LOL

It's a great day for a drive I said
so with Mother aboard we cruised about...

Firstly to Southend for groceries then back taking the scenic route.
In Sainsbury's she didn't want to push the trolley so I advised her to keep out of the way of serious shoppers and plant her bones on one of the many benches so generously supplied by the grocer.

I shopped on filling the trolley with the don't care attitude of someone who doesn't care. Being loaded was meat, cream, brown sugar, ice cream, lemon curd, cheeses and many more happy foodstuffs. I'd got half way round when I thought I'd better check up on her, make sure she hadn't been carted off or something, no she was still there, little and pale unlike most of the other lady shoppers who looked liked they'd never missed a meal. I asked her if she was ok waiting for me she replied in the affirmative. The daughter shopped on.

My cashier was the very affable Paul, a young man with very badly screwed on legs whose disability doesn't, I'm pleased to say, affect his smutty brain.
We bantered as usual, mostly innuendo, and his big square face reddened with the blood which soars around his crooked frame.
He's a very good looking boy with the tenderest eyes and smoothest skin and as he swiped my loaves I wondered about him and why his legs were the way they were. I've seen him walking through the store and his gait makes for uncomfortable viewing, it's laboured and heavy, his legs split wide and low as he strides, he must be shattered just walking from the canned peaches to the jars of mustard. But soldiers on he does...
He has the wit of one scarred. Biting. Quick and sharp. But as the innuendo flows his mouth sneers and his eyes out stare mine
Respect.

Anyway I handed him some cash and we said our saucy 'see ya's'.

I lifted mama from the bench of bones then gripped her on the escalator and then we drove home.

After some tea and soup she wanted to go out again, this time to Hockley. So with he windows down and our shades on we hit the road.
Of course we bought loads of stuff...
For her it was books and bags, for me a skirt, blouse, woolly.


Back to a demanding Monty, apple flan and Ann Robinson."She's got a new man" mother informed me. "And she's looking well"
And so the innuendo flowed again............

Cooking tonight.
For the ladies: Liver, bacon, onions, mash and some sort of other veg
For Mr H. Ham, mash and some sort of other veg. He's not a liver man.
Pud will probably be a steamed jam pudding and custard.


I like the boys who do,
I like the boys who don't
I like the boys who say they will and then they say they won't...


I can't remember the last bit! LOL!

Mother Is In The House

"Just a bit of middle aged spread" Mother said as I screeched whilst poking rolls of glutinous tummy blubber

(Thanks ma)

"Yes liver is nice, but well done" She said as I cracked my brain trying to coax her into eating something a little more adventurous than beans on toast.

(Liver is now chilling waiting to be very well done)

"No more fruit, it does things to me"

Ah yes it certainly does, and always in the middle of the night too, thank you dear:(

Mother is in the house...

On the other hand...


"You're a soldier" She said as I did man's work.

You look beautiful" As I fluffed my hair into the shape of an old walnut whip

"Here take this, go on, buy yourself something"

"Mmmm what a nice red" I said

and

"Thanks Ang" After I helped with ablutions.


Having Mum in the bungalow is a bit like embracing a very old warhorse, she's gorgeous in a crumbling sort of way, her mane of hair thinning and grey, her gait so bloody slow, but her manner royal...quiet and unassuming.

I am worried about her though.

She's pale and thin but steadfastly colours up with blusher and lipstick, and she eats everything I cook. Last night's Toad in the Hole being a total success, likewise the blackberry and stolen apple crumble. I served it upside down like a Tarte Tatin with spoonfuls of vanilla ice cream on the side. It looked lovely.

Sleeping wise she's out by ten propped up with pillows and with a flowered scarf around her hair. A tiny tiny lady with big blue eyes who sometimes talks with them. Like last night when we spoke about Him, she went away when she remembered, went back to last year and before, and wherever she went it was a place which brought happiness and then, with a sudden cruel switch she realized her loss, our loss. But hers mostly. And then her eyes stuck firmly on the bedroom mirror wondering if he'd make another appearance...

Today has been hectic again, not for her, for me. "I'd rather go solo to sainsbury's " I said at 8
"Don't you want me to come?"
"No, you stay in and do the wash-up, earn your liver and onions"

When I got home the dishes were washed and dried and left piled by the kettle.

After putting the groceries away I made some tea and put mum away. On the settee she now sits, eyes closed, hands gathered watching and listening to " The Bone Collector"
Gives me a chance to soak her liver and blog. :)

Election Eve

No snow on the ground, no sherry by the fire, no nuts in my hand but Whizzo! I am so excited...
No gifts wrapped in gay paper, no giggle juice, no ice men with carrots rammed in their faces but Oh my Lord I am so excited.
No warblers with mitts outstretched, no cat felled trees, no runny noses, no knee high boots but Whooppee! I am so excited.
No lights that-go-a-flickering, no tinsel in the bath, no kissing in halls, no dangling balls. But Wowee I am so excited

Father Brown, Daddy Cameron and Pop Clegg are no doubt biting their nails in anticipation of what us the good and trusty folk of Britain will leave in their sacks...

If I was to give a present to Gordo it would be:
Charm lessons.
An engraved reminder saying that the Labour party was formed by trade unionists, workers and socialists to make sure that the British parliament represented people who the Tories and others ignored.
An afternoon with me whereby we could talk about when I met Arthur Latham. Who made Neil Nicknock look like Lord Ashcroft.
A train ticket to anywhere. Name it Gordon and you've got it.
Coco Pops. Porridge sings like a bagpipe whereas Coco pops do a strip.
A hearing aid.

For David:
A glamorous week in social housing with no money and dose of fear.
Nits.
A bike with no pump.
A date with me with no expenses paid to Simpsons in the Strand. I'd eat him under the table matey.
A black short sleeved shirt. No roll ups here sunshine.
A bottle of Ear wax remover.

For Nick:
A kick.
A nice pork chop.
A Union Jack.
An evening with me and my liver.
A pat on the back.
A fresh pair of ears.


Cooking tonight:
I've ditched the Pollack in favour of a steak and for pud a concoction...Chocolate, nuts, cream, I just don't know.

Now get out there you trusty folk of Britain and X in a new government.

Three Cheers for Guy Fawkes
Hip hip Hooray!
Hip hip Hooray!
Hip hip Hooray!

Ta ta!

Liver and Baggy Eyes

Oh am I tired?
Couldn't sleep last night, wasn't the steak and chips I had at 6, it was the after effects of spending the day with two sick people. The doctor said Mum has diabetes and dad was spinning out of control with anxiety. There's no talking to him. He's deaf in many ways. Mum winced as yet more blood was taken, and my hat fell off as I helped her onto the scales.
Yesterday was horrid.

I need to try and concentrate on my poetry but I can't hold a single thought or idea in my head. Sounds like I need a break. Maybe a trip to Hockley might do the trick.

But before that I'll zip along to blessed Sainsburys with the radio on, then very very slowly I'll trawl my way around the great shop. I might even have a chat with the butcher. Mostly about liver.