Communicative, 72 year old, 19 stone plumber at Henry's. The last type of person I needed today. But he did fix my hoover. Has a boat moored somewhere and talked incessantly.
Blair at the Iraq Inquiry. In the background as I clean up for the weekend. From sadness comes extreme activity and from activity, a little shine. As I wrung out my mop at the kitchen sink I saw a blackbird, a robin and a shower of snowflakes. Go away I said to the last one.
Henry was vodka quiet. Got no-one to go out with tomorrow night he said. No I can't I said. His parting shot was sweet. Get hammered darling.
No way will I get hammered. Might jump someone though and get in a pillow fight.
Now... Tea soaked sugar...:)
Friday, 29 January 2010
Wednesday, 27 January 2010
Glowing with the Light
Been looking through my albums and what calamitous joy some of the pictures are..
In some I resemble a little boy scouting around for a tanner, in others, a wet bitch queen roaming around for peasants to feed on, but this picture is my favourite.
The hot mama hair was considerably bigger and more ballsy than my usual skimpy Pixie affair and looked indeed deceptively darker than it really was. But yes I love this pic. So enamoured am I with this excellent photo that I've decided to stop the shearing, so no more Glo the shorn poet, from now on, Glo the bouffant blogger.
For fifty odd years I have had naturally brown hair, but not now, the old grey mare has galloped in, riding roughly through my locks leaving for dead my once warm nutty mane. However, it never looks grey when I have a photo taken and I've spent many a minute wondering why... Mr H's mantra is "It's all about lighting dear". Apparently, according to him, it's to do with ferocious light bulbs. In some pics he says I look French and earthy in others pale, wan. Very English Rose.
When I'm forced to go outside for a shoot, my hair sometimes scares me, because when I flick through the pics I see tons of old age stuff wiping out almost all of my girlie brownie bits, but I take comfort from the fact that as my complexion lightens due to horrid middle-age, having fairer hair will suit me.
And even though grey is associated with sticks and death, I won't dye it, can't bear the thought of wasting money on chemicals, which, I fear, will only emphasize my deteriorating face. No, I will instead, play wickedly in Mother Nature's nest of platinum.
And so as dogs bark and cats scream I'll sit on the edge of my bed flying a silver brush through my silver hair. I shall then, after washing with plain soap, cloud my face with shell pinks and dusky browns and cavort around town in clothes of languorous lilac and cock red
I'll wear black only if I'm in for the night.
Which reminds me I recently bought a dirty little black dress.
Tuesday, 26 January 2010
Hard of hearing Chloe so in love with the Rev
Reverend Bigger in bed
Internet cat being a naughty boy
Ectoplasmic Monty 
Internet Cat seen the light
Harry HillMonty is into women's clothes.
Every night he can be found pounding my apparel but why he does, baffles me. Might be a comfort thing I suppose. (See pic) Which shuffles me sweetly into the making of another list.
What comforts me:
A word from Mother. Hitting the spot leaving me savaged yet strangely comforted.
Good stupid films like Die Hard 4. Tonight.
Bananas on cinnamon toast. Like earlier when dressed like a drunk I sliced a whopper and drizzled honey all over the bread and floor.
Carrot cake. Like the one which is on the rack right now.
Dresses. Sultry, like the one dripping from its padded hanger. Right there.
Handbags. Like my tiny creamy furry one which is totally impractical but one which has impacted large.
Events. Where I can show my hospitality skills.
Hearing a fav song. Boys II Men's .'End of the Road' and Sam Cooke's 'A Change is Gonna Come' and anything by The Four Tops, Temptations etc. Black at its best.
Dancing. Haven't shimmied for a while and it's telling. Always loved to dance So really must get to an over 30's disco. Probably when I'm over 60.
An uplifting word from a pal. Words like 'fancy a chicken drumstick' ?
What I would take to the moon:
DVD player and films.
Books. Poetry. Wisdom. Art pics. Quotes
Camera. Get a good shot of earth and my lunar sandcastles
In ship psychiatrist. Got to send you bonkers up there.
Notebooks and a million pens.
Artificial Lilies.
Ceramic birds.
Stuffed cats.
Recordings of bird song.
Cup and saucer.
What makes me laugh
'Janine' in EastEnders. A one dimensional character who should have been clobbered years ago. Characters should never be wholly good or wholly bad.
Cats being cats.
Dogs who can't keep up with their eager owners.
Harry Hill. His Burp is too good for tea time telly.
Vibrators without batteries.
Bruce Almighty. Carey is scary. God is black and suited. Sublime.
Stephen Fry. Brilliance made to look easy.
Carry on Doctor. 'Reverend Bigger' (Frankie Howerd) and 'Chloe' (Joan Simms) stand out like a row of bandaged penises.
Monday, 25 January 2010
Not in the mood for excessively jolly posts, so for a while I'll be writing about food.
Borrowed a book from H's. Mrs Beeton's Cookery Book. Loads of recipes requiring calve's brains, pig's trotters and 'Moka' icing. Interesting read though.
According to Mrs B the mistress of the house should look after the servants, good ones are, after all, hard to find.
Crusty old biddy was Mrs B but knew a thing or two about broths and breakfasts.
I like her.
Being thrown around the kitchen tonight:
Fruity Indian chicken, Peshwari naans and plain rice. For pud: the last remaining dollops of Sunday's exceedingly flavoursome Black Forrest style trifle. Made using plain sponge filled with morello cherry jam, canned black cherries thickened and laced with a little almond essence and cornflour, then covered with chocolate custard and whipped cream. Disregarded any ornamentation, something this good didn't need it.
God I love to cook!
Mr H. is on lates for the rest of the week so, come 7ish, Monty and I will crash out with snacks, excellent movies and Boots 99p blue moisturiser.
Avon's wickedly expensive 'Reversalist' cream is for flaky peri-menopausal women who see a twenty pound note and think they're on a good income.
Boots bargain liquid is for women who accept they're creeping towards the grave and who, with pints of fizzing joy, secrete £5 notes in their draws.
:)
Borrowed a book from H's. Mrs Beeton's Cookery Book. Loads of recipes requiring calve's brains, pig's trotters and 'Moka' icing. Interesting read though.
According to Mrs B the mistress of the house should look after the servants, good ones are, after all, hard to find.
Crusty old biddy was Mrs B but knew a thing or two about broths and breakfasts.
I like her.
Being thrown around the kitchen tonight:
Fruity Indian chicken, Peshwari naans and plain rice. For pud: the last remaining dollops of Sunday's exceedingly flavoursome Black Forrest style trifle. Made using plain sponge filled with morello cherry jam, canned black cherries thickened and laced with a little almond essence and cornflour, then covered with chocolate custard and whipped cream. Disregarded any ornamentation, something this good didn't need it.
God I love to cook!
Mr H. is on lates for the rest of the week so, come 7ish, Monty and I will crash out with snacks, excellent movies and Boots 99p blue moisturiser.
Avon's wickedly expensive 'Reversalist' cream is for flaky peri-menopausal women who see a twenty pound note and think they're on a good income.
Boots bargain liquid is for women who accept they're creeping towards the grave and who, with pints of fizzing joy, secrete £5 notes in their draws.
:)
Friday, 22 January 2010
Pre-Mastermind Post
There's something not right with my computer. Spent ages dealing with 'infections' whatever they are and even now things are still not quite right. So if I disappear you'll know my intertubes are infested with the nasties!
On a lighter note, it's the weekend in about 5 hours and I will be donning a made-for-Glo-hat, courtesy of my sister-in-law the very talented Mrs Nof. Whether a picture will appear I just don't know, it depends on my eyes. Having had the most latest of nights last night (Mr H. not falling in till nearly 11) I am not at my bestist...
But, if after skating around Southend tomorrow I feel up to parading in front of a camera, I will post a pic. Of me in a hat. Or two...
On an even lighter note, went to the pics on Wednesday to see 'Daybreakers'. It is a film about vampires and stars the always creepy Sam Neil and Willem Dafoe.
Cinematography was brilliant, script good, acting good, wardrobe excellent. Loved the clothes, a mishmash of 1930's gangsters, cool cops and eco nutters. The most remarkable thing was that it had echoes of Fritz Lang's Metropolis. Most impressive.
There were some visually stunning scenes... A huge armoured vehicle was dragging in its wake a moaning dying bunch of chained people who had been vampirized, and as they came out into the sunlight they exploded into blazing flames. I felt sorry for them. Quite impressive.
I'm looking forward to the sequel...
Talking of silly movies, 'Devils Advocate' is on tv tonight. The yellow toothed Al Pacino hams it up as Old Nick, the lead girl has her head shorn which results in the memorable line from Keanu Reeves..."That's not a hairstyle, that's trauma"
Or something like that...
Utter Hollywood hokum at its finest. I seem to remember there are a lot of weird birds in it also. Absolutely cannot watch it though because it's on too late for me, but will record it so I have something gross for the weekend!
Figuring large this weekend:
Beansprouts.
On a lighter note, it's the weekend in about 5 hours and I will be donning a made-for-Glo-hat, courtesy of my sister-in-law the very talented Mrs Nof. Whether a picture will appear I just don't know, it depends on my eyes. Having had the most latest of nights last night (Mr H. not falling in till nearly 11) I am not at my bestist...
But, if after skating around Southend tomorrow I feel up to parading in front of a camera, I will post a pic. Of me in a hat. Or two...
On an even lighter note, went to the pics on Wednesday to see 'Daybreakers'. It is a film about vampires and stars the always creepy Sam Neil and Willem Dafoe.
Cinematography was brilliant, script good, acting good, wardrobe excellent. Loved the clothes, a mishmash of 1930's gangsters, cool cops and eco nutters. The most remarkable thing was that it had echoes of Fritz Lang's Metropolis. Most impressive.
There were some visually stunning scenes... A huge armoured vehicle was dragging in its wake a moaning dying bunch of chained people who had been vampirized, and as they came out into the sunlight they exploded into blazing flames. I felt sorry for them. Quite impressive.
I'm looking forward to the sequel...
Talking of silly movies, 'Devils Advocate' is on tv tonight. The yellow toothed Al Pacino hams it up as Old Nick, the lead girl has her head shorn which results in the memorable line from Keanu Reeves..."That's not a hairstyle, that's trauma"
Or something like that...
Utter Hollywood hokum at its finest. I seem to remember there are a lot of weird birds in it also. Absolutely cannot watch it though because it's on too late for me, but will record it so I have something gross for the weekend!
Figuring large this weekend:
Beansprouts.
Laurence
He was tall
was Laurence
dressed like an acting man
loads of noise
endless elderly Judas kissed scripts
intent on driving sugar coated daggers into vulnerable women.
but he wore no make-up or dusted no Oscar
thank God
He was immaculate
was Laurence
crisp in righteous white and perfect man blue
no Virgin Matey or I.T. bod
but filing female names
for pulling out on empty days
He homilised
did Laurence
but no St. John or tambourine man.
offering to women essential succulent salvation
come unto me
rallying their hearts with boom boom jokes
he operated a one man support system
He loved around
pearls being not his only gift necklace
spit threaded with gratuitous whispers also lubricated
arriving with a smile of expensive teeth
he misrepresented himself always
leaving the gal with a problem
but no poems or originality.
He could talk
could Laurence
self-proclaimed visionary, bleeding idiot, man on the Clapham omnibus
but not a proper thinker or tenderiser
he mock listened as their heads inclined
as knees parted
He stalked women
on the edge of their crumbling verges
his arms outstretched my dear
love was not however ever in his vocab
just 30 humps and an occasional thump
down his localised ordinary road
But
Laurence was paralysed one day
when the god of love finally fired his rusting arrow
shooting a holy load into the fraudsters heart
and seeping and weeping
Laurence stumbled around without a sodding clue
He twisted, twirled, danced like a drunk
in love like never before
Laurence, now a true romantic, grew in the warmth of his 'fanny girl'
offering her his life and three hot meals
he even wrote his sister 'She is just lovely''
But Laurence sat gaping like a dying fish
as 'the one' his 'hot cherry pie' mimed 'I don't love you'
He was tall
was Laurence
so his tears had a long long way to fall
and not a single, divorced, married or lonely soul was on hand, available
to watch them drop
thank God...
Angela Norris
was Laurence
dressed like an acting man
loads of noise
endless elderly Judas kissed scripts
intent on driving sugar coated daggers into vulnerable women.
but he wore no make-up or dusted no Oscar
thank God
He was immaculate
was Laurence
crisp in righteous white and perfect man blue
no Virgin Matey or I.T. bod
but filing female names
for pulling out on empty days
He homilised
did Laurence
but no St. John or tambourine man.
offering to women essential succulent salvation
come unto me
rallying their hearts with boom boom jokes
he operated a one man support system
He loved around
pearls being not his only gift necklace
spit threaded with gratuitous whispers also lubricated
arriving with a smile of expensive teeth
he misrepresented himself always
leaving the gal with a problem
but no poems or originality.
He could talk
could Laurence
self-proclaimed visionary, bleeding idiot, man on the Clapham omnibus
but not a proper thinker or tenderiser
he mock listened as their heads inclined
as knees parted
He stalked women
on the edge of their crumbling verges
his arms outstretched my dear
love was not however ever in his vocab
just 30 humps and an occasional thump
down his localised ordinary road
But
Laurence was paralysed one day
when the god of love finally fired his rusting arrow
shooting a holy load into the fraudsters heart
and seeping and weeping
Laurence stumbled around without a sodding clue
He twisted, twirled, danced like a drunk
in love like never before
Laurence, now a true romantic, grew in the warmth of his 'fanny girl'
offering her his life and three hot meals
he even wrote his sister 'She is just lovely''
But Laurence sat gaping like a dying fish
as 'the one' his 'hot cherry pie' mimed 'I don't love you'
He was tall
was Laurence
so his tears had a long long way to fall
and not a single, divorced, married or lonely soul was on hand, available
to watch them drop
thank God...
Angela Norris
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