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?
Friday, 16 July 2010
Saturday, 3 July 2010
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.
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.
Friday, 25 June 2010
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.....
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.....
Tuesday, 22 June 2010
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!
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!
Monday, 14 June 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, 10 June 2010
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!
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!
Sunday, 6 June 2010
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.
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.
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