Tag, I'm it!

For the first time ever I’ve been tagged to write a post. It’s on High Vibes, which I believe to be on the subject of what you do to keep yourself positive. Thanks for the tag, lovely Taexelia, Queen of the Foxes.

One apparently has to share five tricks for staying positive. I’ve decided to tell five little stories about times when I needed a bit of positivity and what I/others did to get my/their mojo back.

1. The Story of the Evil German Bastard who Broke My Heart When I Was Nineteen.

I was obsessed with a German exchange student 8 years older than me at University. For three years we went back and forth to Scotland and Germany. I was deliriously obsessed with him. The female members of my family loved him, the males didn’t. That should have been a warning. He was so good looking and charming that I couldn’t believe that he would even look twice at me. My dad, who is a normally personable chap, would sit and glare at him whenever I took him home. My mum and sister would look at him with awe.

After two years he dumped me for a nurse whom let’s face it he’d been shagging all along. I was borderline suicidal. I had fantasies of little blonde bilingual babies. But for a year after dumping me, he would still visit. He would invariably sleep with me, raising false hope. Then one night after doing this he felt all guilty about cheating on his girlfriend. He was actually in tears. The utter cheek of him! Something in me snapped. I took his bag, jacket and shoes and flung them out into Great Western Road (Glasgow’s main drag) and told him to leave. I actually flung him out the door in a T-shirt and boxers in February. My flatmates practically gave me a Mexican Wave. Two years later I met Meeester and I thought, “Thank God.”

Item One: Get rid of bad people from your life who stop the good ones coming along.


2. The Story of Leaving My So Called Fabulous Production Job

This is worthy of a longer post. So see this as a kind of trailer. When you work for a company for 8 years and have (along with your colleagues) turned a little production department that made crappy videos for colleges into a major player in the commercial production world, heading up Global Live Broadcasts for Blue Chip Companies, you’d think a payrise to bring your salary up to a measly £25,000 wouldn’t be out of order. Apparently it was. I left.

Item 2: If anyone takes the piss, then leave.


3. Surprise Story!

At the end of last year I was very ill. I won’t go into details. For my birthday I wanted nothing, but a surprise. On my birthday Meeester set me a challenge. He gave me a canvas, paints and brushes and told me I had 30 days to sell my work on Ebay for ANY money. Here it is:

I got £73 for it and I gave the proceeds to the Cats Protection League. As a reward Meeester let me choose the jewellery of my choice in Thailand but the real reward was the painting. Doing that painting and seeing all my friends and family (and some unknown bidders!) bidding for it, made me well again. And I’ve been painting ever since.

Item3: Surprise someone. Life’s too short on surprises.


4. The Travel Bug

I’ve always been a traveller. Sounds like the start to a ropey folk song, doesn’t it? Travel is the best thing ever. I’ve turned my husband and kids into travellers too. That’s why I call us the Flying Martinis.

I would love to write a travelogue and was delighted that so many of my friends and family enjoyed reading my daily emails from Finland and then when I started blogging, my Sri Lanka and Thailand Travelogues. See some of them here and here (or look in the April archives)

By the time I’m 40 I am going to get a travelogue published. I am, I can. No question.

Item 4: Have an ambition and realise it.


5. Music is Soul Food

What a flipping hippy thing to say. But it’s true. Tonight I am going to watch the wonderful Meeester and some of my most favourite people in the world play their 6 new songs live in front of a small audience in a dodgy little dive called The Moorings before they take them to various festivals in the summer. The band, the Lorelei, are in their second wave. To cut a long story short they made a very emotional and difficult decision to part with their original lead singer and songwriter about 10 years ago even though they were quite successful.

It’s not been easy. They’ve had to find a new singer (Meeester), turn their hands to writing without the powerful but often destructive presence of lead singer No1, and have been scrutinised by all the fans of the band from back when. All that and the old leader singer turns up at their first gig and stares them all out. Toooo difficult.

Despite all that they have been booked up for festivals, easily pack out Aberdeen’s Lemon Tree every time they play and are gaining new fans every day.

Tonight they go back on with all new songs, a lot happier and creative than they have ever been and I’m so proud of them all. One more thing, if any of them are reading this, gonna sell some flipping records now so that we can all live La Vida Loca?

Item Five: Have faith in yourself and prove your critics wrong.


So there we are. Now it's my turn to tag five others:

KayessJayKay
EvvyB
American Scot
Joseph
Surviving Motherhood

Mumu

Anyone else who wants tagged let me know and I'll add you to the list. Simply click here for the rules.

You're It!

Sniff!

One very sad thing about my job is that every year you have to say goodbye to graduating students. I always find it hard. I miss them when I come back after the break in September. it takes a while to get over it, it really does.

Almost as sad is that fact that on the last week of term they are all a horrible pain in the arse. Handing portfolios in late, complete with "dog ate my homework excuses" and then demanding to know instantly if they have passed. You can't enjoy the last few days of their company before you see them off as it's just all too frantic.

It's been a hell of week. I've been storming up and down corridors bad mouthing the lot of them. I've been growling at them as they flannel me, or knock at my office door and hassle me when I've a mouthful of sandwich and haven't had a break all day.

"Why haven't they just worked hard all year instead of leaving it all to the last minute" I rage, hypocritically forgetting what I was like as a student.

But then the buggers go and surprise me with a large bouquet of flowers and bottle of something lovely.

Now I have to love them again.

So there they are. The Class of 2007 (and a couple of their educators)




Stop Press: Misssives regulars Joseph and Cat are requiring some support over at blogging silliness, Big Blogger. Get over there and decide which of the two you wish to vote for (obviously you can choose to vote for the others, but I'm sure you'll show a bit of solidarity and take my advice)

Paging Dr Freud!

My folks are on holiday in Italy at the moment. This has repercussions on me and Misssy A, my wee sister.

Mum has left us a list of things we must do for her whilst she’s away. It’s a kind of barter system, where if we do certain odd-jobs then we’ve a better chance of getting her to babysit the kids whilst we go out and behave like idiots. Given that me and Meeester, Misssy A and her husband, The Bearded Liar, are all angling for an Overnight Pass next Saturday* we cannot even bitch about any of it.

My mum and dad own a holiday cottage that is right beside their Massive House That Is Far Too Big for Just The Two of Them. When Mum and Dad go on holiday me and Misssy A have to clean the cottage and let new visitors in. My hatred of housework is well documented, but the cottage is never as bad as my house at any given time, so it’s usually not too bad.

So that’s where I was the other day, being an unpaid Putz Frau. The husbands were dodging the cleaning and the childminding by recording the Album-That-Better-Make-US-All-Horribly-Rich-And Allow Us To-Give-Up-Our-Jobs, so we also had five kids in tow.

To get the kids out of the way I spend an hour making up a “SpringWatch Challenge” for them beforehand. Mum and dad's place is in the country, so they'll be at it for hours. The SpringWatch Challenge employs the seminal teaching technique of “FOFO”†. My sister immediately laughs at my delusion as I present the SW Challenge to the assembled beasts.

The challenge takes the kids 20 minutes and we have to bribe them with sweets to go away for another 20 to give us time to get the job done. Should have just bought mountains of sweets in the first place (or locked them in a pen).

Once we are finished we have to do the laundry and I opt to do this alone the next day as I am using Mum’s (lovelier, cleaner, better equipped, more luxurious,kid-free) house to complete my penultimate freelance job.

So on Sunday I set off to Mum and Dad’s with my laptop, put the washing in the machine and switch on the computer to begin the script from Hell, that is a Mechanical Isolations Course for a Middle Eastern Energy Company. It's not going to win me a Bafta, let's put it that way...

Then I find myself reverting to student mode, without even being conscious of it. I start using the facilities. I look in my folks’ drinks cabinet to see what booty they have and pour myself a glass of something expensive. I shower and use some of Mum’s products on my hair (my Mum has every hair frizz diminishing product known to man), I minesweep the cupboards for crisps and sweets, and I rearrange the three graduation photos of me, Uncle E and Misssy A so that mine is most prominent. I stop short at ransacking the place to see if my Dad still buys porn and dressing up in my mum's wedding dress...

What the blazes is wrong with me? I’m 38!

*Meeester’s band are playing local dive, The Moorings, which is like the Blue Oyster Bar in Police Academy but with Goths instead of the Village People. (They are roadtesting their new album on the Goths, Metalheads and Weirdos before they bring it to the masses)

† FOFO: Fuck Off and Find Out. My students are well aware of this technique.

This is My Main Offender....

WARNING: This next post may get me sacked.

OTHER WARNING: I am going to upset all orphaned, single-parent, gender-confused, blind, Aboriginal, one-legged, cross dressing, lesbian, dyslexic, ex-con, Muslims. If you are an orphaned, single-parent, gender-confused, blind, Aboriginal, one-legged, cross dressing, lesbian, dyslexic, ex-con, Muslim, then maybe don’t read any further.

Despite the risk to my livelihood I cannot leave this unblogged. Here goes nutthin’.

In the Kafkaesque Labyrinth of Bureaucracy that is my day job, political correctness rules. But in a non-hegemonous, free-thinking, democratic way, you understand. No-one gets oppressed or ‘owt.

We are funded by the relevant governments; the UK one, the Scottish one and the EU one, so we like to push the buttons of all three.The third institution, in particular, likes to reward political correctness and seems to issue more funding and Brownie points for “social inclusion”.

Nothing wrong with that. Come one, come all. It's the spin that bugs me. In fact, that's being generous. It's the lies that bug me.

For example our PR folk like to seek out the 10 or so students of African origin (out of the 20,000 others that are our “clients”) and use them for publicity shoots. They also froth at the mouth with excitement if anyone in a wheelchair does anything that can be remotely described as an achievement.

As a result the “minorities” in our care probably find themselves stalked and annoyed by the management to such a degree that they find it difficult to lead a normal student life in our environs. The poor folk can’t go a day without a photo being taken of them, a press release being issued about them, a scroll being pressed into their hands, or a medal being pinned on them. It must be terribly wearing.

"For God's sake let me study and stop asking me to glad hand Provosts and MPs and MSPs for photo opportunities! If I wasn't blind already, my flipping retinas would be burned out from all the flash guns!" , a visually impaired student wasn't heard to say, yesterday.

The other week I watched one of the management team practically get what can only be described as a sexually charged glow as one of my colleagues casually mentioned that one of her students was recording a sound only version of a publication his class was working on, as he was registered blind. The colleague only mentioned it because it showed how the students were using the different facilities, she wasn't making a point about disability!

Management lady’s excitement at this revelation was downright embarrassing. It was nearly a "Harry Met Sally" moment. I actually blushed for her.

Ah, but such students are highly prized. Legend has it that there is an orphaned, single-parent, gender-confused, blind, Aboriginal, one-legged, cross dressing, lesbian, dyslexic, ex-con, Muslim in a University somewhere in the UK. This University is envied by all other educational establishments. Bizarre and costly attempts are made to woo the Holy Grail student to other Universities, for she is prized for her funding and publicity generating properties. Many speak of her, but only one can have her. It’s true*

Today, my charges have to fill in an online questionnaire. It is to monitor how they have found their experiences with us as they finish a year of study. It is one of about eight such questionnaires they have been asked (told) to complete in the last month. We like feedback, we like questionnaires, we like the numbers and funding they generate in my Undisclosed-Because-I-Don’t-Want-To-Get-Fired-Educational- Establishment.

The last question of this particular questionnaire reads:

"Do you consider, or have you ever considered yourself to be transgender?"

There are two options you can tick: YES or NO.

I think they should have added a third, personally:

*YES
*NO
*MIND YOUR OWN GODDAMN BUSINESS!

Inevitably, all my students ticked YES as they thought it was funny. Have these people never MET 18 year-olds? OF COURSE EVERYONE IS GOING TO TICK YES!

So, what is going to be done with this data? This data that says that 99% of the students in this Undisclosed-Because-I Don’t-Want-To-Get-Fired-Educational-Establishment, are or have been at one point considering themselves “transgender”. I want to see what kind of league table those stats put us on!

Some other things occur to me:

1. Why do they need this data? Is this an attempt to root out the next Holy Grail student; the next funding and publicity cash cow? Are we soon going to have a questionnaire next that asks:

Are you Aboriginal?
Do you have one leg?
Are you gender confused?
Are you a single parent?
Are you orphaned?
Are you blind?
Do you like cross dressing?
Are you a lesbian?
Are you dyslexic?
Are you a Muslim?
Do you like getting your photo taken?

2. How much extra money will the undisclosed establishment get due the fact that the EU clearly have a Tranny Trove? What will they use it for? Will they install a third category of loo with a special transgender sign?

3. Are they then going to pin-point these transgender people and make sure that they get represented fairly on all undisclosed-because-I-don't-want-to-get-fired-establishment literature in the same way our five endlessly tolerant Asian students do or that guy with the guide dog does?

4.Are we going to see lovely photos in the foyer of hairy knuckled lipstick wearing transitional transgender Laydees being embraced by the principal of undisclosed college or visiting politicians for the press?

5. Maybe they are thinking of marketing courses specifically for transgender people. What could these be? (Oh please! Answers in comments, please!!!)

See, I told you I was going to get the sack. (Or is that what the gender reassignment surgeon gets when they do the operation? Cue canned laughter….)


*OK you got me; that bit is not true.

Snail Safari

The Garden of the House of the Flying Martinis will soon be opening its doors to the public as “Snail World”.

Effectively, it’s the latest in our attempt to deal with the fact that we are completely and utterly infested by snails. We have been custodians of the one footed, slime-mongers ever since we moved in eight years ago. Apparently in Essex they have "Monkey World", so I reckon "Snail World" could work and you won't have to explain "monkey love" to your kids. We could get t-shirts printed, snail shaped mugs fired, and snail-ly badges made. We could even barbecue a few and sell them with crusty bread and garlic butter.

Around the country you could be sat behind cars with bumper stickers exclaiming “We Went at a Snail’s Pace to Snail World!” or “My friend went to Snail World and all I got was this lousy bumper sticker and a jar of slime!”

If you are not used to seeing them, coming across a massive snail can be quite interesting, I suppose. You might even get it some lettuce and watch it crunch its way through it. My dad claims he once saw a huge one in Arran munch its way through a couple of Rich Tea biscuits with a munchity crunchity sound too!

They are actually quite cute with their little eyes on stalks and their little shell houses. In our case,though, we are infested to biblical proportions, so we are way beyond finding them cute. Any large number of anything is terrifying. One kitten= cute; two thousand kittens= scary. Same thing with snails.

Last Saturday we came back from a few light ales at our neighbours’ house (not Nice Female Neighbour and Male Neighbour I’m Not that Keen on, but our Neighbours we Really Like Because They are Just Like Us). It had been drizzling all night and it was dark; primo snail conditions.

As we came into the garden we felt and heard crunching underfoot as we unwittingly squished the brutes. There were hundreds of them, everywhere. Most of them were alarmingly huge.

Even though they are a horrible pest, it felt terrible to squish them. The same way it’s inconceivable that I would pour salt over them, or let them eat poisonous pellets. It’s not a Buddhist thing or anything, as I will cheerfully chase a bluebottle round the house with a newspaper, or spray high-grade chemicals at wasps or midges.

It might be because, unlike slugs who just look like horrible big bogies, we feel a connection with snails, because like us, they live in houses. Or maybe it’s that my generation of “Magic Roundabout” era kids could never envision themselves harming Brian the Snail.

Whatever the reason, the Martinis like to re-home the snails instead of committing escargot genocide. So that night, the four of us collected over 200 snails in a bucket and relocated them to the bottom of the street into a field. The next evening me, Junior Misssy and my three nieces found hundreds more in the garden and did the same. But it occurs to me, what if Sunday’s batch were actually Saturday’s batch of blighters come back home?

Do we have homing snails? I’m going to investigate. I’m going out with Tippex tonight to number the devils, and then re-home them to the field and see how long it takes til they come back. If I’m lumbered with the beasts, I might as well have fun with them.

And of course, if any come back, then my homing snails may just be the unique selling point I need to market “Snail World”.

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Bring me the Finest Wines known to Humanity! And a Kids' menu....

Major excitement in the house of The Flying Martinis last night as Meeester M takes possession of his new car.

Yes, Reader, why you ARE right to mention that not that long ago I was blogging about getting a new car. Yes, yes, I know, it DOES seem a little weird that I am still driving the same hunk-a-junk and Meeester has a shiny new beast of a thing. No, I haven’t got my Mini yet, but thanks for asking anyway.

Anyway, let’s move on, for he reads this…

Anyway, we went out in Meeester’s new toy last night to “ooh!” and “aah!” and be shouted at when we brought dirt into the car, played with the sat nav or electric windows. Feeling that we shouldn’t randomly waste diesel on a destination-less journey, I suggested we eat out. I got dressed up and everything! Just look at the pic below if you don't believe me!

My kids are used to eating in restaurants, as we travel with them quite a bit. In other countries. Where they don’t hate children.

Eating out with kids in countries such as Greece, Italy or Thailand is a stress free situation. Yet over here, you are corralled into so called kid friendly emporiums of burgers, beans and ball pits (note to any kids reading, tell Mummy and Daddy if you see a brown ball immediately. ) I hate these places and like to avoid them. The deal is that your kids can go daft and it's OK, as there are always worse behaved kids there to make yours look not so bad in comparison. You can see the appeal.

This is not because parents are implanted with a chip that takes away your free will and zombie-like you are driven to these urine stained, nugget-touting eateries of Satan. There is no law that we can’t take our kids to real restaurants; there’s just bitter experience of parents dealing with other diners in this country. It just isn’t expected that families go to anywhere decent. So most people just don’t.

I remember that my parents used to take us to an Italian Restaurant in this town when we first moved here from Glasgow in the late nineteenth century. They didn’t know many folk, had left all their willing babysitters behind in God’s Country. What to do? Take the kids with you of course! We always got sat either next to the toilets or near the kitchens. We would get hidden from other diners by the restaurant staff.

There are a few exceptions in this fair town, and I feel I to name check the fantastic “La Stella” Restaurant who are, not only a lovely bunch of folk but they welcome your children. The food is also great and there’s not a ball pit or a chicken nugget in sight.

I also have to name check the fantastic “Meditaranneo” Italian restaurant which is run by REAL ITALIANS who make the best lasagne this side of Milano and who last night welcomed the Martinis with open arms.

So it’s not all restaurants that are gits. But I’m afraid it’s the other diners. Junior Misssy is a bit shrill and she likes a bit of a laugh. She is four. She also likes to go to the toilet for a wee look occasionally. She is not badly behaved, she doesn’t scream the place down, run about or go over and annoy other customers.

However last night it seemed like every time she opened her mouth other customers would turn round and look at us. I found myself feeling inhibited and shushing her quite a lot. Meeester told me to stop, “Let them look, she’s just talking”. He’s right, I stop shushing her, we have as much right to be here as that work’s party struggling to make conversation and that couple who are clearly on a first date and a bit skittish.

Then this:

Junior Misssy: “Mummy, I need to go to the toilet!”

Misssy: “You’ve just been. Sit round and eat your dinner.”

Junior Misssy: “But I ne-e-e-ed!”

Misssy: “You don’t. This is a nonsense. You just want to go and play in the toilet. Now sit round! You’ve already been!”

People are now looking over. It is a small restaurant, not much bigger than a decent sized living room really.

Junior Misssy: “But that was for a wee-wee”

Misssy: “Junior Misssy, no! Sit down!”

Junior Misssy: (with a degree of urgency, volume and annoyance): “BUT IT’S A JOBBY AND IT’S COMING OUT OF MY BUM!”

Cheque please!

Misssed A Misssive?

The Seven Ages of Bed

On the occasion of the purchase and delivery of our biggest and most expensive bed to date (see above) I give you the seven ages of bed: Misssy and Meester style.

The Age of the Porch Bed

When I first met the lovely, golden haired rock God that has become Meeester M, he lived in a porch. I lived with my parents, having skulked penniless back from an ill-advised sojourn in the Basque Country teaching English. So the only place to be “alone” was on the sofa that Meeester called bed, in a porch, with a wasps’ nest.

Along with about 500 pet wasps we would also be joined by:

1. Gerald, the 400-year-old cat. A more joyless creature you have never met. He was a Rottweiler of a cat. Never purred; was too macho for purring. Didn’t like cat food as he preferred to crunch the skulls of baby bunnies at the bottom of the sofa you were sleeping on in the middle of the night.

2. Ian and Catherine, the Christian couple who would turn up and watch telly with us, stopping us from having sex. Well, if they couldn’t, then neither could we. Fair's fair.

3. “Fuck Off Davy”, the young lad from next door who would turn up to ask Meester to tune his bass guitar as soon as Ian and Catherine had left, and we were thinking about “retiring”. He was called "Fuck off Davy" for obvious reasons. If the poor lad only knew. If you're reading this davy, I'm sorry.

Oh who am I kidding? Fuck off, Davy.

4. Donald who would pop in on a Sunday morning to get Meester to help him sing to the Woodlands Hospital Kids.

Donnie would invariably not know the difference between long haired sleeping Meeester and long haired sleeping Misssy and would arrive in bikers’ leather and visor-shut helmet and sneak up closely on sleeping Misssy (for it always seemed to be me) and scare the bejesus out of her.

5. Lovely Tony who was our best man. Tony doesn’t ever remember ever asking Meeester to live in his porch, but let him stay there for 2 years.


There are actually two epochs in the Age of the Porch Bed; they are the Sofa Epoch and the Single Bed Epoch. Tony realised that Meeester was going nowhere and got him a real bed. In his best man’s speech one he told our friends and family that when he moved the sofa to install the bed, he found 127 empty crisp packets that Meeester had stuffed down the side. I’ve just glanced over at Meester and he has an empty bag next to him right now….he better not stuff it behind the sofa.


The Age of the Single Bed

I managed to move out of home and rented a flat. Meeester followed, leaving La Vida Loca d'el Porchio behind him.

The bedroom was only big enough for a single bed. Upstairs we had delightful neighbours called “The Shaggers”.

The guy must have worked on the rigs, as there would be silence for a fortnight. Then once a fortnight of beautiful sleep was over, the seal noises would begin. All bloody night, every bloody night. At first it was funny. After weeks of incessant shouting, screaming, yelping, howling, barking and shrieking, it became a nightmare. I remember being so sleep depraved that I burst into tears at work because someone told me to “Chill out” about it.

Around that time Richard and Judy had a phone in about noisy neighbours and some poor cow phoned in about the same problem and fuckwit Richard laughed and got the same response.

Noisy shagging neighbours are not funny. How do you complain? Well, you just can’t; simple as that.

For months we never saw, only heard, The Shaggers. Then we met them on the stairs. She was about 16 stone, wild ginger hair and Christopher Biggins red rimmed glasses. He was a wee bald, skinny, moustachioed guy. The image of them at it was too much. We had to move out.


The Age of the Second Hand Double Bed

Meeester and Misssy move into bought flat. Spend all their money on buying flat and forget they have no furniture. Misssy’s parents give them the very bed they bought when they first moved into together.

Meeester and Misssy then go on to conceive Indy in the very bed that Missy was conceived in. There’s either something magical about that, or something freaky. I can’t decide.


The Age of the New Double Bed

Two weeks before Indy graces the world with his wonderful presence, a gigantic spring the size of Zebedee boings through the mattress cover on Misssy’s side and threatens to skewer both her and unborn Indy. New bed is bought with money for Indy's University Education.

When Misssy’s waters break in the middle of night both parents-to-be are more anxious about ruining the new mattress than the impending miracle (horror) of childbirth and the start of their lives as parents (end of their lives in the pub).


The Age of the Superdooper king-size Monstero of a Bed

And thus begins the age of the Superking Sized Monster that I bought from M and S. It was delivered last week. It is so massive that Meeester and Misssy no longer need to touch or even see each other whilst in bed. Perfect!

In fact, we could have done with this a lot sooner to accommodate the two sneaky Petes (Indy and Misssy) that routinely burrow in between us in the dead of night and force us to cling to either side of the bed for fear of falling out completely.


The Future Age of Martini Bed?

Meeester says that twin beds, Mary Tyler Moore and Dick Van Dyke style, are only a matter of time…..


******For any pedants out there: I know there's only six ages here, but the seventh is too depressing and seven sounded better*******

Helter Skelter!

Women start to become a little berserk after the age of fifty, and there is nothing that can be done to stop it.

Men have that whole midlife crisis thing; you know the sudden urge to buy a motorbike when they’ve previously never shown any interest. This also can be seen at staff Christmas parties when 50+ men suddenly think they can pull 20 year old women.

Harrison Ford’s manifested itself as getting that ridiculous and cheap looking earring that looks as if it might turn his ear septic. Mick Jagger’s manifested itself as impregnating women the age of his daughters. My dad’s manifested itself as buying an expensive trilby style hat that really didn’t suit him. Born to be Mild, that one!

As laughable and horrific as the male midlife crisis is, they are usually temporary affairs and service is returned to normal within a year or so. And a Kawasaki languishes in the garage before eventually being put on Ebay. "Motorbike For Sale. One sad, cowboy-boot wearing, deluded owner"

Women however are totally effed from fifty onwards and do not return to normal ever again. They just steadily get worse. I see it all around me and I am starting to see early signs in myself. I won’t go into the horrors of females past a certain age, as people I know of over fifty who read this will think I am talking about them and fall out with me.

Instead, and because I’m frightened of my Mum, I will turn the critical mirror to me and tell you why I think I am starting to show signs of being a nightmare old bird.

1. I have complained to the BBC and Ofcom this week. You don’t need to know why (but it’s Kirsty Wark- time for her to go.)

Now, this is the first step to madness. At first you make a legitimate complaint, then in ten years you start doing things like phoning the BBC to complain about the "Fruit and Fibre" ad that isn’t even broadcast on the channel. My gran, Anna has done this. Although it might have been a rival cereal, I can't remember.

You don’t even have a legitimate complaint about the advertisement; there’s nothing offensive about it. It just irritates you. A friend of mine used to man the reception at the now defunct Grampian Television. She got this kind of thing all the time; always women of a certain age. I’m on a slippery slope.

2. I badgered my husband to......

Actually, let’s just let that sentence end there. I badgered my husband.

3. I badgered my husband to write a letter of complaint to the local private school after attending an army recruitment day for schools. The kids from my husband’s school put all their rubbish from the burger van in the bin, the private school kids left their patch full of trash.

Nothing incenses me like litter dropping. Second only to private schools thinking they are better than everyone else (this is an old wound. Its origins lie in losing a match to cheating radge bunch of girls from a private school team in secondary school) .

Meeester took photos to show me because he knew it would enrage me. He didn’t bargain on me wanting to phone the local press like a wild white haired, tartan skirted harridan demanding that they publish them.

4. I growl at groups of stationary teenagers I don’t know. Look at them hanging about! If they’re moving, they’re fine. It's when they loiter that it bugs me. I am a total hypocrite, I used to loiter at the village phone box making crank calls.

If they are my students, that’s OK too. Once I retire and have no students, I’ll pretty much hate all of the bastards.

5. I have started muttering under my breath.

I spotted teenagers outside the local hotel last night they were hosting an “80s night” (I love 80s nostalgia, me) and they were just dressed plain wrong! I was caught muttering something like , “80’s my arse, you stupid twats” as I drove by. Didn’t even realise I was doing it. Meester had to remind me of the presence of children in the car.

When Meeester worked as a social worker he had one elderly lady “client” who would mutter obscenities under her breath completely unaware that she could be heard. A conversation would go like this:

“Hello Jean. Would you like a cup of tea and a biscuit?”
“Hello son, that’d be lovely…(loud whisper)…. you long-haired fucking idiot bastard”


6. I bought “Calms”. Slippery slope to Valium!

7. I’ve been whinging for three weeks about a sore neck and shoulders. It’s only a matter of time before I use this phrase:

“I’m a MARTYR to my neck and shoulders”

8. I MIND bad language. Except when I am using it.

9. I kept a pair of shoes that should go in the bin, “for the garden”. Slippery slope to buying a gardening HAT.

10. I am currently wearing a thermal vest ( but I bought it for going to Finland. That surely is OK). I tell you, it’s so warm and lovely. Are big pants round the corner? (Please God! No!!!! I don’t want to turn that corner…but, Ooh! I bet they’re comfy…)


11. I wore my slippers to drive round to my sister’s house last night. I did the same thing to my Mum’s last week. It’s going to be my new thing. Those who are long time fans of “Coronation Street” will remember when Emily Bishop went a bit senile and they found her at the train station wearing her nightie and slippers. Slippery slope.

Ha! Ha! Hah! “Slippery” slope!

12. Feeble puns amuse me in lieu of actual wit.

*Sigh*

Dark Side of the Loon

I car-share on a Wednesday with the lovely A.

A is a sound engineer and has recently come back from visiting a company down south owned by Peter Gabriel that make sound mixing desks.

I warned him, “No techie talk”.

I am still in a shaky mental state from writing that mind-numbing Global Positioning script. It brought me to the edge of madness and just one more acronym or series of numbers or abbreviations could cause me to go into psychological meltdown.

He promises me that he will refrain, and starts to talk about some of the stories about rock stars he got told by one of the guys he was hanging about with. This guy, we’ll call him Jim the Desk Guy, installs and maintains desks and of course just about the only people that can afford to have them in their houses are rock stars.

“Cool,” you’d think. But ye would be wrong there, sir. For Rock Stars are maddoes.

Trooooo Storeeeeee:

So Jim the Desk Guy gets a call from David Gilmour from Pink Floyd. He has a problem with his desk, he wants a house call. Now I love Gilmour and his lovely soulful voice and lovely widdly guitar. I am firmly in the “Floyd got better with Gilmour” camp as opposed to the “Floyd were better with Barrett” camp. Also, I think most people see Gilmour as being the more sane one out of the Waters, Barrett and Gilmour Holy Floyd Trinity. This story pretty much knocks that theory into a cocked hat.

So, where was I? Gilmour wants a house-call from Jim, sound-desk doctor. Except when the guy goes round Gilmour changes his mind, slightly. When he says house-call, he won’t actually let the Jim the Desk Guy into his house. In fact he won’t even come to the door. The guy has to shout instructions to him through the letterbox.

I would love to think they went a bit like this:

Sound Engineer (through letterbox):

“Hello, Hello.
Is there anybody in there?
Just nod if you can hear me…
Is there anyone home?”

Right that’s it I’m off to write a book of short stories involving Rock Stars where their lyrics are quoted to them in bizarre situations….copyright: me. Nobody nick it. It’s MINE!

Disney's Dream Debased

About 15 years ago I got a proper job and my mum promptly sent her “insurance man” round to see me. Apparently that's what you do when you find yourself with a regular amount of money; you give 80% of it away to big companies.

Basically, I bought a savings scheme just to get rid of the guy. I reckon he’d be sat on the couch right now if I hadn’t ushered him out the door. So every month I have put a smidgeon away in what has been called the “Disney Fund”. At the time, I figured there were four ages of Disneyworld:

1. Being taken by parents as a kid.

2. Working there as a student

3. Taking your own kids

4. Going as a grandparent with grandkids


I also figured that the second two stages might cost a bit of cash. So I saved and didn’t touch.

I’m not going to use the Disney fund for going to Disneyworld.* I have completely and utterly changed my mind. In fact I can barely remember why I wanted to take my kids there in the first place.

I would much rather take the kids somewhere real. I think we’ll go and see actual stuff rather than miniaturised superficial and stereotypical representations of countries (Hello Epcot, Hello Small World), wonky out of date Animatronic shows (That Presidents’ thing in the Magic Kingdom-it’s crap!), and emporiums of overpriced tat.

Mind you, I did have a great time there when I was 21. That’s Item 2 . Except it’s not entirely true; I didn’t actually work at Disneyworld. I merely popped over from my three month stint in New Orleans to take advantage of the fact that a friend , E, was working her summer at Disney in Orlando and could get us in free.

A few things stick in my mind, which is incredible given that we drank like fishes the whole time we were there.

1. E worked in the “Rose and Crown” pub in Epcot and had to dress as a Nell Gwynn character. All the bar maids in the Rose and Crown had to dress like this, as that is what barmaids look like in Merrie Old England, even to this day, apparently. Unlike Nell Gwynn, and despite the 70+ degree heat, the barmaids had to wear full tan tights with gusset, underneath their mid calf length dresses. Never stockings or god forbid, nothing.

Thrush was rife amongst British girls who toiled there. And they were checked every shift by a supervisor to make sure they hadn’t welched on the deal and worn a pair of pop socks. The only time in your life you can ever imagine wanting to wear these hideous garments from the house of Satan.

“Oh yay, kind sir, I dream of a goodly pair of pop socks! For my vag; it itcheth” would be the cry of the Nell Gwynns, for that is how they spake.

2. E had it on good authority that the girl who played Cinderella was a slut.

3. Disney is full of secret underground tunnels and this is where the workings of the whole enterprise are. E could have got sacked for this, but she took us down there. We walked past the costume room and saw all the costumes hung up. People were getting changed into Pinocchio and Mad Hatter suits and the like. I swear to you, I saw Tigger having a fag**. I swear. Head off though; the guy wasn’t inhaling through the Tigger head.

4. Apparently a guy got locked in the Magic Kingdom at night and died whilst E was working there. I’m not suggesting that E was responsible. The guy obviously had a heart attack or something. The whole thing was hushed up by the Evil Guardians of Disney; no-one dies in Walt’s Magical Money Making Machine! They’ve even cryogenically frozen old Walt so that they can revive the old bugger, come the time. But unbeknownst to them an aerial photo had been taken by a tabloid newspaper of the dead body lying on the grass and Goofy poo really hit the fan.

5. You could get a degree from the Disney University. I can only assume this is where the phrase “Mickey Mouse Degree” originally comes from. Now usually applied to Media Studies degrees. Yes, a real degree. Try sticking that on your CV and getting a job, ya loser!

Hey, by the way, Google Blogspot isn’t owned by the Disney corporati------------------------------------------------------(arrrrgggghhh!) ------------------------------------------------------------(#line dead#)


* To my American readers. “Fag” is not a derogative term for a homosexual here in the UK. You do know that, right? I didn’t see any Tigger-on-Piglet bummin’ or nothing….Just making sure. Also while we're at it.....“fanny pack”, what the blazes is that about????

**Yep, it’s now been renamed the Mini Cooper fund.

Run Misssy Run!

Yesterday: Scenario One

08.57am: Misssy wakes up, looks at alarm clock. "Fuck!" is her first word of the day.

08.57 and 3 seconds am: Wakes sleeping Indy with the bad news, “We’re late, you’re going to be late for school! I’m sorry! Get dressed! No time for breakfast! Just put this on! I’m so sorry!”

Indy starts to cry. “Why did you sleep in? Evil Mrs S will give me a row”

08.59am: Misssy, whilst shoving still sleeping, weeping, breakfast-less, packed lunch-less Indy out the door, “Sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry…Here’s some dinner money!”

Throws some coins in Indy’s direction.

09.00am: Wake Junior Misssy . Junior Misssy refuses any clothing Misssy chooses and fight ensues.

09.15am: Jnr is flung into Nursery wearing God knows what.

9.16am: Misssy rushes back to computer. Misssy has deadline today and her script has been passed to lovely L in the company she is working for to be proof read. Which is a good thing as regular readers of the Misssives will testify to typo filled prose.

09.30am: Misssy also has phone meeting with her project manager. It’s supposed to be at 9.15. Also still no sign of proof-read script for her to double check, accept millions of changes and have delivered in plenty of time to client that she is meeting at 1pm that day, giving him time to check over it and approve it before the day is out.

10.05am: Misssy has shower. No time to dry or straighten hair. Misssy looks like Alice Cooper, except not as good.

10.30am: Proof-reader emails “Sorry my computer crashed. Will get script to you ASAP. It’s a nightmare here”

11.30am: Run to get Jnr from nursery. Misssy forgets to bring money for Nursery trip tomorrow. Bugger.

11.45am: Script arrives but L has changed a lot of terms that the client wants left in. Misssy has to go through the lot and retype them. She also has to get Junior to sister’s 6 miles in the opposite direction of where she is due for her meeting at 1pm.

11.46am: Misssy stupidly thinks she can check over a 60 page script and email it all sorted to client before setting off at 12 noon.

11.59am: Misssy realises she has no hope of sorting any of this out and abandons project in favour of keeping appointment instead.

12.15pm: Misssy flings Jnr Misssy at sister barely stopping the car to do so.

12.17pm: Misssy remembers that the petrol light has been on since yesterday. She thinks she should be able to run on fumes the 16 miles to town. Before meeting will stop into get petrol. Prays to God for assistance in this.

12.50pm: Stuck in traffic at bottom of so called ringroad. See petrol station over the road. Realises she’ll have to get petrol after meeting. Will run on fumes to meeting. Prays to Vishnu for assistance in this.

1pm: Misssy is still on ring road. Why can't anyone else but her drive properly?

1.15pm: Misssy arrives at client’s reception, sweating. Receptionist gives her message from Project Manager. Can Misssy phone her before going in? Results of call unimportant to story but Misssy is set back a further 3 mins.

1.18pm: Misssy has meeting. She nods a lot and pretends to understand algebra being spoken like it is English. She is in a constant state of thinly disguised panic. She must be out of meeting before 3. Client knows this but of course she is 20 minutes late so she doesn’t press the point.

3.05 pm: Misssy gets back to badly parked car. Indy is out of school in 10 minutes. He knows to come straight home as he has dentist appointment. But Misssy must get petrol. She decides she will get it on other side of town. She will run on fumes ‘til then. Prays to Ganesh for assistance in this.

3.30pm: Indy is now out of school and heading home to empty Misssyless house. “Mum is really fucking up today,” he thinks, except that boy would never swear.

Misssy is heading toward petrol station unaware that in her haste this morning she has left her purse on the hall stairs. She’ll just have to go on fumes back home 7 miles way. Prays to Buddha for assistance in this.

3.45pm: Grabs Indy from front garden barely stopping car. Hands him toothbrush (Yes, she remembers toothbrush but not purse. What is that about?). Phones Meeester illegally on mobile whilst driving. “Dentist 4.30pm, right?”

Apparently not. It’s at 4pm. No time to go to petrol station. Will get to town where dentist is (and where sister looking after Junior also is) 8 miles away on fumes. Prays to Jesus for assistance in this.

3.55pm. Dentist town visible on horizon. Car says, “Phut!” Lurch! “Phut!” Lurch. Misssy takes car out of gear and coasts hoping that no car in front will turn off necessitating her to brake and lose valuable momentum. Prays to Mohammed for assistance in this.

Indy is looking at Mum with absolute delight. He has stopped hating her for the morning’s trauma, and now worships her as a superhero.

3.57pm: Car dies on edge of town. Misssy prays to Father Son and Holy Ghost as she turns ignition and the car manages to locate molecule of fuel from somewhere and starts. She coasts into town, past lots of parked cars. Silver Audi waits ahead for her to pass so that he can then go past said cars in opposite direction. Car dies half way past parked cars. Audi bastard helpfully starts sounding horn. Misssy loses it:

“Yes, you utter bastard I’ve just stopped here because I fancied it. I’m stuck here because I thought it would be a bit of a laugh! Arggghghghghghghgh!”, she shouts.

Misssy prays to flipping L Ron Hubbard and his alien monster guys for assistance as she turns the ignition once more. L-Ron comes through and the car sputters into life. Audi bastard cheerfully sounds horn once more as Misssy goes lurching past, obviously to cheer her good fortune and not because he is a stupid ignorant fuck wit.

Indy runs out of car and shouts, “I’ll run to dentist. You get Jnr”. Bless him, he’s back on side.

End of day: Misssy and kids come home after Meeester M rescues them. Misssy flakes out on sofa and writes shite blog about her shite day. Nobody can be arsed reading about her shite day as they’ve troubles of their own. Misssy goes to bed exhausted, unread and on the verge of nervous collapse, just to do it all again tomorrow.


Yesterday: Scenario Two

8am: Meeester M says goodbye on way out. Misssy wakes, showers, gets kids up.

8.15am: Kids dress and eat breakfast.

8.45am: Misssy takes kids to school. It’s a beautiful day. “I love you, Mum,” says Indy as he waves her goodbye at the school gate.

9am: Misssy packs her things ready for her meeting. “Must remember to put petrol in car.”

9.15am: Misssy has phone meeting with Project Manager.

11.10am: Misssy collects Jnr from nursery and, smiling, delivers her to Auntie. Her hair looks great as she’s had plenty of time to style it. The sunlight catches her highlights as she heads back to her car.

11.45am: Misssy heads into town.

12.15am: Misssy stops off to buy petrol.

12.45pm: Misssy arrives at office and is given message to phone Project Manager

1pm: Misssy has meeting with client. Everything makes sense.

3pm: Misssy heads home

3.20pm: Misssy picks up Indy, checks on dental appointment time with husband.

4pm: Misssy successfully delivers children to dentist. Whilst chilling in waiting room she comes up with magic idea for a blog.

6pm: Kids out in garden. Meeester is cutting grass. Misssy writes amazing blog.

9pm: Blog is so great that word spreads of its brilliance and an unprecedented amount of people read it.

Week later: Misssy is asked to expand blog further in the form of a book by top publishing house.

Months later: Book sells millions

Next year: Misssy retires to South of France where she does nothing ever again for the rest of her life except drink cocktails, buy frocks and lounge about.



Which one do you think happened?