Tag Archives: Tory Boy

29th’s the Charm

18 Apr

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Oh boy! It’s my boy’s birthday today. Happy birthday, Birthday Boy.

Give Thanks; It’s Good For You

18 Apr

Image result for celebration gif

Whether you believe in God or not, it is a good habit to count your blessings. In fact, it has been scientifically proven that being thankful for what you have is good for your health and mental wellbeing. I know this because I saw it in a Twitter meme, so it must be true. For it to work, it is recommended that you find at least five things to be thankful for. 

I record daily thanks in a notebook and I’ve been doing it for about six years. I only have bad moods on non-recording days but this might be because I don’t record my thanks because I’m in a bad mood. Science has to get back to me on that one.

Thanks should be personal to you because it’s unrealistic to be thankful for the neighbour a few doors down with the flawless skin and gleaming hair when you’re going through age-mandated repuberty and you look like Dorian Gray’s older, less attractive sister. They don’t need to be big things, though we ought to be thankful for them also. On days when I’m almost in a bad mood and can’t be bothered to be grateful that my fingernails look fabulous, I use my big things as default thanks: husband, kids, grandson, dogs, health, wealth, outstanding personality. More often than not, though, I’m thankful for small things like cheese & onion crisps, panty liners, invites to dinner at friends’ homes=no cooking, etc., and I have been thankful for as many as 23 separate things on Malteser days.

Today, to put my money where my mouth is, I’m going to share my thanks with you.

I am thankful for:

  • My lack of money, because it teaches me the true value of things (a little fake sincerity is surprisingly positive at times)
  • How often my fake sincerity teaches me the true value of things
  • That I’m not in a bad mood
  • For my eldest child; I love him so much
  • For the man he has become
  • Cheese & onion crisps, obviously
  • That he’s a fantastic father
  • That he’s known me for 28 years and yet he still talks to me
  • That blogging is cheaper than a birthday card

Surprise!

Happy birthday, darling! 

Thank goodness that’s over with.

Oops! Did I say that out loud? Thank goodness he didn’t read me. And that he has a great sense of humour…

Excluding what we have established is the boring (family/pets/health/etc.), what are YOU thankful for?

What Are You Up To, Dad?

7 Jul

Here’s a gratuitous pic of my gorgeous grandson.  We call it ‘Suspicious Baby’.

Birthday Boy

18 Apr

Twenty-seven years ago today, I was given a little gift:

I loved this gift.  I played with it and dressed it and took it with me everywhere.  And then one day I lost it (I hate Lancaster University; anywhere he’s ever lived; any job he’s ever had).

But then, my gift returned one day, bearing another gift:


So I forgave my gift for having a life of its own without me, and was just glad that it had doubled in size.

Happy birthday, darling!  Did you know that you share your birthday with some illustrious people, including:

  • Lucretia Borgia (alleged poisoner) (hey, there weren’t that many careers available to 15th Century women)
  • Bernard Ogilvie Dodge (American botanist and pioneer researcher on heredity in fungi) (no joke required; his job says it all)
  • Clara Eggink (Dutch poetess) (…?)
  • George Huntington Hartford II (American heir) (seriously, who wants to be famous for being an heir – Prince William excepted, of course?  I’d rather be famous for being an alleged poisoner; at least I’d be making my own way in the world) (though I wouldn’t object to being an unfamous heir)
  • Lenny Baker (rocker with Sha Na Na) (well that’s just embarrassing) (though he is saved by the fact he was in Grease) (and he is often mistaken for Kenny Baker – being mistaken for a midget android with a cute voice has to be a step up, surely?)
  • Herbert Mullin (American serial killer) (some mothers do ‘ave ’em) (not this mother, of course) (right?)
  • Bernadette Robi (ex-wife of football player Lynn Swann) (yes, well…almost as worthy as being born an heir)
  • Thankfully, the list is saved by the great David Tennant (my child has a Doctor Who connection!!  He is now officially my favourite child)
  • Kourtney Kardashian (and he’s back off the favourite child list) (happy birthday, anyway, sweetie pie xxx) (love you)

Author’s Note:

The favourite child thing is just a joke: mothers don’t have favourite children.

But grandmothers do.

We Are A Grandmother

5 Dec

Glory Boy, proving that children have their uses: providing us with more children; the kind we can spoil, give back, and let get away with all the things we forbade their parents to do.

The post title: I think Margaret Thatcher was misunderstood in this instance. My bet is that in her excitement, she meant to say either, ‘We are grandparents’ or, ‘I am a grandmother’ but got the two muddled up and ended up using the Royal ‘We’.

Becoming a grandparent is rather like being royal, after all: someone else does the behind the scenes work; we just have to show up and be applauded.

Here’s my beautiful new grandson: now let the applause begin.

Don’t Eat The Spam!

9 Jun

Sometimes, spam comments looks genuine; at first glances, I thought this was:

My brother suggested I would possibly like this web site.
He used to be entirely right. This put up actually made
my day. You cann’t believe just how a lot time I had spent for this info!

Then I thought about it: her brother used to be entirely right?  I has brothers.  I don’t thinks so….

It’s definitely spam; or the author is an only child and wishing it ain’t so.

*

On a seriously note, I heard that the illiterate emails we is getting in our inboxers are deliberate: nasty spammers want to weed out the intelligent and/or persons what can spell, becAuse they are less likely to be gullible and therefore taken in buy iritating emails.

*

Does you like how I am writings in the style of spam?  It’s very pleasance.

I was going to asks you all to do similar or the sames in your comments, but yours proberly ennd up in my spam filter.

By the way, the title refers to a family story going back about six years.  My nephew and niece were staying with us for a couple of weeks and I made lunch.  Much hilarity ensued because I squirted a bottle of tomato sauce from directly over the top of a sandwich and still managed to miss.  Such are my cooking skills.

Nephew & Nice sat down with their sandwiches and Spud and Wary Boy were given theirs.  One of the boys smelled it and said, ‘I think this ham is off.’

You know how in The Night Before Christmas visions of sugar plums danced in their heads?  Well, visions of vomiting children for whom I was temporarily responsible danced in mine and I ran into the other room screaming, ‘Don’t eat the ham!  Don’t eat the ham!’

Nowadays, if I ever say the word ‘ham’, everyone in the room yells at me, ‘Don’t eat the ham!  Don’t eat the ham!’

My mistake, of course, was not to give food poisoning to my own children.   They wouldn’t have laughed at me then.  Ah well, we mothers can’t get everything right.

 

Snippet

12 May

This is a snippet of Alex as Jamie Wellerstein in The Last Five Years.  Jamie is telling the story of Schmuel, the tailor of Klimovich.

The show was Colla Voce Theatre’s début production and it was fantastic, particularly given the venue, which was practically a dungeon (two or three storeys below ground, in an old Woolworths building).  A two-hander, Alex and his partner, Olivia Doust, had roughly ninety minutes of singing between them.  Olivia had never acted before but you wouldn’t have known.  She gave an assured performance and she has a lovely voice.  Alex was in agony: he had a throat infection and said it hurt from start to finish. He spent three days not talking, treating his voice with honey and great care.

You can read a review here: Blunt Cinema.

In other news: this week, Alex is appearing in The Forgotten Songs of Lerner & Loewe.  If you are in the Sheffield area, tonight is your last chance: details here.

There was a clip available but it won’t play, unfortunately.

He’s got two shows coming up in the summer; I’ll share details when I’m allowed.

Apologies to those who feel outraged that this humour blog has been overtaken by the Alex Cosgriff Fanzine.  What can I tell you?  I’m a proud mama. 

Speaking of which, Hairy Boy was home this weekend.  He came to visit on Friday and turned into Invisible Boy on Saturday morning, disappearing to visit his friends and reappearing in time for Sunday dinner and his train home.  At least I got to feed and wash up after him.  There’s always a silver lining.

Fed Up

11 Mar

I’ve been busy with one thing and another, none of it interesting.  I’ve also had backache, headache, hipache and – of all things – leftbuttockache.

Word has been restored but I ran out of printer ink.  I don’t know how to replace the ink cartridge, but that’s a job for the Hub, anyway.  And he’ll do it as soon as I remember to tell him I need ink.  I can’t think over this left buttock shouting at me all the time.

I couldn’t get warm last night, until the Hub brought me an extra quilt and a hot water bottle.  I’m too warm this morning.

One of the dogs was sick in the hall and I had to clean it up.  I always seem to be cleaning up after one end of a dog or another.  They both need a bath and a haircut. So do I.  I bet they get theirs first.

Don’t talk to me; I’m in a BAD mood.

I did laugh one night this week.  We went to see Alex in a new play, Not From Round ‘Ere.  Think In Bruges in the Forest of Dean.  It was a farce: new writing from student Alex Bushnell, and very funny.  Alex Bushnell had a short film play at the Cannes Film Festival and was nominated for an award, and I could see why. The play needed some tweaking, as his youth and inexperience showed in places, but on the whole it was excellent.

A strong cast (no names for you, because there were no programmes available due to a problem at the printer’s.  That didn’t help my mood) included our Alex, who played seven characters, plus a couple of voiceovers and one chicken sound effect. He didn’t have a lot of lines but he made the most of them, and his simple dropping of a walking stick onto the floor brought the house down.  Sadly, there is no film so I can’t show you; but I do hope to have a photo soon of him in a long blonde wig, cheeky denim shorts, and high heels.

I can’t make fun of him that way just yet, but here’s a video of him at Sessions: basically, student karaoke.  He was one of the last to go on so he’s very, erm, merry. The paper he’s holding has the lyrics on but he forgot he was holding it; and he’s wearing cat ears just because…

Like I said, he was slightly inebriated.

It was nice to see him in a comedy; he hasn’t done one since Lend Me A Tenor: a play rehearsed and performed in a week, at school.  Sixth formers do it for fun after exams.  Here’s a clip:

A few weeks ago we saw him in a concert of André Previn’s unused score of Goodbye Mr Chips.  Not From Round ‘Ere is running until tomorrow night. Tomorrow morning he’s doing Shakespeare for Breakfast for charity; and on Sunday he’s in a preview show of The Last Five Years, which he’ll be appearing in in April, after his week in yet another play at the National Student Drama Festival. Then he’s going to sleep for a month.  Oh no, he can’t, because in May he’s singing in a concert of Lerner & Loewe’s forgotten songs.

In case you think I’ve forgotten Wary Boy, he’s doing well but prefers that I not broadcast his activities i.e. doesn’t tell me much of what he’s up to.  He did get a very nice tattoo on his forearm this week, but I don’t know how to move a photo from my phone to my laptop, so you’ll have to take my word for it.

I’m useless with technology; I can’t use it to share news and it’s always going wrong or running out or wasting my time.  No wonder I’m in a bad mood.

Look What I Did!

18 Apr

 

Somebody went to hospital twenty-five years ago and all they brought back was this lousy mountain man.

DSCF4248

Happy birthday, Hairy Boy.

Love you xx

Boromir Fed My Child Last Night

25 Sep

This is absolutely true.

But, as I have mentioned, truth is relative…

Spud went off to Sheffield University on Sunday.  It’s forty minutes away by train; nearly three hours in a car when there’s no direct motorway, you have to trek through the Pennines, and there’s a big event on.  It took two hours to travel two miles at one point.

I have two children, both sons.  For all of the similarities they have, I might as well have a dragon and an iguana: they’re both lizards but you wouldn’t let one of them near your princess or the other your salad.

On their respective first days at university, one child kicked us out the minute the car was empty; the other encouraged us to do his unpacking for him.

One boy enjoyed Freshers’ Week so much, he made a point of going back early in his subsequent years; the other had decided by Tuesday night that he’s not a party-party-party kinda guy.

One son was irritated by the amount of food I insisted he take; the other was irritated that I had only packed enough for one term.

One lad didn’t call home for the first three months and when he did, made Marcel Marceau look like a gossip; the other has called home every day, because he knows we want to hear about all of the interesting things he’s doing.

Spud called today to tell us about meeting his tutor – he and Spud are the only males in a gaggle of girls.  They discussed the psychology of favourite biscuits for thirty minutes.  Looks like it’s going to be an interesting course.

He has signed up for various societies – dramatic, musical theatre, singing…oh, and the psychology society (‘Psychos’) as an afterthought, though he didn’t pay for a three-year membership in case he’s too busy to go because he’s rehearsing.

He mentioned that he had chips on the way home last night.  A small chippy owned by Sean Bean’s family offered free vouchers for chips, paid for by Sean Bean.  Yorkshiremen are renowned for being careful with their money but he obviously broke the stereotype.

I hope Spud gets talent spotted at one of his societies, moves to Hollywood, and pals up with his chip donor so I can finally ask the questions which have niggled me for years: who on earth named Sean Bean?  And why isn’t his name pronounced Shorn Born or Sheen Been?

I’m missing my baby.  I missed my other baby when he first left home; but then he kept coming back between moves, leaving more of his stuff each time.  I don’t have space to miss him at the moment: it’s taken up with boxes of clothes (a lot), books (a library) and Yu-Gi-Oh cards (some children never grow up).  The youngest child has made up for that by taking only what he thought he might need with him (not much); leaving what he wanted to hold on to but which was not essential for uni (even less); and chucking the rest (making a butter mountain look positively frugal).

So, with all of these differences, was my reaction the same to their leaving?  

No, it wasn’t.

With Tory Boy, I was caught up in his excitement and it was only when we said goodbye that I surprised everyone – not least, myself – when I burst into tears.

With Spud, I was tearful all week but didn’t sob (much) at our goodbye because I had become so crippled by holding it all in.  Of course, he didn’t see the tears flow in the car on the way home, having abandoned me for student dissipation.

Such a good look on me, don't you think?

Such a good look on me, don’t you think?

The boys do have some similarities. Tory Boy phoned on Sunday night and we had a conversation that I could have had with either one of them after an upsetting day:

Tory Boy:  I was worried about you; I wanted to know if you’re okay?

Mum:  I’m fine, thank you, sweetie. Managing, anyway.

Tory Boy.  Good, good…so: did you cry more for him or me?

 

 

Dumb Mum & Funny Boys

7 Sep

Two daft moments from yesterday

A Serious Talk

*

I woke up at three in the morning last night and saw the hall lamp was on which meant that Spud was still out and hadn’t let me know he’d be back so late.

My text: Where are you?!!

Spud’s reply: In Tory Boy’s room.

***

*


From lookimadethat.com

Tory Boy was asking me about Holy Communion and I told him about the time I influenced a vicar.

She always used a piece of bread from her latest open loaf at home for the communion bread and, discussing it one day, I mentioned that I loved it when she used the occasional bun because of the symbolism of its wholeness/completeness/the actual breaking of bread, and so on.  She didn’t say anything but she must have liked the idea because after that, she always used a bun at communion.

Tory Boy: So what you’re saying is, your vicar thought the bun was the best thing since sliced bread?

 

That Was The Week That Was (III)

3 Sep

<b>The Tree of  War</b> - A Musical to Commemorate WW1The story so far:  Tory Boy’s guts are about to explode.

*

*

Sunday 17 August

The Hub’s scapula was badly bruised but not broken, but he found it difficult to drive.  Tory Boy was taken into hospital on Saturday evening; I was on the first train next morning to Lancaster.  Which means I caught the bus because they were doing maintenance work on the tracks.  Didn’t they know I was in a hurry?

Tory Girl was making her way up to Lancaster from Darn Sarf, booking in at a Lancaster Travel Lodge on the way (hooray for wifi).  The train took five hours but it was worth the wait – she brought him a dinosaur sticker book, a Ninja Turtles notebook, a Spiderman pencil set and the Sunday Telegraph.  She knows him well.  She promised, if he was good and didn’t complain about the nurses’ needles, that she would buy him some Lego next day.  She made good on her promise, and threw in a dinosaur teddy for good measure.

The expression of love

The expression of love

Tory Boy had been admitted to hospital on the Saturday evening but it was Monday afternoon before he had his appendectomy – car accidents and other emergencies kept bumping him down the list.  I didn’t mind that, but I didn’t like that he wasn’t fed for 48 hours.  I suppose it helps the NHS catering budget to starve the patients.  They wouldn’t feed him because they believed he’d be next to be operated upon; but people kept crashing their cars.  It didn’t help that Tory Boy wasn’t in dreadful pain.  If it wasn’t for his rising temperature and pulse rate, you’d never have known he was one internal explosion away from writhing on the ground in agony.

I didn’t starve, of course: I had a surprisingly tasty lasagne in the inappropriately named Skylight Restaurant; which was in the basement.

*

Monday 18 August

The surgeon finally whipped out TB’s appendix around 2:30pm.  He said it was full of pus, septic, gangrenous and as close to bursting as he’d ever seen without actually bursting.  How Tory Boy hadn’t been screaming for 24 hours was beyond his understanding.  My boy, the medical conundrum.  Typical of a child who failed the HEAF test because he had the tuberculosis antibodies already, despite never having been inoculated.  His brother is the same – he also failed the HEAF test for the same reason; plus had his appendix out at eleven.  Spud is currently winning the battle of the freaks, however, because he had Shingles at age nine.

Weirdly, neither of them have ever broken any bones.

*

Tuesday 19 August

While all of this was going on, Spud was preparing to leave for the Leeds music festival.  The five day trip was his main gift from us for his 18th birthday (back in January).  There was a lot of last minute shopping for camping equipment, etc.  I helped him pack on Tuesday evening; which is to say, I packed his bag on Tuesday evening: the child was prepared to survive on one packet of biscuits and ten litres of alcohol for almost a week, yet couldn’t pack a towel without his mother’s help.

The expression of dopey

The expression of dopey

Tory Boy was supposed to have been at a job interview Darn Sarf in the afternoon, but he had to cancel, for obvious reasons.

*

Wednesday 20 August

Tory Boy was released, after a flurry of texts and calls to say, I’m coming out – I’m not coming out – I’m allowed home today – No I’m not….  There was some dispute; but they must have needed the bed because they let him go.  I was on the train – a real train this time – as soon as he texted, I’ve got the drugs.

I brought him back by train (the Hub’s shoulder is going to take some time to heal – I hurt mine in January and it finally stopped aching around the beginning of August).  He went straight to bed as soon as we got in.  He lives in Lancaster but he needed his mother to look after him during his recuperation.

*

Friday 22 August

Tory Girl came for the weekend.  Tory Boy began to feel better.

Tory Boy no longer needed his mother.  Sigh.

*

Monday 25 August

Exactly one week since his operation, Tory Boy was on the train with Tory Girl, travelling five hours Darn Sarf and five hours back (without her), for the rescheduled job interview. 

Spud came home, starving and stinking; not too drunk, but full of stories which can’t be repeated in a family blog.  Come visit us, however, and I’ll happily allow him to share.

*

Tuesday 23 August

Tory Boy got the job!

The expression of tolerance for a doting, blogging mother

The expression of tolerance for a doting, blogging mother

So that’s been my week (or two).  We are still busy, however, because Spud is rehearsing for The Tree of War, a play funded by the council and written by a poet vicar and a music student.  Details here.  Spud plays young Bert.

He is also packing up for university.  Or he would be, if he wasn’t spending all of his time rehearsing.  It’s going to be a last minute job; I know it.

Tory Boy went up to Lancaster at the end of last week to pack up his lodgings, came back to Stockport and went straight to hospital because he had some complications after his op.  I didn’t need a medical degree to know that they were caused by over-exertion.  They didn’t keep him in but he is on strict instructions to rest this week.  Apart from a  couple of excursions to the shops, he is resting.  He needs to leave here next week to start his new job and move in with Tory Girl – as soon as they find a flat.  What it is to be young and heedless.

Apart from this weekend’s performances, Spud is also doing a poetry reading with me in 12 days.  We’ll start rehearsing that next week.  Then we dump him and his stuff at Sheffield University at the end of the month – and I can start breathing again.

 

 

 

 

That Was The Week That Was (II)

22 Aug
The Hub in pre-rabbit days

The Hub before he was brutally savaged by a rabbit

The story so far: one broken husband and one disdainful rabbit combine to make one weary of constant Ow-ow-ows from the Hub.

*

Monday 11 August

My monthly visit to Write Out Loud at the art gallery, an open mic poetry night.

The Hub refused to go to A&E.

*

Tuesday 12 August

Tea and toast with Friend Pam at Olive Café in Edgeley, a joint-church venture which is doing remarkable well.

The Hub refused to go to A&E between his groans.  I began to feel a tad irritated.

*

Wednesday 13 August

The Hub refused to at least visit the doctor but had me feel up his swollen shoulder.  I began to plot ways of making his suffering even worse.

Spud went out to a pre-results party with his friends so they could all be nervous together instead of in their separate homes.

DSCF1367The Hub and I went to church. 

Yes, you did that read that right – the arch-atheist Hub and I went to church.  New Chapel in Denton where, the Hub had discovered via the magic that is the internet, his great-uncle John Ellor, who died in Egypt in 1918, had his name on the Sunday School Roll of Honour for those who died during the Great War.

A wonderful couple – she works as the church secretary – called Christine and Barry pulled out all of the old records and we found lots of relatives from the Hub’s father’s side – and his grandparents’ 1927 marriage certificate.  To actually touch their signatures was emotional even for me, who has no blood connection.  It’s the first time the Hub has had a good time in church since he married me 29 years ago.

Ah!  Just realised why he’s never been back…

2:15 a.m.

I woke up to hear the Hub creeping downstairs…on his way to A&E to get his swelling checked out.  He was in agony and unable to sleep.  It was worth going in the middle of the night to avoid the I-told-you-sos, and because it took less than an hour for the Hub to be checked over, x-rayed and told that his scapula might be broken but he was so badly bruised that it was impossible to tell.  Take ibuprofen and try not to be too smug in your wife’s face or you might end up back here with  a definite broken scapula.

*

Thursday 14 August

Morning

Made with love

Made with love

Results day.  Spud arrived home exhausted but too excited to sleep; and starving.  He had a breakfast of 2 eggs and 3 toast followed by 6 lots of cheese and crackers.

Spud slept all day.

Evening

Spud’s friends arrived for drinks-before-the-real-boozing-starts-in-town (Manchester) celebration.  We have known most of the boys for the last seven years and they are a lovely lot, so we cracked open a bottle of champagne with them, drinking from paper cups because Spud insisted.  Then we went off to bed and they went out about ten p.m.

*

Pre-drinks before the real drinks

Pre-drinks before the real drinks

Friday 15 August

6:05 a.m.

Spud crept in.  Spud slept all day.

9:15 a.m.  I went out for the day to Llandudno, on the church charabanc. 

I went on a boat!  A three-year old girl loved it; her older brother screamed the whole time. 

I went on the beach as the tide came in.  So I wasn’t on the beach for long.

A beautiful Welsh beach

A beautiful Welsh beach

I went on the country’s longest pier – a mile and a half, I think. 

I went on the tuppeny slots, just like I did on Welsh holidays as a child. 

I discovered you can’t slice a scone without a knife but it tastes just as good when buttered, creamed and jammed with a spoon. 

I got home at six-thirty and I was in bed thirty minutes later.*

If I'd had the money, I would have bought the boys - all three of them - one each of these onesies

If I’d had the money, I would have bought the boys – all three of them – one each of these onesies

Saturday 16 August

Tory Boy phoned: I’m at the hospital with suspected appendicitis.

*

Come back soon for the final, exciting instalment – is Tory Boy fit to burst?

 

The Passing of the Bag

19 Jun

We had a solemn ceremony in this house on Sunday: the first traditional Passing of the Bag.

Tory Boy bought himself a good quality rucksack when he was at high school.  By the time he’d finished college, Spud was at high school and needed a good quality rucksack.  Tory Boy loaned Spud his, on the condition that it be returned someday.  Six years on, that day was Sunday, as Spud had finished high school and Tory Boy was home.

Cue ceremonial music (Celine Dion’s My Bag Will Go On):

 

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

 

One Part Prompt/Two Parts Silly

28 May

 

Click on the image for source

If you were one part human, two parts something else — another animal, a plant, an inanimate object — what would the other two parts be?

Before I started my weight loss programme (not a diet; I don’t do diets), I was one part human/two parts Maltesers.  Now, I am mostly one part human/two parts hungry.

The Hub says I am one part human/two parts vampire i.e. sucked the life right out of him.

Scratch that, he didn’t say anything of the sort.  But he did offer to slice me open to find out.  Consider me one part grateful/two parts terrified.

*

Here’s a prompt response I found in my drafts folder:

S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y NIGHT! What’s your favorite way to spend Saturday night?

A movie, a large packet of cheese & onion crisps and a glass or three of JC Le Roux’s La Chanson.

I’m writing this post at seven-thirty on Saturday night, in bed with a hot water bottle.  No, the Hub is not giving me the cold shoulder because I was mean about him one too many times (like there’s a limit…); I sneezed today and put out my back.  The power of snot.

Talking of my favourite wine, Number One Son bought me a bottle for Mother’s Day.  Then helped me drink it.

Now he’s Number Two Son.

*

Think about an object, an activity, or a cultural phenomenon you really don’t like. Now write a post (tongue in cheek or not — your call!) about why it’s the best thing ever.

Writing responses to WordPress prompts is the best thing ever because it allows me to make fun of the most off-the-wall people on the planet.

No, really.  They are as much fun as dieting.

*

Your local electronics store has just started selling time machines, anywhere doors, and invisibility helmets. You can only afford one. Which of these do you buy, and why?

I think I’d buy the invisibility helmet.  I like the idea of walking around scaring people when they see a headless body.

And think of how much weight loss that adds to my non-diet…  No one can call me fathead any more!

*

The friendly, English-speaking extraterrestrial you run into outside your house is asking you to recommend the one book, movie, or song that explains what humans are all about. What do you pick?

Of course, it would be an alien that spoke to my headless body, wouldn’t it? Because it wouldn’t know I was weird.

And the book – as you regular readers must surely know – would have to be Ender’s Game, in which we earthlings kick some alien butt.

Damn aliens, coming over here and stealing all our humanity.

*

When you do something scary or stressful — bungee jumping, public speaking, etc. — do you prefer to be surrounded by friends or by strangers? Why?

I prefer to be safe in my bedroom, not jumping off or on to platforms, thank you very much.

You are all welcome to crowd in, of course; but I get the window side of the bed.

*

You’ve been given the superpower to change one law of nature. How do you use it?

Crisps and Maltesers would be one of my five-a-day.

Do you not know me at all, WordPress?

*

What’s the one guilty pleasure you have that’s so good, you no longer feel guilty about it?

Tormenting WordPress Prompters.

Oh, and breaking wind…there’s no smell, now I eat properly.

What?  Nobody comes here for the dainty English refinement – you know that, right?

%d bloggers like this: