Dear Mr Policeman, My Husband Didn't Kill Me; I Promise

I woke up this morning to find myself being garrotted.  It wasn’t the Hub reaching snapping point at my sound barrier-breaking snores, but my hair, entangled in my necklace.  I must have been tossing in my sleep and it wound tighter and tighter.  I think it was the unusual absence of my snoring that woke me (it’s hard to expel air if you’re not taking any in).   It’s my own fault; I was too tired to plait.

The experience set me thinking that if it happens again and I don’t wake up for good next time, given how I traduce the poor Hub on this blog, he would be the number one suspect.  If I’m cross with him when I accidentally murder myself, then that’s okay; but if he has been a sweetiepiedollbabe (plaiting my hair before bed; insisting that I make myself a cup of tea to relax), then it would upset me.  Of course, I’m not saying there aren’t days when I might provoke him to it, but he is a master of restraint.  And he doesn’t have the energy.  You see: try hard enough and there’s always a silver lining to an M.E. cloud. 

Talking of killing people: we were chatting to a woman last night who told us about her clapped-out car with the brakes that you had to pump several times to get them to work; she said she deliberately left them like that in case ‘a couple of tw*ts stole it; be their own fault if they hit a wall.‘  Pity that she forgot to mention it to her new boyfriend the first time he drove it….

We were talking to her at the 21st party we attended last night.  We had to leave early to collect the boys.  We were going to go back with them – great food and a lot of TB’s old mates to visit with – but it took us ten minutes to get to Old Trafford cricket ground and an hour and ten to leave it – and the hour took us only around the block.

Spud had such a good time at the Muse concert all he could manage was a dull ‘Yuh’ when we asked if he’d enjoyed himself.  Apparently, being hit in the back of the head by flying debris (Tory Boy) and drenched in flying beer (Spud) is all part of the fun.  The bands – there were three support acts, including Band of Skulls and The Editors, she added nonchalantly – all sang like their albums (not a given: remember Madonna at Live Aid…?) and they didn’t complain when drunks in the crowd hurled booze missiles onto the stage.

Spud reckons this was filmed directly behind him:

The boys were close enough to have a good view but not close enough to be flattened, although Spud is wandering around the house this afternoon in his pyjamas, shattered from his experience – being buffeted by an ocean of 14,000 bodies will do that to a fourteen year old boy.  Not too many bruises, thankfully; though we had been warned to expect them.   What he was when he came in, was starving.  Both boys were.  I had given them a hearty lunch before they left but they were out for nine hours, with little to drink and nothing at all to eat.  That was how I came to be cooking up a storm at midnight last night; luckily, I can whip up toast and cereal in my sleep.

Once he’d eaten and we had all wished him a Herry Birthmas (TB invented that one), I went to bed.  You know you’re old when your children tuck you in.

*

The theme for Writer’s Island this week is breakthrough.   We had a breakthrough just this morning: Toby and Molly lay side by side on the back step, having had a hearty sniff of each other’s nether regions (if you are new to my blog, I had better explain that Toby and Molly are my dogs, not my children).  Until today, Toby has run away when Molly gets too close, so we are all delighted.  It doesn’t take much to make a Tilly Bud happy.

I already have some poems on a similar theme (see below), though there is a very loose connection; if you want to see some new ones on the theme by all kinds of writers, take a look at http://writersisland.wordpress.com/2010/09/04/prompt-19-for-2010-breakthrough/

This one was written for napowrimo:

A Light Bulb Moment

You are old, said my child;
your face is wrinkled;
your hair is grey,
your neck all crinkled.
And what is that awful smell?
Have you tinkled?

Suddenly,
I know there’s another option:
I won’t kill myself –
I’ll put him up for adoption.

*

Then there was a physical breakthrough last year:

It Was A Nine Days’ Wonder

It was a nine days’ wonder:
protection torn asunder
when two unknowns gate-crashed
a Presidential bash –
a dreadful White House blunder.

*

This next one is a bit naughty and describes a breakthrough of quite another kind:

Constipation
For David, Who Inspired It

Turtle head
Turtle head
Peek out from your cosy bed
Change your mind
Stay home instead
Don’t torment me
Turtle head

*

I’ll let you go now, as I’m sure you are thinking of making a breakthrough of your own by this time.  Have a lovely day/night.

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