Tesco Shelves (Photo credit: Andwar)
Thanks to KiwiDutch for these topical jokes.
Two news items this week.
From The Telegraph:
A human finger found inside a fish in Idaho was traced to a man who lost four fingers in an accident months before.
A fisherman cleaning a trout found a severed finger inside and gave it to the police, who traced it, via the fingerprint, to Hans Galassi, 31, who lost it (along with the other three) while wakeboarding.
“The sheriff called me and told me he had a strange story to tell me,” Mr Galassi said […] “I was like: Let me guess, they found my fingers in a fish.”
I wonder if he sulked when only one finger was found? It would give new meaning to the term trout pout.
Apparently, he declined the finger’s return.
Sheriff’s Detective Sgt. Gary Johnston said the agency will keep the digit for a few weeks in case he changes his mind.
From our very own Stockport Express:
A horrified mum bit into a supermarket sandwich – and discovered she had eaten a chunk of a ‘hairy creature’ inside.
Katie Crabtree, 31, was shocked to discover what she believes was a small, dead rodent in her pre-packaged sandwich bought from Tesco at Portwood.
Euggh!
Here’s a photograph:
Be honest: would you eat that? Me neither; that bacon looks congealed.
I always avoid pre-packed sandwiches; I’m not keen on mayonnaise cardboard with a side serving of plastic (mouse optional).
On the subject of disgusting things in food, my family have a meal time saying:
I’ve got the hair.
My hair is so long now that, despite tying it back and covering it with a cap when I cook, some always escapes and makes its way onto a plate (oddly, never mine; it is not homing hair). The family have got so used to it, no food is ever wasted.
If I find anything besides malt or chocolate in a Malteser, I’m going on a diet. I’ll only eat one box a day. Just to be safe.
UPDATE:
Accident or design?
Today’s quote when this post published:
Writing, to me, is simply thinking through my fingers.
Isaac Asimov
BlogHer 2010 swag (Photo credit: jen_rab)
BlogHer published the results of their annual survey yesterday.
What they learned:
Didn’t I tell you to shop at Tesco at five-thirty on a Saturday evening? I’ll keep saying that until they upset me (and they will: I’m the world’s worst shopper and easily offended).
That’s no good to my American readers, of course, who make up more than half of my audience; or my European readers, who make up another fraction that isn’t quite a quarter but is fairly substantial; or the one person from St Kitts and Nevis (you know who you are) – none of whom have a local Tesco at which to shop (yet: as Tesco’s campaign for world domination grows, powered by almost-out-of-date stock being sold at ridiculously low prices to the joy of cash-strapped bloggers, they might eventually succeed).
BlogHer tell us:
More than 61 percent of active blog readers in the U.S. say they have made purchases based on a blog recommendation.
Not from this blog, you haven’t; unless it was of the two anthologies in which I have a poem. Can’t see either of those being a huge hit with my Mongolian reader (you know who you are).
Image via Wikipedia
I don’t really blog about the stuff I buy, because I don’t really buy anything. The Hub says that’s one of the things he loves about me – my lack of materialism. Chance would be a fine thing: one of the things I don’t love about him is his lack of money.
But I shouldn’t complain; I get great Christmas presents (President’s balls, anyone?).
BlogHer go on to say:
Blogs Won the Trust Test – The blog review was ranked the most trustworthy by both women online and the BlogHer community […] We believe think the survey makes the case that blog conversations are the single best use of marketing and advertising dollars by brands that want to grow their reach to women online […] We believe this action is being driven by the high level of trust within the community, which is reinforced by the length and depth of the conversational format available on blogs and in blog comments.
Putting it into terms I can understand: you trust me because we talk to each other via comments, in which you tell me my butt is big and I’m bonkers.
Image via Wikipedia
I can believe think why that works.
They finish with this recommendation:
So to marketers and advertisers seeking the powerful audience of women online, we ask this: Do you want more confidence that your relevant messages will actually convert into action? If so, we recommend you talk with bloggers.
I have to agree, so here’s my own message to advertisers:
Use me. Send me free stuff and I’ll blog about it. Honest. Ly.
You can trust me: I’m a blogger.
*
POSTSCRIPT
I missed a trick: with that blatant request for free stuff, I should have finished this post with, ‘Trust me; I’m a blagger.’
Publish in haste; repent at leisure.
SPUDS! (Photo credit: jiva)
I have had a busy day. After a quick tidy of the house, I walked up to church. After church I walked up to the art gallery (‘up’ is the correct word because Stockport is hilly) (‘walked’ is the correct word because that’s what I did), where I chaired a meeting of my writing group.
The Hub collected me just after one and we went to the pound shop in town, where we bought four boxes of 15 Finish dishwasher tablets (can’t miss them at that price) and a bottle of anti-dandruff shampoo (scaly little Spud).
Then it was on to Tesco to spend the third of our £10 off a £30 spend voucher. We picked up quite a few bargains and then the Hub spotted a nice young lady doing further mark-downs by the marked-down shelf, so he asked her to further mark down the stuff in our trolley. She cheerfully obliged.
I’m glad the Hub has a brass neck, even though I am so embarrassed by it that I have to walk away until the will-you-do-this-for-me-just-because-I-ask-it?/Yes-of-course/sorry-I-can’t transaction is over, because we spent £27.99 and saved £74.06. We went a little over the £30 (can’t live without potatoes and a new shower curtain) and thus saved another £10 with our voucher. I’m really warming to Tesco.
I paid it forward by telling a little old man who was scouring the marked-down shelf about the policy of taking stock that is expiring that day to a member of staff to be marked down, and I was rewarded by the nice young lady telling the Hub that the best bargains are to be found at ten a.m. every day…I think I’ve finally learned to enjoy shopping.
After Tesco we had to call in at Pet Smart because our fish are sitting, miserable, on the bottom of the tank, and the Hub thinks it’s too much something scientific-sounding in the water and needed to buy something equally scientific-sounding to cure it.
Once home, I snarfed down a £4 hot pot that cost me a £1 and was the most delicious ready meal I’ve ever tasted – not that I’ve tasted many: not at £4 a shot. Then it was time to decant the pork, lamb, chicken, beef and other stuff into bags, so I could squeeze them into a freezer that’s beginning to make me look like a slum landlord, so crowded as it is (as they are: I have two).
One restorative cup of Earl Grey (decaffeinated) tea later and it was time to walk the dogs with Spud. By this time I was Christmastired. Christmastired is as tired as it’s possible to get without falling down. It has its roots in six-year old Spud not falling asleep until four a.m. on Christmas Eve and waking at five a.m. on Christmas morning, determined to make us share every moment of his hysteria despite the month-long shift we’d put in as Santa’s real little helpers.
I told the family to fend for themselves (dinner will be a large bowl of cereal each, I’m guessing – oh the irony); climbed into bed at a quarter-to-six, and I have been reading for an hour. I thought I would just say ‘hi’ to my dear readers before I settle down to watch Dancing On Ice; and apologise for not posting today.
Hi.
Sorry.
Bye xx
Image via Wikipedia
I have a habit of boycotting supermarkets that annoy me. Morrisons irritated me once too often by not having goods in stock that were advertised as on offer – again. We started shopping at Asda. Asda gave us an undeserved parking fine: we didn’t shop there for three years, and never went back as regulars. That was a dearly bought £20 on their part.
I shopped online with Tesco for a while but, as I paid by credit card, I found I was spending the grocery cash on frivolous items like electricity bills (rising because I was shopping online; have you ever done a supermarket shop online? It takes three times as long as getting in the car, driving to the next town, shopping for a year, stopping for lunch, spending the night in a hotel because you had too much to drink at lunch, and driving home again next day. Really not worth the effort), and so I went back to schlepping it in Hub’s taxi.
Tesco Online missed me after a while, even though I visited the local store, and they sent me a £10 off voucher to persuade me to shop with them again. I thought it was worth the effort so I spent two hours finding £50’s worth of groceries, went to pay, only to be told, ‘This voucher is not valid because you are not a first-time user.’ I don’t swear often. Tesco has been a dirty word in our house ever since.
However, I am a forgiving girl, and I accepted their recent apology: £10 off a £30 spend, times four weeks. I may have principles but they can be bought for the price of a full freezer. Our food budget is small but laying out £20 in actual cash is manageable. The Hub went alone last week, and got just over £30 in food for a payment of just over £20. He went alone because I am not allowed to go food shopping: I have a habit of filling the trolley, going over budget, and arguing with him over what is essential (Spud’s French Fancies) and what is frivolous (Hub’s Sensodyne toothpaste).
Yesterday he wasn’t having a good day so I was allowed along for the loading and unloading of groceries, with the occasional side order of whining (But we need olive oil and French Fancies). The Hub stopped to rest in the fruit and veg section and noticed some stuff being marked down. He put a few items in the trolley. He stopped to rest again in the meat section and started chatting to staff member Martin (when he isn’t laying down the supermarket law, the Hub is a sociable guy). How happy he was to have needed a rest: Martin told him that – and this is such a great tip, I’m going to highlight it in bold – in Tesco, if you find an item on the shelf that has to be sold that day, you can ask a member of staff for a reduction. It was like truffles to a pig: the Hub had his nose in every meat shelf and came away with a few items marked down by Martin…by 65%.
In fact, because we arrived around five-thirty on a Saturday, a lot of stuff was already marked down. We saved – wait for it – including our £10 voucher, BOGOFs and mark downs; but excluding items reduced in price for promotion – I can hardly believe it – £152.80. I may have wet myself in excitement.
We didn’t spend anywhere near that, though it was a little over £20. We spent almost £50 on items [see photo] we wouldn’t normally buy, mostly because we can’t afford them. There was a 3kg piece of silverside: we haven’t bought silverside in sixteen years, never mind three whole kilograms of it. There was prepared fruit. We love fruit but buy the cheapest range and prepare it ourselves. There were luxury doughnuts. Need I say more?
I now have enough meat in my freezer to last for months so, even though we went over budget, we saved future grocery money. I might use a little to buy the Hub some toothpaste.
Thanks Martin: you made a Tesco shopper out of me. For now.
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.
Image via Wikipedia
…Tesco, for showing the first Christmas advert (toys). Every little helps the largest supermarket in the country fill its overflowing pockets. The advert tells us that Christmas has come early this year; they’re not kidding: in Morrisons, Christmas decorations have been stacked next to Halloween goodies (or baddies?) for half of September. Don’t get me wrong – I love Christmas and the run-up to it; but it would be nice if it started on December 1st instead of October 1st. It’s like getting nine boxes of Maltesers for your birthday: you can have too much of a good thing.
<Short pause while I recover from my hysterical laughter>
*
Malteser Watch, Day 2
The Laughing Housewife is now in possession of ten boxes, her Blonde Friend having made an afternoon birthday visit.
Make that eight boxes, TLH & HBF having got stuck into the wine.
*
The kitchen is coming along. Work has halted for a few days but the tiling will be done next week. The story so far:
BEFORE
BEFORE THE AFTER
The fitters told me we have one of the biggest kitchens on the estate. We appear to have been lucky in having a sympathetic designer. The long counter, according to the fitters, is the longest they’ve put in on the estate (they had to take out the window to get it in the house). I have a small under-counter freezer that will go where those bags on the right are now, and the designer must have been in a good mood because he gave me the extra bit to cover it; the counter should have stopped at the end cupboard. He also gave me a bin space: the counter should have stopped at the washing machine. My fridgefreezer will go where the butcher’s trolley is now.
*
The Big Tent prompt this week was to step outside and do something different, then write about it. This wasn’t a week where I could do that, so I am sharing a pair of poems I wrote for my OU Creative Writing course, back in 2006. They are technically still within the parameters of the prompt, because they are about two people doing something they wouldn’t normally do. They tell the same story from the perspective of both participants.
A Cardinal Sin
I’m sick of being a one-man band;
Tired of playing the solo hand;
Self-confidence flagging;
Can’t go around begging.
I feel like a walking gland.
A mate of mine gave me a card.
‘Every man deserves a reward.
No sense feeling fearful;
They’re discreet and cheerful.
It’s time to let down your guard.’
He reckoned I would have a ball.
Desperate, I gave them a call.
Got to be worth a crack.
She’ll be good in the sack…
…She’s standing out in the hall.
Nervous, I invite her in.
Cash up front so we can begin.
We soon get down to it
But I know I blew it,
Aware that this is a sin.
In no danger of a rebuff,
But I still blushed; this step is tough.
The girl’s foreign body
Left me feeling shoddy.
Perhaps I was a bit rough.
Got out of her fast as I could.
Shudder to think it wasn’t good.
She said I was a stud
But I know I’m a dud.
Why did I join the priesthood?
*
Prostituted
The Man
invites me
in.
Devils dance inside of me.
Mere vacillation…
Impelled,
I breach my barricade.
Invasion.
Submission.
Profession.
Perdition.
I got two pieces of good news yesterday: I passed my interview and I start my work placement on Monday; and I won £100 worth of shopping. I am a little relieved about the interview because it could all have gone horribly wrong: I went to freshen up beforehand and there was an incident in the public toilet. I can’t give you details because I have embarrassed my sons enough and Tory Boy is still hoping for a career in public service; it all worked out for the best in the end, is all I can say.
The competition was run by my landlord, Stockport Homes. A woman phoned to say I had won for this area in their ‘shop local’ competition. I had to say in 100 words why I use my local shopping centre in Castle Street; it was part of the ‘use them or lose them’ campaign, as independents are being squeezed out by big business. Think about it: you can buy your groceries, your furniture, your clothes, your pet needs, your insurance, your lunch, and pretty soon your bank services from Tesco; and you can get it cheaper than any single shop can offer you. Sounds good, but will you think that when the next general election is sponsored by Asda? The candidates will have to start the day with a group hug and a yoghurt. Makes me queasy just thinking about hugs that early in the morning.
I have to spend the money in the local shops and claim it back. I’m not sure how it will work because the lady promised to send me an email with the details and I’m still waiting. Could it be cat-and-mouse, Stockport Homes style? We promise you something great – money, a kitchen – and then you never hear from us again.
It is ages since I last won anything. At least I do occasionally win stuff: the poor Hub has only ever won one competition, and that because the odds were stacked in his favour. He put petrol in the car one day and went to pay for it, when he noticed a sign above a box inviting him to put his name in for the chance of winning an England shirt; the date showed it was the last day of the competition. As he dropped his entry form in the attendant said, ‘You’ll probably win that.’ ‘Really?’ the Hub replied. ‘Yes,’ she said; ‘You’re the only person who’s entered.’
*
I still miss napowrimo so I am going to take part in some weekly poetry prompt exercises. This first one is from http://rallentanda.blogspot.com/ We have to write a poem inspired by Feet Beneath The Table by Charles Blackman, 1956.
Here’s mine:
Feet Beneath The Table by Charles Blackman, 1956
Alice – louche, right-eyed and pushy.
Nailed by the artist.
There are no shivarees at this party.
Carroll quivers in his grave, unveiled
to 21st Century eyes as
Charles Dodgson, paedophile.
Truth huddles, sad, like long-held pain.
*
*
‘Shivaree’ was yesterday’s Word of the Day from Dictionary.com and I just had to use it:
*
This prompt is from http://writersisland.wordpress.com/ We have to write about an imaginary friend. My poem is based on something that happened with my boys when they were younger; I have to find a better title:
A Tale Of Friends And Brothers
Two brothers, eleven and six.
Six – being six – had John
and Michael living in his head.
John and Michael and Six
were inseparable until the day
Eleven – being eleven – ate John.
Six wailed; Mother bellowed,
‘Eleven, sick him up at once!’
Eleven feigned retching.
John was returned
to his rightful mind.
The news this weekend that Sir Ranulph Fiennes crashed his Nissan Micra on the A6 http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/manchester/8554639.stm will come as no surprise to local activists campaigning for greater safety on this busy and dangerous road. Well, it might surprise them a little bit that a man who climbed Mount Everest as a pensioner, crossed Antarctica, and got to both Poles on foot, couldn’t negotiate a dual carriageway safely. I don’t know the ins-and-outs of the case, not being either a policeman or related to Sir R, so that’s all I have to say about that.
Maybe he should join a complaints choir – a fabulous Finnish idea: take the energy used to complain about where you live and write and sing a song about it. According to the website http://www.complaintschoir.org/
In the Finnish vocabulary there is an expression “Valituskuoro”. It means “Complaints Choir” and it is used to describe situations where a lot of people are complaining simultaneously. Kalleinen and Kochta-Kalleinen thought: “Wouldn´t it be fantastic to take this expression literally and organise a real Complaints Choir!”
Somehow they ended up in Birmingham; a city the website says is known to some ‘as the “arsehole of England”.’ As a Brit I could take exception to this description. However, I grew up on Mike Harding and one of his funniest lines ever was about Birmingham: ‘If the world had piles, that’s where they’d be!’ So maybe there’s a good reason the movement started there.
I quite like the idea of grabbing the Hub, going into Tesco’s and singing:
You overcharged me on the butter
You might think I am a nutter
But I’ll stand and utter mutters
Until I feel much better
Send an apology by letter
And a refund on my tenpence
Then I’ll stop being a nuisance
I’d join a choir myself but I have pitching issues. I remember going to my auntie’s funeral and singing with gusto and feeling rather pleased with my ability until my Little Brother said, ‘I wanted to laugh in there when you were singing; you were all over the place.’ Sigh. Never mind; you know what they say: those who can, do; those who can’t, write bad poetry.
I am a little fat. I like food; what can I say? I have dull hair: mousey. I don’t wear much make-up and have no need of a dressing table. If I look like a bag lady, I chose my own clothes. If I look nice, the Hub picked them for me. Despite all this, I am a little vain. This photograph is from 2003. I had to go back that far to find one of me that I liked. But I don’t really care: my husband still thinks I’m beautiful and if he doesn’t, he loves me enough to lie about it. I’m lucky. I have two boys. They never lie to me. Still, you can't have everything.
The Laughing Housewife 
I have the funniest readers in the blogosphere (not necessarily ha ha…)