Early Morning Delights

"Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer".
I think Gordon Brown should do that especially where David Miliband is concerned.
Could make him Chancellor I suppose...

Had a quick look outside.
Tomatoes are plumping up, still green but coming along nicely.
Weeds are tall and pretty.
Cosmos (see above) is striking in its simplicity. Bit like me.
Busy day today what with one thing and another.

Have finally decided which poems to take to the Poetry Group next Wednesday.
Now all I have to do is decide what to wear.
Could take a week.

Big Barry.....Poem

I'm so glad the night has come
for in its vastness I go wherever I like

so skimming over rooftops my imagination glides............

Big Barry at night in his perfect house of roses, bleach and photos
quells his fear of every day
with flat beer and Tesco cake
while his wife with friends plays up every night in the centre of a far away town

Old Mrs Lively pats golden Rex
till the old gold dog can take no more
she feeds him chocolate biscuits while pissing upon the floor

Big Brenda takes her washing in
whilst gabbing on the phone
Crushed Bill takes in everything
whilst planning his escape

Widower Mr Worthy
can't remember if its day or if its night
he calls his dead wife Laura
to come and fetch his plate

Kid-in-love yeah Lucy
writes his name
at least like a million times
each thick black letter letter proving
just how much she really loves him..
Steve Steve Steve


copyright Angela Norris

J.C for P.M ? O.K with G.H

David Miliband
James Purnell
Andy Burnham
Jack Straw
Harriet Harman
Alan Johnson

All the above are being mentioned in the yet-to-come-leadership election. But one name which isn't being bandied about much is that of lefty M.P. Jon Cruddas (see pic above) Currently polishing the back benches he's still blowing on his burnt fingers after losing out to Harriet Harman in the deputy leaders contest.
He came from nowhereville to claim third place, beating three cabinet ministers and winning the most 'first choice' votes.
So Jon is very well thought of obviously. Especially by the unions and me.

Anyway that's enough fantasizing.
Back to the real stuff, I can see 'Granita like' pacts taking place over the next couple of months, will James Purnell and Andy Burnham behave themselves and in so doing clear the way for a challenge to Gordo from Mr Miliband.
Or could Jack Straw be shoved temporarily into Downing Street to give the aforementioned young lads plenty of time to rise to the challenge of being a future Labour Prime Minster? And to shape up for major battles with Mr Cameron.

Hold on there's more.....

And best of all will there be a kamikaze candidate, a brave but foolhardy sort who is prepared to throw not only his titfer into the ring but his honour as well, just to force a contest. I can't think of anyone who'd be daft enough to do it, but the glorious House of Commons is stuffed to the gods with comedians, so someone might do it.
Hope so.
I need a good laugh.

So while Gordon basks on his Suffolk settee (might rain) he'll be reading the newspapers and blogs like mine with a sad and heavy heart, wondering what September and October 2008 have in store...
Probably removal vans.

Eight.....Poem

It's eight not late
a real sweet time for kissy at the gate

It's dark not light
a real bad time for the lonely in the night

It's t.v and tea
real quality time for solitary me


copyright Angela Norris

Gamine and Chips

It was zingingly hot yesterday, so what was I doing clamped to a barber's chair? Read on.

When I was a silly young thing my hair reached my waist, but now as I enter my second silly childhood my hair is to my ears. And by jolly jingo does it feel good. No more the blow drying, no more my hair feeling like a helmet on account of the lacquer lavished upon it. And no more resembling a Charlie's Angel.

I decided to go 'gamine' a few years ago and it was one of my better decisions. But what puzzles, nay, annoys me, is the continual amazement from so called 'stylists' who all happen to be female by the way, when I say I want it 'really short' they look at me in a kind of pitying way. "You sure?" some ask "Yes" I nod. "It might stick up" they whimper. "I want it short" I insist.

Now about yesterday.

I was desperate to get it cut and as I didn't fancy driving to Southend I headed for my local barbers! "He'll do it" I thought as I skipped to the little barbers next to the bakers.

As I entered the male emporium, 'Head Hunters' there were two reasonably tidy grey-haired men waiting (one was eating chips) while a WOMAN of about forty-five liberally waxed up a young guy's hair, my heart sank as I sank into the burnt umber leatherette chairs. "I Want A Man" I screamed inside, I don't want ladies handling my locks any more, they don't do it right.
But I was wrong.
Anyway I sat amongst the magazines listening to Vernon Kay and I wasn't thrown out, so I made myself comfortable and waited.

The men were seen to by the lady barber in a slow and methodical manner.
"Blimey" I thought "I'm going to miss The Weakest Link at this rate." So as I couldn't do anything, I just let it all wash over me.

"Would you like to come over?" she asked looking at me a bit old fashioned. And as my legs dangled from the chair I chirped up "Short all over please, especially at the back."
She did a Victoria, she was not amused.

"Short?" she asked
"Yes short" I echoed
"How short?"
Holding an inch of hair between my fingers I said "This short"
"You sure?"
"Yep"
After spraying some water on to my hair she began cutting and chatting.
"I won't do a number four" she said "It'd be too masculine and you don't want to look like a lesbian....."

I sighed the biggest sigh ever, and as I watched her through the mirror I felt rather sorry for her. Here was a professional middle-aged woman assuming that all women who prefer short hair must be gay. I've realized that just because you've made it to forty or fifty you've not suddenly become wise or sensible. I did hope however that beneath her unimpressive rug of blonde hair she possessed a little artistry.

"What's your name?" I asked
"Lisa" she said "I used to work in the city in insurance, but now I do this, I prefer it. Max who owns this shop is away for the day, and he doesn't do ladies hair, but I do. I have to pay him half of everything so that's why I'm into other things too....."

Every few minutes she'd ask impertinent questions like "Do you work?" and "Where do you live?"
"I rob banks and live in London" I said winking at her. That shut her up.
So after much chopping and whizzing of the trimmer thing she said "It suits you"
"Yes it does" I said cocking my head to one side."And thank you."

Her parting shot was a gem.

"I do do home visits you know" she whispered " Some of my older ladies prefer it"
After hitting her over the head I left.

Going Down

I wonder what Gordon is doing now, sharing breakfast with Sarah I expect.

His hefty head drooping onto his chest as the worry over his leadership weighs down heavy upon him.
I feel sorry for the beleaguered Scot in a way, because here's a man who waited in the dusty wings of politics for thirty years hoping for the top job, finally he gets his massive hands on it and look where it's got him.
Nowhere.

He's being torn to shreds by both big and little critics, the big ones coming in the shape of the unions, the little 'uns in the shape of trembling pasty-faced backbenchers who are are sobbing into their hankies because they believe that with Captain Brown at the helm they're going to drown come the next election.
Like the rats they are.

The former Chancellor he has one major disadvantage.
He lacks charisma.
As I wrote yesterday, he's not a performer like his predecessor Tony Blair, Brown may be a great guy with his chums, a positive comedian no doubt, but when it comes to setting the political stage ablaze, he fails miserably.

Prime Minister's Questions appears to be quite distressing for the P.M. because although he occasionally gives as good as he gets, he usually fails to execute a dazzling performance.
He doesn't steal every scene, and his stay-at-home tea drinking political groupies are left throwing missiles at the telly as he hangs onto the dispatch box, often leaving David Cameron to claim the bouquets.
Gordon should have remained an understudy.

His monthly meetings with the press are just as excruciating, and I should know because I've watched every one. His hands continually fiddle with sheets on paper on the lectern, his right hand constantly shuffling and patting, while his left smooths and props up the aforementioned bits of A4.
He looks ill at ease.
He looks nervous, and when he smiles that corker of a fake smile, I throw up.
'Don't do it Prime Minister' I beseech, 'Please be kind to yourself'. Unto thine own self be true and all that.
He can't hold an audience, there's no doubt about that, and his attempts at humour are pathetic, bit like a new guy at work trying to ingratiate himself with his colleagues.

Some people are in the wrong job and Mr Brown is one of them.
So as the nervous Prime Minister chews his nails and cornflakes I have one bit of advice for him. Go.


The painting is 'The Raft of the Medusa' by Théodore Gericault (1791-1824) It was painted between 1818 and 1819.

Gloria on Gordon

He's in trouble.
The suited and booted vultures are not only circling overhead they're talking to each other too.

Concerned aspiring colleagues are talking of clawing his house keys away from him, leaving him with nought but the clothes he stands in.
Political nature red in tooth, claw and ambition.

Because as Gordon checks his watch and soaks up the rays of a fine English summer whilst drinking beer, Cabinet hoodies huddle round sturdy tables salivating over the sound of popping champagne corks and his return.
They're gonna have him.

What shall I do Sarah, he says, I don't want to lose my job?
But Mrs Brown isn't listening she's tanning herself and thinking about book signing sessions.

Whenever asked about his current problems he says the same thing, sounds the same and looks the same, never do I see a Blairesque performance.

Brown is a shy man who looks uncomfortable in front of the camera, he's not a show-off.
He's not an actor.
He's not a star.
He's a Scot.

Labour are taking a pounding at the moment, and it's all Gordons fault.

The electorate can't afford meat no more and for that he'll lose his job.
It's over.

He's My Tuna Lover

Fed Monty canned Tuna at 5:30 a.m. wearing a red winter dressing gown. That's me, not Monty.
Drank too-milky tea at 6 a.m. and tutted and huffed.
Listened to Farming Today and had a tremendous urge to jump on a cow.
Looked in mirror and saw a grumpy big eyed brownish face with a couple of spots. Wondered if I was a cow.
Listened to the Today programme and wanted to phone someone to complain about interruptions and giggling.

Brown's been battered again, this time by the S.N.P. in the Glasgow East by-election. The Scots are not daft. I'm wondering how much longer the bods at Labour H.Q will allow Heathcliffesque Brown to remain in the top job. I think he's a liability, a handsome liability, but a liability nonetheless.
I wonder what he looks like in a wet white ruffled shirt?
Talking of wondering:
I wonder where I can get some cheap Tuna.
I wonder what I'm going to wear today, will I be pounding my mean village streets in combats or will I be dancing to the Punchbowl pub in a flimsy floral frock?
I just don't know.

Tall proud Scottish misery guts Andy Murray is playing today. I wish the Brit well.
I'm trawling through poems to take to the Poetry Group....In August. I've got a lot of poems!
Monty is sitting by his bucket. I think he wants more Tuna.

Have a smashing day everyone.

Zzzzzzz

Unchanging beauty and sardines for Monty
Polyfilla and Horlicksfor me.

Night night x

I Don't...Poem

I don't use the word Love much.
Only using it to express my feelings for Lipstick, Brown Sugar
and
People

I don't see People much
Only when they're here to FIX taps or save my soul
or them at number 88
who taunt me with holiday stories/good car deals and their holy God given grandchildren

I don't Neglect people who
Need my silence so they can hear themselves speak
and who
Leave jollier and wiser with a spring in their sodden feet
who call later saying
Thanks wanna beer?

I don't do Bad Things DELIBERATELY
Only when I have to
or
when I need a right red raw ripping laugh
mostly at nine with cocoa by my side
and a mirror

I don't WEEP much
Only weeping when
I accidentally crush a yellow shelled SNAIL
then I curse and breakdown
my imagination leaving me stock-still like the snail embedded in my boot.

I don't use white killing powder
except
to ANNIHILATE the ants which are marching around my conservatory
then I kill with ease


I don't play GAMES
except with people who are players
then I stab medals into my pock marked breasts
and count them like a child, one, two, three, ten.
I don't use the word LOVE at all
except when I feel it all over

I don't HAVE much SEX
except on my keyboard
where my characters do it all for me
I feel through them and I come with them
then delete them with swollen wet fingers

I don't use the word Love much
Only using it to show my Love
for Lipstick, Brown Sugar
and
People.

copyright Angela Norris

Queen of Sainsburys

Yesterday.

I kept to my word.
Mostly.
I made a panful of Meatballs and some proud individual Queen of Puds (see pics above) only venturing into my garden for a quick refreshment break, oh and to listen to a battalion of drum banging children, a couple of gardens down, pretending to be rock stars.
It was quite nice actually, the sweet timbre of the continuous bang bang bang went well with my cup of strong tea and super sized Rock Cake. I didn't moan, instead I joined in with the nippers musical ensemble by working up a sweat with a bit of air guitar!
I hope no-one saw me...

Today.

Today I'll be melting my way to Sainsburys with the car roof open, and as I'm dawdling past The Blue Boar and The Monk and Fisherman all red and parched, I'll imagine I'm driving my metallic green jam jar along some high white mountain roads somewhere with a fellow dry dreamer by my side.
It'll give me a little lift I expect.

And with the warm wind roughing up my silver flushed hair and Radio 4 feeding my old brain I'll arrive dishevelled but full of intelligence at Sainsburys.
And after loading up the trolley with essentials and non-essentials, I'll give cashier number 3 all my lolly and then vroom vroom back.

On the menu today:
Steak. I expect.
Followed by homemade Mango Ice Cream. Definitely.

Have a smashing day everyone.

I'm in my office.
Looks like a nice day out there but as I'm in a homely, crablike, hiding in my shell kind of mood I very much doubt if I'll be venturing into my garden, so the grey pigeons will be able to sit on the brown fence and coo and eat in peace.

I'll be moving slowly from the office to the kitchen then into the sitting room then a quick dip into the bedroom for a touch of lipstick and a spray of scent. The back to sharp knives, beautiful books and blogs and News 24.

I forgot to feed the fox last night I hope the little thing forgives me, I hate to think he ran away hungry and disappointed. I won't forget again.

I'll be making Meatballs for tea followed by a nice creamy meringuey Queen of Puddings.

So I'm leaving the office now and heading into the kitchen, bypassing boxes of videos, an already grubby birthday handbag, a half drunk cup of coffee, hills of A4, hundreds of books, old artwork, a distressed vegetable rack piled to full capacity with envelopes, notepads, paper clips and champagne.
And a stunningly handsome Monty. X

Beware! A Humdrum Post.

Oh my God!
Busy or What?!
Polishing a gentlemen's knick knacks.
Destroying onions.
Singing to Monty.
Jiggling around my office to Motown.
Compensating for middle age with pretty luscious lipstick.
Erotic thoughts as I fiddle with a vacuum extension.

Humdrum post?
Oh Yeah Baby!

A Slice of Poetry

Here's my Strawberry Cheesecake.


I want to taste it right away
on this strange and silly summers day
when slinky cats do sing quite loud
and humble sparrows are feeling proud
when big red dogs yell verses in the park
and good simple men will make their mark

But I am small and patient and thin
and so I'll have to wait
for that perfect first slice of sweet red sin
to grace my fine china plate.

Night Night Everybody

Well I say! The knight coming along my drive was a boy intent on trying to sell me a new............DRIVEWAY!
The cheek of it.
As if I need a new driveway.
I do actually, my current one looks a bit, how shall I put it...er....sad? Yes indeedy, it definitely needs something doing to it. Something like removing it or something. But I'll be the one who decides when it needs doing and I'll be the one who telephones a paving specialist, I do not want young lads ringing my bell and offering the best deal in the world on fancy new colourful bricks.

The cheesecake is currently resting in the refrigerator on top of a box of eggs, it looks a bit dull, but after I've smothered it with glazed strawberries tomorrow, it'll look smashing.
Decided against the marinating of Chicken breasts, will have a Tuna sandwich instead.

Things to do this evening:

Record 'America's Got Talent'.
Search cupboard for poetry anthology, I know it's here somewhere..
Drink milk without a care in the world.
Worry about the army of recycling bins which are taking over my back garden. I'm thinking Dr Who or something....
Try to get Monty into his pyjamas by eight. He's been playing up a bit lately, refusing to wear his jimjams and refusing to lie down with his torn mouse mate before ten. Must be a phase he's going through.
Will scramble under cupboards and under Monty's observation looking for a lost ear ring.
Will lavish extraordinary coconut oil on my ordinary failing knees.
Stretch my creaking frame into hideous positions because I'm into Yoga again.
At five and twenty to nine I'll watch my favourite spooky film 'Dead of Night' with a gin and Hobnob.
After eleven I'll tiptoe around my spiritually uplifting garden hoping for poetical inspiration and to get the washing in.

Thank You and Goodnight.

Magical Monty

It's Friday.
And it's a typical mid-summers day, cloudy and warm with a ladylike wind brushing through the trees.

Pencilled in my kitchen diary for today is:
Make a Strawberry Cheesecake.
Marinate Chicken breasts in yoghurt, turmeric, cumin, cardamon and lemon juice.
Make tiny triangular Samosas.
Look lovingly at a Lime.

Monty came in to see me very early this morning, his grunting and singing nigh on deafening me, so as I squinted at his big coal lump of a head, I knew there could never ever be any other animal for me. I had been thinking about adopting a Greyhound, having been brought up with them, but because I love Monty so much and have built such a fab friendship with the no-good tyke, I realize that he is the only male thing for me.
The retired racing dogs will have to wait.

Am currently reading short stories from one of my favourite anthologies, namely Lord Halifax's book of ghost stories. I really have quite a thing for the supernatural, must be because I'm passionate about all things ethereal. But that's a subject for another post.

Must go now, there's a knight coming along my drive on a white horse...

The Return (Audio)

Ten years ago I did a creative writing course and as Christmas approached, my tutor Mrs Ramet, asked if any of us would be entering the local newspaper's ghost story competition.
'I'll have a go' I merrily quipped.
'Oh goody' she said 'None of my pupils have ever won anything, do your best Angie, for me!'
So I did and I won.

Loving

Thanks to my Duch for commenting on yesterdays 'List' post.
Just a thought, if you add a 'T' to Duch it makes er....Dutch and that is cockney rhyming slang for 'Mate'. I'd better explain. 'Dutch Plate' = Mate!

I can't imagine what we'd feel like the Duchess and I, when on one chilly summers day, we finally clap our minces on each other. She'd most probably grab me and say 'HI my feisty old Queen'. and I'd probably shake her hand and say 'Hello Madam, how do you do?' I don't think so!
I think we'd hug and kiss then do London on Gin and Tonics! I love my Duch.

-Monty was on the bedroom windowsill at 6:30 and with each coo from the resident pigeons, his tail thumped the window.
I did not go back to sleep.
But oh how I love him.

-I'll try and get my winning ghost story on here some time this month, I'm having issues with 'size' or something, oh I don't know , anyway what I do know is this techno stuff drives me bonkers.
But I do so love it!

Lists are Cool!

After the rigours of yesterday I thought it would be nice to have a mid-week laugh.
So here are some lists.

My Favourite outdoor activities:

Walking fast.
Shopping. But only in Southend and London.
Eating bananas on trains
Laying on grass in my under garments with a flannel nearby.
Being up a ladder looking down at my neighbours sheds.
Mowing whilst wearing shorts and with a mobile phone embedded in my skull.

My Favourite indoor activities:

Wearing a lampshade on my bonce and with Monty in my arms.
Reading ghost stories all the time
Writing as if my life depended on it.
Dancing in items of allure when I've had a gin and curry!
Shutting myself in the kitchen with Morgan Freeman and making 12 Rock Cakes
Vacuuming Monty.

My Best Clothes:

Two stunning sun dresses for when it's sunny and I'm feeling flighty.
Several thick sensible woollies for when the sun goes and I've gone all serious.
Silly dresses I wear indoors when the gramophone is loud and I'm running from room to room happy, happy, happy!
Big sensible boots for snow.
Loud rude boots under my nightie. But on a Friday only.
Laura Ashley skirts for when I'm feeling psychic and reading peoples minds.
A glorious black and white top which makes me feel like a million.
A gloriously wicked black hooked skirt to go with it.
Lots of sequinned tops which I will wear one day to a party.Probably.
A red t-shirt and beige cargo pants for when I'm a tom boy
A lycra purple dress for when I'm a big fat girl.

Things I hate:

Canned peas.
Militant fanatics.

Who I'd love to meet:

You.

What I'd do with a million pounds:

Buy myself a cottage in Cornwall and call it Gull Cottage.
Buy a young homeless couple a house. And then disappear.
Donate to animal charities.
Adopt a child from overseas. And name him Christopher.
Go to Sainsburys without a list, calculator or care in the world.

Would a million be enough methinks.

Come Outside Doctor, It'll Do You Good

Essex man, Dr D.G. Hessayon the famous gardening expert, has said he's lost interest in gardening because he doesn't find it therapeutic any longer.

Dr Hessayon is 80 and I suppose when you've been doing something for donkey's years it can lose some of it's sparkle. But I find it terribly sad that a man, whose books have sold millions and given hope to little people like me, could have reached the stage where he no longer wants to potter outside.

I hope he finds another love, because passion shouldn't have a grow-by date.

Things I find therapeutic:
Friends.
Giving my love.
Writing
Cooking
Talking
Doing simple things well.

Home

Monty is black and very asleep.
I am red and very awake.

The old girl had me up and down ladders with sponges, cloths and buckets of vinegared water "I'll soon see any smudges when the sun shines" she said viciously
"Then let's hope it rains" I said joyfully.
She did not laugh.

Her never ending demands were not in the job description, I wasn't told I'd be moving beds, radiators and heavy crates. I thought I'd be polishing silver and avoiding breakages of fine porcelain.
Wrong.

At one point I was standing without my shoes and socks, on a piece of cardboard, on top her work counter trying desperately to dislodge a stuck window
"Don't open it too much, I just want a bit of air I don't want her next door hearing everything I say."
"People don't care about hygene any more" she spat "No wonder children become ill, all this disgusting convenience food mothers cook, when I got married I made my own stock, now they use granules"
"Most people don't have the time to boil bones any more." I quipped as I pulled on my pink ankle socks
She ignored me.


I limped out of her castle with aching arms and much more muscular legs , I verily raced up Oxford Road did a right into Spencer Gardens and then a gentle left onto Brays Lane. And boy oh boy did those gravelly grey roads look silken and violet to me.
The sky seemed wider too and even more bluer , the frilly netted windows in the pebble-dashed bungalows appeared almost classy and the rows upon rows of colourful cars looked like fantastical jewels set alongside an alabaster pavement
OK, I know I know, too much purple prose and a bit over the top, but I need to feel 'me' again because I'm used to doing what I like when I like and with whom I like, and the merest detour tends to send me into a tizz.
And this tizz was particularly sickening.


The old girl, whose skeletal head looked almost too heavy for her frail frame, went on and on about her 'selfish neighbours' her 'irritating sons' and her dislike of all things modern. It was a very tiring experience, I can tell you.

Her house seemed to have stopped living, it's decor harking back to the the 1950's.
"Axminster carpets" she said pointing to the hall floor "Are the best, they'll see me out" she said stamping her stick into the red and gold pile.
"Yes they are and yes they will" I said, feeling like a wicked step-daughter.
She did not laugh and I looked at my watch...


Her never ending vitriolic outbursts about the local council, asylum seekers, her absent daughter-in-laws, her wayward grand children and her 'nasty slut' of a neighbour made me wish I wasn't there. But that was nothing compared to the contempt she had for previous employees, "She wouldn't do anything without her stupid rubber gloves" she said of one "She was a very flighty girl from a bad family in Dagenham, her father was in Tin"
I couldn't believe my ears and I was most uncomfortable.
So God knows what she'll think of me when I say bye bye next week.

Now Monty and I are going into our untidy kitchen and I'm going to put on the telly and watch News24 as I lovingly prepare an e-coli laden bolognaise.
Complete with cat hairs.

Wake Up Or I'll Blast You With GMTV!

Monty is my unofficial alarm clock.
The little blighter woke me at God knows what time this morning, all I remember thinking is 'It's still dark' and 'I wonder what a poodle would do at four in the morning?' Don't get me wrong, I love the little bundle of fur but his pre-dawn jaunts into my bedroom are having an effect on both my health and looks, but I soldier on.
Having managed a bit of breakfast I'm now off down the road to climb a lady's ladder with a feather duster and a smile.
See you later

Move Over Gus!

Bins.
Not one, not two but three.
The council wants me and hundreds of other innocent folk to run outside with our shattered light bulbs, cat litter, tea bags and egg shells and put all these delightful things into different bins.
Now I'm all for helping my planet but if I get any more bins I'll have to move Gus! (see pic above)
Let me elaborate a bit more.
I had a few bits left of my fried lunch today, (had sausage and tomato) I also had lots of teabags and grass cuttings, (been mowing and gasping)) uncooked ribbons of dough (been making a cherry pie) And after each of these wonderfully mundane events I had to go out to the bins and drop these various bits and bobs inside the various silly bins.
I blame Gordon Brown...

Gone are the days when all my rubbish went in to the one big bin, now I've got to dance between all three of the blighters, and I'm not so nimble any more so it's more of a waltz than a jive! Another thing is they are all different colours and that is such a blight on the Horsehound landscape.


Things I've done recently:
Slept for eight hours
Recorded a ghost story for this blog which I wrote a long time ago.
Discovered Coconut Oil is good for my knees
Discovered that one of the aforementioned my knees is turning a bit inwards.
Bought the most boring blouse ever.
Got a fabulous perfume from Mum and Dad. 'Beautiful' by Estee Lauder. I could still smell it on my clothes even after I'd washed them. That's some scent!
Made Samosas and was a bit heavy handed with the spices and then dreamt about distraught pigs on aeroplanes crying into pillow cases!
Tip: Go easy on Coriander Seeds

Back to the bins, I wonder how many men and lorrys will be required to take away my cornucopia of rubbish. Absolute nonsense that's what it is, but I suppose planet Earth is worth fighting for and she is all we've got, so bring on the bins!

A Chip Off The Very Fine Block...

I watched Dad yesterday as he gulped tea, took a huge breath and then spoke continuously for six hours about:

David Davis.

The cost of bread.

The cost of his haircut.

His back.

Hugh Gaitskill.

Bob Geldof.

William Shakespeare.

Anne Robinson's driving skills.

His admiration for actor Morgan Freeman.

Tinned Salmon.

The perils of changing energy suppliers.

His days as a Teddy Boy in Southam Street.

Pensions.

His hatred false teeth, anorexic models and fish with the eyes left in.

The plight of the forgotten working class.

My new old car and how lucky I am.

My greying hair.

His white hair.

And how alike we are.

His dislike of Barbara Windsor and his love for Doris Day.

His love of Tinned Salmon as opposed to Tinned Tuna.

The new Waitrose in Porchester Terrace and how good 'the deli bit' is.

The Nigerian cleaner who wears a brightly coloured shirt on Sunday morning.

The BBC's obsession with 'Guardianistas'.

The Mails obsession with money and middle aged womens clothes and diseases.

Identity fraud.

And

Instant custard.

David, But No Goliaths!

It' s D-Day for D.D today.
The Haltemprice and Howden by-election takes place today. It's a complete waste of time and money, because David Davis has no real opposition. Not unless you can see the 'Church of the Militant Elvis Party' or lizard man David Icke, polishing the seats in the House of Commons with their silly arses. British politics at his best.
Dontcha just love it?

Some or all of the Contestants in the By-Election: I don't know and don't care. I do really...

David Davis, former M.P. former shadow Home Secretary and handsome broken nosed working class blond who wanted the leadership, didn't get it and is now getting his own back on Jimmy Neutron a.k.a David Cameron. Well that's what I think anyway.
Greg Wood, Ex-Royal Navy man who wants better care for injured military veterans. See Pic above.
Church of the Militant Elvis Party, say no more
David Icke, conspiracy theorist and former Son of God. Has support of singing sensation Robbie Williams.
Miss Great Britain. er... blonde who is deadly serious about becoming an M.P. She dates a footballer or something.
The New Party, a er...new political party
Ronnie Carroll, 73, ex crooner represented Britain in the Eurovision Song Contest, or was that someone else?
Jill Saward, victim of crime 22 years ago says justice has swung in favour of the criminal. She won't win because she's saying what a great majority of people are saying...
Herbie Crossman, owner of a security equipment business who turned up with a ball and chain and said “There are more important things in life than the 42-day terror law and there are better ways of going about making a point than wasting voters' time and money" You said it Herb!
Chris Talbot, Left Winger who said “From the standpoint of working people, the Labour Party is finished,”
And finally
Walter Sweeney, former Conservative M.P who wanted to give legal protection to homeowners who shot burglars.

I can't write any more because I'm going to London to listen to my Dad rant...........

TAGGED! WHO ME?

After the self indulgence of my earlier post I think I'd better return to the plain and ordinary.

Did you know that supermarket CHICKENS are now wearing ALARMS.

Such is the cost of a nice bird these days that people are being driven to STEAL the blighters.
I was in Sainsburys today and looked out for the aforementioned alarmed birds, unfortunately for me I didn't see one. What I did see however was alarmed LAMB. Yes, a nice bit of LAMB had some sort of security tag stuck on it. I can't believe this! I'm used to seeing alcohol weighed down by alarms but CHICKENS!
Whatever next?

Are prices going to rise so much that we'll soon be witnessing the tagging of TOOTHPASTE? But hold on a sec I saw a tube of fancy whitening toothpaste that was selling for over ten pounds so who knows maybe that was tagged too. I know cosmetics are alarmed, MASCARA and LIPSTICKS bear silvery things and bottles of AFTER SHAVE also.
Where's it all going to end?

The price of beef is exorbitant likewise parsnips and cough mixture, so the only people who'll be seen wandering the aisles of our great supermarkets will either be spluttering carnivorous millionaires or vegetarian desperados who are er...desperate and fit enough to outrun the outof condition security guards.

I've made a Bakewell Tart for Mum and Dad, the almonds I bought today weren't alarmed but I was when I saw the price.
BUT I DID NOT STEAL THEM.

Angela Through a Smudged Looking Glass

I'm in reflective mode and that isn't always a good sign with me.
But I won't stamp on my natural feelings, I'll just go with the flow or rather lose myself in the torrent and see where I wash up!
I'll write about what's going on in this troubled head of mine, I'll get it all laid down in black on white and then laugh at my middle aged ramblings. Being stroppy after 50 is not a pretty sight, I thought I'd seen the last of that when my final pimple burst in 1972. But no, I still get swallowed up with insecurities and fears, still manage to mess up every single thing I lay my gnarled hands on and still manage to piss off those that love me most. And I still get spots as well.
Life's a mean old cow sometimes.

The thing about being a 'writer' is that it gives you a way to express your feelings, a life jacket if you like, even a safety net in which to crawl, my writing buoy has saved me on many occasion, often turning to the blackest ink at two in the morning and the reddest felt tip pen at two in the afternoon.
Yes indeedy, penning it all out is a great relief.

So what calamity has brought me into my untidy office?
I'm not really sure.
Or am I?

It might be the after effects of doing half a days work on Monday, (yes I've got a little job) or it might be my empty heart and capacious mouth that yearn to be filled with tenderness and tongues. Of course it might just be hormones. But since I passed 50 I've felt strangely alive, not for me the signs of inbalance and or madness, I don't want to go trekking in Tibet neither do I want a young lover.
I prefer England and old men.

I'm not witnessing drastic alterations in my body either, in fact my body is almost as good today as it was at thirty. I don't see much decay. Of course my skin looks a bit thinner and my bulbous boobs are heading south but overall I could still pass for a gal much younger than my 52 years. And that's a comfort.
The physical changes that are occurring are something I can deal with and so they are not responsible for my bouts of depression.
So what is?
Could it be the start of the menopause?

Recently I've hungered for more of everything.
I not only want to burn my candle at both ends but I want to chew on it and swallow its hot liquid too, I need to feel the dripping wax scorch my lips.
Poetic huh?
I've felt like I could do things which previously scared me, not for me are afternoon tea dances in safe clothes, I want to drown in gin wearing my ruffled knickers.

Does gentle sweet love have a part to play in this messy pantomine?
Don't know. Don't know anything about love, never felt it, had it given to me in bucketloads by one young man. Now his long standing juvenile love is in the shadows.
Placed there by me.

But I desperately want to dance around dewy flowers with something clasped in my hands and heart, a grown up love.

Poems

The haughty tortoiseshell cat with a neckerchief of shining plastic gold
taps his way over weeds and roses alike
he doesn't know any different.

His simple mistress with plain wooden beads around her neck
covers her feet in rubber
she knows the pain of vicious plants.

The gardener with holed trousers, joyous heart and spray in hand
tuts at them both.

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Once there was a donkey
who lived for the sea
his master the man with the hat and jingling bag of coins
would plop children on the donkey's back and shoo shoo him along
the donkey could often be found at night under the free range sky staring at running glistening crabs
wishing he was free to run too.

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Lonely Mr Plainer held up a picture of his daughter to the bare blazing light bulb
he was looking for her heart.

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Some women have a knack of whizzing through the housework, I unfortunately don't. I suppose it's because my mind always seems to be somewhere else.
That 'somewhere else' is anywhere other than here.

Place I'd like to visit:
Italy

Places I'd like to visit again:
Paris
Canterbury
Glastonbury

On the agenda today:
The Ghost and Mrs Muir
Floors
Grocery list
Making some sort of cake
Checking of tomato plants
Going gooey.
Being silly.
Laughing at myself.

Thanks again to the Duchess for her comment on 'Independence Day'.
By the way Duch, 'Bombay Mix' is not a drink, it's a savoury snack made of dried lentils, nuts and spices.
It is a seriously moreish munch!

Oh Yes!

There's a dent in my ceiling, a stain on my frilly blouse and I've lost a dozen radishes. No, I have not been having great sex, I was simply watching the greatest tennis match in the history of tennis matches.
When it started at two thirty my tummy was digesting a nice bit of roast lamb but it wasn't only gastric juices that were flooding me body, adrenaline was causing tumultuous waves too, because I do get so very excited over big sporting events and Sunday's men's singles final was no exception.

When Rafa took the first two sets I thought 'that's it, it's over for big Roger' but I was so so wrong. The match just got better and better, so good in fact that at one point I spilt tea all down my fabulous frontage and my mid evening snack of radishes and hummus got scattered all over my dismal sofa and all because Rafa had missed a couple of match points. I was getting the right hump.
What I called Federer is not suitable for publication on a public blog, suffice to say my language was rainbow coloured. When he kept coming back at Rafa I stared at my t.v. screen trying to put the heebie jeebies on him, my eyes went a bit crossed and smoke started coming out of my ears, I waved my arms about in a frightening manner and called up darkish forces just so the cute Spaniard could walk off court with a big gold cup.
And it worked! Because he did!

You know, I've been thinking, big tennis matches are rather like sex.
There's provocation in the build up, then enthusiastic manoeuvres all acted out with grace and seriousness, then a welcomed two minute respite after a particularly hard thirty minute set, then a further five hour flurry of activity and then a result.
Game Over.

Rafa v Roger. Weather Permitting!

The weather gods are playing games at Wimbledon. Let's hope they run out of steam and rain soon!
Good Luck to Rafa and let's hope for a good game.

Chris Is Still My Number One

I was feeding pigeons and watering tomato plants at six this morning, the idea of laying in bed on such a damp and beautiful Saturday morning was just stupid, much rather be doing something worthwhile.

I see the Ladies Final at Wimbledon is a Williams affair, I won't watch it, don't particularly care for those two girls, they're a bit too loud for my liking, I much prefered watching the now retired Justine Henin, she was a lovely divine and feisty character.
Talking of adorable creatures my all time favourite tennis gal was Chris Evert, (see pic above) me and Mum watched her thrash out final after final, she was humble and sweet when victorious and always gracious and polite in defeat and always, always behaved like a lady on court. The only thing that puzzled me about Chrissy was how she could have married that no good tyke John Lloyd, I always thought he was a bad 'un, and I was right. She recently married again I hope she's found Mr Right.

Another player I loved watching was Arancha Sanchez Vicario (not sure about the spelling) she used to storm out onto court like an untamed pony, she'd then run around like a thing possessed not worrying about her flying hair and sweaty brow, she was a great little thing, so unpolished and natural, an absolute kiss of freshness to a staid old Brit like me. I just love women who act like men.
The current crop of women players leave me a bit chilled, haven't seen any real stars, Dementiava looks like she could go far and there's a fourteen year old British girl called Laura Robson who looks set to make a mark on British tennis in a big way. She was born in Australia but I won't hold that against her.
Let's hope she bounces around court like a kangaroo (sorry couldn't resist!)

The mens final tomorrow between my favourite boy Rafa Nadal and the slightly creepy Roger Federer looks like being another corker, Rafa's been on top form recently and his idiosyncratic ways with bottles of water make me laugh. Could have some kind of emotional problem there I thought, as he carefully and meticulously placed one bottle in front of the other. Better watch that Rafa...Don't become obsessive about bottles dear!

Federer plays like an automaton, rarely going off kilter, rarely doing anything wrong, I don't enjoy having perfection rammed down my throat, I know he's a master at what he does but I need to see flaws to fall in love.

So my Saturday is one of avoiding the telly and doing something with chicken legs.
Be happy everyone.

Independence Day

Just before I settle down for the evening I must thank my friend, the Duchess of Michigan, for trawling through all my previous posts and commenting on nearly every single one. She's either bonkers in the nut or a woman with a penchant for the finer things in life. My money's on the latter.

This blonde babe has followed me from disaster to disaster, from happy days to confused days, from rage to joy and from helplessness to hope. And this camaraderie was born and has since flourished from our time together on a music website to this, my latest blogging incarnation. She has always commented, often making 'sensible' suggestions, her clear and concise remarks about food, men and kids were quite good too but most of all she's always made me laugh. Let me tell you about her. First of all she's an American.
Her sense of humour is naughty and grown up, her earthiness often has me rolling on the floor and coming over all shocked and delicate, because I'm English and not used to that sort of thing. She's generous too, her presents to me have made my day. She once sent one of my cats a scratching post because he was tearing up the hall wallpaper, she's a thoughtful lass too.

We have a lot in common the Duchess and I, for a start we both have royal blood gushing through our veins, mine is there from birth of course, hers was put in by me! I bestowed on her the title of Duchess way back in 2006/7 because I was a Queen and I decided I needed another Royal to keep me company on our music website. So she became a Duchess, her husband a Duke and her two boys little dukettes and her little girl a duchessett!
Anyway we both wear our crowns with pride.

The Duchess and I have both seen our jewels get a wee bit tarnished over the years what with one thing and another, but we've helped each get our sparkle back by continually being there for one another with the duster of humour and a huge handkerchief to mop up our tears. In other words we've been mates. I once wrote a poem about her and in it I called her a 'ballsy babe', and she still is. Because anyone that is willing to take risks in life deserves the best of everything. Good Luck Duchess. As for me I'm kind of at a crossroads too, the frightening signposts are there for me to gawp at and my nerves are getting the better of me but with my chum across the pond I think I'll survive.
So on that optimistic note I'll bid you a goodnight.
Happy Independence Day!

Honoured

My friend has just asked me if she could print out one of my poems which is on this blog.
(Woman, 14th May)
She wants to hang it on the wall.
Of course she can.
Thanks Duchess

Back from my quick fire trip to London and all is the same. And so with an overpowering emptiness engulfing me I let chocolate and tears come together on my tongue.
Monty is on the floor entangled in the baked laundry and the sun is still shining and I don't know why, but but I wish it would go away.
I've lost track of Wimbledon, only game I remember watching was Murray v Gasquet. Sweet.
Don't give a damn about the Ladies final. Pointless if it's a Williams sisters party.
My new handbag is lying on my bed, it doesn't look so grand or pretty any more.
This is pointless.
Never in my life have I felt so numb, so completely and utterly devoid of a life worth living, so I'm sorry this is a bad post, but I can't think of anything good to write about.

Sorry Pigeon It Won't Happen Again...

I feel 'still' this morning and I don't like it. Because 'still' means 'lifeless'. And 'lifeless' means only one thing, unhappiness.
Talking of 'still' I have just disturbed a perfectly poised wood pigeon who was sitting on the garden fence, on seeing me through the kitchen window he opened his wings and angrily flapped up a few feet only to land on next doors garage roof. Silly bird.
Tomorrow I'll crawl in the kitchen on my hands and knees.

Night Time

Some night time thoughts in no particular order:

Andy Murray has been taught a lesson by Rafa, now limp off lad and leave the game to the big boys.


Forgive my wobbly writing, I'm riding a great big sick inducing roller coaster, my eyes are struggling to take in the blurred landscape as I ride high and wide, my head has given up trying to keep calm, has given up trying to make sense of any of it and my heart has just stopped.
But dear God how the sumptuous waves and dips give me the perfect sweetest ride.

Goodnight.

Andy and Rafa

Andy Murray is due on centre court today if the rain holds off. The grouchy Scot is due to play Rafa Nadal so it's adios Senor Murray!
Watched him play a fantastic match against the Frenchman Gasquet on Monday night, (see pic above) and although I was in and out so to speak, I saw glimpses of a fighter in Andy Murray and I admire that, even in him. But todays match against the spaniard will be a totally different kettle of fish because Rafa aint no Frenchman. So I hope to see most of it, if the weather gods allow.
What have I been doing apart from watching the occasional tennis match?
Well I had a glorious day yesterday, went to the seaside in the blazing heat, ate cockles, drank cider and felt so happy I didn't want it to end.
But it did of course so today I'll cook a bit, watch Andy and Rafa and talk very little.