Grey is Good Too.

Nature's beauty isn't only about yellow sunrises and orange sunsets, it's also about grey ashen mornings like this.

As I look out of my window a pallid mist is draped over the houses like a heavy lace shawl around a small woman's shoulders.
It's quite lovely.
And because I'm so impressed with it, I'm going to sit here like a woman in the early stages of dementia, and admire it.

After that, Sunday can begin.

Saturday's Are Such A Thing

This post was inspired by a fellow bloggers post.

Put on lilac eye shadow, ended up looking like I'd done one round with a massively big boxer. Went shopping and bought two cheap blouses and five pairs of tights, felt I'd let myself down, because I don't usually wear tights.

Ate two chocolate biscuits quickly because it was hot outside and I felt reckless and wanted to act wildly after the news.
Ate a small Chicken Korma and large chick pea pasty because I was a bit sad and spicy stuff always helps.

Jiggled to The Temptations late in the afternoon, and wondered if I'd ever stop thinking I was still seventeen. Thought Nope! You're just a sad old teenager who has aged well but who can't stop boogieing.
Wondered about the weather next week, on account of the garden needing doing and I need to wash the car. Eventually.

Asked a friend out on a date, because I like his hair and sandals.
Drank lots of sweet tea, because I'm totally tee total except on a Friday.

Thought incessantly about the effect late nights are having on my eye lids, because they're looking a bit more rangey and I don't like that. Also looked deeply at my glasses and thought UGH!
Looked into my heart just after five o'clock and said stuff it.

That's what Saturday's are for.

Man on a Mission

Like I've said on my other, now defunct blogs, I don't do good essays so bear with me as I sit here at six thirty in the morning and have a go.
The Democrat's Convention in Denver is over and it was a fabulous spectacle. I was not disappointed.
After watching Barack Obama's acceptance speech I was moved, not to tears, but to an equally wonderful feeling, awe, and as I drunk in his words I wondered how on earth John McCain would match it.

I don't know much about American politics, but what I do know however is that I enjoy it and that Senator Obama is hungry for high political office and political office doesn't come any higher than being the resident at 1600 Pennysylvania Avenue.

A tall slim black guy walked out onto the stage at the Invesco Stadium in Denver and had to beg his insatiable audience to calm down, almost pleading with them to allow him to start, what for me, was an incredibly uplifting speech. I saw and heard Jack Kennedy and Martin Luther King in both his mannerisms and uncomplicated words.
He was an on the level man applying for a hard job.

He spoke about his early life, his wife Michelle and his family, but most of all he said how much he loved his country.
I whooped with the rest of them as time after time he blessed and praised his beloved United States of America, and how he had to save it from four more years of Republican mismanagement.

He spoke about his plans for troop withdrawal from Iraq, domestic issues like health care and unemployment which got the Denver crowd waving their flags till they could wave no more.
He was of course preaching to the converted but I hope his John the Baptist type zeal touched a few Republican hearts as well.
He was a good orator and they loved him. He did make a few fluffs of course, he wasn't a Tony Blair, and as his face shone with sweat, I shot up a prayer and hoped this guy would do well. i.e. Win.

And so here was a chap, who by a lot of people's reckoning, shouldn't go anywhere near the White House, shouldn't even be considered as Presidential material, not because he can't do the job, but because of the colour of his skin. I didn't notice his colour all I noticed was a good young man aiming for the most awesome and powerful job on earth, and you know what, I hope he lands it.

His impassioned pleas bordered on desperation, couldn't the American folk see what needs to be done and that he, Barack Obama, was the one guy that could do it? Couldn't they see inside his heart instead of pondering over his colour? I perspired with him as his head swept from left to right and back again, his small eyes scouring nothingness, just a giant swarm, an ocean of flag waving fans who cheered at everything he said.
He didn't crack any jokes unlike our politicians, and they didn't give a hoot what he said, not really, he might as well have told them his list of engagements for next week and what he was having for supper.
Here was a jokeless preacher preaching to the converted and they adored him.
He was in the company of a million friends.

But it's outside where he's got to make more friends. And by jolly jingo I would imagine it's hard enough making friends in the little suburban worlds of small town America, yet alone winning over staunch Republicans.
I hope he does it.

I've watched him over the past couple of years and I always hoped that he'd go further than the Senate, whether or not he gets to sit in the Oval Office I don't know, but he's appeared on the political stage like a man who's seen the light.
Barack Obama is a man on a mission.

His words unvarnished yet powerful, his demeanour modest yet inspiring, here was a simple yet ambitious man applying for the hardest job in the world.
I hope the American people give it to him.

Tossed Noodles

I recently bought a green Wok and a book on Chinese cooking. I can't wait to use both of them.
I think there's something incredibly sensuous about Chinese cuisine. From plump steamed dumplings to rich red roasted pork, from sweet chicken wings to Peking style toffee apples it all makes simple yet sumptuous fare.
Pretty bowls and delicate tea pots, porcelain spoons and Jasmine tea also go into making a Chinese meal something rather special.
But I think the chopsticks are the most sensuous because whenever I use them, I always laugh and laughter is the best aphrodisiac.

There's an oriental supermarket just minutes from where my parents live so I think we'll be paying a visit. I want to drift around looking at bottles of oyster sauce, Wonton skins and Chinese wine.
I might even by myself a cleaver!

"Good cooking does not depend on whether the dish is large or small, expensive or economical. If one has the art, then a piece of celery or salted cabbage can be made into a marvellous delicacy; whereas if one has not the art, not all the greatest delicacies and rarities of land and sea are of any avail"
Yuan Mei 18th century poet

Lights! Camera! Cat!

I've only taken a few decent photos in my life, but this one of Monty has to be the best.
It was taken on my mobile phone either yesterday or the day before. I can't remember.

Anyway, I'd seen Monty drift into the conservatory and elegantly leap onto a pure plastic chair and I thought yep, gotta get a pic of that. And so after polishing off a gaily coloured fairy cake I crept into the conservatory, knelt down and armed with my phone, waited and waited and waited.....
And then RESULT!
He YAWNED!
So I pressed my little button. And Presto Hey ! I'd landed a corker.
Feeling pleased with myself I 'stored it to phone', patted him on the bonce and then advised him to get some shut-eye because, after all, he'd had a busy day.
I then danced back into the kitchen for a cup of tea.
And another psychedelic cake
Thanks Mont!

Fairy Cakes

Why does this picture make me feel happy?
Because the contents are unpretentious, honest and comforting.
But it might have something to do with the colours too, because lately, well since last week, I've gone bonkers on lilac and pink and all colours which suit women with silver hair!
So I've begun decorating my fairy cakes in pastel colours too! It's a worry....
Talking of worries....Today, I mean right now, I'm wearing a lilac t-shirt with a milk chocolate brown and pink skirt and beige shoes.
I look like a raspberry ruffle that lives in a jar on the middle shelf of the sweet shop.

Zzzzzzzz

Not a bad day as days go.

*Indulged in some American politics and then mowed the front garden with my mobile phone swinging around my neck. It didn't ring, bugger it.
*Flicked through 'Letters Home' by Aurelia Plath, wondered how the mother of such a talented artist like Sylvia ever came to terms with her daughter's suicide.
*Got a headache which floored me.
*Stood in the middle of my sitting room wondering what to do about wallpaper and my hair.
*Took a cracking photo of Monty, will post it as soon as I can.
*Struggling with a poem about fairies.
*Monty and Morpheus await.
*Nightie Night

A Tender Correspondence part 2

I see no point in waiting until Thursday to post this. So here it is.

Michael

I gave you more than I've given anyone.
You took and took, until there was nothing left for me to give. I had to keep something for myself and that something was respect.

I'm now thinking of all those days and nights when I wondered where you were, have you any idea what that did to me?
Forever wondering who you were with and why you preferred their company to mine. I can't do this any more Michael, you promised much but gave little. I think your 'love' for me was like that of a spoilt person, a person who has to have it all, but nobody has that much to give.

You saw me and wanted me and I saw you and wanted you and we didn't stop for a moment to think about the effect we were having on each other. And now we are both are feeling the worst pain of all, the pain of loosing a friend.

Dear God I wish I'd seen it earlier, seen what was heading our way, then I could have saved us both pain by walking away, by returning home. But I didn't because I was in love and life in your light was good and I awoke every morning and looked forward to our days, I was enjoying my life, our life together.

But it wasn't only you, I was to blame too, because I did wrong, I made the biggest mistake of all, I tried being everything I thought you wanted, I forgot that I was o.k as I was, that it was fine just to be me, I strove to win your love and the effort turned me into someone I didn't recognize, all I needed to do was be myself.
All I should have done was be myself. But I'm Bibi Clemant and I 'messed up' as you say.

We can't be somebody to everybody, that's what they say isn't it?
I just wished I had been enough for you but there's no point in going over and over it, we had our brief spell in the sunlight but now we're back to reality and clouds and yes I do remember the champagne and beans night.
It was the night I knew I was in love with you.

I shall go back to Paris now but what I'll do there I have no idea.

Bibi

Democrats All The Way

The Democrats Convention in Denver is top of my list of priorities today and for the rest of the week.
It's being shown on the the B.B.C's Parliament channel, so for a political enthusiast like me the next few days are going to be heaven. I'm eager to see how the Americans handle it, how they do it, I've seen clips of their conventions before of course, but to see the whole thing (sort of live!) is going to be a real treat.
The Americans are natural showmen so I'm not only looking forward to lots of shouting and colour I'm also looking forward to hearing great uplifting speeches, and seeing tons of flag waving and oceans of white teeth. I wonder if I'll see Barack's running mate Senator Joe Biden. I do hope so. See pic above.
Love it, love it, love it.

But other things will be vying for my attention today and this week; namely which poem to read out at the Bandstand in Priory Park next Sunday. I've been informed that poets will be alternating with a Brass Band to entertain the few people who are brave enough to turn up to a beautiful park at the end of a typically British summer. But rain or shine I'll be there with sheets of paper clamped in my hands.... and a brolly.

A few titbits before I sign off..

*I've nearly finished Bibi's reply to Michael. Should be up on Thursday.
*Monty slept with me last night, he looked like a big black drunken sheep. What a good kid he is.
*It's clouding over, summer is all but finished, nearly gone, autumn is hanging around like a faithful friend waiting to bring us back to a calm normality.

A Tender Correspondence

I love letters.
Not emails, letters.
And as I'm an avid reader of letters of all kinds I couldn't help but be inspired to write some of my own. But unlike the published correspondence of the famous, these billets-doux are all fictitious
I'll be posting Bibi's reply later in the week and, depending on my Muse, will post Michael's response some time after.
How long this relationship lasts depends upon my Muse.
I don't need to describe Bibi and Michael's life, that will be made clear by the contents of their letters.
So here's the first instalment.


My Darling Bibi

Please don't delete until you've read it. Will you do that for me?

Your parting words to me won't leave me alone so I have to do something and the only thing I can do is this.

Anyway, here I stand or rather here I sit in my big echoing barn of a house, with its stupid masculine decor and empty rooms. It means nothing to me now, you always said a house is not a home unless there's love in it. Well my hi tech polished mega watt home is a loveless dump without you in it. Come back Bibi for Gods sake, alright I know I didn't listen sometimes but aren't all men guilty of that, of not listening?

But since I met you, I haven't been able to hear anything only you, all I hear is your voice in my head. I've been a bloody fool and gone and lost the one person who's come to mean more to me than anyone or anything, I can't begin to tell you what's going on in this old head of mine, you always said I got 'confused over the big things' and as usual you were right.But here's one thing I'm not confused about, my love, yes love Bibi, for you. Am I making myself clear? Because my syntax is rubbish unlike yours which is perfect, and I cant spell either. You are so much better than me at expressing things, all I can do is stick a few words together in the hope you change your mind and come back. I'm missing you already, God I hate that phrase, how longs it been, a week?
Seems like forever and forever is always long.
I don't know what to say except I'm in love with you and I'm scared to death.

What with all we've both been through wouldn't it make sense for us to keep what we've got, we've got something most people only dream about.I don't want to be happy without you, I can't be happy alone any more, sounds idiotic doesn't it? But it's true I can't see myself doing the things we did with anyone else,. they were our things, remember the champagne and beans night? I do.
My parting words to you last night were said because I was terrified alright.

I don't know what to do with you, or how to deal with my feelings, there I was a reasonably contented man, ok so I'm a bit set in my ways, but I was getting along alright at least I thought I was and then someone like you comes along.
What I'm trying to say baby is I love you but I don't know how to deal with it.

I love you Darling
Now you can delete.

Michael

England 2 Czech Republic 2
Unbelievable.
I can't scramble together a complete post so here are a few titbits:

Beckham kicked a ball about. (Time to hit those L.A. sidewalks babe)
Capello demands that the players play for England the way they play at club level. (Oh Please)
When we get possession of the ball we MUST KEEP IT. (We've learnt nothing from past disasters.)
The players were booed off. (Not the first time, but please for the last time)
Defoe was hauled off because he's frightened of getting hurt. (Thinking about his club job I expect)
The Czechs were confident and better. (Jankulovski was excellent, perfect free kick after 48 mins)
We showed promise for 12 seconds. (Then ran out of puff and guts)
We scrambled in 2 goals. (We should have slaughtered them)
The Feisty Czechs rammed two in aswell. (But they were better, classier and more importantly, hungrier. They slaughtered us)

So before I weep into my porridge I'm left with one dismal thought, and that is that Fabio Capello could also have one dismal thought...
The qualifying campaign for the next World Cup begins on 6th September...
We take on plucky Andorra and then four days later, scary Croatia....
I can't wait...

Why has Monty got the knack of making me feel guilty?
As I re-filled the bird feeders just now, he was in a world of his own chomping on some grass, but then big bad me had to bring him inside, and as I plopped him down on one of his chairs the look on his face made me feel awful.
You'd have thought I hadn't fed him for a week and confiscated his favourite blue mouse.
All I did was bring him inside.
I can't do anything right.
On Monty's agenda today is: Sulking. Sleeping. Cuddles and Tuna.
On his Mum's agenda : The same :)

Team G.B are doing well in the Olympics and being an eternal optimist I'm sure that when Fabio Capello's England team take on the Czech Republic tomorrow night they will do just as well.

My fascination with the England football fiasco, oops I mean team, goes back a long way, I've always enjoyed watching them play, especially when it's a do-or-die game, but aren't they ALWAYS do-or-die games? I can't remember a time when I haven't thrown myself one hundred per cent behind the lads, feeling their anticipation in the run up before a match, their excitement when they knock seven bells out of er...someone and their pain when they lose. Yes Sir, I'm with my boys all the way, from the sweet smelling dressing room to the green and pleasant pitch and then back again.

But why do they always have to drag me and millions of other footie fans through the corridors of hell every time they play a game. Why can't they, just for once and just for me, get loads of goals in the first half and then go into defence or something.
Oh I'm a girl I don't know about things like the off-side rule and professional fouls all I know is that I can't do the hiding-behind-the-settee thing for much longer because 1. I'm having trouble bending down and 2. My heart can't take no more footballing catastrophes.
So as much as I love my boys, and this love is the real thing, I'm not sure if, come Wednesday night, I'll be able to bear listening to the game on the wireless.

At least if it was on the telly I'd get a little bit of gladness on account of me being able to sit open mouthed and watch as Becks glides around in a graceful manner.
But knowing moi, I will be ready, willing, and just about able to love and accommodate 12 fit men in my sitting room, I just hope that when the final whistle blows, I can leap from behind my very tattered settee throwing both my fist and a surprised Monty into the air.
Oh Yes Yes Yes!

So to sum up, tomorrow night I'll have a young black haired male clinging to my frontage whilst I scream blue murder from behind the settee for my boys in red and white.
But what about today?

Today:
The sticking of excess flesh behind the ears with sellotape
Experiencing the joy of concocting the perfect Lemon Puddle Pudding
The completion of a love letter
Plastering face with Concealer in case someone mistakes me for an elderly Leopard when I go out.
Seeing how long I can bend over without fainting

Number 13 for Number 10!

I won't be leaving the country in September or October on account of the political chop suey currently being cooked up in the greasy rat infested kitchen known as Westminster.
This glutinous smelly mess will be kept simmering until one or all of the main cooks in this sour and sour mix of back stabbing has the bottle to do something.

Head chef Gordon Brown really needs to grab hold of his junior colleagues and either dunk their faces in hot oil or chuck them out of the kitchen all together, because a discontented kettle of cooks spoils all broths.
And this paying customer, that would be me, is hungry for change and when I'm hungry I'm grumpy and when I'm grumpy I'm apt to change handbags and political parties, so Gordo had better do something and quick, because I've had enough.
He either does the decent thing and resigns or else he'll suffer the ignominy of being dragged out screaming by his chopsticks, the man has no other options.

Mr Brown's arch rival, David Miliband has been swinging his chopper about hoping to slice off the head of our great leader, but plucky Brown, bless him, skilfully continues to dip and duck avoiding David's mighty blade. But how long can old duffer Brown keep dodging the axe, that's what I want to know.
Come the October revolution, I mean the October conference, I will be splayed on top of my big telly like a spatch-cocked chicken looking down into the sweating heads of our great cooks.
I'm already sick with excitement...

If Gordon Brown manages to extricate himself from this messy chop suey I will personally, yes personally, buy him the entire menu in the Lim Lam Chinese takeaway, Rochford.
He looks like a special fried rice man to me but if on the other hand, he continues to take a battering, he may prefer to get his hands on some Chicken Balls, I think he might need them.


Other non-political thoughts:
Looks like rain, dear.
Make Coconut Fingers.
Woollies need a wash.
Writing of a ficticious love letter
Knicks knacks need a wash.
Meatballs and Giant Cheese Scone for tea.
Rains here.

Goodbye.

I love to make sweet things, so here's something I baked late last night, it's called Dutch Apple Flan.
You can serve it either warm or cold.
I prefer it warm with a plump mound of ice cream leaning up against it, in the most laziest of fashions.
Whichever way you have it, it you're gonna love it, because this naughty sweet thing is heavenly.

Bad Man! Bad Weather! Bad Poetry!

Andy Murray has admitted he acted in an 'unprofessional manner' during his brief spell at the Olympics. The Scot shouldn't have bothered to traipse all the way to Bejing to play for Team G.B as his heart clearly wasn't in it, and as for his mind, that was obviously concentrating on much more lucrative endeavours... The U.S Open starts next week.
This admission has reinforced my opinion on the Scot, he's a bad 'un.

What else?
Oh yes, apparently we're enduring a normal British Summer, so shut up say the weathermen, get your brollies up and nail your sheds to a tree or something. Because someone's shed got swept away on account of all this terrible wind.
I still want a shed.


I like Thursdays and I love to write good poetry.
Only one of those sentiments is...true!

Rain or shine this day is mine
to play with as I will
I'll trot up the hill with a ten pound note
and yak to the waif on the till

I'll chat to a pigeon if he'll give me his time
and gaze as he jabs at his seeds
I'll resist the urge to catch him in a sieve
and just apply myself to his needs

I'll slurp mugs of tea whilst cradling Monty
and regard him with tons of wonder
I'll then brush his hair with my best friends comb
and excavate his ears with a biro.

Thank You!

Mrs Slocombe and Me? Twins Separated At Birth!

I have a giant pussy called Monty he's an oleaginous, suety, broad-in-the-beam feline and he's my baby.
But he does have his ways...

He scales my mighty kitchen cupboards just so he can clamp his furry mitts on my tiny tuna sandwiches.
His cat-like eyes watch me as my tin opener vibrates in a purposeful manner, just so as I can satisfy my late night hungers. Trembling, I can often be caught struggling with my giant fork in order to lay bits of fish in between well buttered slices of Hovis.
He never, not for one minute, takes his eyes off my crustless triangles.

On account of me being a woman with a condition, I often feel the need to be prostrate whilst eating, and last night was no exception.
As the news come on I was propped up on the settee and was just about to have a large finger roll closely followed by a nice Flake when all of a sudden Monty lunged at me best Wedgewood and sent me tuna chunks flying. And seeing as I was fagged out I thought bugger it let him lick it up.
So he did.

And I do so love to see a large male with an big appetite, because being a lady I have matriarchal tendencies, which take the form of mollycoddling and catering to everyone's whims. I also like pampering and indulging large fur balls.
And my Monty is certainly one of them.

So if you hear screams tonight emanating from a small English village just off the A127, you can rest assured it'll be only me tossing round me lounge trying to salvage bits of tuna from the jaws of my giant pussy.
Goodnight.
Now where's me opener?

On the Horsehound agenda today:
Sainsburys
The saving of distressed tomato plants
Looking in mirror for signs of life
Pizza

All My Tomorrows....poem

Kiss me gently again
take my sweet mouth in yours
and I'll taste you in all my tomorrows

Hold me strongly again
knead my body again
and I'll feel you in all my tomorrows

Make me laugh again
so I enjoy life again
and I'll bless you in all my tomorrows

Love me again
As I love you now
and I'll save it for all my tomorrows.

Faith in You....poem

Faith in you, and tonight's dragons are made impotent
Waiting for you, my endless sunless tunnels cave in
Wanting you, I linger in the dust

I have you

And a sparkling woman rises
bedecked with dragon's teeth for jewels
My dusty sight been made perfect
a parched and loveless self
made moist

Believe in me.

Golden Girl

What a fab day for 19 year old Rebecca Adlington.
Our girl winning Gold in the swimming, YIPEEEE!
Well done You!

Oh Bother!

A fellow blogger recently asked 'Do you ever have those days where you wonder why you bother?'
And I piped up 'Yes, often'.
So then after a cup of tea I asked myself a question. "Birdbrain" I said "What in your life is worth bothering about?"
And this is what I came up with.
By the way another word for 'bother' is concern, so bear that in mind when reading my lists, it has, I feel, a sweeter warmer ring to it.

The Serious Stuff:
I'm concerned about not letting people down, it's anathema to me to be thought of as selfish.

I bother to show my gratitude for little courtesies shown to me. Such as the pleasant word from the trolley chap in Sainsburys.

I'm concerned about homeless people because I've been homeless.

I bother to make people feel at home. Otherwise why invite them in?

I bother to pick Mum and Dads brain's on just about everything because although I am a great creative woman I can also be an idiot.

I'm concerned about what Montys doing. If he's sleeping sweetly I worry in case he doesn't wake up and if he's got a sardine in his mouth whilst swinging from a lampshade I worry, because he's such a greedy fearless cat.


The Daft Stuff:
I bother with the England Football team. Still:(

I'm concerned about the weather. Rain splattered trousers in August isn't funny.

I bother to keep fit, so I can run after the bin men because they've dumped one of my bins half a mile down the road.

I'm concerned about the rings under my eyes. This is when the cucumber gets pulled out. From the fridge.

I bother to write poetry. Even when it's ignored by old people in bad clothes who wouldn't know poetry if it got wedged in their throats and choked them. I wish.

I'm concerned when Monty tackles me in the shower. His cap always comes off.

I bother with food. Cooking an Indian for others really satisfies me. I love tying people to chairs and force feeding them my giant chick pea pasties.

I'm concerned about Andy Murray. When is he going to learn to smile? :) Not today obviously 'cos he's just lost at the Olympics :(But he's a Brit so I feel for the lanky haggis. A bit.

I can't help but bother.
Bugger it.

Sunday Nonsense

Cup Cakes: Wildly decorated on Monty's fav table. Occasional cat hairs adding not only texture but vitamins also.

Chicken: Stuffed with the usual plus a couple of chopped dried apricots. Healthy, cat hairs optional.

Billet-Doux to Jon Cruddas: Offering my full support, mainly in his office.

Nice letter to Gordon Brown: Offering advice on how older men should dress on holiday. Stuffed old shirts should not wear open necked shirts, even if blue does suit you.

Email to the B.B.C's Today programme: Demanding they sack Robert Peston, (that's him up there) his voice turning me from a placid creature into a venomous reptilian type thing. His voice soars and dips with annoying evil regularity. I can't say any more I feel ill.

Horror film this p.m: Enjoyed with one of the aforementioned gaily hairy decorated cakes and the miniature donkey formerly known as Monty clamped bloodily to my knees.
Sunday's are SUCH a thing!

Thank you.

Don't Go....Poem

.......And if I say 'don't go' will you pinion me with weighty hands?

Yesterday wasn't all bad.
I bought some fabulous cake decorations. Sugar Flowers, Jelly Diamonds, Sugar Strands and Silver Balls.
Gloria's cupcakes will be outstanding!

Cliquey Bastards

Last nights foray into the classless talentless world of suburban poetry:
My poems weren't appreciated.
I was talked at.
They were not poets, they were not artists, they were little people.
But at least Neil bought me a drink.

Munchies and Miliband

As I dribble my tea I'm looking forward to scouring the rocky roads of Southend looking for reasonably priced food. The soaring price of munchies has made me blow the dust off 'Rose Elliot's Complete Vegetarian Cookbook' I think lentils are looming.

Just heard that youthful Foreign Secretary, David Miliband (see above pic) is thinking of offering Alan Milburn the Chancellorship if he can get rid of Gordon Brown.
Hold on a min I've got to have another slurp and grab a damp flannel.

Being a political nosey parker the current climate at Westminster is doing all sorts to me, I sweat and pant when I see hordes of men in suits, often needing to be resuscitated when I clap eyes on David Davis. I'm a wreck because politics is like a drug to me. Can't get enough of it, gotta have more. Which brings me on nicely to the Duchess.
My good clean living gal is getting embroiled in local politics. Must have a chinwag about that Mrs Mayor!
Don't you laugh girly, life has a way of surprising us all. One minute we're ordinary, the next we're er...not!

Stapled to belly is a bit of paper which says:
Shops. Umbrella. Cut nails. Do Brows. Do something with a Chicken. Look out for the Mayor.

Do Not Disturb

On my desk sitting next to a mug of Ovaltine are seven poems.
I can't decide which ones to take along to the Poetry Group tomorrow evening, shall I take 'Woman' or 'Love Monster' or 'A Beautiful Melody'.
I expect I'll make the decision just before I step into my black patent shoes at 7p.m.

Monty is by my side, he's limp and groggy because he's been up a long time and he's jam packed with cheap tuna.
So before I steep myself in Vaseline I'll gaze at the big fat lad and try to imagine how it feels being a cat.

My Hairy Alarm

Monty jumped on me at five forty five a.m.
"Fish" he whispered as his mighty cat mouth delicately removed my earlobes.
"Whatever you say Mont" I half grinned "You're the boss".
So as I slapped on my glasses and slipped into my slippers I felt nothing but love for my half ton, fat tummed, angel chops :)


After obeying him I stood in the shower and started thinking about other things.
Things like:

Sausages. Toad-in-the-hole for tea
Prescriptions. I remember when they were twenty pence.
Spots. I'm not sixteen no more yeah, just go away !
Insect Bites. Buggers.
Heavy duty poetry. But not about the war.
Ankles. Getting bigger?
Growing my hair. Want to be wild again.
Morgan Freeman. Get well soon you wonderful actor you.
Coco Pops or Porridge for brekkie? Pops are fun Podge is worthy.
Trousers or skirt? Depends what zip I can do up easily


And as I gently scrubbed off yesterdays dirt with a big old purple brush I looked down and screamed out
"What's that?!!!"
Old age is horrid.

Monty was waiting and listening outside the bathroom and as I stepped over him he rugby tackled me.

Coco Pops.

Sublime Humdrum

As a thimbleful of warm rain did its best to ruin my pretty white shoes I defiantly continued to amble along the road without a care in the world.

Sauntering past green Landies and fallen red bicycles, the manicured lawns of the super proud and the gardens of the uninterested I continued to mosey on down the road.

Looking up at a wonderfully marbled sky I thought about poetry and the chicken pie I intended to make, I then thought how life is a delicious heady mix of the humdrum and the sublime.

Today I had both.

The Blackest Show on Earth

Speculation over the future of Gordon Brown goes on.
Gutless nameless backbenchers continue to natter to the media like a bucket of old women whilst calmly awaiting the beheading of our great leader.

Wouldn't it be nice if these servants of the people did the honourable thing and just shut up.
I can see them all now, crouched amongst the empty House of Commons beer bottles, their unworthy heads full of concern over the cost of next years holidays and the prospect of having to go the job centre.
Brown has to go.
For their sake alone.

Blair's tongue has been lashing out too, and about time, it must feel kind of good for the ex-P.M. knowing he was right all along.
Gordon is a suburban bank manager with not an ounce of gravitas, star quality or chumminess. He is dull.

And Cherie must be doing an evil head spinning jig at the thought of old codger Brown being crucified and pelted with custard pies. You know I just had a thought, politics is a wicked nightmarish circus full of bizarre self-inflated clowns whose maniacal overblown opinions about themselves leave the rest of us in weeping in the sawdust.

The stars of the blackest show on earth condemn us, the paying little people, to a life of never ending pain.

I say bring on the horses.

Carry on Cucumber

I like today's Nature Quote of the day. (Scroll down a bit.)
Kind of makes me feel all warm inside :(

On the menu today Roast Chicken with a gang of unruly veg followed by Wild Banana Boats. i.e. sliced nana topped with too much ice cream, big nuts and shaved chocolate.

I had to have a cucumber this morning on account of my eyes and age.
Apparently they do wonders for women.

As I sip my tea and munch on a Rock cake I'm looking at the pile of poems I'll be taking to the infamous Poetry group. It's a nice collection but I don't expect I'll be allowed to read ALL of them out, so I think I''d better winkle the pile down to just three. Don't want to upset the natives. Eh, Dig?

Been a funny old day weather wise, clouds getting in the way of the sun and a dainty half hearted shower dampening my new trousers as I got in the car. But I like Saturdays.

Am so tired this evening so I expect my mug of Ovaltine will knock me for six at ten. Still that's what it's for, isn't it?

On the menu tonight, Spanish Omelette and the remnants of a strawberry cheesecake. But not on the same plate, that only occurs when I haven't got me specs on. Ho hum.
Tomorrow is Sunday and Sunday is roast Chicken and de-fuzzing of the legs day.

Toodle pip.

My London Day

London was cool!
London was wet!
And I was dressed like an elderly lukewarm commando.

Hauling a big green shopping bag loaded with magazines and chocolate cake, I bang banged my way along those rough dangerous old streets till I got to genteel Gloucester Terrace, till I set my sodden silly summer shoes on Mum and Dads bad mats.

Dad is morphing into a Toby Jug and Mum is giggling more whilst wearing azure blue eye shadow and pyjamas.
I'm thinking Hmmmmm!
Interesting.

As I perched on the edge of a hazardous old chair Dad climbed up onto his soapbox and I sang out 'Let the rant begin'.
He didn't let me down.

Mum cooked a large microwaved serves two spaghetti and prawn thing for my lunch. She forgot the knife and fork, the napkin and water. I said nothing just sat quietly gobbling me pasta with a tea spoon and as I tried to catch a prawn I proffered comments like 'Yes that's right' and 'I know, it's awful isn't it?'

And as the clouds gathered for a second time I thought isn't this wonderful?