now I want a horse.  But its got to be brown with white markings, like Joey in the film.  Won't tell Husband, be a nice surprise for him, how he'll laugh! 

But where does one get one?  I got the cat from the Pet Shop, and my fish from a garden centre.  Do they sell these creatures too?  I never saw any. 

Is there a Horses-r-Us anywhere?  Or does one go to one of those cute little farms?  I'm sure they're quite easy to keep.  I've got an old blanket he or she can put on.  And don't they eat sugar lumps?  Like Dougal in the Magic Roundabout?  And I'm sure a friendly blacksmith will do their shoes. 

If anyone's got a horse they don't want anymore, let me know.

Me and Husband went out on Saturday night.  Just us being out together is a rare event.  Let alone this hallowed time exclusively  for babysitting, and the occasional step-family supper. 

We went to our local comedy club.  It has a very good reputation, and, allegedly really good stand-ups there. 

Well, what a load of old shit!  Standing outside in the freezing and boisterous queue, despite having booked our tickets, I realised I was too old for this caper.  And just one look at Husband's face told me he felt the same way. 

It was when I told the nice bloke with the clipboard that he'd ruin his eyes, squinting at names on there under the streetlight, that I should have come home to my cardigan and rocking chair!

We eventually get in there.  Loud music, like you wouldn't believe.  And could I get to the seated smoking area outside?  Could I shite!  There was, like, loads of people there and everything.  All drinking and talking shit! 

Is this what people do then on a saturday?  Worse, did I  used
to do this on a Saturday?  I think I did.  And most of the time, I waited for it to be over.

The first comedian bored me to tears, the second one a little better.  Then the third, an Iranian woman whose name escapes me, who has been on Mock the Week and that, was miserable and dire.  Husband, who had been a big fan of her's, was most disappointed.  I guess sometimes they go flat.  Some more than others! 

We legged it after that.  Never again!  Next Saturday it's Borgen on BBC4, or even better, Babysitting!

Racing Grannies

What the hell's going on here?  Haven't been able to get into my account for days! 

Belated Happy New Year to all my online pals. 

Mum out of hospital now, and zooming around on a zimmerframe akin to Billy Whizz.  AND not smoking!  Though the Doctor warning her that another cigarette would kill her might have something to do with it!

There are two schools of thought on this.  One is to heed this white-coated young man's advice, the other is to think I'm 82, and bollocks to it.  Beside, my old mate died recently of two tumours, never having smoked or drank in her life. 

But I don't think my mum can face that dreadful hospital again.  Neither could I actually. 

Me and Daughter went to visit her the other day.  She fell in the hallway.  It was her own fault, she's trying to do too much, and luckily it was on thick carpet.  One second later, my daughter fell too, tripping over the kitchen mat.  That was it for me, I pissed myself laughing!  So much so, that I fell back too.  Don't think I'll have much of a career as a carer really. 

The ultimate lesson of course, is that you can never take anything for granted.  Things, as in my case, can change overnight. 

Been listing my jewellery in a little posh book, and writing down who I want it left to, ie the kids.  Is that morbid, do you think? 

The Monkey's Tenner

O my brothers, things have changed so very much.  In such a very short time. 
And I know it's all my fault.

Last week I found a tenner on the floor of the shop where I work.  I knew it belonged to some kid or other, as the place was swarming with them, there being a match and everything.  And I knew the heartbreak they would suffer when they found it missing. 

I kept in my pocket for a while, scanning the crowded floor for some red-eyed or anxious-looking kid.  There were none, o my brothers.  And the tenner burnt a hole against my uniformed skin, stealing by finding.  The very thing my First Year teacher used to bang on about.  Mind you, the old cow banged on about a lot of things.  But I was trying to be sincere, and would return it to the first brat who hollered. But there was no such sounds.  Only whinging about all the small balls being sold out.

So, I resolved to put it into some sort of Poor Box, or to the Salvation Army.  You know that one who stands outside M&S.  Well, did I shite?!  20 fags, 2 packets of Knick Knacks and a can of coke later....
But the memory of this illicit tenner did not desert me and I began to feel the chill of vengence.

On Monday, when my mum didn't answer the phone, I told my brother, who went round her house and had to break in.  Finding her ill and helpless, they called the ambulance.  Brother then rang me at 4 am to tell me it was a heart attack (and not the suspected food poisoning), and that she was being moved to The Chest Hospital in Bethnal Green, and that she may not make the transition.  The chances are that she could die before she gets there! 

I lay back in the bed.  Did my punishment HAVE to be this cruel?  Because nothing could be more brutal than this.  The Monkey's tenner had slapped me coldly in the face.  I mean, true, mum was 82 and had smoked 60 a day for about the same number of years, but still I felt responsible.   She wasn't ready to leave us yet.  I couldn't see her not opening the Christmas present I had brought her.  Nor could I see her departing from this world the same time as Ken Russell!  While a hero to me, he was odious to my mum.  It would be insult to injury! 

In less than an hour, bruv phoned again, to say she'd arrived there safely and was sitting up.  Now you would have thought my punishment ended there.  Teaching me a lesson and all that.  But no, it has been relentless.  Traipsing to Bethnal Green - WHAT a shit hole!  How long has THIS place been here?

Then on to Whitechapel and intensive care.  Working my way all round the Monopoly board.  She seems to make progress, then takes a step back.  They have put a pacemaker in, but she had a very bad night.  Do I lose my mother the same way I lost my Dad? In a cold institution full of strangers? 
In somewhere I had never set foot in before, and never likely to again? 

Of course, my wish came true.  I am no longer going to that awful, hot Florida (Husband and kids are tho').  But like the Monkey's Paw, I got what I wanted in such a horrible way.  Be careful what you wish for, eh? 
Thank God I didn't wish for money! 

Not allowed to visit mum, because of the bad night and everything.  How dare a load of strangers tell me not to see my own flesh and blood!  But I am powerless to argue with such a big insitution.  They also don't want relatives phoning all the time, they told my brother, but that's tough shit, if they've got phones, they can fracking answer them.  It's a hospital, they're gonna have visitors and callers, aren't they.   

Oh dear, this is a grim post, sorry. 

Puff!

Just writing a few words while I still have some Puff left. 

Been so busy lately.  This thing called Work mainly.  How do people DO that thing!  What a nightmare! 

Teachers' Strike was brilliant last week.  Brought back so many memories of 1972.  There were a lot more then tho'.   Nearly everyone's mum and dad at school were on strike!  The buggers were never at work!  And don't think they did picketing either, or fight for their cause.  They were at home watching telly and that.  No wonder so many of my contemporaries wanted to get themselves into factories and labouring. 

My birthday was on Sunday.  What a load of crap THAT was!  Still, my mum gave me £50, so that wasn't bad.  Bought a 100 fags and some lipstick.  Could be worse I suppose.  But don't see why turning 53 is anything to celebrate. 

Going to Florida for Christmas.  Really don't want to go.  Should never have agreed to it.  I'm dreaming of the 30th, when we arrive back in Heathrow, especially to outside the building where I can have a fag. 

Gotta go.  I'm doing supper! 

Fined!

Oh my brothers, I am crushed.  Really ground down.  Just like the fag butt I threw down on the ground and got fined £50 for! 

Am suffering from Post Fine Stress.  Two community Police officers, one showing the other what to do, keeping me there on the street while they radioed in my address from my library card!  (For Frack's sake!).  I mean it had my photo on there, and everything.

They said they'd write on the fine that I had a lot on my mind, that being the reason for my serious crime.  I suggested they actually put that there were no fag stubbers and those metal things on bins,  THAT could be the reason really, couldn't it?!

(Or that they could actually do something important!)

Think I'm suffering from Police brutality.  Gonna phone that European Court of Human Rights, or whatever they're called.  Are they on Facebook?  Does anyone know?

Fifty-seven pounds I had earned the week before in that shop.  On the Friday that same fifty pounds went to the Council.  Leaving me with seven quid.  That went on a packet of fags!

Despite my ordeal, have forced myself to go to Starbucks and the off-licence.  Theraputic, really.   

Quaint!

Mate's mum died.  Got the message on Facebook.  Didn't have the mobile number to text the bereaved.  Had to actually get out my black book of (proper) telephone numbers and look it up, and dial it on one of those quaint appliances that stands there quite redundant in the hallway. 

What a sweet and old-fashioned process! I hear everybody used to do such a thing. 

My moleskin phone book, immaculate with crisp pages, compared to my mum's of twenty years, faded and dog-eared from constant use. 

What about those telephone diaries that had an actual dial on the cover?  How chic were they?  You wanted someone with the initial B, you had to stick your finger in this receptacle.  They never really worked properly.  They seemed to get stuck a lot.  Still hanker for one though.   

Took me right back to 1970 when we first got a telephone. With the round dial and everything.  Took you about five minutes to dial a number, usually getting the last digit wrong. 

Standing proud and new on our telephone table by the front door.  The only ones in our street to possess such a sophisticated item.  One of the reasons our phone bill was so low, apart from the fact we didn't know many people who actually had one, was that it was so bloody freezing in that hallway!  Of course you kept it short!

I used to ring my mate in Norfolk and you had to go through the operator.  Loved that.  Was sorry when those stupid STD codes came in.  That was the highlight of the call for me! 

The second highest was when my mate, 200 miles away, asked why I was shivering?  (Her's was in the kitchen, a rare thing then).

Sometimes I would have to speak to my cousin on there.  I don't know why.  Could never stand the bitch.  The feeling being quite mutual, there would be a silent eerie echo on each side.  My mum standing over me (never quite knew why), would urge me to say something.  Then the cousin would join in with the same sentiment.  Witches, both of them! 

Found their number, dialled that long and inconvenient code to Southend.  Bastards weren't in.  Couldn't be THAT upset and bereaved, could they? 

Gloom!

Feeling very sorry for myself today.  Am staying in with the blinds shut - and 40 fags! 

Two short story rejections in the space of two days.  One by email, one by post.  Don't know which was worse!  The former, which had a big twist in the tale, was reported to "have no surprises there".  What's the point of having Readers when they don't actually read it properly?  The latter just said the characters weren't engaging enough. 

I wouldn't mind, but the first magazine had sent me a contributer's letter, saying they needed more stories urgently.  Kind of raising my hopes.  Bastards!  Good mind to start one up on my own!  Only it would be biased towards stories about smoking.  There may be a limited readership for this. 

Don't want to look at my nearly completed novel (62,000 words), but I may have to. 

Put some Lime-lite on our grouty shower tiles.  It stinks! 

Thirteen

Son is 13 today.  Would you believe it?  That's my toddler!  And, after waiting patiently on the cusp of adolescence, he has finally become a teenager. 

I can't believe it was 13 years ago that I was flat on my back in that delivery room, huffing and puffing, dying for a fag.  Painfully delivering a boy child into the world.  And did I get a word of thanks? Did I Shoot? 

For his birthday, he got a BMX and an Inbetweeners book (filth!).  The cat got him some coloured gel pens, and his sister got him a PC game.  And he had m&ms and Coke for breakfast! 

He put his Inbetweeners book in his school bag, and set off happily for the day.  The promise of a Burger King tea followed by birthday cake keeping him warm on that silly little bike.  

When I was 13, I got one of those crocheted waistcoats.  The older ones of us will remember these were all the go in late 1971.  Mine was bright red with tassels hanging down.  I also got some Holy Cow tights.  White thick ones, with holes going down the side.  The last word in chic round our way. 

I also had a Ben Sherman shirt with a button on each collar, and it was yellow with blue checks.  A bit last-season, and it was my brother's old one. 

I also had, like, a feather cut.  Thankfully, this style has not been brought back into vogue at all.  Where half your hair stays long, and the other half resembles Rod Stewart. 

Every year, this first teenage one being no exception, my mum made a fruit cake with pink icing on top.  Never did like it, but I ate a bit anyway.  And every year I would tell the woman I couldn't stand this type of cake, and yet she would still make the thing. 

However, to give her credit, I would get chops and chips for tea.  So it wasn't all bad really. 

I didn't smoke then.  Still had a couple of years to wait for that one. 

Son really doesn't know he's born.  Couldn't see him in a crocheted waistcoat anyway! 

Tacky!

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

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.