....and a vintage cut glass sugar bowl. I could rattle on about my morning with mum and how our marrows were chilled as we stopped at shop after shop but I'll spare you that...I did though buy a giant cauliflower from a man with scared white hair and purple old tats.
Tonight's tea is sausages with potato boulangere and carrots. For sweet... A Queen of Puddings made with blackcurrant jam instead of the usual raspberry. Feels good knocking convention.
By the way I've flung out my bras opting instead for smooth white lycra vests.
Mother, you see, is changing the way I think and feel. Gloria is being knocked hither and thither. To save my life and sanity I've taken my swinging boobies and swollen knees to the bunker from where life seems rosier. It's a damn sight easier than more war.
A row on Sunday being the catalyst.
Mum needed her feet soaked. I'd had a busy day. And I'd just sat down with the Sunday Mirror when I was reminded about her ankles and ingrowing toenails which needed washing and trimming and creaming and other feet jobs.
I flipped. I mean I really growled. So much so that at 7pm, despite screaming foul language and tears from me
poor Mr Horsehound stormed out kicking a filthy hole in the drawing room door and I paralysed by despair jumped in my car and drove around town in my PJs. Such was the rage that engulfed us. Mum though sat watching telly.
We've calmed down now. And tonight Mr Horsehound, mum and myself will watch England take on our old rivals, Germany.
I'm hoping the game will take me to another place.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
2 comments:
"By the way I've flung out my bras opting instead for smooth white lycra vests"
NO ! don,t do it - you were blessed with lovely breasts :-)
Well thank you Anon. But how I cope with my boobies is my bustness.
Post a Comment