Men

Being a sometimes spontaneous character and often given to bouts of mild madness I threw on a pair of old jeans this morning and bopped down to Southend. No paddling in the pretty water though this was a trip to bolster the cupboards.
Anyway after giving a rather pleasant young man all my money I returned to the car park, loaded the boot and was then approached by two ghastly foreigners. They wanted to know if my car needed a clean. I decided to play with them...
"WHAT" I shouted
"Clean your car" the little swarthy ones repeated
"I'm SORRY WHAT" I said shutting the boot ever so delicately
"Do you want your car cleaned Madam" said the bigger sweatier one

Suddenly I was back in old India or somewhere like that where the little chaps knew their place.
The two Lithuanians or Poles or some other European sorts knew that I was a woman, albeit a small poor one, who demanded the utmost respect. Bless their scavenging hearts. I played no more and left with a loud cheery No Thank You.
My England balls swaying in the wind.

On the way home I was chased, nay threatened, by a pratt in a Mondeo. I played with him also...
My game being the game of calmness under fire.
Little dick didn't have his way with me.

Now I'm back in the bungalow with the BBC blaring in the kitchen and a sausage in the pan...
I will, this afternoon, after attending my bits, pleasure myself with the Beebs political editor Nick Robinson.
He is a man who reminds me of an old school teacher I had, a robust red faced chap with halitosis and a no hair. Mr Fox his name was, probably dead now but a decent enough fellow. Taught me how to climb a rope and other totally unnecessary skills.

But I digress.
The gut churning panto which is being played out in the Palace of Westminster and other less salubrious joints is turning into nail biting edge-of-the seat telly.
I can't get enough of the comings and goings. Nick Clegg has a nice little house in Putney. Mr Cameron's frontage needs a trim and the net in Number 10 needs shredding.

And now I'm going all womanly....

When I saw Mr Brown making his statement yesterday outside his home, I felt sorry for him. He spoke, I think, for the first time without a splinter in his throat, without performance. He was dignified. It must knife him to his core to have to leave the job he waited so long to get but Mr Brown is like a lion with a carcass he isn't going to let up till he's satisfied.
And his satisfaction might come in the form of twisted bloodied success whereby Labour gnaw out a pact with the Liberal Democrats.
Nick Clegg, if he decides to kiss Labour and stop fumbling in the back row with Cameron, will, I think, feel the full steaming pus filled wrath of the Conservatives. He will be a dead man.
And Cameron might not come off lightly either. Old Tory sorts might just think he's not fit for purpose and ditch him for someone less smooth and fit.
It's not all about jumpers and trainers Dave.
People need to see fat and helmets too.


Sausage now.


Ta ta!