Tag Archives: Friends

A-One, A-Poo, A-One-Poo-Wee

15 Dec

This is not the band you are looking for…but last night’s band did play this wonderful piece of music

Last night I went to a brass band concert with my friend Alison.  Brass bands are as vital to celebrating Christmas as chocolates and migraine so I was glad to go.

Alison has been renovating her house, so we called early, for a tour and a brew. She lives some distance from us so the Hub drove me there, and afterwards dropped us off at the hall where the concert was taking place.

Alison dotes on our dogs and asked us to bring them along.  As it had been raining all day we carried them in, to avoid their muddy paws marking her brand new and expensive carpets.  Although the paws weren’t muddy, of course, because the dogs refuse to walk in the rain and had been indoors all day.

The dogs adore Alison, in the purest form of cupboard love there is, because she brings them sausages (cooked especially) and treats whenever she visits.  As soon as they realised the car was heading her way, they whined and cried in slavering excitement.

We had the usual mad-circle run around and hysterical barking (not all of it from the dogs: I told you, she dotes on them) and it was all too much for Molly, who wet herself in joy, right there on the new carpet.  Fortunately, Alison is tolerant of their misdemeanours and assured me that the carpet could take bleach if necessary, and a little excited piddle wouldn’t harm it.  Her husband Pete smiled benignly, as he always does, being the easiest-going man I’ve ever known.

The Hub apologised, ‘It’s our fault; they haven’t been out all day because of the rai…TOBY!  NO!’  All heads whipped around to a perfect view of Toby’s backside, also known as crouching terrier, impending poo.  The Hub grabbed the dog and ran with him for the door, and the rest of us watched the plop-plop-plop of the unstoppable excrement as it carpet bombed the, well, the new carpet (and the couch: the angle at which Toby was snatched up allowing for a sideways trajectory).

Mortified, apologetic but laughing, I cleaned up the mess while the Hub and Toby stood out in the rain in disgrace.  The carpet was easily cleaned and looked none the worse for wear.  The miscreants were allowed back in.

Drama over, we all sat down to relax and drink our tea.  I felt suddenly warm and thought, but I haven’t touched mine yet, when I realised the warmth was not a hot flush if it was emanating from my lap.  I looked down to see Molly, squatting on my knees, doing the longest wee I’ve ever had the misfortune to sit under.

We think she must have seen Toby’s flight and thought she’d be better off with Mum than on the carpet.

If you thought a brass band was loud, you should have heard my scream of horror.  I jumped up, sending Molly flying across the room without the benefit of a Hub hold, and there was complete uproar – most of it from four people laughing uncontrollably, me the loudest.  I had lost it by this point and if I wet my knickers in hysteria, at least no one would know.

Alison gave me a cloth to disinfect my pants; I had a wash; and then sat on her bedroom floor in my sweater, socks and underwear, using her hairdryer on the crotch-soaked jeans because we didn’t have time for me to go home and change before the concert.

I sat in the hall, steaming quietly and stinking of disinfectant-combined-with-Brut (to disguise any unpleasant odour), and got quietly sozzled on a bottle of wine.  

It’s okay; I knew where the toilets were.

 

 

In Which I Eat Elephant Ears

4 Apr

You may recall my post about elephant ears and what a disappointment (of sorts) it was to discover that they were not, in fact, mammoth trophies but were…well, if you don’t know, you’ll have to read the post for yourself.

Now I discover there is another kind of elephant ears: the kind you can eat! The best kind.

Don’t worry, I might not be vegetarian (shudder) but even I would balk at a pachyderm pot roast.

No, my lovely American friend Laurie, who blogs at laurieanichols, sent a surprise parcel in the post – a tin of elephant ears: homemade biscuits, so-called because of their shape.

DSCN2833

Sadly, the Hub has just been diagnosed as diabetic, so he couldn’t have any; Spud doesn’t have much of a sweet tooth, so he had a taste, approved of them, but declined to eat any more; Tory Boy lives elsewhere; and I watch my weight these days.  

I value my friendships more than my figure, however, so I manfully swallowed as many elephant ears as I could.

DSCN2836

At the risk of offending all of my other friends who have fed me homemade biscuits before, I have to apologise and say: these were the best biscuits I have ever tasted.

I will always remember them fondly.  And so will my waist.  Thank you, Laurie!

Sit There For The Presents

4 Oct

In all the excitement of Monday’s Big Birthday, I forgot to nag the Hub into taking photos.  He did take one of me at the end of the day, exhausted, on the couch; but that’s still in his camera and I’m not allowed to touch his camera because pictures have a habit of disappearing forever (and not just the fat ones).

As I don’t have photos of the Great Present Opening Ceremony (Subtitle: Gimme Gimme Gimme), I took a collective photo of all the gifts I had to hand.  I don’t know how to do that clever thing with lines and numbers and writing to show who bought what, so you’ll have to do without, I’m afraid.

The Birthday Morning Bundle

The Birthday Morning Bundle

In case you were thinking, ‘At last!  The birthday madness is over!’ I’d better explain that at the bottom of the picture is a laminated note from my friend, Louise, which promises me an afternoon at the theatre, watching Seven Brides For Seven Brothers; followed by food. She also supplied that rather large box of Maltesers.  Have I mentioned I have the best friends?

Here’s a list of the pressies, in the order in which they appear:

  • Flowers
  • Almost all of the Dr Who series
  • Notebook & Pen
  • One of those Halogen Oven thingies
  • Silver Celtic Cross
  • Hot Chocolate Maltesers, thoughtfully provided by Spud; who knows how much I miss the real thing and who thought they might be a good substitute
  • Fart Machine Mug, thoughtfully provided by Tory Boy, my ex-son
  • Large Box of Maltesers
  • Spare Ring
  • Empty Box, home of my new Eternity Ring, which was at the jewellers, being re-sized
  • £30 Amazon Gift Voucher
  • Theatre Details
  • £20 Nando’s Gift Card

Didn’t I do well?  This lot was on top of all the other generous gifts I’ve enjoyed in the run up to my birthday.

THANK YOU TO EVERYONE
who so generously donated to the cause, making fifty a big deal in the best possible way.

So, to recap: my birthday celebrations began in July and will cease at the end of October.  So much for all those celebrities with their week-long trips to exotic isles!  Four trips to the theatre and corresponding meals out over a period of four months is waaaaaaaay better.  I LOVE turning fifty!

Viv's gift.  I was wearing it when I took the photo and I forgot to include it.

Viv’s gift. I was wearing it when I took the photo and I forgot to include it.

Good news!  Looking for the photos of my gifts, I came across the pic the Hub took; he loaded it onto the computer in a pre-emptive strike against the nagging he knew was coming his way.  Good ol’ Hub.  Though not as ol’ as me.

I cain't party hearty no more; I'm OLD.

I cain’t party hearty no more; I’m OLD.

In case you were wondering: This post’s title is a slight re-write of the only thing I remember from reading Laurie Lee’s Cider With Rosie when I was at school.  Laurie starts school aged five and the teacher tells him to ‘Sit there for the present.’  Laurie waited all day but no present ever came; he was gutted; I thought it was the funniest thing I had ever read (Twilight hadn’t been written yet).

 

The Seven Stages Of Hair

28 Sep

I have to say, I love turning fifty!  I’ve been celebrating since July and it’s not over yet – it’s the birthday that keeps on giving.

My lovely friend Christine told me to keep last Saturday morning free.  She collected me at 8:30 and walked me up to her hairdresser’s, Hair @ 42 on Bloom Street in Edgeley, where I had a cut and blow and a manicure!  How annoying that I had showered in honour of our date.

Right now, Christine is on a cruise, celebrating her own birthday.  As she won’t be here for my birthday, spoiling me was the least she could do, I’m sure you’ll agree.  Christine knows I haven’t been to a hairdresser for about six years; and I’ve never had a manicure.  I have the best friends!

The idea was that we do the whole thing together – me for my birthday; Christine for her cruise – but she couldn’t get matching appointments.  She waited in the salon, however, denying boredom and taking barked-out camera direction from me, for your delectation.

Janet the Hairdresser was lovely but I’m not sure she was a real hairdresser because she wasn’t at all intimidating and she seemed genuinely interested in what I wanted done to my hair.  She was most obliging, as well, stopping to allow Christine to take a picture whenever I gave the word.  When it’s time for my next hair cut in six years’ time, that’s where I’ll be going.

The hair part was fun but the manicure was funner.  Christine knows Alison the manicurist well and we had a girly, giggly session, the likes of which I haven’t had since my teens.  I can’t tell you what was said because what happens in the nail room stays in the nail room; but I can tell you that I went to the toilet before we started (just as well, with all the giggling that followed) and I was so enthralled with my hair, admiring it in the mirror, wondering if I could ever reproduce the style, that I forgot to wash my hands.  Fortunately, I realised before I touched anything, and went back to do it.  I don’t think that has happened since I was a toddler.

Bet you wish that information had stayed in the nail room, don’t you?

The Seven Stages Of Hair

*

Disgust

(On my part, when I worked it out and then had to say it out loud)

You'll have to lose 2 1/2 inches if you want it in good condition. Six years!  Tch!

You’ll have to lose 2 1/2 inches if you want it in good condition.
Six years! Tch!

Resolution

Just do it!

Just do it!

Anxiety

Will the Hub ever speak to me again?

Will the Hub ever speak to me again?

Acceptance

Take the picture, Christine: I don't mind looking stupid.

Take the picture, Christine: I don’t mind looking stupid.

Delight

I'm being pampered!  I LOVE going to the hairdresser's!

I’m being pampered! I LOVE going to the hairdresser’s!

Vanity

Get me, all posh!

Get me, all posh!

Gratitude

Christine&Tilly Friends 4EVR

Christine&Tilly
Friends 4EVR

 

If You’re In Stockport Today, Join Us

14 Sep

Come to St Matthew’s Fun Day!

I’ll be running a poetry workshop on behalf of Stockport Writers;
it’s okay if you pretend not to see me.

image of fun day poster

 

I Stink Like Joey Tribbiani

5 Aug

Image from tumblr*

*Don’t those people know how to spell?

I have reached a point in my life – boys, you may want to look away now – when <whisper it> certain changes have begun to happen.

They are not particularly pleasant, though some make the men in my house run for cover, but they are not, so far, too dreadful.

Apart from one thing, which no one ever told me might happen (everyone run for cover now) – I stink.  I stink like Joey Tribbiani after three days’ fishing, no showers, fifteen hours’ sleep-catch-up in his clothes (I’m re-watching Friends).  I stink so bad, Charlton Heston offered me the use of his shower.

Friends (real friends; not fictional ones.  I’m menopausal, not crazy.  Though I’ve heard it’s hard for husbands to tell the difference) give me empathy and advice; my family give me a wide berth; Dictionary.com weighed in with today’s Word of the Day to explain what’s happening: it’s called hyperhidrosis, aka excessive sweating (I accidentally typed ‘excessive seating’.  I hear weight gain is another symptom).

But here’s the weird part – I only sweat in ONE ARMPIT.  I only stink in one armpit.

What’s that about?

The same armpit also burns in a mild way when I apply deodorant; though that may come from rubbing the pit raw in an effort to remove the stench.

Only half my body is affected by the change.  Is that why they call it perimenopause?

Male readers, I suggest you unsubscribe now.  The next five years are not going to be pretty.  And it’s all your fault.  Take the Hub with you while you’re at it.  

He’s begging you.

 

I’ve got a golden ticket

19 Jun

The Laughing Housewife:

Here’s my blogging friend, Kate Shrewsday. She writes fascinating articles linking weird stuff like toilets and ice cream (she may not have done that one, but it’s the kind of thing she would do).

She has the chance to go for a Britain-wide walk with her kids and dog but she needs your votes to do it.

Please take a moment to read the post and click the link to vote for her.

I promise NOT to eat a Malteser for every vote you cast (I’m on a diet and I need the motivation).

Thanks!

Originally posted on Kate Shrewsday:

Let’s just, for a moment, overlook the fact that Grandpa, in that classic first make of Roald Dahl’s Charlie and The Chocolate Factory, is not the one who has won the golden ticket.

He’s happy.

In fact, the ticket winner is little Charlie. Cheer-up Charlie. Charlie, against whom the odds were stacked so high they must surely have crushed him. Charlie, who stood for honest-to-goodness integrity in the face of gluttony, avarice and greed. Whilst others got their parents and promoters to spend outrageous sums for the one thing they could not have automatically, Charlie relied on fate to bring the golden ticket to him.

But we all join Grandpa in being elated. In incredulity that finally, just perhaps, the tide of unfortunate events might be about to change.

And of course, for Grandpa, and for Charlie, life was about to alter forever.

This does not happen in real life.

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