Tag Archives: Family

Joke 824

25 Jun
Cry baby

Cry baby (Photo credit: tacit requiem (joanneQEscober ))

Cedric watched as a woman at his supermarket shopped with a three-year-old girl riding in the child’s seat. As they approached the sweet section the little girl asked for some liquorice sticks and her mother told her, “No.”

The little girl immediately began to whine and fuss. The mother said softly, “Now Cindy, our shopping is going well. Don’t be upset…we’ll soon be out of here.”

Presently, they came to the aisle where the ice cream was on offer and the little girl asked for an ice lolly. When told she couldn’t have one she began to cry. The mother said gently, “There, there, Cindy, don’t cry. Only two more aisles to go and then we’ll be at the check out.”

When they got to the conveyor belt the little girl immediately began to demand sweets next to the checkout.  Finally she threw a tantrum when her mother would not let her have any sweets.  The mother calmed her saying, “Cindy, we’ll be through this queue in two minutes and then we can go home and have a glass of squash and a nap.”

Cedric followed them out to the car park and stopped the woman to compliment her on her child management.

“I couldn’t help admiring how patient you were with little Cindy,” Cedric said.

The mother turned and replied, “Oh, no, I’m Cindy. My little girl’s name is Dorothy.”

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From Will & Guy

Joke 523

28 Aug

 

How Could You Do This To Me, Mum?

How Could You Do This To Me, Mum? (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

This is from an email doing the rounds.  A group of primary school children were asked a series of questions.  Here are some of their answers.

Why did God make mothers?

1. She’s the only one who knows where the sellotape is.

2. Mostly to clean the house.

3. To help us out of there when we were getting born.

How did God make mothers?

1. He used dirt, just like for the rest of us.

2. Magic plus super powers and a lot of stirring.

3. God made my mum just the same like he made me. He just used bigger parts.

Why did God give you your mother and not some other mum?

1. We’re related.

2. God knew she likes me a lot more than other people’s mums like me.

3. He must have been tired that day.

What kind of a little girl was your mum?

1. My mum has always been my mum and none of that other stuff.

2. I don’t know because I wasn’t there, but my guess would be pretty bossy.

3. They say she used to be nice.

What did mum need to know about dad before she married him?

1. His last name.

2. She had to know his background. Like is he a crook? Does he get drunk on beer?

3. Does he make at least 1 million a year? Did he say NO to drugs and YES to chores?

Why did your mum marry your dad?

1. My dad makes the best spaghetti in the world. And my mum eats a lot.

2. She got too old to do anything else with him.

3. My grandma says that mum didn’t have her thinking cap on.

Who’s the boss at your house?

1. Mum doesn’t want to be boss, but she has to because dad’s such an idiot.

2. Mum. You can tell by room inspection. She sees the stuff under the bed.

3. I guess mum is, but only because she has a lot more to do than dad.

What’s the difference between mums and dads?

1. Mums work at work and work at home and dads just go to work at work.

2. Mums know how to talk to teachers without scaring them.

3. Dads are taller and stronger, but mums have all the real power ’cause that’s who you got to ask if you want to sleep over at your friend’s.

4. Mums have magic, they make you feel better without medicine.

What does your mum do in her spare time?

1. Mothers don’t have spare time.

2. She pays bills all day long.

3. She reads the paper all day.

What would it take to make your mum perfect?

1. On the inside she’s already perfect. Outside, I think some kind of plastic surgery.

2. Diet. Her hair. I’d diet, maybe blue.

3. I like her when she’s fat.

If you could change one thing about your mum, what would it be?

1. She has this weird thing about me keeping my room clean. I’d get rid of that.

2. I’d make my mum smarter. Then she would know it was my sister who did it, not me.

3. I would like for her to get rid of those invisible eyes on the back of her head.

 

Joke 250

29 Nov

One afternoon a man came home from work to find total mayhem in his house.  His three children were outside, still in their P.J.s, playing in the mud, with empty food boxes and wrappers thrown all about the front yard.  The door to his wife’s car was open, as was the front door to the house. Proceeding into the entry, he found an even bigger mess.

A lamp had been knocked over, and a throw rug was wadded against one wall.  In the front room the TV was blaring a cartoon channel, and the family room was strewn with toys and various items of clothing.  In the kitchen, dishes filled the sink, breakfast food was spilled on the counter, dog food was spilled on the floor, a broken glass lay under the table, and a small pile of sand lay piled up by the back door.

He quickly headed up the stairs, stepping over toys and other piles of clothes, looking for his wife.  He was worried that she might be ill, or worse.

He found her lounging in the bedroom, still in her pajamas, reading a novel.

She smiled, looked up at him and asked how his day went.  He looked at her bewildered and asked, “What happened here today?”

She smiled and answered, “You know every day when you come home from work and ask me what in the world did I do all day?”

“Yes,” he replied reluctantly.

She answered, “Well, today I didn’t do it.”

I Willingly Dedicate This Post To A Stranger

10 Sep

I read the funniest story today.

I try to publicise other blogs as much as possible, so long as the mentions fit the context of my post; but this is a first for me: dedicating a post to a blog I’ve read just once.  I usually read several posts, at least; get to know the blogger.  I believe in free speech but not free advertising from me for someone I wouldn’t read myself.

This particular blogger left a comment here and I did the usual polite thing of going over to say ‘hi’, and I read the most charming, amusing story about her great-grandson.  I urge you to go and read it for yourself.

If you’re still not sure, I believe her post’s title may convince you:

My Poo Poo Is Sleeping.

You can see why it appealed to me, can’t you?

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Read other Six Word Saturdays here.

101/1001 (23)

4 Sep

These updates are getting later and later.  I blame the Hub.

When people ask me, ‘Why do you always blame the Hub?’ I think of Sir Edmund Hillary’s famous quote about climbing Everest: ‘Because he’s there.’  What’s the point of marriage, if not to have a spouse to blame?  To sum up:

  • I’m late; I cry
  • Why?
  • Hub/Fall guy
  • On standby
  • Thereby
  • Not my fault I’m late
  • Great!

So, what have I been doing?  Not a lot, as it happens: Tory Boy coming home for a while meant that this week Spud and I had to excavate his room of all our junk which put me in a bad mood with the Hub because it’s really his junk and I was happy when I couldn’t see it but now it’s all over the house again and you know how I feel about a cluttered house….

I did add a new task:

Find another 64 challenges for the list.  (28/64)

Have the courage to play the drums in church.

There are several bongo drums up front in church and the children are invited to play along to the singing.  I thought about grabbing a little kid off the street because parents help the younger ones to bong, but kidnap might not be considered an act of good Christian witness, so I decided against it.  I am dying to get my hands on those drums, though.  This morning, the children were all in Sunday Club and the vicar invited the adults to have a go, but I bottled it.  Like every other adult there, as it happens.

As I cowered behind my notice sheet, I decided right then to add this task to my list, because now I have to do it when the opportunity arises again.

Submit thirty poems to competitions or publishers (11/30)

I sent off three poems this week.  I was going to up the number from (8) to (9), because they all went to the same competition, but I checked the wording of the task and it reads Submit thirty poems, not, Submit to thirty competitions.  I can always increase the number at a later date.  The good thing about setting your own tasks in this challenge is that you can cheat as much as you like.

Blog 1111 times (444/1111)

I only tell you this because I like the numbers.

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We now have eighteen members in the 101ers club, and my list to the right is sadly out of date.  I will try to update it in the week but for now, here are some links.  Mine is only included because I don’t know how else to do ‘Related Articles’.  I have a lot to learn about blogging.

I Should Just Not Talk To My Children (via Sarsm’s Blog)

31 Aug

This is the first time I have ever re-blogged a post, as I usually like to hear the sound of my own voice over everyone else’s; but Sarah’s post was so funny, I had to share it.

Akasha has just drawn a princess and a castle. She proudly guided me through her drawing. The princess is wearing a lovely crown and has her legs inside her dress. The castle has lots of windows. The one above her head looks like a heart so I asked her if it’s a heart-shaped window. She informed me that the princess has fallen in love. (She’s a right romantic, yesterday she told me that her favourite moment during the Wild West Show was when the … Read More

via Sarsm’s Blog

Newsflash: Millions Of Marriages Saved By Science

27 Aug
Inside every Silk Concept duvet you will find ...

Image via Wikipedia

The Hub is a generous man, I admit that; but even he draws the line at bedtime…usually right down the middle, indicating his (his) and hers (mine) sides of the bed.  I go to bed before him and though I always start on my side of the bed, I usually end up in the middle, wrapped in the duvet.  That wasn’t a problem when I was young and slim and living in a hot country and he didn’t want the sheet and used it to roll me over; but now…poor bloke; no wonder he’s got a back problem.

Because, of course, it’s not just the bed I hog; it’s the duvet.  I am a woman, after all; despite what my children think.

Duvets are a common cause of hostilities in most marriages: who gets how much being the obvious fight.  But a more covert battle is often waged over what thickness the duvet should be: a 4.5 tog being the thickest he’s prepared to tolerate, no matter how much it’s snowing outside; a 13 tog being my minimum requirement during summer and two of them, at least, in winter.

Him: I’m a hot-blooded male, you frigid swear word!  I need to let me bits breathe.

Her: Of course I’m freezing, you swear word; you only let me have three duvets tonight!  Oh, you said ‘frigid’?  I couldn’t hear you over my chattering teeth. That’s an argument for tomorrow, if I haven’t frozen to death in my bed.  Turn the heating up I hate August in England

Now, however, spurred on by right-wing governments and to the chagrin of divorce lawyers everywhere, scientists have come up with a simple plan to keep the Hub trapped:

[A]n invention has gone on sale that promises to end duvet wars for good.

Bedding experts at John Lewis have designed a
split-warmth quilt that is thicker on one side than the other.

It means cold fishes can snuggle down under the cosier
side, while their hot-blooded partners who regularly throw off the covers can choose the lighter option.

The article in the Johannesburg broadsheet, The Star (I always have to point that out in case anyone mistakenly thinks I read the execrable British tabloid of the same name) goes on to say:

Almost half of those questioned by the Sleep Council said snoring topped the list of complaints, but “hogging the bedclothes” came a close second.

I hope they don’t find a cure for snoring too quickly: if they take away my duvet, how else can I punish the Hub in my sleep?

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101/1001 (19) A Re-Think

5 Aug

I have been forced to re-think some of my targets because I have reached and even surpassed quite a few.  Not this first one, though; I may have set my sights a mite too high on this one:

Ride my bike twenty out of thirty days. (0/30)

Decorating, an absent child and several migraines mean I have barely been out on my new old bike; certainly not enough to say I have started this challenge.  I tell you this in an effort to shame myself into getting back in the saddle again.

Find another 64 challenges for the list.  (27/64)

I have a new challenge, inspired by Elizabeth of 1sojournal, who did it with poetry:

Find 26 unfamiliar words, one for each letter of the alphabet; then use them in a post a day for 26 days. (Words: 5/26)

Expose myself to four new experiences (3/4)

This week’s enjoyment of baking was definitely a new experience for me!

I think I set my target too low for 1001 days, so I will adjust it to twenty new experiences.

This challenge is related to

Try out three new recipes (6/3)

I didn’t expect to complete this one so soon, if at all, so I will up the target to 15.  I don’t want to put too much pressure on me; who knows when I’ll next feel like cooking?  The urge may never come around again in my lifetime.

Submit thirty poems to competitions or publishers (7/30)

I sent off a poem this week; and I plan to send another to a different competition.

The poem I sent is probably too lighthearted for the judges; but I adhered to the theme and it was free to enter, so I sent it anyway.  If only to stop Viv nagging me.

Read thirty books (15/30)

I’m already halfway through this challenge so I think I’d better up the ante to 101 books.

This week I read the last Dick Francis; and finally finished a book I started two years ago and came across when I was rearranging the bedroom in an effort to locate the power lead for my netbook.  I failed, but the book was compensation.

Called Dear First Lady, it’s a selection of letters to and from, well, American First Ladies.  A fascinating insight if you’re into that sort of thing, which I am.  And a reminder that my husband buys the most thoughtful presents in the world.  If only I would stop misplacing them.

Write 101 new poems (153/101)

We are at Day 133 of 1001 and I have already written 153 poems.  I think I may have underestimated my poem-writing capacity just a little.  As a result, this target is going up to…drum roll please…1001.  A poem a day.

Gulp.

Reach 13000 comments on my blog (11,878/13,000)

The rate at which I am reaching this one caught me by surprise.  I thought I was stretching a point by aiming for 13000.  I’m going to double it and add the number I first thought of, to make it 30,000.

Double gulp.

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As you can see, a lot of re-thinking of original targets has taken place.  Either I was unrealistic to start with, or the cake-baking success has gone straight to my head.  Time will tell.

Don’t forget to check out the other 101ers, to my right.  And we still welcome new challengers.  You should think about it – I never had so much fun doing things I mostly want to do anyway.

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101/1001 (16)

15 Jul

One task completed this week:

Manage ten real sit-ups.  (10/10)

I’ve been gradually building up from one and I reached ten a while back, but Spud told me I was doing them wrong so I had to start again.

We have been encouraging each other.  He will walk into the room and quietly ask, ‘Have you done your sit-ups today?’  The answer is always ‘No.’  He then barks at me to drop and give him three-seven-nine-whatever number I’m up to, plus one.

I did my first proper ten yesterday and I can already feel the difference in my stomach: intense pain and an inability to straighten up.

We are encouraging each other for two reasons: to get fit, and to get girls (that last bit is just him).  He has reached 50 sit-ups, 50 press-ups, morning and evening; and ten pull-ups on the crossbar of the swings in the park.  He excitedly showed his Dad and I the real lump in his bicep that has started to appear; not one of those imaginary ones we’ve been feeling since he was three.

He is also fixing up his bike and intends to ride it many miles every day.  I guess the child is serious.  Those girls had better look out: there’s a new boy in town and he’s got a bumpy bicep.

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Don’t forget to click the links on the right, under 101/1001ers, to see how everyone else is doing.  And think about joining us!

Blog And The World Laughs With You; If You’re Lucky, They’ll Help You Write It, Too

30 Jun
housewife [derogation]

Image by the|G|™ via Flickr

What have you feared that turned out to be much easier than you expected?

When Tory Boy nagged me to start a blog, I feared it was not for me.  I feared it so much it took me about eighteen months to put – I was going to say ‘pen to paper’ but I suppose it’s ‘finger to keyboard’; doesn’t have the same poetic ring to it, does it? – finger to keyboard and now, here I am, two years later, celebrating my blogaversary.

Yes, on this day in 2009, I dared to write my first post.  Here’s an extract:

I’ve just had my teenage son sort me out with my own blog; now I have to hope
1. I can think of something interesting to write and
2. I can get some people to read it.

Mission Statement: to be amusing (mission: impossible)

I don’t remember intending to be funny and yet there it is in black & white (pale grey, actually: I hadn’t learned to use the colour button then).  I guess I should have known because the blog name (which I chose) is a bit of a giveaway.

In those days, Tory Boy and Spud Bud were ‘Hur’ and ‘Spur’; I changed their names after protests from the family.  An extract from my second post:

A word of explanation: like Princess Diana I, too, have two sons, an heir and spare.  I am a Scouser, however, and although it was in another life, I still have Cilla Black Disease and can’t pronounce the ‘air’ sound in English.  To avoid embarrassing my sons more than the usual, I am going to refer to them in this blog as ‘Hur’ (first fruit of my womb, 19) and ‘Spur’ (last product of my now dried out loin, 13).

You won’t be surprised to learn that the main topic of that post was food; Maltesers were soon to follow, I’m sure; a poem appeared on Day One.

I am surprised to see how far I have come in the way of presentation: the font was pale grey and unjustified; paragraphs were long; photographs were rare.  By July 1st, however – my second day – I was already posting twice in twenty-four hours.  A warning of what was to come.

I couldn’t know then, and didn’t expect (though I did dream), that I would have so many returning visitors, as eager to laugh at the world, me, and my family, as I am; that I would have a fledgling poetry blog because I get the best audience for funny and the poems were getting in the way; that I would be posting up to four times a day and not driving visitors off; and that I would just have so much fun.  I couldn’t know, either, that you are brilliant: I say, I can’t find jokes, and you send them; I can’t think of anything to write about, and you give me prompts, topics, subjects; I can’t find enough tasks for my 101 challenge, and you tell me what to do.

So, thank you, dear readers, for sticking with me through thin and thin; and for writing half my stuff.  I can honestly say I couldn’t have done it without you.

Happy Blogaversary!

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Hair Of The Dog

26 May
Donald Trump at a press conference announcing ...

Image via Wikipedia

Arts Jobs – Wig Mistress

This email was in my inbox this morning.  I didn’t bother opening it: I didn’t want to lose the mystery of what it might be: a request from Donald Trump, perhaps?

Is that real hair?  Does anybody know?  With all of his money, he could afford a better rug, a full hair transplant or even a new hairdresser.

Words are funny, the way they conjure images.  ‘Hippopotami’ always makes me laugh, though they’re nasty creatures who kill more people than lions do.  An animal that round and ugly has no business being grumpy…oh, wait…

I was sad to discover that about hippopotami; almost as sad as when I discovered cheese & onion crisps are not considered one of the major food groups. 

Lord Goldsmith once said, ‘A man who marries his mistress creates a vacancy.’  What a jerk.  I wonder if he and Arnold Schwarzenegger know each other?

Arnold Schwarzennegger…now there’s a man who ought to be given a Brazilian by the cheated wives of America…I’ll be waxed.

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I Like Not That

18 May
like

Image by debaird™ via Flickr

Some news items that caught my eye:

A father gave his child the name ‘Like’.  

Even though – get this - ‘he actually has fewer than 120 friends on Facebook and doesn’t really care for the social networking site.’

Well that’s alright then, as long as he doesn’t want to profit from it or get his name in the media…oh, oh, wait a minute…

It’s not as if he has the excuse of being famous; we all know how stupid that makes a parent at baby-naming time: Fifi Trixiebelle, Peaches Honeyblossom, Pixie, anyone?  What were you thinking, Mr Geldof?

Maybe I’m not such a bad mother after all: ‘Tory Boy’ and ‘Spud Bud’ have a nice ring to them in comparison, don’t they?

Over in Michigan - which I have always considered to be a sensible State – a woman sold a two-year-old child on eBay. 

It appears she did it to ‘see how eBay works.’  Wouldn’t a used DVD have sufficed?  I’ve often wanted to give my children away but it never occurred to me to make a profit from them.

In case you’re worried but too lazy to click on the link, the child was removed from the woman’s care and ‘is in her mother’s custody.’ 

I must confess I’m still worried: why wasn’t she with her mother in the first place?  When I said I’ve often wanted to give my children away, what I meant was, over my dead body, rigor mortised hands clenched round their pudgy little wrists and a ‘Noooooo’ scream etched on my blue yet still attractive face.

Have sex to save the rainforests

It’s a thing, apparently.  An article in the Metro discusses ‘Eco-porn organisation F*** For Forest,’ an ‘erotic, non-profit group.’  They have 1300 members.

There is going to be a ball of some sort, at which ‘a small space where people can be exhibitionists’ will be provided.

I got this last bit from Wikipedia but you’ll have to find the link yourself because this is a family blog: In their first six months of existence the group received seed funding from the government of Norway.

You couldn’t make it up.

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Catch-Up Time

5 Apr
2009 Five Presidents, President George W. Bush...

Image by Beverly & Pack via Flickr

When did you realize you were an adult? (If you haven’t yet, when do you think you will?)

When I stop feeling the need to answer every WordPress prompt.

Imagine you get a magic gold ticket that lets you travel through space and time to see any band, or music act, living or dead, together or broken up, live at a venue near you. Who would you pick? Why?

I’d go to see The Beatles in The Cavern before they were famous, and tell my Mum to save any tickets or programmes left lying around so we could live off the sales.  That woman had no prescience.

How do you recover lost trust?

Oh, I haven’t been on a train in ages.

If you could script tonights dream, would would the plot be?

Weeelll, I’d probably start with a WordPress prompter and a wood chipper; then I’d throw in all the missing apostrophes…

What is the best gift you’ve ever received?

This question, because it allows me to trot out once again my favourite punchline.  Apologies to my long-standing readers, who must have heard it at least twice. 

I collect American political memorabilia, including the signatures of American presidents (I have no affiliation and will take the bad with the good).  One Christmas the Hub bought me a golf ball signed by President George W. Bush.  I love being able to say, ‘I have the balls of the most powerful man in the world in my hand.’

Laugh And The World Laughs With You; Snore, And You Sleep Alone

4 May

I am finally feeling better.  A good night’s sleep surely helped: the Hub and Spud kicked me into Tory Boy’s room last night, having endured The Night The Love Died on Sunday.  I slept well on Sunday, despite breathing only through my mouth.  The Hub and Spud got no sleep at all on Sunday, because I was breathing only through my mouth.  I’m not saying my snoring was bad (I wouldn’t know; I was asleep) but you know those earthquakes we keep hearing about?  Don’t be surprised to hear they have their epicentre in Stockport, England.

This post is brief because I have done nothing but sleep, or rest in bed and try to sleep, for several days; but I hope to be back to normal tomorrow.  Thank you for the kind messages; they are much appreciated.

Big Night Out For Me

15 Apr

If a cancer-stricken elderly lady knocked on your door and invited you to a party, could you say no?  Me neither. Though I did at first. 

Let me explain: I had just come in from church a couple of weeks ago (five minutes later and I’d have missed her) and there was a knock on my door and this old lady asked me, ‘Are you interested in politics?’  When I said ‘Yes’ she wept on my shoulder with relief; when I told her in reply to her next question that I was voting Conservative, she asked if she could have my baby.  We live in a strong Labour ward; there are blood and custard Labour posters all over the place.  Well, I say ‘all over the place’ but I really mean ‘in one window in a house three streets away’ because these days ‘deprived area’ doesn’t mean ‘Russian revolutionary-style activism’ but, ‘if I could be bothered to vote at all, it would be Labour because I work in a low-paid job and don’t have much money and they are the party that will look after me by taxing me to death, from birth to death and everywhere in between; besides, that’s how my parents voted and furthermore, blue doesn’t suit me.’  My old lady wanted me in the audience for tonight’s  ITV Leader’s Debate; a variety of types is needed and there aren’t many working class, Condervative-voting women around, apparently.

I have ranted about electors not bothering to elect in earlier posts so I won’t go there again, but I read a post yesterday that irritated me because it pointed up my inadequacies as a concerned voter: check out http://cubiksrube.wordpress.com/2010/04/14/democracy-in-the-uk/ and he will show you how the work of engaging voters should be done – by appealing to their inclination to do it all from home if they are going to do it at all.  It is a really useful guide to this election.

Perhaps that is why the big media networks are so excited about the debates; it’s a way to interest a largely apathetic electorate.  If we had X Factor-type shows where the duckhouse builders were voted out in the early rounds, it might be more interesting; it would certainly get a bigger turnout.  I think it might have to be proportional representation instead of first-past-the-post politics, however, or we could lose a leader who’s having an off-night, because some perform better than others (naming no names).  That’s what politics is really all about these days: who performs well in the media; who looks good.  You can pass all the anti-discriminatory legislation in the world, but these days, I don’t see any polio-stricken, wheelchair-bound candidates applying for the job of Prime Minister of the UK or President of America; do you?  It’s why I nag Tory Boy to visit the dentist regularly: he’ll never get elected with manky teeth.  They are lovely, actually; and they’d better stay that way or it won’t be just the media making fun of him…Britain’s not gallant.

America has had leaders’ debates for fifty years, but this is our first one (of three).  I almost turned down the opportunity to be in the audience because of the logistics of getting there: three buses and a ten-minute walk.  It’s not getting there so much, but travelling home late at night.  I can’t rely on the Hub being well enough to taxi me around so I always have to assume he can’t, make contingency plans, and cross my fingers that his M.E. won’t be our foe that day.  As it happens, he has had a rough week and he is feeling it, so I will get the buses to Granada Studios and he will rest all day so that he can collect me.  It’s only 23 minutes away but that’s a round-trip of an hour with waiting; it’s too much for him to do that twice today.  Who knew M.E. was the enemy of the voting classes? 

I wonder how the leaders (I keep wanting to add the words ‘Our Glorious’ to that, though I am not at all Orwellian) are travelling to Manchester?  Not by air, I hope.  Iceland, not content with losing millions of our British money, has allowed a volcano to erupt and thus stop those Brits with any money left from going on holiday to recover.  A cloud of volcanic ash is snaking across Britain six kilometers above us, forcing flights to be cancelled.  Britain is not amused.  Questions will be asked tonight, I’m sure; demands to know why the Government has not acted on the issue of erupting volcanoes in foreign countries spoiling British holidays.

I doubt if I’ll get a chance to ask a question: I’m not going on holiday, for a start.  But I heard someone say that, as the debate is only ninety minutes long, it’s likely that there will only be time for eight questions to be asked and answered.  If the audience is one hundred strong – though I think it might be bigger – that gives me an 8% chance.  I’m not holding my breath.

Back to my story: the lady at the door was drooping so I invited her in while we filled out the inevitable paperwork.  It was then that she told me how peeved she was that she couldn’t attend the debate as a hostess because she was having ugly stuff cut from her stomach today.  It was only after she left with my personal details (including passport number) that it occurred to me that it could have been an elaborate scam to steal my money and identity.  Seventeen phone calls from ITV regarding security, questions I might wish to pose, and whether I have any metal body parts later and my fears were eased.  The ticket arrived on Tuesday and, barring a last-minute hiccup when my stolen identity reveals me to be an Icelandic banker and thus persona non grab me in the face and smash me with a useless airline charter, I should be taking my seat around seven tonight.  If you are watching, look out for me: I’ll be the woman in black hiding the right side of her face with straightened hair.  I haven’t had my glasses fixed yet; I should have gone to Specsavers.

*

8

Yesterday’s prompt was to write a ‘cleave’ poem: it’s a fusion of two vertical poems to make one horizontal one.  I wrote one last year as part of my South Africa collection, though I didn’t know then there was a name for the form:

*

Anti-Apartheid Movement

 * 

crazy in love,

                                they see through

a fervid haze. 

                                razing unjust laws,

passion scars, grazes

                                false cultural ideals. 

black and white

                                race to connect,

skin on skin;

                                ignoring political sin.

*

*

*

Here’s a little other poem so that I have something new to post to fulfill the terms of the napowrimo agreement (write a poem every day):

*

Old Habits
*
I used to read
Before babies
Before study
Before I forgot to

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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