Poetry. Thank God and Chris

Wandering shoeless
I stroll through bushes
whilst looking for
things that sting

Taking up my big stick
I tap gently around
whilst yearning for
notes that sing


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God is watching as the words fly
and as I skid
He throws, instead of plaudits,
black ice to crack my eyes

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For Chris Breen

Stillness, amongst frenzied waves,
a broken voice
cries,
memories of love
about the girl from Kilburn
shoots me down
shuts my sorry mouth,
and true love clears our air

Maudlin Murray

So bitter boy Murray is through to the quarter finals. And I don't care. His attitude on court is like that of a small boy who's always had his own way.
Gimme that ball or I'll tell my mum who's better than your mum anyway.

When the grim faced brat gets near to finishing off a match you can almost feel his anger at being challenged like this.
You rotten horrible pig why are you even bothering to come up against me?

His melodramatic aerobatics once over the winning line are entirely lacking in class, stardom or friendliness Throwing soggy wrist bands whilst twirling and twisting his hips around isn't an exciting thing to watch, unless the victor is smiling from ear to ear.
See this is what I can do and if you dare try and beat me I'll run to my mum screaming.

Murrays' tone of voice and his appalling lack of knowledge about what makes a sports star popular is driving me mad. OK he plays a good game. So what. Can you really imagine him walking onto centre court in a designer cardigan or wooing spectators with his on-court jests or even participating in a memorable interview. I for one loathe having the stroppy almost ill-mannered Scot representing Great Britain at tennis.

Tin Henman, Britain's previous great hope, was a posh boy who played a decent game but who had also had a charisma by-pass He is now a talking head on the BBC who for all his knowledge still bores me senseless. But he does smile occasionally. So points to Mr Henman. Murray however, never smiles. And that isn't good for either the spectators or himself. I think fans want to not only see a great player but want to be entertained aswell. And if entertaining isn't in your soul then at least have some class and balls. Murray has neither.
Tennis balls don't cut it. Jock.

His next match is tomorrow, I think, and I hope he comes out looking like he is proud to be there instead of a spoilt mummy's boy who's just had his lolly nicked.

From Nof to The Queen

Here is a poem written by a family member, the funny, charming and kindly Nof.
He spent time in his garden under the influence of a decent wine penning, what I consider to be,
a truly warm homage to me!
Thank you.


I've enjoyed the blog, about your days,
Your work, your food and your funny ways.
The football and tennis you watch on TV,
The jugs you buy to help charity.
So I sit in the garden with a cool glass of wine,
And I'm writing these words in the hope they will rhyme,
It's your birthday today, Mrs Horsehound it's true,
From your number one fan, Happy Birthday to you!!!

I'm A June Baby!

It's my BIRTHDAY today
with my PRESENTS I'll play
I feel very youthful
though my hair's kissed with GREY


Happy BIRTHDAY to me
I'm FIT and FRISKY
I've got lovely muffins
Want to join me for TEA?


Happy BIRTHDAY to me
And I've got a STIFF knee
but I have lots of BOYFRIENDS
Tee he he he he!

Ooooops, I nearly forgot....

1 day to go!

Aye, The Wee Lad's Still There...

It's day 6 of Wimbledon and that stinker Murray is still there. This afternoon he's up against the Serb, Victor Troiki.

I heard a radio interview with some old tennis duffer who echoed Roger Federer's comments by stating that Murray could win Wimbledon..In the future.

Back to what I think, I think the Scottish ball basher with the immovable hang dog expression could get to this year's final but only on account of the spectacular absence of Rafa Nadal. If he, Murray, does walk out on to Centre Court next week for the highly likely meet with Roger Federer the new Wimbledon roof will explode. I remember when Tim Henman puffed his way to the semis, you'd have thought he'd won the damn thing already. So if Murray, who bears an uncanny resemblance to Charlton Heston, does get to stand the other side of the net from whoever, it would be a remarkable day in British tennis history, and my love of all things British would be sorely tested.

Could I really support and cheer for a foreigner against on of my 'own' or would I flash my legs in a twirling kilt every time he a nailed a game?

What do you think?

I'm feeling quite down. What with a heavy work load and the death of a fav of mine it's all getting too much for me. I feel like drowning my self in a lake of wine. No lifebelts please.

I see you're in for a heatwave next week. Got your sensible sun protection creams ready? Bugger that.
Burn.

What A Day

Well here I am. Survived another round of clearing up after his Highness and his ridiculous attempts at sexual innuendo. You ain't funny matey, just stick to running your business and allow me to get on with my job.

Along with Michael Jackson, showbiz also lost Farah Fawcett, a woman I only remember because of her brilliant teeth and big golden hair. Being one of Charlies Angels brought her to prominence and if memory serves me right, later on in her career was nomintaed for an Emmy. But however talented an actress, she'll be best remembered for her scintillating smile.

Michael on the other hand will be remembered for his tremendous musical output and his change of skin colour. Whatever ailed him mentally surely had a part to play in his untimely death. I feel for him dreadfully, I know he had run-ins with the courts but I never believed he was a danger to children. I think he wanted to be one.

On the menu tonight: Salmon Tagliatelle, sweetcorn and garlic bread.

Angry

I've just heard the news about Michael Jackson. My first feeling was shock. My second, anger. Another gifted, barking mad, artist has died. Another slice of my past gone.
Grew up in the seventies with Michael and his brothers spinning on my turntable, now he's gone and all I want to do is go to "Mad About Motown" at the Belvedere in Billericay tomorrow night. I think one or two Michael Jackson discs might be spun.
Bugger it.

So later today, as I clean for Henry, Michael's tunes will accompany me. Reminding me that time and talent is precious. Don't waste either.




2 days to go

Tittle tattle

*Just finished my fish tea. It was Pollack and it was horrible. I've become addicted to barbequed chicken (my own recipe) in Pitta breads, a green salad, Cajun wedges and sour cream and now I don't want to eat anything else:)

*Went to Lidl today. Bought another jar of their fabulous cherries, tin of black olives, bag of cherry tomatoes and bottle of virgin olive oil. The guy on the till said he liked the way I'd laid out my goods. I said "You've made my day, now scan them". He was red in the face, very tall and smelt of Armani. Lidl pays well obviously.

* Had a blueberry muffin. Infact had two blueberry mufffins. My sweet tooth is awesome.

* I have no idea what to do with the stains on my shorts.

* There was a boxed bouquet of flowers on my door step on my return from Lidl. Not related to the short stains.

* Andy Murray has won again. His voice is dire. Even when he wins.

I want that motorbike.

Terminator Salvation was great.
Lots of thrilling smash-ups, lurve those motorbikes....
A cutesy curly headed kid, thrusting handsome heroes, plasticised Arnie, leather clad Asian bird (nasty) tons of evil red eyed machines and Helena Bonham Carter. Er what? Yep the fragrant Helena appeared shaven headed and looking a bit unwell. But she did ok for a posh sort. Christian Bale was knock-out.

My small box of popcorn went into my mouth at an alarming rate as the almost continuous booms and bangs shook the seats, and my feet which which didn't quite reach the floor, kicked out in don't-get-out-much excitement. But I'd rather do that than giggle over some silly chick flick.
I like unshaven, cut faced, shredded clothed men coming in my direction. Preferably with steaming weapons.

But that was last night.
What about today?
Today I'm in floral, today I'm in white, today I'm a good girl.


3 days to go

I'll Be Back...Tomorrow

A fairly easy mornings work.
No King of the castle present just his doe eyed daughter wanting sausage egg and chips at 11. No prob I said, but no chips. So orf she went to the local cafe! But that was this morning, now it's the afternoon and I am resplendent in buttercup yellow and awaiting my trip to the flicks. Isn't it always old duffers that shuffle to the pics in the afternoon?....

Have been watching the tennis, and saw a rather lack lustre Sharipova lose out to the stunningly pretty Gisela of Argentina. It was a good ladies match but I think the powers that be are going to have to do something about the grunting gals. Too unladylike for my taste. Roger Federer made a comment about charisma-free Murray, he said that he would have a 'great future in tennis'. How's that for a put-down?
Am so bitterly disappointed about the absence of my favourite lad, Rafa Nadal, Wimbledon has lost its impeccable shine I feel, without the olive oil looks and bull like stamina of the fiery Spaniard. Boo Hoo to that:(

Oh well, tonight I'll escape my woes by being hugged in the magnificent arms of the Terminator which will no doubt, leave me ready to take on Lidl, Sainsburys and the a pile of washing tomorrow:)

New Horizons?

Murray wasn't worth watching.
He won but without razzamatazz. He should have beat up the rather decent American, Kendrick but all he did was sweat to the winning line, rather like Henman used to do. Dull beyond belief.
He's also moaning about the new roof.

And on this glorious Wednesday I'm wondering whether or not my knees will hold up under the pressure of polishing Henry's castle. Yesterday my other employer, the unbearably solemn Raymondo told me he's sold his house but would still like me to clean for him when he gets himself embedded in his new place. Depends on where you move to matey, I thought.
I wonder if there's some nice desk job out there...Somewhere.

I'm going to the pictures tonight to see the new Terminator film. Bugger it all.






4 days to go.

Soppy Murray

Murray will today feel the lurve. Round about four I think. I will of course watch it, with my legs propped up on the coffee tabe and my brain drowning in painkillers. The Wimbledon maniacs will scream as the too gangly Scot shrugs out onto court with the weight of expectation weighing him down. He'll then know how Henman felt.
Bring it on........

On the menu tonight: Nasi Goreng that is, of course, if I can drag my eyes from the telly. I've no doubt Murray will go on and on and on, way into the evening I expect. But that's Wimbledon for ya.
Love it.







5 days to go...

Wimbledon

Today is the first day of the greatest tennis tournament on earth and I will be at work and that is a first. But I'm going to make sure that my new Boombox (see above) is switched off and Henry's telly is switched on because no way am I going to miss it.
So as I have breakfast I'll be hoping that by the time I arrive Henry will have already fled the castle because I cannot waste precious ball time listening to his post-wine, post-weekend rants.

I mentioned just now that I had a new Boombox, otherwise known as a portable cd player/radio, it's a funny little silver thing with bug eyed speakers, I need it because I want to dance around the kitchen at Henry's. So that's another reason why I hope he's scarpered I don't wish to dance again with the dodgy legged ex-mayor.

So Wimbledon...
No Rafa Nadal just endless speculation about Andy Murray. And if the tetchy, lanky, long faced, miserable tyke does manage to get to the final it'll be unbearable.
But I'll watch.




Another big event coming up in 6 days...

Food, Bad Dress/Good Dress

Tonight we're eating...

Barbeque chicken
Cajun wedges
Soured cream
Green salad with a tomato and chilli dressing

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Chocolate cake
Neapolitan ice cream

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If anyone wants any of the recipes, just say.

Popped to the charity shop this morning where I bought a tall (7 in) terracotta coloured casserole dish. I thought it would be ideal for chilli con carne.

I also bought two dresses, one a definite manifestation of madness in middle age, knee length black with white splodges and black plastic buckle detail. (Christ Almighty) the other an above the knee bright yellow shirt dress. Look like a lemon in it but absolutely love it.

Had a couple of glasses of vino last night, and that's overdoing it for me, so consequently have spent the entire day wandering around feeling as if my head is enclosed in bubble wrap:( Twit.

Maybe that's why I bought the bad dress.

Didn't get the ebay bike.
Bugger.

It's All Downhill...

Ok it's official Glo is bonkers.
Not only have I written an awful poem but I've also bought two disparate handbags which are so totally unlike each other that I'm fearing for my sanity. But my descent into bonkersness isn't over yet, because, wait for it wait for it.... I am now bidding on eBay for a 'shopper bicycle':)
You know the ones, they're the ones which gnarled kneed crotchety sorts use to go to the library.
Bugger.

I've just re-read the poem. Good God woman call yourself a poet, better stick to mops dear:( Bugger.

Jump On The Sun. Poem

Days may come and days may go
but nothing beats my Fridays
The flatties come off
the heels get on
while my heart shoves the sense away

Ditch the mop and dump the duster
my nails need pinking now
a screwed up fringe
some rouged up cheeks
and my legs slicked for action

No more beetroot to slice and drip
his pants can go to pot
I'm glossing all over with Number 5
my creases want a lick


No more tights in sensible tan
clinging to ten ton knickers in white
Outrageous in silk with blue drop ear rings
the gravel will splash my thighs

Come Friday night
I'll jump on the sun loving its bitter burn

UpChucky

Just a quickie before I dish the fish. Many thanks to Nof for giving me the link to UpChucky. See it in my fav sites list.

Yeats

Just witnessed Horse racing history.
Yeats has won the Ascot Gold cup for a fourth time.
Never in two hundred and two years has this been achieved.
What a horse.

Horses For Courses

London was cool.

Dad did somersaults over the trifle. Not literally you understand, that would be impossible with his legs. Mum liked the few bits and bobs I'd got for her, especially the plastic flowers in the tea cup. Loved that.
After a decent shop, where I bought a lovely sweet skirt which whipped me back to the halcyon days of my youth, the dream confection is a viscose patchwork affair in subtle colours of blue, eau de nil and pink and dusts my ankles in a gay, gypsy manner.

We watched the first day of Royal Ascot where the other Queen turned up in her carriage and the annoyingly out-of-place Suzi Perry spoke about the fashions. Ms Perry had a camp male chum by her side to help out with the ooohs and aahs of the fashion faux pas and fashion triumphs. His quips were straight to the point and I liked the way he walked. So thumbs up for him. But thumbs down to the 'Gadget Show' bird in the silly hat.

Now what Royal Ascot is all about.
Gambling.
Dad had the first winner and celebrated with a dollop of trifle but as the afternoon went on only managed to bag two further places, so he sulked a bit, screwed up his betting slips, and like all sensible gamblers looked forward to the next day.

So I had a jolly good time with my most favourite people on earth and in my creaking wisdom decided to stay a tad longer than I normaly do. Consequently I limped into my bungalow way after 8 p.m. I'm still recovering...

Yesterday was spent at Henry's palace where I did my Housekeeping duties with a huge knee and after leaving him a gentle note about; The importance of colour swatches, the necessity for a hearth rug, large petaled artificial flowers and what I'd accomplished on the table in his bedroom. I haven't heard from him since...

Today.

Today is shopping day but before I go to The Factory Shop for suet slabs, Lidle for a jar of cherries and Sainsbury's for everything else I'll do a detour to the charity shop and drop a piece of chocolate cake into Joan's hands.


Big questions of the day.
What'll I wear?
Shall I join the Rayleigh Operatic and Dramatic Society?
What can I do about my knees?

I have been given a pretty blue parasol for my garden table (thanks Rockman) and so after a tuna sandwich will swing it around above my head.


*Pic is of dad larking about with a waxy Benny Hill.

Watch Your Step Glo!

London today with...A swollen right knee and strawberry trifle...Could be fun!

And now as the hailstones drop I can see one brave starling digging his beak into the earth. Do they never tire?
On my way back from work I paid my customary visit to the charity shop in Marsten Gardens where I bought a slinky silver cardigan and a beige knee length skirt in quite a tough fabric.
When I got home I had a beef sandwich and wanted to go all out on some creative project but didn't have the energy. So I laid on the bed listening to the radio and the rain.

Starlings For Breakfast

As I was eating breakfast...

Starlings were bombing around the bird table intent on knocking seven bells out of the fruity suet slab. It was a heart warming sight.
And as they swooped and swerved there was one particular bird which was getting to peck in a major way, the top starling I expect, the others being put firmly in their place. On neighbouring branches. But not for long. The gang then swerved and dived leaving the branches trembling in their wake while the main man continued to dig out bits of berry then swiftly wiping and swiping his greasy beak on the table ledge.

Watching this exuberant rock and roll dance has put me in a better mood, why I'm almost half crazed with joy because I know that come the summer and winter I'll be spending an awful lot of time enjoying the boisterous slap stick fun of the 'bully birds'. And hopefully the gentle scooping up of peanuts and seeds by pigeons, sparrows, tits and robins.

On the menu today: Fish, chips, peas tomatoes. Unsure about pud, possibly a fruit salad. Yes, I like the sound of that.

I see Andy Murray has won something...And is now second favourite to win Wimbledon which starts next week. I'm not saying another word...All I hope is that my favourite player, the bright-as-a-kite Rafael Nadal is fit enough to play.
I get in such a lather over my boys.

Time for work, but before I head out I'll gaze stupidly at the bird table.

Birds part 2

I wasn't long was I?
After a buttered crumpet I stood behind my NEW bird table in my jimjams and had my picture taken. It's things like that which keep me young.

Now about the bird table...It's NEW and was bought yesterday from a lady who makes various sizes Bird tables and who has them for sale outside her front door.
I saw them lined up on her drive as we slowly drove to The Factory Shop in Purdey's Way and as I drifted around the shop my muddled mind kept going back to the Bird table...
So after buying a block of berry loaded suet and 2 kilos of bird seed John parked up beautifully and I rung her doorbell.

Out came a blonde. "Hello" I said "I like the look of your Bird table"
"Which one do you like" she smiled walking to the biggest one
"That one" I squinted (the sun was very out) "The one with the extra bit"
"Ok" blondie said "It comes apart so let me take the top off"
She took the top off, money exchanged hands and John and I sweated our way back to the car.
I was so pleased with it that I held the top bit of it in my arms all the way home.
It's things like that which keep me young.

All Birds Today...

It's going to be a hot one.
So after arranging the Sunday chicken in its pan I'll pop into the garden to stare at my NEW Bird Table.
Pic coming later...

Two favourite's are on telly this afternoon. 'Columbo' with the magnificent Ruth Gordon as the villain and 'Corrina Corrina' with the impeccable Whoopie Goldberg as the Housekeeper. Only wish MY employer was as creative as Ray Liotta.
Only wish I had a nipper like little Molly (Tina Majorino) to take care of. Love the scene where Corrina and Molly are in the car wearing sunglasses blowing all the red stop signals to green.

Larking About

What was the last thing you ate: Tuna sandwich and a slightly stale chocolate muffin

What colour is your toothbrush: Red

What were you doing at 10 p.m. last night: In bed in pink jimjams thinking about today

How are you feeling: Excited because it's Friday

If you were an alien who would you zap first: Bob Crowe then Gordon Brown then Andy Murray then Cliff Richard

How many scars do you have and where: Three. Left knee. Above left ear. Ball of right foot

What's your favourite breakfast cereal and why: Weetabix because they look good side by side in the bowl.

Which famous person would you like to meet: Carol Ann Duffy, Poet Laureate

Do you have anything on your toast: Yes. Lemon Curd and teeth marks

Can you run fast: For twelve seconds only.

If you were something hard, what would you be: A piece of good wood. Reliable and having many uses

If you were something soft what would you be: A trifle. Lots of layers and always sweet.

£3:35 I think...

Ok charity shop buys for today:

1 medium framed picture of a goat. 75p

The top part of a pair of pyjamas. Chinese in style, red and only 50p.

2 enormous wine glasses. Over the limit without a doubt. 60p.

Gorgeous, but too small cream dress. Given for free by Joan on account of me supplying her with Rock cakes.

2 large farmyard animal prints in wooden frames. One cow. One rabbit. Asking price £3 each. But because of the cake thing, got them both for £1:50

More lists tomorrow...

Old Girl Does It Again

Ooops I've done it again!
Popped in Somerfields for parsnips and felt a bit queer.
So concerned was I that I phoned mum by the yoghurts just to hear her reassuring voice.
After dropping a few bits in the basket I went to the till with my heart whipping up a storm. "Oh, you go before me" I said to the frazzled mum with tot in tow behind me "Great, thanks" she said and squeezed by me with her milk, I was being nice of course but I was also being selfish because I felt I needed a few extra minutes to calm myself otherwise I was going to faint. I was certain of it. I didn't faint as it happens and as misery guts took my money all I could think of was the sunshine outside. And home.
Home to read a magazine with a cup of tea. Home to make tomorrow's trifle. Home to accumulated dust particles, washing and emailing.
Not so bad having a day off after all.

Last night I sat in bed watching England wipe out Andorra and as I wrote out a shopping list Monty leapt onto the bed sending bits of paper, my phone and erotic pyjama bottoms into the air. "Monty, you great lump" I said to him
"Shut up loser" he miaowed back "Otherwise I'll upload a virus".
Head hit the pillow before ten, then resurfaced at 4:28 a.m. No wonder I'm going dizzy by the cream cheese.

I have an idea for a creative writing project, in it's early stages of course and by early stages I mean I only had the idea twenty minutes ago! Absolutely won't breathe a word about it until it's done. Hope you all have lots of patience...

Now housewife stuff which means of course, bopping round rooms with a dingy duster.

England v Andorra

Fainting At The Mayor's House. Nearly.

Here I am, completely losing the plot.
At Henry's today as I rushed from one mess to the other, my head felt fuzzy and I thought I was going to faint so I did the right thing and sat on a stool with a cup of tea and a slice of bread. I really am such a twit sometimes because I imagine I'm some kind of robotic housewife who although undoubtedly talented and resourceful can maintain two houses on one slice of toast and the occasional banana. Idiotic.
Anyway as the colour came back to my cheeks I promised I'd be kinder to myself. And by kinder I mean sensible.

Henry, bless his heart has had his hair cut, and as he downed a pint of orange squash quipped that his hair is almost as short as mine. We could be twins. You know like in that film with Arnie...Yes of course dear...See above

As much as I love the banter with him he does go on a bit and his going on eats into my work hours and unless he wants to pay me more dosh he'd better stop the yammering and let me get on.
After he left his daughter turned up, God knows where she'd been, but she declined my offer of tea and went into a rant about the horrible woman next door. After ten minutes of teenage angst, (apparently she's argued with her dad about boys and underwear) I was left feeling decidedly ancient. But as she sat twiddling with her dyed hair (so wrong) she said her upcoming birthday party would probably annoy the neighbours but like she so didn't care?

The sparrows dived and the blue tits danced and all I wanted was to dust, chop a cucumber and put together two new gadgets...the new Rice Steamer and new Chip Fryer. Conflict of interests there Henry old bean. Still at least he's having a go.

I have to say working for the ex-Mayor is like being thrown into a mad sex party where anything goes, all are welcome and no-one can find their knickers no more.

But tonight Glo will be at home, at peace, and will weep as her beloved England boys march out onto the hallowed Wembley turf.
And if they don't beat up the Andorrans she'll have the right hump.
Bless you all.

Pre-Tea Thoughts

Before I rip all my dusty clothes off I simply MUST have a word.
I see that Nick Griffin, leader of the B.N.P (British National Party for my overseas readers) had eggs thrown at him and when asked by a Sky newsreader who he thought was behind it, said the left wing of the Labour Party...Politics never ever ceases to amaze me.

I made a few Muffins earlier and they've come out a bit funny I must say. Although they're totally edible they remind me of small roast potatoes. Their one saving grace is that they're chocolate Muffins.

I dozed off this afternoon after drinking one of those awful I'm-too-lazy-to-open-a-can cuppa soups. But credit where credit is due, it wasn't too bad. Kept me from falling over at least, I really must eat more. Talking of eating more...I weighed myself at Ray's place today. Just short of 8 stone I am. And I have absolutely no doubt the scales were correct because Ray's scales are very good scales.
So as I looked down at my weight numbers, I wondered if I was healthy. I have a "Good Housekeeping" book from about 1953 and it says that women over 50 should weigh in at around 9 st 3lbs:( If that's correct, than I'm drastically underweight. But when I was diagnosed with Arthritis my Consultant advised me to keep my weight down, so I have. Because she knows best. I do feel a bit freakish though esepecially when I see other women my age waddling along with pounds to spare. But health to me is my number one priority so skinny I will remain!

What else?
Oh yes my beloved England are playing tomorrow and I dare say I'll eat some crisps just after eight, and the good thing is that because Johnny is working I won't have to share them:)

Charity shop buys from Saturday:
Blue handbag.
Four big cups and saucers.
Green and Cream jug.
Black frock for nights in.
Farmhouse cookbook.
Wildly red, green and orange beaded necklace.

Other incidentals from Saturday in Hockley village.
A beefy charity-loving fireman waved a big bucket in front of me. Being a soft touch I dropped in a quid. He then proffered a piece of paper saying "Would you like to take one of these home?"...Me being slightly excited over my shopping trip said "I'd like to take YOU home". He laughed uproariously of course and proceeded to tell me about all the things he was good at..."I do gardening, cooking, cleaning" he said with a wave of his hand.
We all smiled joyously, enjoying the harmless banter in the middle of Spa Road on a sunny Saturday afternoon.
Priceless.


I feel a bit wild at the moment so methinks it's time to take a shower and listen to Radio 4. Then tea.
Can I get any wilder?

I Hate Bob Crowe

Must just have a word before I go to Rays place.

The London underground will cease running from nine p.m. tonight. Industrial action the R.M.T. calls it. I call it greed. The so called 'leader' of the R.M.T. the self-inflated Bob Crowe said last week that the unanimous decision to call the strike was "magnificent".
I hope his balls fall off.
My husband John will, after a twelve hour shift, need to find another way to Liverpool Street station, this probably means he'll be in some time after midnight. If he's lucky.

Talking of horrors I see that the seventy odd 'rebellious' back-benchers (ha ha ha) have shut their mouths and decided not to take action against the Prime Minister. Meanwhile Gordon's Cabinet colleagues, Alan Johnson, David Miliband and Lord Mandelson sharpen their knives waiting for just the right moment. This recent debacle has left me wondering what type of creatures inhabit the Palace of Westminster. All boogie men and no good guys.
Anyway chums, I'm off to work now with one nice thing keeping me afloat.
Tomorrow.
Wembley.
England v. Andorra.

Gloria In Heaven

When the boss told me I could do whatever I wanted in his kitchen I became very excited. The thought of getting to grips with his odds and ends nigh on sent me bonkers, because here is a man with a tremendous amount of knick knacks all of which need the tender touch of Mrs Horsehound. Anyway after he dawdled off to work I began.

I began by rummaging through his below-the-knee cupboards and finding what can only be described as...old stuff. Big cups, little cups, saucers, bowls, cider jugs, plates with castle on and mugs with rabbits on.
Now all this is manna from heaven to a hoarder like me, so remembering that these items are not mine but someone elses and therefore in need of careful handling, I got to work diligently. The first thing I did was stick pink and blue tea-plates on a shelf via the use of Blu-tac. Looked ok when I left only hope they don't crash to the stone floor at midnight. Next I shoved the toaster out of the way and in its place put a large white oval meat plate piled up with green and red apples, right next to the plate I put his eggs, not in a ghastly box or anything like that but in a medium sized pale yellow vegetable bowl (circa 1960) and alongside that a wooden dish piled with his Jaffas.
So far so very good...

As I munched a nana I looked around, there was so much more artistic stuff which needed to be done but I decided enough was enough, for today, at least. And then after folding laundry, feeding the birds, collecting ornaments which needed throwing away (yes of course I will Henry) I gathered my belongings and went home.

Home to...
Chicken casserole, mashed pots and green beans. Ice cream and butterscotch sauce.

Funny Bird

Kazakhstan 0 England 4

Next match on Wednesday against Andorra at the home of football, Wembley.
Wembley, the place where I spent most of my childhood, not watching footie but watching dog racing. Happy days.

Made Cajun potatoes tonight with barbeque chicken, getting quite a taste for this, thought I'd better healthyfy it so concocted an elaborate green salad. Dipped the pefect pots in an island of soured cream and drank Pepsi.
Wore a slinky black dress and Elizabeth Arden's Red Door body lotion.
After that I watched hours of D-Day programmes on BBC4.
I'm a funny old girl.

Saturday Recipe: My Meatballs

1lb or so of Minced Beef. Steak mince is best but cheaper mince will be ok if you're strapped for cash.
2 pork sausages without their skins
1 onion,red or white, finely chopped or minced if you're lucky enough to have a mincer
2 or more garlic cloves, crushed, I have four cloves
As much parsley as will fill your hand, chopped
A huge squeeze of tomato puree
1 pepper, any colour, very very finely chopped
1 egg, beaten
2 slices of white bread, crumbed without mercy
Basil, either dried or fresh, use however much takes your fancy
Oregano, dried or fresh, although in this case fresh is better
Lots of black pepper, freshly ground is good but the stuff in a pot is ok too
Some salt, rock or table, just don't overdo it.

Mix it all in a big bowl, don't be a tight wad and opt for using a small bowl to save on the washing-up because bits of balls will fly literally everywhere.
OK so you've mixed it up, now what?
Get your hands well floured and when I say well floured I mean well floured. And keep a bowl of flour right by your side because by jolly jingo you're going to need it.
Ready?
Flour your hands and scoop up some of the mixture and now this is where it gets difficult. You have to decide how big a ball you want. Small ones are great for plopping on top of Spaghetti, smaller ones are smashing for loading onto a mound of mash. Your decision.

Decide on ball size.
Then gently rotate between your hands going ever so gently from right to left, not forgetting to flour those mitts. After each ball you'll find you need to flour up, don't be a lazy hound and think you can get away with one flouring because otherwise you'll end up with a ghastly gooey mix all over your lovely hands. Flour flour flour. It's the only way.
You now have in front of you God knows how many balls, so heat up some oil and place the darlings in the pan. Fry very softly for about thirty minutes till they're all brown and starting to crust up.

Make a sauce by blitzing in a blender two large tins of Tomatoes and simmering them in a saucepan with more garlic, more basil, more oregano and more tomato puree. Add some salt, pepper and a good spoonful of sugar. Don't be tempted to leave out the sugar because it really does make a delicious difference. A dash of wine is acceptable too but not essential. Anyway simmer this for a few minutes, nothing awful will happen if you leave it for a tad longer providing you leave the saucepan lid on, if you fail to do this it'll all evaporate away and you'll be left sans sauce.

When you're satisfied that the meatballs are cooked load them onto some pasta or potatoes and decant the sauce into a nice jug. Serve all this up to the wife, hubby or friends with a bowlful of grated cheese. Because Meatballs are so delish and people are piggys remember to have large napkins at the ready failing that I have been known to tuck a T-Towel under my chin.

Happy Eating

Elections and Congratulations

Breaking news...Breaking news...Breaking news.......

The Faith, Hope and Charity shop in Mansted Gardens is ten years old today. And on my wet and windy arrival I was handed a piece of birthday cake, a non-alcoholic drink and a hug from my favourite Christian, Joanie.
'We're ten today" she yelped as the rain splattered her paper hat "And it's people like you who have kept us open".
"Thanks Joanie" I said "Now let me load this cake into my handbag and get spending".
I bought an Olive pot, three blue and brown plates and a pair of pink striped pyjamas. Cost? £3
Happy Birthday to Joan and all the other spritely retired ladies who have made this cleaning lady very happy over the past ten years.
Thanks girls.

As I type this, the telly is pouring out the latest news on Gordon Brown's cabinet re-shuffle and the results of the local elections.
The Conservatives have held onto Essex, no surprise there. I'm
continually switching between Sky news and BBC News 24 because I don't want to miss important interviews, just seen the new Home Secretary Alan 'whadya want cheap or good?' Johnson talking to Sky, I don't know if I'm imagining it but his hair looks a trifle flatter. Already the make-over begins. Being Home Secretary rarely leads to being Prime Minister, it is, I feel a job to nowhere...But it's all great theatre and I love it.
I did mention that Henry my employer is a huge political animal didn't I? He was out pressing the flesh late last night, I only hope his blue rosette didn't fall in his red wine.

He was gone when I arrived this morning and as I fumbled around his trouser press I wondered about the size of his waist.
But those silly thoughts were shoved to the background when I placed upon his bed a truly beautiful patchwork spread. Crimson and red it was and goes so well with the crisp white bedding. I then twirled around his bathroom brushing my tiny hands over his overcoat of a dressing gown, and as I looked at my reflection in the mirror I did a twirl with my duster. I do love to create.

Now back to the pantomine currently being held in Number Ten.

Big Day For Gordo

If the polls go against him, whispering back benchers and unhappy cabinet colleagues might do something. Something like sending him an email suggesting it's time for him to go.

Politics is a rotten business.
The sight of the insanely chirpy Hazel Blears bombing along to the train station after handing in her viciously timed resignation letter was ghastly. There's something very nasty and slightly marbleless about the red headed biker girl. I wouldn't have her round for tea that's for sure. I get the feeling she'd be my bestist friend then prattle to the neighbours about my mirrored ceiling. Bitch.

Alan Johnson is being talked about as Brown's successor. Ex-Trades Union leader of some repute. But would I or indeed could I vote for a man who looks like a car salesman?

For Love. Poem

To blaze
to wink
to sin
to save
our little lives reveal
what matters most
what deeds we do for love

To burn
to cry
to sacrifice
to dwell
our little lives reveal
what matters most
what pain we take for love

To temper
to allow
to forget
to commit
our little lives reveal
what matters most
what joy we feel in love

To entreat
to bend
to swallow
to beg
our little lives reveal
what matters most
what self we lose for love

To give
to give
to give
our little lives reveal
what matters
is what we do for love



Angela Norris

With This Banana...

I've just got to get it out.
What a blasted morning I've had.
Henry was twittering about his sleeplessness, his biker hair, the other Queen, armed robbery and my 'heavenly' trifle.
And then as I was fishing out two blackened bananas from his watery fridge he asked for my hand in marriage.
'Already taken' I chirped
'Bugger' cried Henry
Thank God I'm off tomorrow.

Thoughts On Gordon Brown

His position remains impossibly black.

Ministers are dropping like fun fair ducks and even The Guardian is suggesting it's time for the Prime Minister to go.

But he'll dig in, holding on to the great office by his bitter dirty finger nails.

This government is a sad out-of-touch gaggle of people with a tetchy Scot as the boss.
And I'm not only fed up with them I'm angry and tired.

Most of the electorate want a General Election but Gordon Brown is gripping those number ten keys like a spoilt boys holding his favourite toy.
NO! Won't let go. Nothing you can do. Me Me Me!

But there is something we can do Gordon, we can kick you out.

I Googled Meatballs and Found 3,540,000 Recipes...

I've just made 25 Meatballs.
Not all for me of course, some will go to Henry. Only hope he's a meatball man. My recipe has evolved over 25 years, there's a little bit more of this, a little less of that and a lot more pizazz. The pizazz taking the form of smaller tighter balls. Large ones tend to spread about a bit.
Of course with 25 balls I'll need a lot more sauce.
I think I've got some.

Cliff, Monty and Me

So after all the excitement of my bosses possible death, I'm rather subdued on what is to be the hottest day of the year, so far.
Got loads to do of course. Mostly to do with all things horticultural. Does rubbing down a garden chair qualify as horticulture? I suppose if I do the deed in shorts and straw hat it does.
When I get a chance I must post a pic in me in my white shorts astride a rake. I don't own a pony unfortunately.
But before all that I have to make Meatballs.
Monty is being particularly stroppy this morning, miaowing at the door wanting to go out, so I gave in to his whining but only on account of the washing needing to be pegged up. Wouldn't have let him out otherwise, because he'd have only got into all kinds of scrapes and mishaps. No matey, you have to suffer the embarassment of having your mum in tow.


Now other summer matters.

Wimbledon starts on the 22nd June and I can barely contain my thrills. The thought of seeing the new roof on Centre court going back and forth back and forth due to the vagaries of the British weather. I wonder if someone will capture Sir Cliff Richard so that when the start/stop mechanism fails he'll be on hand to warble our rain splashed tears away. I do hope so. How old is he now I wonder? Must be nearing 70 if he's a day. Still he's as much of a British institution as Wimbledon so I'll give him a little love.

Strawberries. Had some in a trifle. I'd sat them on top of a sliced raspberry sponge cake and then covered it all with custard, cream, toasted almonds and more straws. Delicate flavours which turns me pig like. I'm so ashamed.

Football. England play Andorra next week, I think. Bunting at the ready.

Dresses. Bought a couple recently. Secondhand of course and I love them, but one I feel is surely the mark of impending middle aged madness. So I will only wear it when I'm drinking spritzers in a field in a Fambridge.

That's enough summer fun for one morning, after all I've got the rest of June and all of July and August to tell you what's hot and what's not!

Henry VIII And Mrs Horsehound.

On my way home from work I bought 'The Best of Cooking' a recipe book first published in 1977. And I can't wait to flick through its glossy pages. I'm so excited.
Talking of excitement, my employer who shall be called Henry from now on, was in bed when I arrived. And no amount of clashing pots, banging back doors or screaming starlings managed to stir him.
I thought he was dead.

So after binning two sprouting potatoes, cleaning the kitchen window and plating up two salads I made him a pot of tea and went up.

Knock knock.
No answer.
Knock again.
Nothing.

So down I came with the brew and poured it down the sink. And as the brown liquid flowed I thought
What'll I do if he's had a fall in his en suite and is lying naked by the toilet brush? I'd need to get an ambulance, but first I'd need to check his vital signs and that could prove difficult because he's a big lad and I might not be able to find his pulse. That would mean going down on to his chest to listen out for a heart beat.
Oh God don't be dead Henry. I need the money.

To take my mind of Henry's possible demise and my possible loss of job I sifted through his daughter's detritus which was laying on her bedroom floor. Hmmm. What do I do with six odd socks, eight hairbrushes and a laptop? Well, I sighed at first then dumped the socks in the laundry cupboard hoping their mates would eventually show themselves. The hairbrushes were quite appalling so I put them in her bathroom where they'd feel more at home. The laptop was gently closed and and looked quite out of place propped up alongside her black and white bear face bin. But at least I'd cleared some space and so could stand on the bed to reach and then dust her wall mounted telly.
Meanwhile Henry was still upstairs.

Pegging out some laundry I thought 'ok after I've done this I'm going up again'.
So I did.

Pressing my burning right cheek to his cream door I listened for life signs. Yes he was alive on account of my being able to hear the cheery sounds of BBC Radio Essex. 'Thank heavens for that' I thought and went into the bedroom next door where I picked up a pair of men's fawn leather shoes and blue velvet skirt which were heading for the dump, but which were now heading for my basket.
Henry wasn't dead after all and so happy was I that I wrote him an up beat note telling him about the trifle I'd left in the fridge for him.
I knew that'd make the big man happy.

But on the drive home creeping fears and silly worries still clogged my head 'supposing the Guiness and Vodka he'd had last night had coagulated in his enormous tum and he'd had an insufferable night with vast amounts of wind'.
What if his reconstructed hip has fallen out or something or maybe his heart has lost the plot. He'd told me last night about his ticker trouble. It loses it's rhythm or something. Anyway I needn't have worried because as I was looking at books in the charity shop he phoned, 'I'm feeling sorry for myself babe' he said.
'I came up with tea, you know' I whispered.
'Did you?' he asked
'Yes' I said
'I'm going back to bed' he moaned
'No don't' I shouted ' Go downstairs and look at your trifle' Henry is prone to depression and beds are bad for the mentally ill.
'Ok darling, I will' Henry said and hung up.
I bought my book and came home.

What a morning.
But at least I still get to wear my rubber gloves...

I Can Handle Myself...

Glorious weather yesterday. So being a stupid English woman I stayed in the garden way too long and now resemble a trifle. Red white and wobbly.
But I got things done, fiddled with toy owls, watered tomatoes and generally had a hoot of a time.
But that was yesterday...

Work now calls, so into Ripleyesque gear I plunge. Combats and vest are so unEnglish. But are so essential when fighting evil dust mites.
Go Glo go.....................