Tag Archives: Scouse

O Is For My Scouse Accent

20 Jan

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

Orangensaft

Orangensaft (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

O is for orange juice – I’ve been craving it lately. Not so nice for my bladder – drink too much orange juice and I’m like Julie Andrews in ‘The Sound of Music’: When the blog writes, when the pee stings

The last time I drank this much orange juice was twenty-three years ago.  I was pregnant with Tory Boy and I must have needed the Vitamin C.  How embarrassing would that be for him, to have a sibling twenty-three years younger?  It would almost be worth it, just to see his face.

I’m pretty certain I won’t have that pleasure but, if I start craving cheese and tomato on crackers (my other craving), Tory Boy will stop speaking to me.

No, I have to face it – I am a woman of a certain age; it’s probably my ‘ormones. This is where my Scouse accent comes in, if you were wondering.  We Liverpudlians drop our aitches, extend words like ‘like’ to ‘lichhhh’ and talk about ‘me mum an’ me dad.’

Me Mum was my age now when she watched me get married.  I thought she was old then; now, I’m not so sure.  They say fifty is the new forty so if fifty is the new forty then forty is the new thirty and life begins at forty which must be thirty and at thirty I was raising babies.  When does my life begin?

O is also for ‘owl’ as in, ‘self-pitying ‘owl’.

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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I Predict A Quiet

17 Jun
Sketch map of Runcorn, Cheshire, showing railways.

Image via Wikipedia

What would cause you to protest or riot for something?

Apart from the false imprisonment of my children – and possibly my husband, if I was in a good mood – nothing.  I’m British: I don’t do apologetic complaint, never mind protest.  I write a strongly worded letter and feel much better for it.

I bumped into a riot once, by accident.  I can’t say I liked it.  As a teenager, I went to Manchester to audition for the Manchester Youth Theatre with a friend.  It was the time of the nationwide riots against something or other.  I can’t remember what, but I bet it had hatred for Mrs Thatcher at the heart of it.  We had a summer of exploding protests, when staid young men and women became screaming thugs for the afternoon.  We are seeing something similar at the moment in Bristol, because of Tesco.  It’s not quite the breaking of the unions or the poll tax, but a supermarket too close to your back yard is certainly a reason to lose all common sense, I’m sure.

We had been to the auditions and decided to visit the Arndale Centre for some retail therapy (or ‘shopping’, as it was called in Days of Yore when I wurra lass).  As we walked up somewhere, a screaming, running gang of young gentlemen ran down, straight at us.  I grabbed my friend’s hand and dragged him onto the nearest bus, going anywhere.  When we got to anywhere, we had to walk back again, to catch the train home.  No shopping.  What a wasted opportunity.

Trains and a long walk featured once again in my teens.  I went with different friends to Liverpool.  Plenty of shopping and no riots – Scouse youth being better behaved than Mancunian youth.  So much shopping was done, we were late for the train, asked which was ours, and jumped on it just as the doors closed.

I think I was in charge of the travel on that day as well, which explains why we ended up in Widnes instead of Runcorn.  We explained to the man in charge that we had been directed to the wrong train and he said well, in that case, he wouldn’t fine us, but we had to get off there and we couldn’t get on another train without buying a ticket.  Did I mention we had been shopping all afternoon?  We didn’t have the fare for one of us, never mind three.

Did I mention this was in Days of Yore when I wurra lass?  No mobile phones to call parents who didn’t own cars to not fetch us.

Fortunately – fortune being a relative term – Widnes is right next door to Runcorn.  All we had to do was walk home.  Loaded with shopping bags.  In heels.  A mere three hours or so.  I was ready to start a riot.

No Comment

18 Feb
lock

Image via Wikipedia

Reading the comments yesterday, I was reminded of myself.

In my second year of study, new text books arrived from the Open University. The courier was broad Scouse and obviously an Everton fan because he gestured to our car (the Hub has Manchester City pennants in the rear window) and said, ‘A Light Blue, I see.’  Puzzled, I replied, ‘No, it’s dark green.’

Our relationship went downhill from there.  It was obvious he believed a university education was wasted on me.  I should be a professional witness instead.

Then there’s my paranoia that the Government spies on me (the Labour Government, obviously; the Tories are on my side and governments never spy on their own side).  We have an outside bin cupboard where we stored our rubbish and paper for recycling.  I kept a lock on it so that no-one could access it, find an old receipt and know that I spent half my income on Maltesers (and new trousers) (half my income on Maltesers refers).

It was a combination lock and I was always careful not to think the combination as I unlocked it, in case the government read my mind and discovered it.  There were several years of chanting ‘Hickory Dickory Dock’ to mask my thoughts every time I took out a bag of egg shells before it occurred to me that if the Government had the technology to read my mind, then they could probably sort out a cheap combination lock with their collective eyes closed.

I bet you’re thinking round about now that instead of a professional witness I should be a professional idiot.  I never fancied a career in politics, however: I think they spy on people.

Hello? 

Where’d everyone go?

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