Fifteen Minutes Of Fame

Fifteen minutes of fame; six days and more in the telling.

Big Breakfast (Photo credit: avlxyz)

I did say it was rather a long story but I didn’t know just how long until I started writing it.  I would apologise but it has been fun to remember.

The story so far…

• Short of money, I tell the council how I manage
• I eat art exhibits
• I get in the papers
• I go to London and visit a TV studio for a week
• Day One: early start; late breakfast

We were driven back to our hotel around eleven a.m. with a wad of cash and instructions to access the Tube that afternoon and present ourselves at the Planetarium, the adjacent Madame Tussaud’s, and then Planet Hollywood.

London Tube Map (Photo credit: DraXus)

Tory Boy, 11, took it upon himself to study the Tube map and had great fun the whole week, steering us in the right direction.  He never got it wrong.

We presented ourselves at the Planetarium, as instructed, admitting that we were the Family of the Week from The Big Breakfast.  We were immediately chided for not jumping to the head of the queue, given free passes, and allowed to wander where we would.

While we admired the planets and the waxworks, people gave us funny looks, as if they knew us.  Eventually, one brave woman asked if we were from The Big Breakfast?  She had watched us in her hotel room!  We all had a giggle about her goggle.  Hub and I knew she was a smart woman by the way she admired our ‘adorable boys’.

Feeling rather kef at the great day we were having, we ambled on over to Planet Hollywood, telling them we’d been sent by TBB.  We were given a VIP table, told to order whatever we liked and as much of it as we wanted; and presented with gifts for the boys: Planet Hollywood caps and t-shirts and souvenirs.  Some of the wad was meant to be used for food but they gave us our meal for free (we made sure to tip the waitress, however).  We did spend a few quid on Tube fares and a photograph of TB and Spud with Pierce Brosnan as James Bond (wax). 

Planet Hollywood (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Safe back at our hotel, we were all asleep by six o’clock.

And so the week went on – early starts, lots of laughter, the occasional slice of burnt toast, and fun fun fun!

Some of the celebrity guests (in no particular order; just as I remember them):

Chris Eubank British boxer (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Boxer Chris Eubank: had a handshake that was surely compensating hard for that lisp, and signed photographs ready in his pocket for the boys when they asked.

Actor Scott Wright: played stripper Sam on Coronation Street.  I watched it back then so I was really excited to meet him.  He was so sweet – the Hub asked if I could have a picture taken with him when he had finished his breakfast but he jumped up there and then to oblige.  A lovely man.

Presenter Mike McClean: working on TBB, mostly outside broadcasts.  A funny man but I found him rude: the morning he came in to the studio, we were all sitting on a couch and he said Hello, how are you? to the Hub, Tory Boy and Spud, shaking hands with each in turn.  He blanked me.  Hard to believe he is a big Man City fan like the Hub, because City fans are pretty good-natured.  We have to be, the way City throw chances away.

A researcher was sent off on a train one afternoon with a team shirt, instructed to find the then City manager, Kevin Keegan, and get him to sign it.  Once the shirt came back signed, they ran a quiz between the Hub and MM to test their MCFC knowledge.   The winner got the shirt; the loser had to be photographed wearing a United shirt.  The Hub would never in his life wear a United shirt but he wanted that prize and they hadn’t said on what part of the body it had to be worn so we hatched a plan that if he lost – as if! – I would take a photograph of him sitting on the toilet with the shirt covering his, um, well you get the idea.

The Hub won the quiz, which included a karaoke version of Blue Moon, City’s anthem.  MM flat refused to wear that shirt, on pain of losing his job.  Once a City fan, always a City fan, even rude ones.

The Hub was also given three tickets for him and the boys to see City play at home to Crystal Palace (footy fans, that should date this week for you).

Photo credit: http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lxpn49j6MS1r7zo0ho1_500.jpg

So Solid Crew: a garage band, whatever that is.  They had some Top Ten hits. There were about twenty in the band but only three or four were on TBB.  They had a reputation for being hard and edgy and they lived up to it on TBB.  A member of their crew was imprisoned for murder a few years ago, if I remember correctly.  They were not the sort of young people I want my boys to emulate. As they left the set, they smiled at our boys and ruffled their hair in a friendly way.  Just the kind of young people I want my boys to emulate.

Any truly famous people were interviewed somewhere like the Ritz or the Clarendon, where TBB kept a replica of the famous bed.  The bed at the house was filthy.  I wouldn’t have let  my dog sleep on it.  

I’ll wrap up the story tomorrow, you’ll be relieved to hear.

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Yesterday’s word was jejune:

adjective

1.

without interest or significance; dull; insipid.

2.

juvenile; immature; childish.

3.

lacking knowledge or experience; uninformed.

4.

deficient or lacking in nutritive value.

I like the last one; it rather describes this blog.

By the way, I spelled it jejeune yesterday and nobody mentioned it.  That’s the advantage of using new words – no mes to nitpick.

 

The Telly Chronicles, Part Four

The great (Sun)day arrived – we were off to London to be Channel Four’s Big Breakfast’s Family of the Week!

Big Breakfast (Photo credit: kaige)

But not before a hundred phone calls from the production team: bring family videos (all twenty of them)/ photographs/your jar of buttons/the soap maker/as much crap as you can carry on a train with a suitcase each and two kids.  The idea was that we would have everything with us that they might need to illustrate how interesting/funny/weird we are.

We arrived at Stockport station forty minutes early (there was no way I was missing that train).  On board, we discovered our reserved seats were four separate singles.  Tory Boy was eleven and Spud six and we are not the kind of parents to leave our kids alone and so, according to my notes of the day, I complained loud and long and several scared-looking passengers quickly vacated a table area, making four seats together suddenly available.

I’d forgotten that handsel moment.  Thank you, note-taking younger me.

We spent the whole journey shushing the kids because we were in a quiet carriage.  That was back in the days when mobiles were only madly popular instead of ubiquitous and people still obeyed Be Quiet signs.  I did manage to chat to some people and tell them – to the Hub’s intense irritation – that we were traveling to London to be on Big Brother.  Little Spud made us laugh by saying it was an easy mistake to make because they both begin with ‘The’.

We arrived at the hotel – basic but clean – dumped the cases and popped next door to The Beefeater, as instructed, to avoid being the Famished of the Week.   We and TBB had forgotten it was Mother’s Day.  There was no room at the inn.

GUESS I’M NOT THE ONLY PERSON TO GET CONFUSED (read the caption carefully)  English: Replica Big Breakfast House. In May 1994 the Big Breakfast caused national mayhem when it ran a competition to win an exact replica of the Big Breakfast house being built in Telford. Gillian Baker from Grimsby who won the house spent a two week holiday there before selling it for £64,000. It has now been converted into three flats. Click on the link for the real Big Brother House: http://www.geograph.org.uk/photo/289540 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

We informed them we were Channel Four’s The Big Breakfast’s Family of the Week and, as they wanted Channel Four’s The Big Breakfast’s business, they squeezed us in.  It’s easy when you have connections. 

But still a long wait – we finally ate their leftovers some time after ten p.m.  It was average but filling and we weren’t paying so no point complaining.

We fell into bed around eleven, exhausted, and slept for at least four hours before being woken by the alarm…Telly day had arrived!

As a matter of interest, which I only discovered on digging out the scrap book, it was exactly eleven years ago today that we first appeared on The Big Breakfast. How weird is that?  Eleven years ago today, it was also a Monday.

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Yesterday’s word was gangrel: I took the second meaning, wandering beggar; vagabond; vagrant.

The first meaning is a lanky, loose-jointed person.  So not me, in any of those descriptions.

Related articles

• I Was Accidentally On Telly (thelaughinghousewife.wordpress.com)
• Telly, Part Two (thelaughinghousewife.wordpress.com)
• How To Get On Television – A True Story (thelaughinghousewife.wordpress.com)

 

How To Get On Television – A True Story

I thought for part three (?) (I’ve lost track.  I suspect some of you have lost the will to live) of the story – because I’ve had a happy but busy day, it’s late and I’m too tired to be original – I would post something I wrote ten years ago.  In my defence, I haven’t c+p because I didn’t know how to save documents on a computer back then, so I dug out the original and typed it up in my own fair hand whilst cursing you and wishing for my bed.

How To Get On Television

• Be green or, as some section of the atrociously wicked (facinorous) print media would have it, mean.
  

  Channel 4’s logo is now cut out from a white background, and is shown in moving distortions that reveal programme-specific graphics underneath (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

• Be completely misrepresented in a certain Sunday piece of trash writing tabloid jerk newspaper (bitter? Not at all).
• Answer the door to a stranger who turns out to be a neighbour.
• Listen in increasing astonishment as the neighbour asks if it’s true we are ex-directory and were in The Certain Sunday Piece of Trash Writing Tabloid Jerk Newspaper because if so it’s not a wind-up and the people at Channel Four’s The Big Breakfast went to the trouble of tracking down her number to ask her to ask me will I please phone this number at The Big Breakfast if I want to be on telly?
• Immediately phone The Big Breakfast because I want to be on telly.
• Hear a total stranger (not a neighbour) offer me and my family a week in London, on the telly, all expenses paid; day trips out and famous people thrown in.
• Say yes.
• Complete the application forms that arrive in next day’s post.  With difficulty, because my nails are chewed down to the knuckles in the fear that it really is a wind-up.
• Wait.
• Wait.
• Swear one or two hundred of my closest friends to secret because I’ll burst if I don’t tell someone.
• Wait.
• Go 93 hours without sleep.
• Wait.
• Answer the phone to hear Scott say, Hello, this is Scott from The Big Breakfast.  We’ve decided not to use your family next week.
• Be cool and laid back about being rejected and humiliated, not act like some pathetic gangrel, begging for a chance to be famous for five times fifteen minutes: Okay, fine.
• Baffled silence.
• Let Scott confuse me: So is Thursday night all right for us to come and film?
• Be sorry: I’m sorry?
• Let Scott confuse me some more: We’d like to come and film you all at home on Thursday, or possibly Friday.
• Be less sorry: Sorry?  Did you say you DO want to use us next week?
• Fall in love with Scott: Yes, that’s right.  I thought you didn’t react much.  Are you excited?
• Be cool and laid back about being selected; I am British, after all: Oh, yes.  It should be nice.
• Put down the phone.
• Wish I’d remembered to say ta-ra to Scott first.  Oh well, he has my number; and my neighbour’s.
• Run around the room in an orgasmic frenzy chanting, I’m going to be telly!  I’m going to be on telly!
• Finally get Andy Warhol.
• Spend from now until Friday morning cleaning the house; and then cleaning it again.  I may be green and mean but I’m not dirty.  Not when I’m expecting film crews, anyway.
• Ignore the Hub when he tells me I’m overdoing it – it is perhaps just a teeny-weeny bit slightly maybe possible that they will want to film the far corner behind the wine rack on the top kitchen cupboard, so it’s good to be prepared.
• Glow like a clean house with excitement.
• Answer the door to the film crew…

Look out for part four tomorrow, in which I tease out the details some more, in the hope of stretching this story to a full week’s worth of blog posts.

As a sweetener, the Hub has promised to try to upload some of the video from our week on The Big Breakfast.

And remind me to explain the tea bags, which I realise I haven’t yet done.

Related articles

• Telly, Part Two (thelaughinghousewife.wordpress.com)
• I Was Accidentally On Telly (thelaughinghousewife.wordpress.com)

I Was Accidentally On Telly

Why is it that the vast majority of sycamores cannot grasp even the most basic economic principles? (Photo credit: one percent for the planet)

Many years ago, that was; I’m not referring to my most recent appearance, in the audience of the first leaders’ debate during the 2010 General Election campaign: blink and you missed me.

I was reminded of my week on telly by yesterday’s prompt about a surreal experience.  It’s quite a long story so go and have your wee first.

I’m a big fan of saving the planet.  I’m in favour of breathable air, water for all and not buying a new thing until the old thing dies, is dismantled and the parts used for shelves, dusters and magazine holders.  My tea caddies are old coffee jars, so I practise what I preach.

In 2001 Stockport council sent out questionnaires asking what residents did in the way of being green.  I told them.  In detail.

Reserved: Hybrid vehicles only (Photo credit: kevin dooley)

A couple of months later they contacted me and asked if our family would be willing to take part in their upcoming Cleaner, Greener campaign.  ‘Sure,’ I said.  We were interviewed and photographed for a brochure and invited to the campaign’s launch at the art gallery in January 2002.  I wore a dressy frock purchased in a charity shop for £3; the boys wore hand-me-downs and the Hub a favourite old jacket. We looked very smart when we were presented as Stockport’s Greenest Family.

I was interviewed for Radio Manchester or something like that.  I’ll be honest, I was flattered but incoherent.  When the producer asked what kind of thing I do to save the planet, I babbled on about washing on cold and folding wet washing and only ironing one side, but not necessarily in that order and interspersed with more than the necessary number of ums, ahs and ers.  I can still see her resigned smile and hear the click of the delete button as I turned away.

Material Wealth. Fear of Loss (Photo credit: HikingArtist.com)

There was a small article in the Stockport Express and that, I thought, was that.  We’d had the fun of a cultural night out at the art gallery.  So cultural, I thought the refreshments were a modern art display until the guests attacked them. We ate our fill, drank expensive swill (Cleaner, Greener but not Cheaper, Cheaper) went home and thought nothing more of it.  

Until the day the phone rang and I had a moment of entelechy.

You know what?  This is such a long story, I think I’ll leave it there for now. More tomorrow!

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Yesterday’s word was, of course dacnomania:  an obsession with killing, often by biting.  That explains my Twilight fixation.

Joke 398

Television set for Wikipedia userbox icons, or other things. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

From Basic Jokes.

A reporter was writing a feature story about prison life and was interviewing one of the prisoners. “Do you watch much television here?”

“Only the daytime shows,” the inmate said. “At night we’re locked in our cells and don’t see any television.”

“That’s too bad,” the reporter said, “but I do think it is nice that the warden lets you watch it in the daytime.”

“What do you mean, nice?” the inmate said. “That’s part of the punishment.”

I Can’t Believe They Cancelled Firefly!

Do the telly suits have any idea at all of what constitutes a great programme?  Drama, humour, cowboys in space?  Great hair (Zoe), suppressed love (Mal & Inara), pretty muscle (Jayne)?  Government conspiracies, real girls (plump and pretty, not skinny and pretty), great train robberies?  A really weird title song?  Okay, I’ll give them that one.  But seriously, what is wrong with these people?

Tory Boy and Spud nagged me all year to watch Firefly; I finally sat down to watch the first episode to shut them up, and I had to cancel my life until I’d finished the series.  I love my children so much; they know what’s good for me (but don’t quote me on that when it’s time to choose my nursing home).

I also found, after almost fifty years, the look that I really, really want:

2003 was a disastrous year for good television.  Idiot suits.  They’ll be cancelling Star Trek next.

RIP Spooks

*Alert* No spoilers here!

I’ve just watched the last-ever episode of Spooks.  The irritating Hub worked out who the villain was, of course, but even he was surprised by the surprise right at the end.

I have watched every episode except one, and loved them all.  I knew it was something different from the very first series, when a major character died in a chip pan.

RIP Spooks; you’ll be badly missed.

For those of my readers who don’t know what I’m talking about, that’s okay: everybody knows that Spooks operate in secret.

Related articles

• Goodbye Spooks. You Will Be Sorely Missed… (mspreadbury.wordpress.com)
• Spooks, a show that throws our fears away | Peter Preston (guardian.co.uk)

Disgusting: Nothing But Repeats

Image via Wikipedia

Today’s post title comes from the popular British pastime of complaining about the telly; in particular, the summer telly.  We didn’t have a summer, of course – a repeat of a different kind – but we had lots of repeats on the telly. 

I’m sorry: I don’t mean to keep repeating ‘repeat’.  Or ‘telly’.

I never understood why the BBC and ITV repeated everything; and then I started blogging. 

Sometimes it is accidental, telling a story that I’ve told before, but in a slightly different way.  On tv, it happens in soap operas, where everybody sleeps with everybody else and they all work in the same place, drink in the same pub (even respectable old ladies who’ve taken the pledge get their daily lemonade fix from the Rovers or the Queen Vic at a quarter of their weekly pension instead of buying a 21pence 2L bottle from Morrisons that will last them a week) and live out the same dramas – I give you Kevin & Sally Webster: how many times have they been married, cheated on each other, split up and got back together again?  I know it’s a lot, and I haven’t watched Coronation Street for ten years.

Sometimes it’s a re-hash of stuff: I lift bits from other blogs, websites, emails – always crediting the source, of course.  In tv, it’s the inevitable 1000 Greatest TV Ads/100,000 Greatest TV Shows/1,000,000 Greatest Talking Heads Desperate For Any Kind Of TV Appearance So Long As It Keeps Them In The Public Eye And Funds Their Kids’ And Seven Stepkids’ From Four Previous Marriages Expensive Education.

Then there’s the outright We’re tired; we’ve nothing new for you; look at this old stuff instead repeat.  In tv, it’s Murder, She Wrote.  In this blog, it’s one of my earliest posts, tarted up.  Enjoy (R).

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Eight year old Spud came out of school one day and asked me, ‘What’s a tw*t?’ (The * is an ‘a’: you must be clear on that to make sense of the story).  Once I had regained my balance, I asked him where he had heard it.

‘Oh, Mrs Taylor used it on one of the boys.’

Clutching the school gate as I staggered, I explained what an awful word it was and how he must NEVER EVER EVER use it.  It was a bad word and I would be having a word with Mrs Taylor.  I was surprised at Mrs Taylor, was he sure he had heard her correctly?

On the way home I got the full story from him.  It appears that Mrs Taylor is affectionately abusive to the children, calling them ‘daft twits’.  I suspect that either Spud misheard it or she had a slip of the tongue and ignored it, hoping the children wouldn’t notice.  What really tickled me was when Spud climbed into bed with me at midnight that night, crying that he couldn’t sleep because he had been ‘accidentally very naughty’ because he thought it was such a great word he had used it all afternoon on his friends….

I had to go into school next day and pre-emptively apologise to the Head before the parents’ complaints came rolling in.  I’m so glad I stopped having children.

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If you want to read stories on a similar theme, visit Tinman’s post, Little Ears.  Read the comments as well.

Are You A Friend?

Image via Wikipedia

I have a theory that everyone who watches Friends chooses the one they think they are most like as their favourite. 

I never said it was a good theory.  Or that I could write a coherent sentence.

Which one are you?

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The Crying Housewife

Image via Wikipedia

It is unpleasant to learn that the image you have of yourself is false: like the time I discovered I am two inches taller than I am, or that I wasn’t as slim in my actuality as I was in my mind.  Yesterday, I learned another unpleasant home truth: my hard exterior does not hide a hard interior at all; I am, in fact, a soppy ball of mush.

PLOT SPOILER ALERT!

You may have watched The Little House On The Prairie as a child, like me, and, like me, forgotten everything you ever saw except for the bit in the titles where the girls run down the hill amongst the plastic flowers (it’s true; I read it on the internet).  You may also have a friend who would now be your ex-friend if it wasn’t for the fact that she teases you the best of all your friends but left a comment on a previous post accidentally giving away the juicy bits.

For that reason, I warn you that some of the plot of TLHotP is about to be revealed. 

The Hub and I watched the end of series 4 last night…the episode where Mary went blind.  I sobbed like a baby.  At the most dramatic moment – the part where Charles tells Mary what’s happening to her, the ex-Hub said, ‘I bet she didn’t see that coming.’

All the way through the drama I kept thinking of Tinman.  Don’t be concerned (I’m talking to you, Tinman): the Hub is not about to be left (not for another man, anyway; though possibly for cracking a joke when the wife is crying her icicle-covered heart out).  I kept thinking of a comment he left on my blog last time I wrote about TLHotP.  I’m going to share it here because it is worthy of another showing:

Years ago Ireland were playing soccer in some tiny Eastern European country who didn’t have floodlights, so the game kicked off at around one pm.

As we all gathered in the pub the Little House episode where Mary went blind was on the TV. About five minutes before kick-off we asked for the football to be put on and a choking voice said “No, wait a minute, this is just over.”

We looked around and one of the old guys who drank at the bar was in floods of tears watching it.

If an old Irish guy can weep over something that happened 140 years ago, then so can I.  If it transpires that I am sentimental under my frost, the Hub is just going to have to get used to it.  He needn’t worry, though: I’m not going to be mushy about him; this isn’t The Little House On The Prairie.

Fudges, Freaks And Fooling Around

Image by badjonni via Flickr

Why is there evil in the world?

To prompt WordPress prompters into asking questions I really don’t want to have to answer.

Why are reality TV shows so popular?

The government outlawed freak shows.

Close your eyes and try thinking about nothing: what happens?

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8

8

8

8

8

8

8

8

8

8

8

It’s counter-intuitive, but awake or asleep our brains are driven to be doing something. It’s a surprise to most people to realize how little control they have over their own minds.

It’s not a surprise to me.  And nor, I suspect, to this blog’s readers.

Make of that what you will 😉

I’m just kidding.  Ask me again.

Close your eyes and try thinking about nothing: what happens?

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Come Dine With Me In Stockport

If you think that’s an invitation from me, hunger must have made you hallucinate.  Unless you like hysterical harridans serving inedible plates of unidentifiable mush?

I don’t really do dinner invites.  Visit me any time, yes, and welcome.  Sandwiches, a buffet, Christmas Dinner: no probs.  But an evening meal?  With all the food ready at the same time?  I have been married twenty-six years and I still panic if the eggs go in the pan before the bacon is burnt.  I once prepared chippolata sausages at my brother’s house and had a meltdown because the Hub wasn’t there to tell me when to stop cooking them.  At least I learned where charcoal comes from.

My favourite meal is leftovers and chips, because the food that has survived me well enough to end up in the fridge only needs warming in the microwave.  I get through microwaves like I get through deep fat fryers.

No, dear reader, your stomach is safe; and safer still if you don’t live in Stockport or the surrounding areas.  The television show Come Dine With Me is to film in Stockport in August, and they want you to provide the meal and the entertainment for the viewing public, with the possibility of a thousand pound prize at the end of it.  Ain’t that grand?

Here’s the blurb (they asked me to post it up in my window but the grease blocks the view):

Come Dine With Me

follows FIVE strangers, all budding chefs, as they take it in turns to try and prepare the best meal, be the best host and hold the best all-round dinner party for the others. The best host at the end of the competition wins £1,000 cash!

We’re looking for anyone over 18 years old, from any walk of life, who feels they have what it takes to throw a great dinner party!  So if you are passionate about cooking and you’d like to find out more, or if you know someone who could be a perfect candidate for our show, then please get in touch with us as soon as possible and leave your contact details on:

0871 244 4142

(Callers from a BT landline will be charged a set up fee of 10p per call plus 10p perminute. Calls from other networks may be higher and from mobiles will cost considerably more.)

Or email: cdwm@itv.com

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So, if you fancy being on telly while eating, as opposed to being in front of the telly while eating, give them a call.    My commission is only £10 and a taste.

Disclaimer: This has got nothing to do with me (that’s life).  I am the blogging equivalent of the lamppost that holds the poster advertising your lost cat.

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(

Joke 64

A husband and wife were sitting in the living room discussing a “Living Will”.

“Just so you know,” he said, “I never want to live in a vegetative state, dependent on some machine, taking fluids from a bottle.  If that ever happens, just pull the plug.”

His wife got up, disconnected the TV, and threw out all the beer.

This cartoon first appeared in 1995.  What I love about it is that it could have another panel: 2011 The World As Flat Again:

Joke 55

From the fruitful Sarsm.  I’m beginning to think she should have a Joke A Day challenge of her own.

“How would you like to pay for this?” the sales assistant asked, after folding items the woman wished to purchase.

As the woman fumbled for her purse,  the sales assistant noticed a television remote control in her handbag.

“Do you always carry your TV remote?” she couldn’t help asking

“No,” came the reply, “but my husband refused to come shopping with me and I figured this was the most evil thing I could do to him legally.”

An Official Announcement

Today is a public holiday in Britain; the Laughing Housewife is taking a day off from blogging.  As usual, there are nothing but repeats on television.  In the spirit of the BBC, ITV & Channel 4, The Laughing Housewife’s blog is showing a repeat of a post that aired last year. 

I wouldn’t bother reading it; it’s even duller now than it was then:

I have a busy day ahead. I am doing the music at church this morning. If it goes as well as last time, it will be a fiasco. We have a new cd player only it’s not really a cd player but uses a memory stick. That’s fairly straightforward. It’s the tempo button that tripped me up. You can set the tempo for each song played. It sounds like a good idea and when I played them before the service and sang along in my head, the tempo was spot on each time. However, throw in a congregation – albeit small and composed mostly of old ladies – and the thing takes on a life of its own. At first it was too slow so I speeded it up; then it was too fast so I slowed it a little. Unfortunately, the ladies were still racing along with the fast tempo and they finished singing before we ran out of music. Some of them are also getting deaf and I had it too quiet, too soft, too loud, too blow the roof off. By the time the feedback whistle from one of the mikes started, I was past caring, and sat laughing hysterically in my corner. They must be pretty desperate if they ask me to do it again.

After church I have to come back, clean up, then go to buy some groceries. The Hub bought a couple of boxes of Honey Waffles and came to have some last night…he found enough for half a bowl. I would blame the children but they don’t like them, so I can’t. He knew it was me and if I want to save my marriage I have to replace them today.

I’ll get back in time to not watch the City game. I will be sorting through the crap I want to sell at a boot sale tomorrow. I am going with a friend. Unless it rains, in which case, Freecycle will be getting it all.

After that, it will be time to make dinner, eat dinner, clean up after dinner, and collapse in bed from the exhaustion housework always brings on in me.

A dull post for a dull day; but why should I suffer alone?