Little Lisa

My hairdresser Lisa has left me looking very gamine and feeling flighty. The thirty eight year old Essex girl is a whizz with scissors and spray gun. I love her.
As the hair fell we chatted like a couple of parrots and when, after thirty minutes of snipping, she whipped the gown away from my shoulders, I put my specs back on and gasped! Losing just a couple of inches has made such a fabulous difference.
"You can wear your hair very short because you're elf like" Lisa said flicking my ends
"What?" I said, smiling like an idiot totally unable and unwilling to take my eyes away from the mirror
"Elf like, your face is elf like" she repeated.
"Whatever you say darling" I squealed
And so after dropping her a few quid she fled into the night to work her magic on another old girl's head.
And that's what a good hairdresser does. She works magic. Bless Little Lisa.

Carrying on from my earlier post...

I'm sure that...
A little while ago Susan Boyle looked into her plain polished mirror and saw a face with locked-up emotions, and a body devoid of any manic attention.
Now, on any old morning, Susan Boyle looks into all mirrors and sees a face transformed by girls in heels waving brushes of blusher over her plump cheeks. A lick of crimson and suddenly the church worker is no longer on her knees in the pews but high in the air on a chair in 'make-up'.

And then her coconut hair is fingered and coloured tenderly and is taken from its depressed state into the shine and crimped kingdom which is show business. Then the dresser pops in and peels off Susan's cracked and safe high street garb, pouring the new woman into smooth dresses with a smack of glitter. Praying will never be brighter.

Dreamer Boyle is now Susan Boyle. Singer.

The spinster is dead long live the single woman.



*I tried to post a picture of Susan but every time I clicked to save, I couldn't.
Now that's what I call fame...

Miss Boyle Number 9 In The Charts.

Wish I could hold on to Susan Boyle and say
"Worth the wait eh babe?"
"All those long days and nights holding everything in, standing in the cold looking, singing, into the bathroom mirror wishing people would take you and your voice in. Now you're naked, flying with new colours with nothing but the sound of Wild Horses beating in your head. Ride 'em babe"

Ssssh it's Sunday...

I was up early so decided to make the most of it.

Made a Currant Tea Loaf and assembled our chicken lunch whilst watching the very entertaining Keith Floyd on Sky3.
Lunch will be a simple roast chicken with honeyed carrots, peas, sage and onion stuffing and hedgehog potatoes, a spoonful of redcurrant jelly will be stirred into the gravy.
For pud? Not in the mood for a big fat pud so I'll serve the last of the Apple Fingers with some Vanilla Ice Cream.

Also been reading the cookery books I bought the other day.
And as the bird roasted and the bread baked I thought there's nothing more comforting than sitting in the kitchen with a friendly cook book and pot of tea. Oh, and resting your head on Monty's legs. He was strewn across the back of the armchair you see and didn't give a fig when I barged in!

Better sign off now, my timer has pinged!

In The Pink!

Pic taken today.

Here I am in one of my 'newest' frocks.
Soft and lush.
Perfect with booty wooties.
Bought in London for £8.



Update on the saga of King Henry And The Scullery Queen

Three men were in the kitchen when I arrived.
Henry, Walter and Walter's co-worker friend, Devon. They yakked about male things whilst I prodded the cats' tummies. Then the the two youngsters, that be Walt and Dev, left for the mesmerizing lights of Southend sea front. And I was left with the wheezing monarch.

The take-away was excellent, me plumping for Thai red chicken curry, Henry opting for pork balls and a little plain rice.
Red wine was offered but I declined seeing as I was driving. I satisfied myself with a decent cup of tea. Henry was good company, even managing to stop talking occasionally so as to get an idea of what was going on in the film..."No Way Out".
Kevin Costner's finest I think.

Anyway, we ate and chatted and glimpsed now and again at the movie then it was time for me to leave. So after declining his tender offer of the washing up gloves, I tootled off in Alex.
And a bit later as I chiselled orf my make-up I read Henry's text message which said I was 'great'.

And great I can sometimes be.
My greatness will manifest itself next Thursday when I go to the hospital with him for some heart check type stuff. My King is a little anxious. As I would be too. But with his "funny cleaner" in tow I think we'll make a day of it.

Smashing Day. Smashing Night?

Had a spiffing day at Henry's.
Made a beef stew:)
Relocated some skulls:)
Pondered jug positions:)
Filled his 'new' salt and pepper pots. These, light bulb style shakers, were bought by me in London yesterday. And they are absolutely brilliant. He was speechless...:)
Re-arranged blobs of cream on his grape and apple jelly. Kind of got shoved about a bit in transit:(
Sorted out Blackie and Goldilocks's bathroom issues:(

Then after the briefest of chinwags, Henry was on his way. And within a few moments, so was I.
And the charity shop was my first port of call.

The Scottish woman guarded the till as I did catapults of joy at finding a 'Willow' pattern teapot. Been on the lookout for ages, so I was happy.
Also bought a shirt for Mr Horsehound and a pair of brown checked Culottes for myself!

Home to a light-barely-enough-to-keep-a-budgie alive lunch and an ecstatic Monty, well maybe not ecstatic exactly, he just ran ran up and down the hall then sat by his bowl. He only wants me for fish:(

After a brisk rub down with a flannel I'm shimmying down to Henry's tonight for a movie and balls night. I supply the movie. He supplies the balls. Chicken balls. With a lot of sauce. Of course!

Heaven

*Marshmallows. Biting one in half, then sticking the ends on the ends of my pinkies and playing puppets.

*Cabbage. All kinds but preferably white with pork belly. Red tends to stain pig flesh. Nasty.

*Uniforms. But not the postman's. Or the bin men. Prefer men of violence.

*Male Hairy arms and gorilla legs. What is it with me and hair? By the way I'm getting mine seen to next week That's my head hair not my leg hair. (I do sometimes sport Gorilla legs but that tends to be when I'm sulking.)


*Haldiram's Khatta Meetha. Whilst surfing the intertubes late at night. Exotic, sweet and full of chemicals but such a spiffing chum in your nightie.

*Ginger Wine. In a pint glass. I don't frink.

*Old people. With a full deck and funky hair. Saw a sharp old girl on the telly with razored red hair. Loved it.

*Roomy knickers. But only on days when I'm spitting feathers. Happy days calls for little 'uns.

*Cold sausages. Eaten quickly standing up. Because there's something very sensuous about holding onto a banger when really you should be engrossed in honourable works like polishing.

*Balaclavas. On bushy chested men men clutching a bag of marshmallows whilst also gripping a bottle of Ginger wine and large white cabbage.
Now That's Heaven...