Tag Archives: About me

Daily Prompt: All About Me

12 Feb

All about me are full of coughs, colds and headaches.  I’b goid the same way.  

Poster encouraging citizens to "Consult y...

Poster encouraging citizens to “Consult your Physician” for treatment of the common cold (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Expect the occasional terror to crepe into my tie pin.

You no WHatI’m all about hat the moment?  Self-pity.  At list thAt way I get a party.

Sea you on the other side.

I’m In!

31 Jan

Well, here I am in my writing space:


Only four days behind schedule.

I had intended to move the desk on Saturday but Spud begged for time to clear it first, only he just had to watch the City match; do his homework; learn his lines.

I gave him 24 hours and I spent a couple of happy hours moving in, arranging and re-arranging my poetry books, writing books, other books, my collections and bits and pieces onto two shelves.


I had intended to move the desk on Sunday afternoon, but I received an email which took most of the afternoon to deal with, so I gave him another 24 hours.

I had intended to move the desk on Monday afternoon but he got another 24 hours because I had arranged to help my friend sort church paperwork at the vicarage into our brand new filing cabinet (well, it was new when it was delivered three months ago).

Before filing, we put three poster-sized papers up on the wall and mind-mapped the whole thing down to the last detail.  We had three starting points which we broke down into groups, groups-within-groups, categories-within-groups-within-groups, off-shoots-within-categories-within-groups-within-groups…you get the idea.

Once we’d broken that lot down we were able to label the hanging files in the drawers.  We organised the files into what-is-likely-to-be-most-accessed order, then alphabetically within that.  We then filed three pieces of paper (easily) before noticing it was home time.  If there has been a better organised from the start filing system anywhere in the galaxy, I’ll be surprised.  I’ll also be surprised to learn of two people who had more fun than us on Monday afternoon.


On Tuesday morning I attacked Spud’s desk.  I filled two large bags with stuff from school, Christmas (2012), much small change, more Christmas (2011), books he was supposed to have returned after his GCSEs last year and even more Christmas (2010).  I don’t know why I buy him cheap stocking fillers if he’s just going to leave them lying around and never use them.

Once rested and lunched, I moved the desk.  It is small and light and I had no trouble.  The eight p.m. exhausted sleep I fell into was induced by exposure to Spud’s dormant past, I’m sure.

I spent all afternoon – having had the foresight to walk the dogs early and grab something easy from the freezer for that evening’s dinner – happily arranging my desk.  When I came in on Wednesday morning, the Hub had left me a love note to start me off as I ought to go on – smiling; and loved.  


Note the cow.  Perfecting Motherhood blogged about the Yahoo purple cow, which I loved.  She suggested I have one in my space.  I promised to get one.  I drew this.  I don’t have a purple pen so I coloured it blue because he’s Fresian… If you can’t read the writing, it is entitled, The Cow Who Mooed Because He Cud.

It is now Thursday and the novelty has not worn off.  Moo.


My Life In Music

29 Jan

Put together a musical playlist of songs that describe your life, including what you hope your future entails. 

I was born in autumn of 1963:

I went to school and had lots of boyfriends.  Some of my relationships lasted as long as a week:

I emigrated with my family to South Africa:

I met the Hub:

We had children:

I returned to the UK with my latest family:

My hope for the future:

Don’t Listen To Me

24 Jan
Stanley and Livingstone

Stanley and Livingstone (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I was telling the Hub about Dianne’s comment yesterday that she had thought he was over six foot tall from the way I write about him.  We had a good chuckle because he is 5’6″.

I am 5’2″ and not happy about it, as I told you three years ago.  I used to be 5′ until the Hub measured Spud’s height one day.  At that time he was 5′ which was weird, because he was shorter than me.

I have always been 5′ tall (since I reached 5′, anyway) and rather like it. Think of Kylie Minogue and you get the idea of how dainty I am. Or was, twenty-eight years ago. Now I’m 5′ wide as well: a sort of Kylie-squared.


Shocked (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Only, I am not 5′ small after all, despite what it says in my passport. The tape measure proved it: I am 5’2″. No more standing on the third step up to the back garden that backed onto my childhood back garden to kiss 6′ tall boyfriends for me (though the Hub might have something to say about that, anyway; so perhaps it’s just as well).

My problem was that I had always believed myself to be a certain height and then I discovered that was not so.  I was anxious that the Police might take me away in the night and electrocute my testicles with passion fruit (sorry if that doesn’t make sense; I had a sleepless night worrying about it) for making a false declaration on my passport.

Imagine if you were a girl and you had always been a girl and it says on your passport that you’re a girl and then somebody measures you against your child one day – a child that you lovingly carried, birthed, reared and gained weight for, the miserable little turncoat – and they tell you that, oops, it’s a mistake and you are actually a boy. I think you’d be as hysterical as I was, wouldn’t you? My image of myself as diminutive was irrevocably altered – I can no longer ask strangers in the supermarket to pass me the tofu* on the top shelf or get Tory Boy to dust the parts my little arms cannot reach; they’ll just laugh and tell me to ‘Get it yourself, Lofty.’

*If it’s true that I am tall then it’s true that I am a healthy eater as well.

The Hub obviously didn’t think things through when he told me the alleged truth about myself.  He likes dainty women, which is why he roughed me up and bundled me into a wedding carriage all those years ago. He was six inches taller than me then: tall enough to make me feel protected but not so tall that I needed to wear a neck brace after canoodling with him. We had to re-think our whole relationship once I became a giant.

Colorized title card from Dopey Dicks.

Colorized title card from Dopey Dicks. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

He tried to soothe my understandable fury by blaming my Dad – who would have been the one to measure me for my passport – for making a mistake. This did calm me down because my Dad was a bit dopey (where do you think I get it from?) and it is a plausible theory. BUT – and it’s a big but, as you can see – I remembered that my Dad didn’t measure me for my passport because he was in South Africa at the time; I was still in the UK.

That made me doubly angry at the Hub – he shattered my self-esteem and besmirched the good name of the best Dad who ever lived at the same time. That’s a good enough excuse to throw food at him, I think. Excuse me a moment…

…that feels better.

Spud said I should look on the bright side: I am no longer an official midget.  I should be grateful for small mercies.

But I digress.  I mentioned the context (boasting about his exploits in Africa) to the Hub of his mythical size.  It appears I got some facts wrong:

  • The source of the Nile and where Stanley and Livingstone met are not the same place.  The source of the Nile is in Uganda.  However, the Hub did make sure to get there.  I got my stories and my African countries confused.
    Description unavailable

    Description unavailable (Photo credit: rosshuggett)

  • The Stanley/Livingstone spot marked by the rock is in Burundi but the Hub didn’t swim in a crocodile-infested river.  However, he did paddle in it.  I got my water levels confused.
  • The Hub did not force me to marry him.  However, I’m not sure I believe that one.  He has me all confused.  

Amazingly, not one of my readers picked me up on the first error.  You are either a wonderfully uncritical audience or as bad at history and geography as I am.  I prefer to believe it’s the former.  Thank you.  

To conclude, a word of advice: I don’t listen to the Hub; don’t you listen to me.  I don’t know my Africa from my apogee.  

How A Post Is Made

15 Jan
St. Augustine writing, revising, and re-writin...

St. Augustine writing, revising, and re-writing: Sandro Botticelli’s St. Augustine in His Cell (Photo credit: Wikipedia)


  • Write
  • Save after every paragraph
  • Squeeze in all available puns
  • And then some more
  • Save
  • Proofread  
  • Google Proofread proof read for correct usage  
  • Save
  • Justify text
  • Save
  • Change font colour to red
  • Save
  • Change font colour to black
  • Save
  • Add picture(s)
  • Save(s)
  • Add links
  • Save
  • Preview
  • Check links work
  • Check links highlighted
  • Check links open in another page
  • Save
  • Spell check
  • Save
  • Preview
  • Check
  • Check
  • Check
  • Check
  • Check again
  • Add Categories  
  • Add Tags  
  • Add witty Twitter comment to entice readers
  • Publish
  • Check

A post takes about thirty minutes to write and ninety minutes to perfect.

If I come back to a post at a later date and discover a typo or other error, I have to rest on my bed for an afternoon to recover.

This post first appeared two years ago.  

The system is rigidly adhered to.  Or else.


Tory Boy

Tory Boy (Photo credit: Big Richard C)


Tory Boy gave me a heart attack.  I was preparing this post and he was sitting on the couch behind me.

TB2: You’ve published early.

TB1: I haven’t published yet.

TB2: Yes you have – ‘How A Post Is Made’.  There’s a list.

TB1: [Terrified Small Creature impression; looks from monitor to TB2’s tablet to monitor]: Oh no!  Oh no!  Oh no!  I can’t believe it!  I’m writing about writing perfect posts and I screwed up!

TB2: [Collapsed in heap of hysterical laughter]: … … … …

TB2: You haven’t published!  I read the title on your monitor!  [Rushes to toilet in wet pants] [Not really; but a mother needs her revenge]


This is the same child who managed to get me to thank him for locking his brother in the loft.  Putting away the Christmas decorations, Spud was up top, Tory Boy passing to him, and I was directing.  Once the last, fragile bag was carefully passed up, I headed downstairs, calling ‘Thanks’ a split-second after TB closed the loft hatch on his brother, sealing him into the crowded, dirty and freezing roof space.

I don’t think Spud minded – it looks better than his room.


Maybe A Break Is A Mistake

14 Jan

I’m halfway through my blogging break.  When I have time on my hands like this, I start thinking about myself.  Always a mistake.  Last time I had nothing to do, I set a few rules and general guidelines to make Tilly Bud Tilly Blooming Lovely, Inside And Out.  Tilly Blooming Lovely IAO is, I am sure, well-groomed, relaxed, affable, clean, and at peace with herself.  Everyone will love her.

The Rules:


  • Tilly Bud shall forthwith cease and desist speaking of herself in the third person.
  • I’ll stop the pompous balderdash as well.
  • I will address the next lot of rules to ‘you’ because the use of first person negates the funny.  Take it as read that ‘you’ is ‘me’.


  • When you eat the last Malteser, don’t open another box for at least an hour.
  • Stop eating: you cannot starve to death in a morning.
  • Exercise is not the enemy.  Dance, be a flibbertigibbet, chase the Hub around the house.
  • Galaxy Bubbles are not an acceptable substitute for Maltesers.  Nor are Galaxy bars, Galaxy Ripples or Galaxy Minstrels.
  • They can, however, be enjoyed as a side dish.


  • Never miss an opportunity to clean.
  • The synchronicity of a dust bunny behind the couch and a vacuum cleaner in your hand should never be overlooked.


  • Nothing bad will happen if you stay offline for ten minutes.
  • If your hand resembles a claw, put down the mouse and step away from the pc.


  • It’s okay to be nice to the Hub.
  • Really.
  • Just because your child didn’t call doesn’t mean you are A) a bad mother or B) he doesn’t love you.  It means he’s a bad son who doesn’t appreciate your stretch marks.
  • Dogs are not substitute children.


  • It’s okay to be nice about the Hub.
  • Really.
  • Serendipity gave him to you; keep him sweet by throwing out the occasional compliment.


  • Stupid is as stupid does: pick a side.
  • Life is like a box of chocolates: you can be a soft centre and a nut.
  • Really.
  • Forrest Gump is not the Oracle.  And that’s all I have to say about that.
  • Never miss an opportunity to laugh (the first point under ‘Home’ refers)


What would your rules be for a new you?


This post first appeared two years ago.  Tilly Bud has since learned that the rules only work if you adhere to them.

Blogging Is Backbreaking Work

11 Jan
Flexion Stressing Posterior Annulus | Diagram ...

Flexion Stressing Posterior Annulus | Diagram of the Spine | Back Pain | Colorado Spine Doctor (Photo credit: neckandback)

I have been having quite a bit of pain in my lower back area.  I have terrible posture and I think the weight of my top half slumped over my waist for five hours at the computer each morning is the ouch factor.

I have decided to take a break from blogging for a week, to see if that helps.

I will schedule your daily joke and re-blog some old posts to keep you going, but I’m sorry, I won’t be visiting or answering comments for a while.

The Laughing Housewife Management thanks all readers for their understanding.

Anyone offering free back rubs is welcome to visit.

All advice gratefully read, if not replied to.

This Is Not A Blomance

6 Jan

Here I go, promoting another Tinman post.

You and the Hub* and Mrs Tin and even Tinman himself have nothing to fear: this is not a blomance on my part.

I am in love with Tinman’s words, not his scrap metal; his humour, not his funnel.  I believe he is the most underrated blogger in the sphere and ought to be read by everyone, everywhere, who loves a good laugh.

However, I am not re-blogging this particular post whereof I speak, for three reasons:

  1. He doesn’t use illustrations and I like my posts to have illustrations (see, I can be critical.  Just ask the Hub)
  2. I’m this close to being a stalker.
  3. It’s all about me!  

Tinman wrote a story about Aquatom which I loved so much, I demanded my own story.  Fearing I might visit my ancestral home (in Ireland, where he lives, not far from a smelly river) and not knowing if the Hub has any control over me (in this house, where he lives, next to a smelly bottom), Tinman obliged.

A wise decision.  

(Don’t you love how threatening italics can be?)

Click on this link to read all about my adventures with Captain Picard, the one man for whom I might leave the Hub* – despite the fact that he’s fictional – for exciting nights of reading Shakespeare, gazing sternly at the people around us and saying together, Tea.  Earl Grey.  Hot.

Here’s a sample of Tinman’s story to tempt you:

“Approaching the planet now,” said Data.

“On screen,” said the Captain.

“I see it, sir,” said Ensign Tilly Bud from behind him. “It’s a barren desert planet.”

“We haven’t turned the screen on yet,” said Picard. “You’re looking at the back of my head.”



*I would never leave a man who buys me nine boxes of Maltesers for Christmas as my main present, and socks, digital camera and laptop as stocking fillers.  

He totally gets me.

Weekly Photo Challenge: Silhoutte

19 Oct

I had what might be termed a silhouette figure in 1982:

Now I have more of a she who ate* figure:

*You really need a northern British accent to get that joke: she who et 

The Daily Post tells us:

In photography, often we achieve that effect by putting light behind the object whose silhouette we want to capture, effectively darkening out the features of the subject instead of highlighting them.

I suspect if my 2012 self stood in front of my 1982 self* I’d be darkening out all my features several times over.

*Hey!  I’ve seen Star Trek – time travel will be possible one day and when it is, I’ll come back and do this and prove it to you.


I’m Not Cut Out For Bad Moods

24 Sep
Migraine Barbie has Snapped!

Migraine Barbie has Snapped! (Photo credit: Deborah Leigh (Migraine Chick))

Sorry for the late joke this morning. I have an excuse.

All of that frowning over the weekend led to a migraine.  I was in bed by one in the afternoon yesterday, waking only for the occasional Migraleve and a bowl of soup from my beloved husband.  Not from him, you understand: he’s not some sort of walking chicken soup dispenser, à la hen-cow hybrid (saying cluck-moo, or coo for short. Or muck*).  He poured it from a can and warmed it in the microwave; but I appreciated the love with which he did it.

*Give me a break; I have a sore head.

I couldn’t face the computer long enough to schedule a joke.  If I can’t face the computer, you know I’m sick.  I couldn’t even face Downton Abbey.  The thought of Maltesers made me queasy.  Now do you believe me?

I wanted to try Big Al’s cure – take the tablets, then a shower, with the water spraying the face – but I couldn’t lift my head long enough to find the bathroom. Sorry, Al.  Next time, maybe.

This morning, the head is still aching, but functional.  Normal service will hopefully be resumed tomorrow.

I promise I’ll be in a good mood.  The headache says I’d better be, or else.


Re: Viv’s non-appearance to herself in the community board to the right.  

I’ve got nothing.  But I see you every day.


I’ve just checked: you’re not there.  I’m going back to bed.

M Is For…?

11 Sep

Another in my occasional series, The A to Z of The Laughing Housewife.

Opening and closing question marks

Question mark

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

M is for…?

If you don’t know, you really haven’t been here long.

The rest of you, send me some M and I’ll write nice things about you.  

If my over-stuffed chubby fingers can use the keyboard once I’m done.

Pillow Talk

7 Sep


Pillow Talk Round 8

Pillow Talk Round 8 (Photo credit: threedancingmagpies)

You must be sick of my headaches; I know I am.  I looked back over old posts because I have a headache today and I thought I’d re-post instead of thinking around the sore spots to come up with original material but, you know what?  I complain a lot about headaches: I get migraines and stress heads and neck tension and shooting pains and the occasional bump when my head is in the figurative clouds but the actual world.

Today’s headache is a new one that started two days ago.  It is caused by my old pillow, which is now too flat for comfort.  I’ve tried swapping with the many we have in the cupboard but they are too high or too hard or too lumpy.    That’s probably why they are in the cupboard.  I tried using the old pillow and a feather pillow, thinking I’d get some height from the flat pillow and I could shape the feather pillow to suit.  Result: thumping headache from the neck up.

I have a long history with pillows.  As a child, I sometimes slept in my parents’ bed.  I would take their four pillows and build a little wall around and over my head.  Mum and Dad always found me.  I never figured out how.

More than once in my sleep, I have yanked  the Hub’s pillow out from under him and thrown it across the room, frightening the life out of him.  I can only assume that I want to keep him on his toes even when he’s unconscious.

Pillow Fight Day NYC 2010 8

Pillow Fight Day NYC 2010 8 (Photo credit: david_shankbone)

Before we replaced our mattress, I slept with a feather pillow for support, otherwise I woke up in a foetal position with back ache, having rolled into the sagging centre of the bed.  

I have a habit of taking up the middle ground in my sleep.  One night the Hub came to bed to find me occupying three-quarters of it, but he gamely tried to get in.  I must have stirred like a dog guarding a bone because he touched my pillow and I distinctly recall the malice with which I snatched my pillow to me and flung myself over onto my other side.  Semi-conscious, I remember lying there needing to go to the toilet but not getting up because I wasn’t letting him get his hands on my pillow.  I can recall how aggressive I felt: poor darling, he could feel it radiating from me.  After what felt like an hour of my bladder impersonating a leaky dam, I suddenly had the answer; it was obvious: I took my pillow to the bathroom with me.  I can’t imagine why I didn’t think of it earlier.

I don’t remember getting back into bed but the Hub tells me he couldn’t sleep because he was shaking with laugher.  He says that at one point I turned over in my sleep but left my pillow there and clasped it to my back with my arm uncomfortably behind me.   Conscious or not, my husband wasn’t getting hold of my pillow.  He won’t want it now, anyway: it’s covered in toilet germs.

Here are some pillow facts from All Night Pillows to help you sleep:

  • 99% of people use a pillow to sleep on, yet 70% of people don’t like their pillow.
  • Most people derive 80% of their sleeping comfort simply by having their necks well supported all night long.
  • Half of women over 30 years old suffer from morning headaches and/or stiff sore necks.

Okay, the people at All Night Pillows are clearly spying on me.  Let’s see what the LA Times has to say about pillows:

  • The concept of the bed pillow is believed to date back to prehistoric times, when a pillow used to be simply a stone, a piece of wood or bundled grass.  I might try that; it can’t be worse than my current pillow.
  • The first pillow was best described by Confucius five centuries before the birth of Christ: “With coarse rice to eat, with water to drink, and my bended arm for a pillow–I have still joy in the midst of these things.”  That Confucius – what a riot he must have been at a sleepover.
  • Early Hollywood filmmakers used pillow fights on screen to stir emotions. The amount of feathers pounded from the casings depicted the degree of conflict.  Hmm.  With that rule, I should be spending half my income on pillows.  Might be cheaper to hire a hit man; at least I’d have the bed to myself.

I will leave you with this parting thought – as odd as you may upon occasion find me; as whiny as I may be about pillows and headaches and husbands; at least I’m not like this guy:

Lee Jin-gyu pillow wedding

From the Metro:

True love can take many forms. In this case, it has taken the form of a Korean man falling in love with, and eventually marrying, a large pillow with a picture of a woman on it

I have to admit, I can see the attraction: bump off that spouse and the only ones to complain are the ducks providing the filling for your next one.  If it looks like a duck and walks like a duck, it must be a comfy pillow.


Weekly Photo Challenge: Free Spirit

5 Sep


My Mum was a free spirit.  She smoked like a chimney and drank like a fish.  I am not at all like her, except in looks.  I drink like a chimney and smoke like a fish.

I made albums for people to read through after her funeral.

My Mum had a child out of wedlock.  Though a Catholic girl in the Fifties, she never once felt ashamed of her beautiful boy.  I had my first child a definite five years after my wedding.

Mum joined the Army as a teenager; she was stationed in London.  She didn’t much like it and went AWOL with a friend, running home to Nan in Liverpool. Nan gave them food, bath and beds, then took them to the police station next morning, where they gave themselves up.  The Army was lenient.

We provided plenty of free spirits for her mourners. It’s what she would have wanted.

Mum loved working and hated that I loved being a stay-at-home Mum.  We disagreed a lot, about a lot of things.  Except that we loved each other.  I always knew I could count on her.

I don’t know the half of what she got up to in her life, though I have learned a bit since she died.  I am too strait-laced to share what I do know (I make rulers look like elastic bands) but, trust me: she was a free spirit.  I miss her every day.

One of the times she’d have approved of me, if she’d been there.


If You Write It, They Will Come

3 Sep
An example of simulated data modelled for the ...

. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Apologies to my subscribers, who received a peculiar email yesterday. It was a draft birthday post for a reader who no longer blogs.  I forgot to delete it from my scheduled posts.

Kudos to Patrecia for her tenacity, however: she thought it was my birthday and, when confronted with a 404 page, sent me a Happy Birthday email and left a comment on another post, just to be certain.  Thank you, Patrecia!

Blame my lapse on Saturday night.  My friend Alison, who took me to Spain, has a son about to go off to Germany for several years, to do his Physics PhD at the German equivalent of CERN.  We are all rather proud of him.  His parents threw him a joint birthday/going away party.

I’ve been to parties before; I know they involve late nights and alcohol.   At Alison’s parties, they also involve good food.  I was game for a night out: if you feed me, I will come.  

I got dressed up and everything.  I wore brown because physics has always been brown to me.  I don’t know why.  Chemistry is green and biology is blue.  Is it like that for you?  Or is my brain just remembering the colours of my school exercise books?

ASIDE: While trying to find the name of the place where Phil will be studying in Hamburg, I came across the answer to the question, Has the large Hadron Collider destroyed the world yet?  If you’ve been dying to find out (or want to find out if you’re dying), go here.

The food was great and I drank double my usual ration, having two glasses of dry white wine and one large glass of orange juice, soaked up by curry, Doritos and Alison’s superb puddings.  I began to nod off in my chair around 10:45, but forced myself to stay awake to stop the Hub snarling at guests who dared to ignore the huge chocolate cake in favour of the cheesecake.  If he ever leaves me, it will be for Alison’s cheesecake.  Several times a year and always at Christmas, she makes a cheesecake for the Hub and he becomes one of those slug things which eat their dinner from the inside out.

We had to stay until midnight so we could sing Happy Birthday to Phil, who turned 23 on Sunday.  Then we had to stay until half-past-midnight because it would have been rude to rush off.

When we got home, Molly dog begged us to watch Doctor Who before bed, instead of waiting for Sunday; and Spud wet himself. *

*In my drunken stupor,  I may have confused those two events.

Wee washed, Who watched, I fell into bed around a quarter-to-two and slept until nine-forty a.m.  I slept again for a couple of hours in the afternoon, then had an early night.  I did nothing yesterday and I woke up with a headache this morning.

The Hub calls me a lightweight when it comes to partying.  Tell me he’s wrong.

With Phil’s party, my brown top and The Big Bang Theory, there has been a lot of psychics on my blog lately.  I didn’t see that coming.

The Worst Meal Of The Day

25 Aug

Two visitors leave;

two more arrive.

The niece and nephew are being collected today.  They are lovely children and we love having them, but it will be nice not to have to make lunch.

Lunch is the worst meal of the day; I never know what to make.  I’ve already had cereal; I hate sandwiches; toast makes me queasy.  What else is there?

In winter, the Hub and I often have porridge or soup, but it’s too warm for that right now, even with the rain.  Yes, it’s worth offloading two delightful children just so I don’t have to worry about making lunch.

Around the time my young guests leave, two old ones will arrive.  The Hub’s sister and her husband visit us a couple of times a year.  They live on the Isle of Wight.

I guess they’ll be needing some lunch.


For more Six Word Saturdays go here.

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