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.

The Path to Enlightenment (via Tesco's)

Got an Alexander Technique lesson today. At the library. Free. Gonna have to nick my daughters camping mat, and wear black trousers.

Now I don't mind this, obviously. I signed up for it and everything. But also my heart sinks. Have to tidy the whole of the house before I go.

No-one's ever demanded this of me. Even when the children were little, Husband never used to say a word about the Teletubby floor puzzles and upturned beakers that greeted him when he came in. But somehow I have to.

Beds made, Shoe rack and coats tidied (a vital and underrated hallway factor), washing up and floor swept. Luckily I don't have to blacken the fireplace or clean the silver. But I like it to be nice for when kids and Husband walk in.

Think it goes back to when I was a child. My home being a shithole and that. Bed never made, lino never swept, the settee never cleared. So demoralizing to come back to. Think my mum couldn't be arsed. She never went to work or anything.

I like reading about the fifties and sixties and that. When housework really was a full-time occupation. When it was more laborious. Monday would be laundry, Tuesday ironing, Wednesday baking day, Thursday floor cleaning and Friday was polishing. Good days them!

When the children were toddlers, one day a week we would go round to my mate's who had a child of similar age. We would trash her house good and proper, and return to a serene and immaculate home. Of course it never stayed that way for long. Especially round teatime, but somehow it was soothing pshcologically. (can never spell that bloody word!).

And to return the favour, she would come round to me and do that same. Fair do's and all that.

Anyway, it would be suicidal to discover enlightenment at the local library, then come back to crusted oven dishes and that.

Will they let me smoke in there?

Mean that most sincerely....

Well. Watch that Hughie Green play, don't I. The one where he's played by Trevor Eve. All the memories of ITV dross coming flooding back. I remember Mr Green doing his nut, in 1971, when Myra Hindley went out for a walk over Hampstead Heath (on loan from Holloway). Shouting and raving the silly bugger was. All I wanted was to see if Bobby Crush had won again!

Probably '71 was really the last time I watched Opportunity Knocks. I don't remotely recall Lena Zaboroni or anyone.

Anyway, I get the book on Ebay, don't I. Hughie and Paula, Their Tangled Lives by his son Christopher Green. Expecting to keep hold of it for about a week, then passing it on to my mum.

Can't put the bloody thing down, can I! Two people I hadn't the remotest interest in before, are suddenly urgent and fascinating.

Supposed to be writing, yet all I can hear is Hughie calling for me. Pick me up, read some more, the ghostly voice wails. Never thought you were anything but a silly sod, I wail back. But my words are hot air, no more. He has me right by the armpits. Just like he did in '71.....

In fact, what am I doing on here......?

Round The Elephant & Castle!

Where are we now? Christmas, or somewhere? Oh yeah, Easter.


Don't think much of it so far! Yesterday, my mate said she'd pay me if I helped her load these pictures into a storage place in South East London. Well, did I see any money? Did I, shite!


The only thing I enjoyed was going to South London in an Addison-Lee cab thing. I have to say, that Elephant & Castle place hasn't seemed to have changed since I last went there in 1972. On a Red Rover thing on a bus. Still the same grey sort of sprawl, and people walking around looking bloody miserable! Kensal Rise and this place, we ended up at. Seemed exciting at the time. But then, so did Harlow once!


I hate those storage units! They're so spooky! Corridors and corridors of yellow doors and eerie silence. Any number of zombies could walk round them undisturbed. Or a simple common-garden murderer!


Anyway, one bad back later, and swollen wrists, and I'm still just as skint! Son wants a tenner to go out with. Can anyone lend me such a thing? There might be some change down the back of your sofa, I could use perhaps? You'll get it back later. Much later.

Out - Now!

My little girl (nearly 15) has been made a prefect. Tears of joy reached my eyes on having heard such news. Something I and Husband have never been, and Son never likely to. Already she has reported me for smoking, and chucked me out of the toilet. Bless her! They don't appoint you any more, it seems. You apply for the role, with a form and everything. Jings! I said at the time, its not a job, you know. At our school, you became a prefect the moment you entered the sixth form. Just had to turn up for that one! But our sixth form was very small, like most schools then, jobs being so much easier for school leavers to get and everything. However, in the fifth year, you could be chosen to be a Sub-prefect! (Whatever the hell that was!) It really was a golden finger that pointed at you then. One that didn't point at me, but at my mate next to me. I still remember my eyes stinging red, and the fact that the bitch had got one over on me yet again. "I see you haven't made the grade.", our drama teacher drawled at me, and the others who were not asked. Carlton cigarette smoke blowing out of her huge nostrils. Bitch ! Whore ! Anyway, my mate gave the badge back, saying she wasn't turning out first years who were blue with cold. She was trying to impress this stupid boyfriend of her's, who was at art school or something. The truth was, she couldn't be arsed. I'm over it now, I really am. erm.... sob! (oh no, not again....)

Fat Men

Mien Gott! Took my clothes off in a changing room of a well-known shop today! Lordy! What a grim sight stood before me in that mirror! Bloody hell! Diet for me! Even when I put on this pretty dress - a sort of retro floaty one - I did not resemble that blonde one from Mad Men, as I naively thought I would. You know, Don Draper's ex-wife. I mean, I've got the same blonde hair...... Mind you, I'm sick of Mad Men now. The novelty that they smoke and drink anywhere has worn off for me. Once Don Draper got engaged to his secretary, and Roger lost his witty charm, the infactuation waned. Its gone to Sky Atlantic now anyway. And we don't have that one. Us being tight and everything. Husband in tears because that curvy woman, Joan's not gonna be in it anymore. Good riddance, I say. Four series - sorry, seasons has said it all really. Got to tell my mum I don't want an Easter Egg this time. Not after the debacle last year when she gave my nephew a far bigger one than me. I'm holding a grudge, and I don't care. Shame really, all those happy past Easters swept aside by one thoughtless gesture. But that's how it goes really. Lovely sunny memories of past pets ie rabbits and fish, all buying me eggs from each of them, little china mugs and egg cups that I've kept for years, just blown away. Never mind, eh? She can give me money though if she wants. Quite fancy that film, Logans Run. No, its not been remade like Husband thought. I am referring to that one with Jenny Agutter and Michael York, the one from the early to mid seventies. My mate told me the plot the other day. Have any readers fancied films that are nearly 40 years old? And have only just had the plot explained to them? There's a Superking Light in it for them. Answers on a postcard please.