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!
Sunday, 29 January 2012
Tuesday, 17 January 2012
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?
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?
Friday, 16 December 2011
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.
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.
Friday, 9 December 2011
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!
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!
Tuesday, 8 November 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, 23 October 2011
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?
Tuesday, 18 October 2011
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!
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!
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