Archive | March, 2010


31 Mar

I lost my diamond ring this morning. I remember rubbing it yesterday, à la Aladdin, but I woke up today and it was gone. I looked in the bed, the bin and the bathroom. I had the place upside down. I love that ring. It was a birthday gift from the Hub fourteen years ago. It has one large stone and two narrow baguette-cut stones set in gold. The only time I take it off is when I shower because I’m afraid of losing it. I have been doing the opposite of dieting so I knew it could not have slipped off my finger while I slept because of weight loss. Having looked in all the likely places followed by all the unlikely places, I flopped on the bed in despair, turned on my side to sulk, and saw it on my bedside table, hiding behind a scrunchie. The Hub thinks I must have taken it off in the night, but why would I do that? It must be another of those odd moments of mine.

If we lived in South Africa we could have blamed the maid. I wonder how many poor women have been unfairly dismissed over the years because the madam is going a bit doolally? At least that doesn’t happen in Britain. I was a bridesmaid at my brother’s first wedding (by his fourth wedding I didn’t even bother attending, just replaced the gift label I had written for his short-lived third) and received a silver necklace as a reward (for having to wear a brown and orange dress – it was the Seventies, though I’m not convinced that’s a real excuse for dressing me as a milkmaid) and I put the necklace on a shelf one day and it was never seen again. That’s why I never falsely accused anyone who ever worked for me when I lost something: it was obviously taken by the fairies.

Toby has lost some of his fear, I’m happy to report. We have had him over a year now and we have walked him every day except Christmas Day and one time when it rained so hard he refused to leave the house, so he is becoming slowly socialised with people and other dogs. He met a girl Yorkie this afternoon and, being fortuitously backed up against a wall because we were at the shops, waiting for the Hub, he could do nothing except wag his tail and allow her to sniff him. Even allowing for the fact that she was a very pretty girl Yorkie, it was a real breakthrough because he did not curl his lip, for the first time ever on meeting another dog – even Penny, a granny Yorkie who walks at three paces an hour because of the arthritis and can hardly see and of whom Toby is terrified (mind you, we’ve all had Nans; they can be pretty scary, can’t they? I remember mine frogmarching my then-sixteen year old brother around her flat because he had told her she couldn’t). Penny’s gait suits Mrs Booth, her ancient owner. We see them walking whenever we go out. It can be any time of day and there they are, chasing snails. The Hub reckons they don’t actually live in a house, just circle the streets each day, chatting to the neighbours. The local kids affectionately call them ‘Mrs Booth and the dog that doesn’t move.’ They are both so old that I think they keep each other alive, and when one goes it is likely that the other will follow shortly after. They are so slow I will probably overtake them on the way to my afterlife.

A shopkeeper lost an umbrella today. The Hub had gone into a…I don’t know what kind of shop it was: not a pound shop, because the umbrella cost £2; I think it would have been called a chandlers in the old days, selling all the funny bits that people want and need and a lot of tat that people don’t want and don’t need but buy on impulse or because the kids are pestering them. A girl of about eleven walked past the outside display with her dad and picked up a yellow umbrella. Dad was walking quickly on ahead and she shouted, ‘Dad, can I have this?’ ‘Bring it wi’ ya,’ he said, and she did. Just walked away with it. I’m not certain if she thought she had done anything wrong but she did look back at me for a moment. She kept it, though, along with her cool as she strolled off with the swag, following her dad into the greengrocer’s.

I didn’t know what to do. I was astounded, to be honest, and my mouth was open so wide if it had rained, I’d have drowned. Perhaps I should have yelled, ‘Stop, thief!’ but it is Wednesday and I don’t like being beaten up on Wednesdays; it spoils the week. I couldn’t go into the shop to tell the owner because I had Toby with me: dogs aren’t allowed in and I respect authority so it didn’t occur to me until later that the shopkeeper would probably not have minded this once. Fortunately, the Hub came out just then and I told him what had happened and he went straight back in and told the owner. The owner stood outside the greengrocer’s and checked through the window that the guilty pair still had the loot, but he doesn’t like being beaten up on Wednesday’s either, so he thanked us and went back to consult his cctv.

What else could he do? The item cost £2; a child stole it. Assuming she and her father were apprehended, she would be let off with a telling-off at most – and that’s debatable; he would not even have been admonished. I can’t help thinking that, in a country where theft is treated so casually by one party and so resignedly by the other, with witnesses looking fearfully on and the legal system looking the other way altogether, everyone is the loser.

Supermarket Singing

30 Mar

Supermarket car parks are generally unpleasant places: cars loaded with BOGOFs that will often go uneaten because they pass their sell-by date, try to run down pensioners with their one carrier bag, forced to walk to the bottom end of the car park because selfish, fit middle-aged men park their Beamers in the disabled spaces.  But not on Palm Sundays in this corner of Stockport, for that is the day that local church congregations come together for thirty minutes and sing joyful hymns to bemused shoppers.

The tradition was started a couple of years ago by our previous vicar, but we had a donkey then: the incredibly good-natured and beautiful twenty-five year old Jenny Donkey, hired to lead us where we might not otherwise have followed.  I have done some bizarre things in my life, but I think following a donkey to Morrisons was the most peculiar, and yet amazingly good fun. 

 This is a Jenny Donkey but not our Jenny Donkey. 

It is a ten-minute walk behind a placid donkey from our starting point at St John’s Church, to get to Morrisons’ car park and meet up with the Salvation Army Band.  Their presence surprised me, the first year, because I thought they only came out at Christmas.  That first Palm Sunday, hymn sheets were passed out and everyone seemed to have a good time singing along.  We quickly got through the printed hymns and had to dredge from memory the words to the familiar tunes that followed: as each person knew some songs better than others, the best that can be said was that a joyful noise was made unto the Lord.

The bravest among us (not me, obviously) handed out palm crosses to the shoppers.  It helps to have a child along because even the most harassed of people will mind their language in front of a five-year old.  To be fair, many shoppers were happy to listen to the singing whilst their children stroked Jenny Donkey and fed her Polo Mints, and I only heard one complaint about donkey spit on the clothes – fortunately, from my own child.

The festive atmosphere had an international feel because we not only had people from many different denominations but also from different countries, including America and Zambia.  Each church made its own contribution to the event: as a sample, the Salvation Army provided the wonderful music which, with our usual British reserve, we were all too embarrassed to applaud, much as we wanted to, in case total strangers saw us being slightly exuberant in public; St Matthew’s brought real palm leaves; and my church provided the donkey mints.

We are in our third year now and have sadly lost the vicar (pastures new) and the donkey (pastor unfortunately took the owner’s contact details with her), but the singing is better.  The shoppers’ stupefied looks remain, however: some traditions never die.

I Wish I’d Remembered To Tighten The Bottle Cap Before I Shook The Gravy Browning

27 Mar

Early onset of dementia or a lifetime habit of doziness?  You decide. 

I keep doing little jobs like bringing in a cup of tea or turning on the dishwasher, then realising I have no memory of it happening.  How weird is that?  I peeled an apple for the gerbil then threw it in the bin (the apple, not the gerbil; but you are wise to ask).   I’d like to think it’s because my head is in the poetic clouds forming literary masterpieces but the truth is my head is more often in the prosaic clouds forming questions like, ‘Will it rain if I hang out the washing?’

I am only 46 so I suspect it’s not really dementia; which leaves me with the conclusion that I am perennially dozy and I need a project to focus my mind.  I miss studying.  I think this particular behaviour has only manifested itself since I finished my degree and it will go away again if I have something to do.*

*Now to contradict myself:

By the way, the incident of the title happened when we were first married and was a joint effort – I forgot to tighten the cap of the bottle before I gave it to the Hub to shake.  Our kitchen walls looked like something Jackson Pollock might have painted when he was having a funny tummy day.



People who say it cannot be done should not interrupt those who are doing it.  Anonymous.

People who say it should not be done have obviously just come across their first Jackson Pollock painting.  Tilly Bud.

Thinking about it, it is early onset of dementia: I got married at twenty-one – how crazy is that?  The Hub was twenty – Tory Boy’s almost-age.  No wonder my mother went nuts. 

Ahh, that explains everything: it’s genetic.  If you want evidence, just listen to what my boys did this week:  Spud Bud was playing football and scored a hat trick.  His celebration was to slide along the ground on his knees.  Trouble is, he forgot he was playing on astroturf… <wince>.

Tory Boy was invited to a party where he didn’t know anyone except his flatmate.  Tory Boy wore his favourite granddad shirt, similar to this one:


He got funny looks all night and he couldn’t help wondering if it was because he was the only non-Indian there.  Finally, his Indian flatmate took him to one side to ask him if he had worn the Nehru shirt to try to fit in, because it really wasn’t necessary and could even be considered a little patronising…


Fortunately, everyone saw the funny side once TB explained, and it was a good icebreaker.  But it just goes to show

  1. No matter what our background, we are all the same, really.
  2. Dopey is as dopey does.
  3. I have bad genes and my children are paying for it.

Will Smith: An Apology

26 Mar

  Dear Will, I’m sorry we are both happily married to other people because, with your ears and my size we’d have been perfect for a remake of ‘Dumbo’.  Love, Tilly Bud.

I love Will Smith; he’s a natural actor and incredibly funny.  I declare today Will Smith Day, for no other reason than it gives me an excuse to think about him.  I loved him in The Fresh Prince of Bel Air.  I didn’t know then that he was a rap star and I often wondered about the funny little fellow who couldn’t act who kept making guest appearances (DJ Jazzy Jeff, his rap partner). 

My two favourite movie lines of all time are Will Smith’s in Independence Day, and they both occur in the scene where he and Jeff Goldblum are attempting to plant the virus that will wipe out the alien invaders: ‘We have got to work on our communication’ and ‘I ain’t heard no fat lady!’   Doesn’t sound interesting flat on the screen like that, I know; it is definitely one of those moments where you had to be there.  Like Frank Carson, it’s the way he tells ’em.   If you haven’t seen Independence Day – what is wrong with you?  I have seen it about twenty times.

Do you know what?  I have seen ID about twenty times and it has just occurred to me: what happened to the dog?  Remember how Jasmine risked her and her son’s lives to call Boomer in the tunnel when Los Angeles was being blown up?  And he was in the truck when she was driving around saving what was left of the population?  Boyfriend turns up to rescue her and all of a sudden – no dog.  He’s never seen again in the movie.  

Does anyone know if Will Smith claims to be vegetarian? 

I saw Mr Smith in an interview and he described how, after his first record went platinum or he won Grammy awards or something, he went home and told his Mom and she said, ‘Yes, very nice, now go and get some milk; we’ve run out.’   With a mother like that no wonder he’s grounded.

Speaking of mothers, I am a bereft one.  Tory Boy has not come home for the Easter holidays because he is out canvassing for the prospective Parliamentary candidate for Lancaster.  If he’s not careful, he won’t get a good degree because he’s too busy living the politics to study it.   He has promised to come home for his birthday in April (presumably because there will be presents), so I have that to look forward to.   That, and my forthcoming movie, in which large blonde dogs band together and betray humanity to an alien species.  I call it Independence Day: Boomer’s Revenge.  Tagline: The Day The Dogs Bit Back. 


First Milestone

25 Mar

5000 views: that’s the total I reached the other day.  I’m chuffed; since starting this blog last June, I have had 4997 views from people who are not obliged to listen to me.

This blogging business is addictive, as those subscribers who cursed at receiving three emails in one day will probably agree.  I refuse to give it up, however: how else is it possible to say what you like, when you like and receive instant feedback in the form of rising stats and congratulatory comments?  It shouldn’t be called ‘blogging’, it should be called ‘egostroking’.

Ogden Nash was a surprise hit as far as my stats were concerned; but the best thing was my discovery that I needed new glasses: lordemmanuel found his way to the Nash post and kindly commented, ‘Nice posts. I Love the fact you put about yourself too. Really real.’  But what I read was – and it gives a whole new meaning to the phrase, ‘Nice posts’ – ‘I Love the fact you put yourself about too.’ 

I have set myself the target of reaching 10,000 views by the end of the year.  Any suggestions as to what I should write about to make it happen? 

Two More Bits

24 Mar

Defenestration.  Sounds like something that might be a bit naughty, doesn’t it?  It is, in a way.  It is the act of throwing a person out of a window.  Isn’t it bizarre that there should be a word for it?  I can understand words like knifing, shooting, tickling, but defenestrating?  It’s not even as threatening as it ought to be: tell someone you’re going to to knife them or throw them out of a window and the old bladder will start tickling, but how terrified would you be if someone told you, ‘Give me your Barbie doll collection, Ken, or I’m going to defenestrate you’?  I’m thinking not much.*


I remembered this morning that I haven’t shared the poem that Spud wrote for Mother’s Day, so here it is in all its wonderful glory and iffy spelling, excluding the ink blotches:


What more can I say, you brighten up my day.

When the school day starts, your cooking skills are sharp.

Crumpets, cereal or toast, I’ve got right to boast.

I know raising me is hard, which is why I got you an expensive card.

Of all the things you do, there’s no way I could re-pay you,

But wearing my SGS crest, I’ll just have to do my best.

When I’m feeling down, you’re there to kill my frown,

And when my mood is up, you’re there to back me up.

Then on Christmas day you get me a TV-A.

Forever making me the perfect ever Tea.

I love it when we talk, as we go for walks.

I love you oh so much and your special motherly touch.

You’ll be there when I’m shy, and if I need to cry.

I hope you’re always happy and never feeling crappy.

And when I’m old and grey and on my dieing day,

I’ll look back to when I was a kid and thankyou for all you did.




 You can see why I spent the morning of Mother’s Day blubbing into my Maltesers.



*Habit of a lifetime, I’m afraid.








Two Bits

23 Mar

We had a good laugh tonight. Just as we were about to sit down to dinner, the Hub’s mobile rang. The Hub was washing his hands so I answered, thinking it would be Tory Boy because he is the only person who phones his Dad, Hubbynomates. No, it was one of those overseas cold callers, trying to not sell us debt relief. Unfortunately, I was too slow to hang up when I heard the giveaway pause so I was stuck listening to him. Unless I am in a rare foul mood, I can’t be rude to these annoying people who are just trying to make a living.

Hearing my uninterested ‘Uh-huh’s and noticing the tears running down my cheeks as my dinner went cold, the Hub tipped me the wink and suddenly began screaming, ‘You think you can steal my phone and get away with it I’ll show you,’ along with thud and punch sound effects. Next thing I know, I’m screaming as if he’s beating me up.

What did our cold caller do? He hung up! No policeman called or came to our door to arrest the Hub and cart me off in ambulance. I could have done with one; it hurt to laugh so much.


I have been having a dopey couple of weeks. I noticed this morning that the fabric softener I have been using is, in fact, soap powder. I call it ‘soap powder’ because no-one knows what I mean when I say ‘soap liquid.’ Whatever it is, it can’t be very good quality because I have obviously been rinsing my clothes by washing them again, and there’s no residue that we’ve noticed. That’s 99p I won’t see again.

Ogden Nash

22 Mar

I love Ogden Nash.  In honour of the Spring Equinox (March 20/21) I will share this poem which he didn’t write:

Spring is sprung, the grass is ris.
I wonders where the birdies is.
They say the birds is on the wing.
Ain’t that absurd?
I always thought the wing was on the bird.


He did write this one:

Ode To A Baby

A bit of talcum
Is always walcum.

And this:

The Shrimp

A shrimp who sought his lady shrimp
Could catch no glimpse
Not even a glimp.
At times, translucence
Is rather a nuisance.

I Didn’ Raise Him To Be No Fool

21 Mar

Tory Boy is an idiot. Don’t get me wrong, I love the child but, seriously, breaking into another hall of residence? What was he thinking?

Let me explain: TB was taking a break from essay writing at three in the morning (hmm). He was chatting outside his residence in the middle of the night to another student, presumably also taking a break from essay writing (yeah, right). They became aware of an acrid smell and a vapour coming from a building across the way. They went to investigate. The kitchen window was obscured by smoke. They decided it was on fire.

Did they call the fire brigade immediately? This is where the idiot part comes in so you might guess that the answer is ‘no’. No, because ‘there are only five fire engines in the area and they might have been busy and it takes them half-an-hour to get here’ – all the more reason to make it your first action, then! They did have the good sense to call the porter, whose mother had clearly raised him correctly because he called the fire brigade.

TB & nameless, genderless friend then attempted to rouse the occupants. Someone let them in through the front door but they had to use their secret knowledge of halls of residence locked doors (I’m afraid to ask) to break in to wake everyone up. They also had to cover their mouths and noses with wet cloths to avoid choking. At least I taught him something he paid attention to.

Turns out it was a smouldering pan. Someone either came back drunk and wanted to cook sausages and forgot halfway through and went to bed; or they were cooking their dinner and forgot to turn off the stove and went to bed.

I’m pleased that my boy has the gumption to try and save lives; I just wish he’d use the common sense he was born with and with which his mother tried to stuff him as he was growing up. You should always call the emergency services first. As the Hub pointed out, if it had been more serious and they had been overcome, the fire brigade wouldn’t have known to look for them and this would have been a very different post.

TB says it’s not as big a deal as it sounds and no-one was hurt, and, yes, he did have a shower afterwards and made sure he could breathe properly and will you please leave me alone, Mother? I’ve been up all night writing – and discussing – essays and I need to catch up on some sleep.

He must think I’m an idiot.

The Queen, The President & The Rather Naughty Horse

20 Mar

I read this years ago and I have always wanted to share it.  It is supposed to be a true story;  you’ll have to decide for yourself.  I soooo hope it is.

The Queen was entertaining a visiting head of state; they were parading down the Mall in a horse-drawn carriage, chatting nicely, when one of the horses made what can only be described as a rude noise.

QEII: I’m so sorry about that.

HoS: Please don’t apologise; if you hadn’t said anything, I’d have assumed it was the horse.

Today Is World Tedium Day

19 Mar

To relieve it, I have gathered together some funny, interesting and dull stuff.  You can thank me by reciprocating in your comments with your own interesting facts. 

Children are a great comfort in your old age — and they help you reach it faster, too.   Lionel Kauffman.

One thing they never tell you about child raising is that for the rest of your life, at the drop of a hat, you are expected to know your child’s name and how old he or she is.   Erma Bombeck.

Somewhere on this globe, every ten seconds, there is a woman giving birth to a child. She must be found and stopped.  Sam Levenson.

 The longest war in history was between The Netherlands and The Scilly Isles.  It ended in 1986 after 335 years.

Peanuts are an ingredient of dynamite.

A sneeze travels at over 100mph.

The shortest war in history was between Zanzibar and England in 1896. Zanzibar surrendered after 38 minutes.

The names of the continents start and end with the same letter.

Check out this link: 

You cannot lick your elbow (yes, I know it’s an old one but I promised you dull stuff).

When glass breaks, the cracks move faster than 3,000 miles per hour. To photograph the event, a camera must shoot at a millionth of a second.

The only word in the English language to end in ‘mt’ is ‘dreamt’.

People laugh on average thirteen times a day.

The sun is 330,330 times larger than the earth.

Polar bears are left-handed.

Honolulu is the only place in the United States that has a royal palace.

Babies are born without kneecaps.


Being a parent changes everything. But being a parent also changes with each baby. Here are some of the ways having a second and third child is different from having your first.

Your Clothes

1st baby: You begin wearing maternity clothes as soon as your pregnancy is confirmed.
2nd baby: You wear your regular clothes for as long as possible.

3rd baby: Your maternity clothes ARE your regular clothes.

Preparing for the Birth

1st baby: You practice your breathing religiously.

2nd baby: You don’t bother practicing because you remember that last time, breathing didn’t do a thing.

3rd baby: You ask for an epidural in your 8th month.

The Layette

1st baby: You pre-wash your newborn’s clothes, color-coordinate them, and fold them neatly in the baby’s little bureau.

2nd baby: You check to make sure that the clothes are clean and discard only the ones with the darkest stains.

3rd baby: Boys can wear pink, can’t they?


1st baby: At the first sign of distress – a whimper, a frown-you pick up the baby.

2nd baby: You pick the baby up when her wails threaten to wake your firstborn.

3rd baby: You teach your 3-year-old how to rewind the mechanical swing.


1st baby: If the dummy falls on the floor, you put it away until you can go home and wash and boil it.

2nd baby: When the dummy falls on the floor, you squirt it off with some juice from the baby’s bottle.

3rd baby: You wipe it off on your shirt and pop it back in.


1st baby: You change your baby’s nappies every hour, whether they need it or not.

2nd baby: You change their nappy every 2 to 3 hours, if needed.

3rd baby: You try to change their nappy before others start to complain about the smell or you see it sagging to their knees.


1st baby: You take your infant to Baby Gymnastics, BabySwing, and Baby Story Hour.

2nd baby: You take your infant to Baby Gymnastics.

3rd baby: You take your infant to the supermarket and the dry cleaner.

Going Out

1st baby: The first time you leave your baby with a sitter, you call home 5 times.

2nd baby: Just before you walk out the door, you remember to leave a number where you can be reached.

3rd baby: You leave instructions for the sitter to call only if she sees blood.

At Home

1st baby: You spend a good bit of every day just gazing at the baby.

2nd baby: You spend a bit of everyday watching to be sure your older child isn’t squeezing, poking, or hitting the baby.

3rd baby: You spend a little bit of every day hiding from the children.




18 Mar

My previous post refers: just how bored would you have to be to think that making a swastika for a baby is a good idea?

The Ideas Of March

18 Mar

Read this at parentdish: and this:   

I believe in freedom of expression but I am repulsed by pictures of babies dressed as brutal murderers.  I believe in saving the planet and clean clothes but you have to respect a majority vote so long as no-one is getting hurt.

I believe I have nothing to blog about today so I thought you might like some odd news.  If I find any, I’ll let you know.

This is turning out to be a funny month.  I have hardly written anything since Christmas but suddenly I am busy with writing events; as well as those I have told you about, I am going to workshop On The Park  with Year Six children at the school where I help out.  After their SATs, of course, so I have weeks to not sleep at night, worrying about it.

It occurred to me to look for writing jobs i.e. full-time, salaried positions that require me to put pen to paper or finger to keyboard, as well as admin jobs.  And they are out there!  I am not qualified for any of them, sadly, but that’s a minor detail.

I’m feeling a little sad today because I have my last writing class tonight.  I have thoroughly enjoyed it and I have learned a lot.  It was my third creative writing course since finishing with the OU.  I’ll have to find another college but Stockport is rapidly running out.

Any ideas?



Life In A Quiet Town

17 Mar

Armed Police. Riot Police. Police Dog. Police Tape. Police Vehicles. My neighbourhood at four this afternoon.

The Hub happened to look out of our bedroom window and suspected something was going on when he saw half the street was cordoned off, ten Police vehicles taking up the parking spaces and all the neighbours out. I have always wondered what made numpties stand around looking at nothing for hours at a time and now I know: nosiness. I was out there like a shot, numptying away like the rest of them.

I spotted one of the few neighbours I actually know:

Me: What’s going on?

Neighbour I Know: Jed’s barricaded himself into the house.

Me: Who’s Jed?

Neighbour I Know: Dunno.

The Riot Police had on helmets and shields and were preparing to break in when they were told to stand down because Jed (presumably) was coming out.

This one's blurred to protect identities (not that I'd recognise him if I fell over him; maybe he really looks that way)

So it was exciting but not particularly dangerous (less bullets than I’ve experienced on a normal Saturday afternoon’s shopping in post-Apartheid South Africa). Everyone went back to preparing dinner and swearing at their kids (not me; Spud doesn’t get in until five). Some of the local boys chatted to the officers once the tape was down and the suspect on his way to the slammer; one lad asked to try on handcuffs, preparing for his future career, no doubt (not as a Policeman, sadly).

Another quiet day in Stockport; but what is it about Wednesdays that brings out the Police? Last Wednesday our local high school was evacuated because someone planted home-made bombs. That was the rumour, anyway: the evacuation was real; not sure if the bombs existed.

What have I learned today? I have learned that a strip of plastic emblazoned with the words ‘Police Line. Do Not Cross’ has magical properties, because even our local don’t-give-a-stuff-for-authority youths dared not disobey it. Oh, wait a minute: that might have had something to do with the firearms and number of officers.

I have learned that I am human and I can now stop sneering superiorly at news reports on tv in which hundreds of people hang around looking at nothing for hours in the hope of seeing something for a few minutes. I am a numpty.

And I have learned that the Hub keeps a camera secreted about his person at all times, enabling me to share today’s non-event with you mere minutes after my dinner. Or it would have been, if I hadn’t been distracted by a passing Malteser and only just remembered that I had something to tell you. Chocolate: numbs the brain, expands the bum.

Of Boxes & Boxers

17 Mar

Papier-mâché – such fun!  I was helping in school yesterday.  The girls got stuck in but some of the boys found it gross and didn’t like the mulch under their fingernails.  I’m that way about pastry, which is why I never make it. 

Two of the boys didn’t get past the building a mountain out of egg boxes stage, and asked for my help.  I found myself doing a Hub and completely taking over.  My mountain had a waterfall and caves and the fact that it was green and lumpy and the waterfall was made of a Smarties box means that you have no imagination at all.

Let me explain what I mean by ‘doing a Hub’: if you can ever not be bothered to finish a project, any project, just ask the Hub for his help; sit back; relax; watch a movie; bake a pie (using frozen pastry, naturally); raise a family.  He cannot help himself when he sees that you are not putting enough effort in; not dotting the ‘i’s, crossing the ‘t’s, outlining the crayon with a black marker pen; not using a fork to prettify the pie.  It’s how he got so sick in the first place.  Delegate?  Pah!  He spits on your ‘delegate’ (just got all Rowan Atkinson-French in Not The Nine O’Clock News there).  Why should he delegate when he can do it all himself?  He is not a perfectionist – good grief, no!  He denies the accusation strenuously, insisting that he just trys to be a perfectionist.  I bet 90% of all CFS/ME sufferers have the same complaint.

The children had to bring boxes into school to make their models.  I’m guessing that some didn’t bother to ask their parents’ permission: one had obviously retrieved his mother’s Canesten Duo box from the bin;  another was going to be in trouble when his mother discovered he had taken tonight’s ready meal from the freezer.  The worst part was that he left the food inside and took it into school three days before the project started.  There were a lot of complaints about the peculiar smell, especially once the heating was turned up.

Children don’t always embarrass their parents; sometimes it’s the other way around.  Tory Boy has joined  Anyone can ask you any question and you can answer them.  He has had lots of political questions (Q: If after the election we have a hung parliament, how would you like to see the situation resolved? A: Too dull for this blog) and some personal (Me: Are you eating properly?  TB: Stop nagging), but this one made me laugh:

Q: Boxers or briefs (or other)?

A: Boxers. Always. Also, other? What the hell? No, just no.

I liked his answer so much I Liked it on Facebook.  Five minutes later I received an outraged phone call from my son asking me to Unlike it immediately and to refrain from liking his underwear on a public forum.  And in private, come to think of it.  It was just wrong on so many levels he would have to deny I was his parent if we were ever together in public.  That made me laugh even more: as if I’d ever admit that a politician was related to me, let alone be seen with him in public…how embarrassing.

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