Are you out of your minds? Are you seriously going to have that old guy, Peter Capaldi, as the new Doctor Who? I've only just got used to the idea of Matt Smith as the Doctor and that's because he looks like a bloke in his thirties now and not like he's fresh out of nappies.
And particularly ugly nappies, if I might say so.
Look, I know most of the Doctors weren't exactly youngsters but that was before merchandising really took off. Have you any idea what it's like to wake in the night to a screaming child, run into their bedroom and find them pointing at a plastic figurine of Matt Smith bathed in moonlight? No? Well, let me tell you it's not great. But now you've gone and got Capaldi I expect the screaming to intensify. I shall probably have to hire a therapist soon.
I'd like to put forward the case for a handsome thirty/forty something Dr Who. Here's my arguments:
1. Just because Dr Who is quirky and plays with his screwdriver a lot he doesn't have to look quirky too. He could just act. That's what actors do. Well, some of them. I'm not sure about Harrison Ford but, to be fair, he does look good in leggings.
2. I'm fed up of nightmares. Looking at Capaldi bathed in moonlight would like be looking at the living dead as opposed to just looking at something out of Nightmare on Elm Street.
3. Mums like to watch TV programmes with their kids; it's a bonding experience. However, when we do this, ideally, we would like to admire an attractive man in his prime. And, if he can act quirky without looking a complete twat and dressing like Sherlock Holmes, all the better. Think David Tennant and you'll be on the right lines again. What's more, if you get an actor who looks like Hugh Jackman your merchandise royalties will triple overnight.
Now, I don't want to appear ageist, so I just like to say there are some other fine older actors who could have played The Doctor and who I'd have been happy to watch. I'm sure they would all have provided their own individual "take" on the role too. Here's a few suggestions:
I know Pierce is 60 now and old enough to be my grandfather father but he's still lush.
I emailed Pierce and asked him if he'd consider it. He sent me the above picture in return - just look at the sheer delight on his face at the thought of being The Doctor. Just imagine how much revenue the BBC would make out of Pierce figurines. I'd be happy to buy one. They could even make blow-up Pierce dolls. Again, I 'd be happy to buy one (or more) of those.
Yeah , I know Clint is even older then Pierce at 83 but I bet he could still use that sonic screw driver better than anyone else. Even if he had to perform in a wheelchair I'd be happy to be his assistant and push all his buttons for him. Who wouldn't love to see Doctor Clint shoot the crap out of a dalek? I know I would.
Chuck Norris as The Doctor. You can bet your life he'd have more than one sonic screwdriver. He'd have a whole arsenal. Brill.
But who'd be my favourite aged doctor? It's someone who I think would be just perfect. Someone who would bring kick-ass law and order to the universe in his own very individual style.
Steven Seagal. A karate-kicking, gun toting, no bull-shitting, explosive Doctor. Absolutely perfect. No one's gonna mess with this Doctor. Least of all me - which is why I say - Steven, you look great in pink. You blow me away.XXX
All the best,
Mrs T.
Ps -Pictures all courtesy of Wikipedia, creative common license. (With a little hindrance from Mrs T.)
Nooooooo! What happened? Damn this technology! Just as I'm getting into the groove with Pierce and Daniel the IT things packs up. How outrageous! I shall to try again and save it on disc. So I keep it for posterity! (And very possible dribbling!)
Yeah, I 've been having some trouble with the cousin of Bob The Builder, Gary the Geezer Davison, the author of Fat Tuesday. He's been trying to get into a verbal fight with Mrs T over that political correctness post of mine. But now he's realised the error of his ways and aplologised by posting a nice piccy of Pierce Brosnan for me on his site.
So all is forgiven! Yep, and since I know Gary fancies young ladies like Danni and Kylie Minogue and the beautiful Cheryl Cole I've promised I'd post a piccy of a real hot chick for him 'cos that's just the way I am. Generous from the bottom of my soul!
I have to thank Mr Intrepid over at Intrepid Ideas for the inspiration for this post. Apparently Google are running a competition with a $10, 000,000 prize. Wow! The prize is justifiably big as they are looking for ideas that might change the world. Well, I had a think and these are some ideas I came up with;
1. I will create a renewable energy source. This is how it will work; I will be strapped into a chair with electrodes on my hands, feet and head that will transmit energy impulses from my body to a battery that will then generate enough electricity for the whole of the UK. How will this concept actually work? Ok… I will be forced (and I use that term lightly) to watch moving images and stills of Pierce Brosnan in compromising positions on a giant sized film screen…. Obviously my resulting body heat will bring me close to spontaneous combustion but in view of the benefits to mankind I feel Google will be impressed. Of course, should I begin to cool down at any point I must also be subjected to pictures of George Clooney, Kevin Costner, Daniel Craig……..
Like minded woman all over the world will be asked to participate thus providing a new and completely renewable energy source.
Pure genius eh?
2. I will halt global warming. I will do this with the aid of 2.5 kilos of potatoes and a Le Crueset saucepan.
How is this possible? Well have you ever lifted a Le Crueset saucepan? Blimey, are those things heavvvvvy. I refuse to have any… even the thought of them brings me out in a sweat and I don’t fancy working out at the gym just to pick up the damn things. I have relations who own Le Crueset and I’ve worked out that if you fill them with potatoes they are in fact deadly killing machines… so if you want to finish of your granny and inherit a fortune just give her a Le Crueset saucepan. With the strain of carrying it she’ll be dead by Christmas.
So how will this halt global warming? The answer is simple. Global warming will continue until some disbelievers/politicians get off their backsides and do something about it or they are…. “Removed.” (Know what I mean?) Of course, using an AK47 assault rifle would be quicker but I feel any “removal” must look accidental…. A little bit of water on the floor, a Le Crueset saucepan on the head… and whoops..... cynical politician is no more…
I will also head a secret agency called MI5LC (The British Secret Service - Military Intelligence, Le Crueset Division) and I will be known, amazingly as…. Not M, not J, not T but… but…. Mrs T. The Mrs T. My deadly cohorts and I will stalk disbelievers of global warming and eliminate them...thus allowing effective solutions to be put in place quickly……
(Hmm.. that idea really appeals I’ve always fancied being in the secret service….However, I don’t qualify because according to all the thrillers I’ve read a female secret agent must be at least 5ft 10in, beautiful, a black belt, fluent in 5 languages, an expert marksman and familiar with explosives.
Regretfully, I don’t qualify on any of those accounts. Except the explosives of course…….cos you know what? And this will come as a surprise to you…me and the microwave just don’t get on……)
3. I will solve the current world financial crisis. The answer to this is easy; we all know that there is plenty of cash in this world it just needs to be distributed fairly. What we need is to appoint a thoroughly honest and trustworthy person to administer it.
As a certified “Honest Blogger” I put myself forward for this job… I will be unequivocally fair and scrupulous; world crisis solved!
“Ssssssh…Ok Mr Intrepid… that’s 10 billion for me, 5 billion for you, ½ a jam sandwich for Bill Gates, 10p for Gordon Brown and a kick up the backside for Mr Bush….”
4. I will increase recycling efficiency. Well I can’t take all the credit for this one - but by using the threat of my Le Crueset Saucepan I will force the entire Women’s Institute to knit recyclable carrier bags made from used plastic carrier bags, thus reducing the need for throwaway plastic carrier bags and the epidemic of castaway products. I read about a British woman who actually does this; to which I say…. Obviously this woman is a member of the WI …. and hurrah for British madness! There’s nothing like it! The knitted bag will be a precursor to Tinfoil Jumpers, Cardboard Trousers (A bit rough on the skin but I bet some folks out there will enjoy it), Paper Doily Knickers (Oooh!) and The Baked Bean Tin Brassiere….
5. I will solve the epidemic of obesity by manufacturing an appetite suppressant. This wonder pill will be based on my own (carbonized version) of The Turley Pizza Surprise….. I can vouch for the success of this recipe as my boys are supremely physically fit with not a pound of unnecessary flesh on them. (Unlike myself of course… experience has taught me to not to eat my own cooking and just suck on chocolate all day….)
6. In addition to The Turley/Brosnan Renewable Energy System I can offer an alternative solution. It will be the called the Hot Air Vacuum Solution. Politicians who spout lies, rhetoric and “hot air” and also certain celebrities (Obviously I mean Tom Cruise) will be encased in a giant dome where they can spout drivel to their hearts content. The resulting hot air will be collected and used to power massive energy turbines. When they’ve exhausted themselves arguing amongst each other they will be allowed to rest and substituted by celebrity chefs……
Well there you go; 6 easy ways to change the world and earn me 10 million bucks.
What d’you reckon am I in with a chance?
Copyright Jane Turley 2008
Okay.. I know..time to think of something sensible....
I find it strange that someone as handsome, rich and as supremely talented as George feels the need to expose himself this way. Maybe its part of his creative process, maybe he’s lonely, maybe with his fame he doesn’t trust those who surround him and seeks solace in sex and drugs. Who knows. The reasoning is his and his alone. I guess he’s had some tumultuous times in his life that perhaps money and fame have only exacerbated. I’d rather like to see him reach that stage in life where he is at peace with himself and sooner rather than later.
But hey, George is one talented singer/songwriter and when I listen to his music all I hear and feel is someone who is multifaceted, who feels deeply, who is a musical poet. His music has the ability to make me want to get up and groove when I hear a song like Club Tropicana and then marvel at his sensitivity with a song like Careless Whispers. Boy is he one hell of an entertainer!
(Mrs A is now turning up Handel’s Water Music to full volume…)
Now I have a little story from way back when Wham were at their height in the 1980s and before his homosexuality was public knowledge. When he was one hot piece of male totty and drooled over by every sane woman. Mmm.. .could he move his hips! What rhythm ladies eh? Oooh I’ve come over all giddy just thinking about it!
Anyway, one day one of Mr T’s female colleagues, who was a bit of a tough cookie and working in high pressure job, pulls in at a petrol station with her girlfriend in the passenger seat. She fills up and the two of them get some goodies in the shop and head for the checkout. Well, guess who is there and paying for his petrol… yep…..
George Michael
Now the young lady is flabbergasted, her mouth falls open , her cheeks flush red. George sees her and being polite is waiting for her to say something…..
And what does she say? Have a guess? Does she say;
A) Oh George, I’m your no 1 fan. Can I have your autograph please?
B) I love, I love I love you! Take me to bed and marry me!
C) Here are my knickers.
D) Can I pay for your petrol?
Nope, she says none of these. Miss Hotshot is completely tongue tied and all she can splurt out is;
“I’m from Newcastle and me mate’s from Scunthorpe.”
Wow!! What an opening line…. I bet George was really impressed! Somehow I don’t think she got lucky that night…..….
Anyway, that brings me round to the idea that if I were to ever meet the lovely Pierce I should be prepared with my opening line to hook him. Now here’s a few of my suggestions;
1. That’s a lovely Pension Card you’ve got there Pierce, can I help you across the road?
2. My name’s Turley, Jane Turley. I’m an expert with guns; would you like me to show you?
3. I’m Pussy Turley. Come and fly with me…
4. Just call me Honey. I have a lovely pair of shells……..
5. Pierce, Pierce, take me, take me! I’m yours!
6. Here are my knickers.
7. Here is my bra and my knickers
8. I practice yoga. Can I demonstrate for you?
9. Are those X-ray specs Mr Brosnan? (Embarrassed giggles)
10. So we meet at last Mr Bond…..
11. I hear you have a golden gun ….
12. Oh, I’m so sorry my knickers seem to have fallen off…..
13. Here’s my front door key….
14. Here’s my back door key
15. Here’s my divorce papers
16. You are so much BIGGER in real life……
What d’you reckon? Any more ideas out there? (And don't tell me to stay inside.)
Copyright Jane Turley2008
Ps.. It's 100 years since Ian Fleming was born; if you are a Bond fan you can check out this great informative site by The Times Online
Well, no... actually it isn’t. But Master Benedict who is 7 years old clearly thinks it is because yesterday I discovered a letter to Santa in his room;
Dear Farmer Christmas
May I have a big telly for Sky please and a chicken.
Hmmm. Perhaps I should get him a hearing test?
However, the use of the word “farmer” maybe something to do with his obsession with chickens lately. In fact, he’s been counting out the pennies in his wallet because he wants to buy a chicken. Not a dead one obviously, a real live one. (Personally, the only chickens I like are the ones that come with stuffing.) Now Master Benedict tells me that we could have one for only £30 (Seems a bit pricey to me when I can get a roasted one for a fiver) and that he would collect its little eggs daily and we could have lots of scrambled eggs on toast which is one of his favourite meals. Kinda cute, but just not practical at all.
Why? Well, firstly, even though we live in the countryside the garden is not that big and secondly, and most importantly, NOTHING lives in our back garden. Yeah, that’s because Master Jacob and Master Benedict are out there with the masses of footballs, tennis balls, rugby balls splattering the living daylights out there of anything that is anywhere near a shade of green.(And cripes... you should see what they do to woodlice and worms. Ever tried to explode woodlice with a magnifying glass? Hmm... maybe that’s just an old English tradition…) Anyway, I’ve given up planting summer bedding plants because after nurturing them for months as soon as they bloom I find their heads firmly implanted on the garden fence and it kinda makes me MAAAAAD. So, I’m just going to have wait till they’ve all flown the nest… yep, it could be a long, long time before I get out that wicker basket and pick blooms and make flower arrangements…
Hmm… that sounds worryingly like I’m one of the Women’s Institute. Well, I’m not. Not yet anyway. I don’t want to bring down the average membership age to under 60 do I? That would be sacrilege. And I’m far too young to being wearing polyester trousers and plastic beads. Although sometimes those beads really do it for me…… oh um…must stop there….before I get onto tank tops…..
Anyway, Master Benedict obviously had second thoughts because on the reverse of his letter I found an expanded version which read;
May I have a big telly for Sky. Please please also a rabbit please please. All the other things can be your chouse. Please please please please please, please please.
Huh, what does he think? That grovelling with adults works?? ?????
Dear Mr T,
Please, please, please, please, please, please,please, please, please,please, please, please, please,please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please can I have a teeny weany, itsybitsy holiday in the Caribbean??
Hmm….I think I know the answer to that one. Ah well.
Well just to change the subject… Hormones. Yikes, these are baaaaddd thing for us women. Mine have been racing around my body the last few days, churning me up and making me feel like a sack of mouldy potatoes. How do I know that? Well, I wrote a poem didn’t I?? That’s gotta mean depression hasn’t it?! Cripes, any moment now I might even take up yoga, start sticking incense sticks in my potatoes and start worshipping muesli…
Anyway to relieve the tension Mrs B (that’s ford focus mum) and I agreed to go swimming together. Mrs B is late and I am early. There is only one other lady in the pool. Lovely, Mrs T thinks. Sheer bliss… and not even a sign of a shark or a barracuda. Heaven.
So I climb in and just as I’m ready to spread my arms out and merge into the blue depths, the other lady starts talking to me and wading over to the dividing rope between the speed lane (where I am) and over 45’s lane. (Sorry Mrs B!). And talking to me…and talking to me … and talking to me. For nearly 15 minutes she talks as I’m posed to plunge… in that time I’ve heard about every ailment, operation and illness she’s ever had, about her recent holiday and how she negotiated a special price on her membership.
Yeah, and I’m thinking I know just why she got a special price... as the word “Nutter” keeps going over and over in my mind. Believe me if you’ve worked in retail like I have, you’ll do ANYTHING to get rid of a nutter even giving them a discount. However, you must not be too friendly as then they just keep coming back and then you'll want to take a gun to your head.
Personally, my technique to avoid this situation was to say;
“I’m so sorry to break the conversation. My colleague over there would love to be of assistance.(Whichever one was annoying me most at the time.) I’m on my lunch break now and I must dash to a hairdresser’s appointment. I’m having it cut short as these nits are so hard to get rid off….”
Worked a treat every time.
Anyway, the woman is back onto her ailments again;
“Oh and I can’t make here till 11 am as I have to take it easy and I’ve had diarrhoea this morning (Mortified look on Mrs T’s face) but don’t worry… I’ve taken my Imodium…..”
NO, NO, NO. Mrs T’s brain is in information overload. Shit, I think. Yep, shit, literally, could be in the pool. This is not good for Mrs T’s depression. Mrs T does not fancy a mouthful of...well you know…shit. (Aplologies for language folks...)
“….And where do you live…?”
Mrs T plunges deeply under water……
When I surface half way down the pool I’m doing my best impression of an supreme athlete (pretty hard, but nevertheless vital in the circumstances) and within a couple of lengths the lady, realising Mrs T is now immune to conversation, takes her leave. Mrs B arrives and I recount the story and Mrs B says she has seen the said lady idling in the Jacuzzi.
About 40mins later and our swim completed we decide we will go the Jacuzzi to swap school horror stories. But alas, when we get there the Jacuzzi has been drained and the attendant is scrubbing it clean.
Mrs T and Mrs B look at each other with horror….
“Do you think this is a scheduled clean or perhaps…….?????” Says Mrs T, gagging back vomit at the very thought…..
“I don’t know,” quips Mrs B, “we may never get to the bottom of it!”
Indeed not. And Mrs T never wants to get to the bottom of it.
Onto other matters. (Yes, I’m rambling today.) For a while Mrs A, (Yeah – The Cynical One) and I have been battling it out over Mr Pierce Brosnan’s worthiness as World Number 1 Superstud. Mr Brosnan, in my opinion, has everything a gal could want; looks, charm, suaveness, humour and a bulging wallet. He also sports a tuxedo pretty well. Too well, if you know what I mean. In fact last time I watched the Thomas Crown Affair I became so short of breath I had to be admitted to hospital. They soon discharged me though when rifling my handbag for identification they discovered my Pierce Brosnan 007 “doll,” my mobile with 200 text messages addressed to Mr Bond, Universal Exports and a spare pair of knickers. Now Mrs A thinks the delectable Mr Brosnan is past it, a has been, and all washed up and she prefers a younger man like the lovely David Tennant. Shame, shame upon her! No one compares to Mr Brosnan and I might add a little experience can go a long, long way. (Cough, cough.) However, I do agree with Mrs A that Mr Brosnan has erred by doing that the L’Oreal Advert. Have you seen it? Well here it is;
Well, I agree that the advert is a little on cheesy side. Well, very cheesy actually. Even perhaps rather like a ripe Stilton. Now one has to be a realist; they probably paid Pierce a whole heap of cash to do it and who are we to say he should turn it down. For all we know the lovely Pierce may be a secret philanthropist and donated it all the cash to charity. Anyway, there’s no doubt they could have done a far better advert – it’s just a little too smooth isn’t it? So smooth it’s just not believable really. Which is a pity because up until now I’ve always believed everything he did was absolutely genuine. I mean he has saved the world so many times I was in total awe….have I been taken in? Have I been fooled by the size of his gun? I hope not….
Now Mrs A, who is always trying to stir me up into vicious diatribes, has challenged me to write an alternative L’Oreal advert for Pierce. Oh by the way Mrs A has instructed me that the script must include a jar of the offending face cream L’Oreal Vita Lift for Men and a Stannah Stair lift. (The implication being obviously that Pierce is too old.) Let me assure you that Mrs A is a cruel, cruel woman and I just want to point out that she is considerably older than me and she will be requiring a Stannah stair lift long before I do. I will still be skipping gaily around while Mrs A is hobbling along with her walking stick and her anti wrinkle cream in her pocket....
Anyway, here’s an alternative script….
Pierce walks centre stage sporting a Tuxedo and packing a big bulge…underneath his arm…..He looks straight into the camera…
“The name’s Brosnan. Pierce Brosnan. I’m a one stop sex machine and I don’t need a Stannah stair lift because I’m supremely fit and A1 in between the sheets." (Pierce presses detonationdevice connected to nearby Stannah stair lift causing it to violently explode) " Ladies, if you buy your husband L’Oreal Vita Face Lift you can pretend he is me and I guarantee you will have the best night of your life.”
The End.
As a result of this advert sales of L’Oreal Vita Face Life soar dramatically overnight causing a global face cream shortage. Women march in protest outside L’Oreal Headquarters and beat each other senseless over the last remaining pots. The final pot on earth is sold on Ebay for a phenomenal £1,000,000. The purchaser is an unknown woman living in The Home Counties. She just pips Joan Collins, Elizabeth Taylor and Ivana Trump at the post because they were so old they couldn’t press the button quick enough to up their stakes. Unfortunately, The Unknown Woman’s bid is later rejected as her money is discovered to be from a Monopoly Set. The last pot of face cream goes to Ivana Trump instead who unfortunately confuses it with her hair gel and has to live her remaining life knowing that she will never, ever get to make wild passionate love to Pierce Brosnan…..
Well there you go Mrs A. Pretty bad eh? But you know those hormones……
The last week has not been one of my best. The bad news of my last post set me off on one of my rollercoaster emotional periods which for Mrs T is like having laboured over the preparation of the most exquisite meal I have ever attempted (home made sausages rather than the shop bought ones) and then to drop the lot just as I’m about to serve it up to an eagerly awaiting Mr Brosnan. Not good! To top it off this week I had my first proper interview for a job for about 12 or 13 years which induced some mixed feelings. (These are the same mixed feelings that I normally reserve for viewing Sylvester Stallone movies; i.e. boy is his body hot but he just can’t act….)
To continue… Surprisingly, I was not particularly nervous about this interview because I knew I could do the job and do it very well and also I’m one of those people who enjoy challenging situations; yep I was one of those weird breed of people who actually revelled in doing exams at school. (Obviously, not maths as you would have to be really, really weird to enjoy maths.) But unfortunately, Mrs T who is normally good at concocting ludicrous waffle required at such times had a frozen brain cell moment during the interview when asked what her personal weaknesses were and as a result did not get the job. Was I disappointed? Well, yes and no. Yes, because I don’t like to fail at things - except cooking and cleaning where it is my moral duty to fail in the quest for female emancipation. (i.e. to fight for freedom from checked pinafores, shiny work surfaces and those small useless gadgets that serve no purpose whatsoever.)
(Also, it is my right, indeed my honour, to fail miserably at household tasks, especially cooking, because they are exceeeeeeeedingly borrrrrrring which is why I’m working on the design of a new stove which will revolutionize the life of suppressed housewives the world over and which I shall market as “Mrs T’s Thermo- Nuclear Cooker - A one step method to producing hot meals(and frying your husband) in less than 30 seconds.)
Now in preparation for the grilling I was to receive at the interview I had prepared some thoughtful and perceptive statements about myself for the interview panel which for some inexplicable reasons did not go down well. Here they are;
1. I am a former Miss World and have devoted my entire life to world peace. I believe in for the right for all women to have unnecessary surgical implants at the taxpayer’s expense and the right to produce their own range of designer swimwear constructed out of 2 handkerchiefs and a shoelace.
2. I was a child genius. (Unfortunately I grew up to be an idiot; this was due to a diet of Norman Wisdom films, bubblegum and the unfortunately switching the television on during an episode of the Jerry Springer Show thereby sending me into a life of complete stupidity and blatant overeating.) 3. I have 3 cats. (Theory; showing you are an animal lover induces a picture of a caring, nurturing person which is excellent. The cats also keep me cosy and warm; along with the other 98 it took to make the coat.)
4. I am excellent driver and will definitely not reverse over any small people or animals in the school car park. (Unless they get in my way.)
5. I will do anything to get this job; including handing in my Uzi at the police station, dancing to the soundtrack of Flashdance in the school canteen whilst eating lumpy semolina and finally, declaring to the world that I believe Gordon Brown is a financial genius.
Honesty, I feel, is always the best policy. However, strangely enough my honesty did not appear to be appreciated. Hmm... why ever not? Anyhow, back to my personal weaknesses which in the feedback I was told I had not embellished upon enough and appeared “defensive”. Now, after several conversations with friends I realise that I should have found a weakness and put a positive spin on it. For example, that I like chocolate too much which makes me fat but the resulting demand for the production of cocoa beans keeps thousands in employment all over the world! You see what I mean? Eating chocolate is a positive! Anyhow, at the time all I could think of was my genuine personal weaknesses and frankly since I wasn’t in a therapy session I had no wish to discuss them with complete strangers. Lack of experience in interview techniques after such a long break, I suppose. Ah well.
Anyway, I thought as it’s possible I might be asked this question again at some future point I’d just list my faults and weaknesses and any prospective employer can just take a peek at my blog and satisfy their curiosity! So here we go; 1. I fantasize about making love to Pierce Brosnan in a vat of custard. (NB; this is cold ready-made custard. My own custard, which is heated to boiling point, may scald him in his vital places which would be catastrophic. It is also very lumpy and not easy to digest which might affect Pierce’s staying power.)
2. I frequently conduct inane and totally pointless scientific research using search engines. For example, I recently researched “Men’s butts” (Well specifically Kevin Costner’s butt) and came up with this rather interesting video which in the name of science I have studied with due care and attention.
Ladies, I think you’ll agree with me that my research sometimes proves (um, cough, cough) somewhat “fruitful”. And Gentlemen, if you have a butt like Kevin Costner please leave me your details. (Photographic evidence required.)
3. I have penchants for chocolate and cream cakes (useful for weight gain if you get a part as a normal person in a Hollywood movie), small furry animals (useful for mittens), action movies, (useful for foreplay) and Leslie Nielson. (Don’t ask.)
4. I fantasize about getting a job which requires me to do no work whatsoever for an extortionate amount of money for a handsome (and single) wealthy employer. Whoops, sorry...wrong draft there... I fantasize about getting a job which requires me to work exceptionally hard (probably in IT) for very little money but nevertheless feeling deeply fulfilled for a bearded and annoying employer. (Richard Branson.)
5. I fantasize about writing a novel called “North or South; if only I knew what direction I was going.” The blurb on the back cover would be written by Paul Burman and read as follows “This is the biggest load of utter gibberish I have ever read, deserving of a kick up the arse and an award for sheer and utter stupidity; an instant bestseller.” 6. I have a fetish for Magnums (and yes that is a piccy of a Magnum .44 even though it says Colt in the corner) thus I fantasize that I will duel over Pierce Brosnan with Usha. Usha’s weapon of choice will be also be a Magnum. Unfortunately it’s a Magnum lolly. Therefore I WILL WIN. I will not gloat that I have won because I think it’s mean to do that when you’ve won. If someone has lost and you’ve won it’s really not nice to keep rubbing it in over and over and over again that you’ve won. I’m just too nice a person to mention the fact that I’d won and won easily.
7. I fantasize about a Hamster called Sy. Well about torturing him really and keeping him in a small claustrophobic cage where he must use his tiny pathetic feet to spin his cheap plastic wheel. The electricity generated will power my electric toothbrush. (He’s so weak and feeble it’s untrue.)
8. I have a weakness for Mrs A’s chocolates. This does not help me in my quest to prove I am academically superior to her because as soon as she gives me her chocolates I am at her mercy. Damn.
9. Men with clean ties really do it for me. I mean there’s nothing worse than a man with a tie with a load of custard on it is there? (Unless it’s Pierce Brosnan’s tie when that is perfectly acceptable.) Men with dirty ties need a spanking.(And some soap flakes.)
10. I have some bad habits. That was when I was a nun but now I’m a “normal” member of society I disguise them by wearing a white sheet over the top and pretending I am an angel.
11. I have an overactive imagination.
Is it any wonder I didn’t get the job?
Oh yes, and if anyone wants to employ me please do leave a comment.
*Ding dong* the doorbell chimes, and Mrs T excitedly walks to the door.
“Oh Pierce. It is you! I always knew this moment would come!” Mrs T croons.
“Jane, my love, can I come in?” Pierce smoothly replies. His eyes smouldering with passion.
“Of course Pierce. Please. Come in.” Mrs T replies. Her nightrobe falling slightly open to reveal her tazmanian devil nightie, with stains of a Cadbury caramel bar.
“Oh, do excuse the stain!” Mrs T says, as she starts to suck on the chocolatey goodness stain.
"GO! GO! G O! Hold her down. No, harder. She is escaping! Come on...just a second more. OK, I got the sleeves around the back and the straps done up. That’s it. Take her away!"
*cue face peeled off a’la mission impossible styleeee*
Ahaaaaa! It is I. Master Sy. It is time to end this insanity of Mrs T’s.
Dear readers, after several “dodgy” posts, Mrs T has been replaced. As you read this, chocolate is being dangled in front of her eyes, and every time she goes for it, the straight jacket gets tightened a little more. Her face currently has the look of a constipated blueberry, such is the force at which she is going for the chocolate.
For a few months, I have been watching her behaviour, and it is obvious there are a few delusions occurring on a postly basis. Therefore, it is time to sort out a few bits.
*WATCH HER...SHE IS CHEWING THROUGH THE RESTRAINTS!*
My apology loyal readers, she is trying her best to get to the value own brand chocolate we are teasing her with.
Let me introduce myself. My name is Master Sy. I am not a housewife extraordinaire as the blog title suggests. In fact, I am not even a housewife. I am just a man. A man of extraordinaire proportions. Call me “The man”. Or “The Legend”. Hell, you can even call me Delilah. Either way, this is my post now. The king is dead. Long live the king. Well, I guess queen, but you know, the connotations of writing are just too many. Calling myself a queen...well...yeah.
Now. The reason for this takeover is two fold. The first is Mrs T’s infatuation with Mr Brosnan. The second is because I can, and because after I realised there were 2 folds after I folded the paper to put it in my pocket.
So I have arranged to interview them both. Get to the bottom of all the shenanigans. It seems to me to be the only way to get this sorted once and for all.
Master Sy: Tell me Mrs T. What is it all about? Hey? Why Pierce? Why a man with a name like the bad side of visit to the Dr’s for an injection?
Mrs T: Chocolate...Give. Me. CHOCOLATE. NOW!
Master Sy: Holy hell. She is spitting weird green stuff and her head is starting to turn all the way round.
Mrs T: GIVE IT TO ME YOU WEAK MORTAL! I WILL CRUSH YOU LIKE A FLY!
Master Sy: Ooohhhhkaaaay then. Guys...move the chocolate another 5cm away from her.Now. Mrs T. Answer me, or else. Why Needle Boy?
Mrs T: I hate you and everything you stand for!
Master Sy: I love you too poppy. But come on. Answer the question.
Mrs T:Fine. He is adorable, and he WILL give me more children. Mrs T needs to copulate and grow. My inner being is calling out for him. For him to fertilise me like an old pile of vegetables.The master race of Brosna-beings will take over the world and do my bidding. Cadburys and Nestle will be under my control. Chocolate will become more valuable then gold, oil and BOGOF offers for anti-perspirant in the warm season all put together. The French will want to be like me. The Iranian government will want to partnership with me. THE WORLD WILL TASTE MY SWEET TASTING GOODS!
Master Sy: *snicker* Taste your sweet tasting goods? Are you planning on selling chocolate or pornography?
Mrs T:Do not mock me mortal. I will come for you.
Master Sy: Riiiiiight. OK, well, thanks for making absolutely no sense at all. Here, have a mouthful of sugar free diabetic chocolate!
Master Sy:Watch out lads, I think she is gonna blow! Now. On to Mr Brosnan. The man behind Mrs T’s infatuation.Mr Brosnan. How do you feel about all of what you just saw?
Mr B:Blibble flip poop stump gorby munching tea pot. My name's Pierce and I have big ears! Wooooooo!!!!!
Well, I don’t know about you readers, but I think they should get together! Now. Please be kind enough to leave a comment letting me know if you would like the restraints taken off of Mrs T, or if you would like her kept in stasis for a while.
Oh dear. Last night Mrs T had one of her major cooking disasters. I decided to cook lamb chops, fried in a little olive oil. (Noticed how delicately I wrote that… as if I actually cared…. )Anyhow this was supposed to be a little treat for my boys as Master Sam has finished his O Levels, Master Jacob received two awards on Saturday for football (Player’s Player and Supporters player) and Master Benedict got Player’s Player for his team. Mrs T was even more pleased because on Friday Master Jacob was asked to train with the County Tennis Squad. Finally. And Mrs T is very, very proud of her little boy because I doubt if there a sweeter, more deserving boy.
Anyhow back to the lamb chops. Well I divided them into two pans. One has more chops in than the other and the one with less in begins to sizzle nicely. Mrs T is pleased; the chops will go very nicely with the oven chips and the imaginary vegetables she can’t be bothered to prepare. (God I love those vitamin tablets) The other is not sizzling. Mrs T, thinking this phenomenon is because there are more chops in one pan than the other increases the temperature and trots into the other room to watch Wimbledon.
A few minutes later Mrs T smells a horrid odour…. Mrs T rushes to the kitchen; it is filled with putrid toxic smoke which is now drifting throughout the house. The chops must be burning…. But …No! The one pan is still full of raw chops and the other is nearly cooked. How can this be when there is choking smoke everywhere? Mrs T is confused…
Hmm….then Mrs T realises she has left one of those black polystyrene type plates they put under the base of pizzas on the hob and since the hob is black Mrs T had not noticed it and put one of the pans on top of it….
Mrs T is obviously completely calm and politely utters “Oh bother and fiddly dee, what a frightful nuisance” thus awakening the attentive Mr T from his comatose state in front of the telly who then proceeds to rush to the rescue….
By which time Mrs T has already removed the raw chop saucepan and put it on to the other hotplate…otherwise none of her lamb chops will be ready at the same time. Oh dear, BIG mistake… Mrs T should have thought it through…. now she has two burning smelly hotplates…
Mr T is not pleased.
Mrs T puts the chops under the grill.
Mr T puts the frying pan into the bin and opens all the doors and windows.
Mrs T serves up “rare” lamb chops, “medium” lamb chops and “well done” lamb chops. She also serves up burnt oven chips. The imaginary vegetables are a complete success though. As are the shop bought lollies.
Mrs T is a tad upset.
Of course there is also another reason why Mrs T is upset…
Why is this I hear you ask?
Mrs T is upset because her boiler has packed up. Yes, it is utterly and totally dead. It is kaput, finito. It has gone to the Big Boiler Heaven in the sky.
It was only 10 years old too which really isn’t that old for a boiler. Mr T is cross because this is proving to be a very expensive year for his wallet and of course now he will have much studying to do while he selects the appropriate replacement. Retailers across the land are at this very moment barricading their doors and purchasing large amounts of cotton wool to stuff in their ears. Many have purchased dark glasses. This is so they can pretend to be security guards instead of consultants just in case Mr T should appear. There has also been a boom in two way radios and tracking devices as they prepare to avoid the verbal onslaught form Mr T …. But Mr T is sneaky, he is cruel… he knows how to stalk a consultant and just as they think they are safe and remove their glasses and head towards the canteen, Mr T will POUNCE…….…
Of course, Mrs T is cross too and also unhappy. In fact I am soo unhappy I have renamed this year “The Year of the Failed Appliances.” This is because I know it will be simply ages before I can wallow in a hot, steaming bath as I am is wont to do while Mr T contemplates the finer details of boiler mechanics. I like a seriously hot bath and although the collage of Mr Brosnan on the wall certainly helps ’tis not the same without scalding water to sooth my world weary limbs…..and I have so much fun with my rubber duck and little sailing boats I will be most disappointed if I cannot resume my wallowing within a reasonable time frame….
Now I have pondered on why the has boiler packed up so dramatically and I’ve come to the conclusion that I had just been doing too much washing and cleaning. The system was obviously under such serious strain it just couldn’t cope anymore. I put this theory to Mr T but for some reason he didn’t believe me. I don’t know why; the entire world knows I’m thoroughly dedicated housewife whose love for the washing machine knows no bounds. I regularly cover it with kisses and even buy it little Christmas presents. (Lime scale remover.) Indeed, I also regularly give it “tips” and frequently I hear it happily rattling a little selection of coins around the drum in appreciation.
Anyway this unhappy situation does mean Mrs T will, by default, be visiting the Gym and Pool more frequently than she has of late which is no bad thing. Mrs T used to go regularly and then she had some problems with her knee caused by falling out of the patio doors, then down the stairs and then finally off her bike. Please note that on none of these occasions was I drunk… everyone always assumes I was. Why is that? Do I sound like a sherry abusing housewife? (Rhetorical question) No, Mrs T never ever touches that wicked stuff! I never let the tiniest drop touch my lip.( A straw so much more convenient - and what’s more - if you take it with you when you go out you can pilfer your companion’s drink while they’re looking at the menu and they will never know.)
The gym is a dangerous place for Mrs T. Oh yes. Because at the gym my competitive spirit at sports which has lain dormant for years suddenly bursts forth; I just can’t help myself from competing with the other swimmers in the pool to see if I can swim faster or longer and usually (I’m bragging here) I win!
Unfortunately though, the average age of my opponents is about 75 so regrettably the feeling of glory doesn’t last very long. (About 10 seconds) Because then the Oldies casually get out of the pool looking all refreshed and saunter off to the Sauna and I’m so bloody exhausted I usually pass out. (This is not a good idea in a swimming pool, especially when there are no life guards to revive you.) In fact I am frequently found floating, arms spread-eagled on the surface, looking like an unconscious hippo. Thank god for those remote cameras in reception, otherwise I could be a dead Mrs T.
Now once I’ve been revived (usually by some kindly geriatric waving a bar of choccy under my nose) I usually make way to the Jacuzzi to relax. This is where I indulge my fantasies. Oh yes and rest assured readers absolutely NONE of them involve young men with pert bottoms; Mrs T is not a cradle snatcher. (No one under 20 anyway - a woman’s got to have some cut-off point – besides I just can’t stand those baggy swimming trunks those young ’uns wear; they are just soooo unflattering.) Now I’m sure I’m not the only one who indulges themselves in a fantasy world in the Jacuzzi so here for your amusement/ horror/ astonishment (delete as appropriate) is my favourite Jacuzzi fantasy
I’m lying on my back floating, the bubbles are sensuously massaging my limbs when lazily I open my eyes and see…. A black and evil looking shark’s fin circling me! The horror! The terror!
I am trapped in a Jacuzzi with a killer shark!
The shark is winding faster and faster around me, getting closer and closer (it’s a big Jacuzzi) and then suddenly it launches itself out of the bubbles. Its big, wet, powerful body flies through the air…
Oh God…no, no, no. …I see it’s a Great White with enormous pointed teeth like daggers ready to rip me mercilessly to shreds! I am mortified…but at the same time I am a real cool swanky bitch (I’ve overdosed on Arnie movies.) So I grab one of the exercise balls left conveniently next to the Jacuzzi and ram it violently into the shark’s mouth where fortuitously it gets stuck on the shark’s teeth driving it into an utter frenzy. It lashes uncontrollably around in the foaming water. At this point Mrs T (with her bulging muscles) wrestles with the Great White and a battle of the titans ensues;
The theme to Rocky plays in the background.…
It’s the Eye of the Tiger… It's the cream of the fight…. Risin' up to the challenge of our rival And the last known survivor stalks his prey in the night ……
A bell rings at the end of each vicious and deadly encounter and a devilishly tasty young man in skimpy Speedos parades around the edge of the Jacuzzi with a placard announcing the round numbers on it. (The Great White is furious as there is no equivalent tasty young fish with some seriously shiny scales.) Anyhow, it gets to round fifteen and the Great White is looking ferocious as he can’t stand the vicious and cruel taunting from Mrs T any longer..
“Come on you itsy bitsy fishy, you’re just a teeny weenie tadpole aren’t you? Call yourself a shark? Can’t you swim faster than that? You’re not a shark just a big girl’s blouse! And by the way you need to see some dental work cos your breath stinks!”
The Great White is so incensed and with its jaws outstretched and eyes bulging, it launches itself at me. Casually I leap to one side, poking it brutally in the eye. While it writhes in agony I climb out of the water, grabbing an electric cable and shove it into the water……
Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr…….. The Great White roars in agony and is launched out of the water by the force of the electric shock…
and is splattered, dead, on the cold marble slabs.
Mincemeat. Mrs T is victorious.
I climb back into Jacuzzi and close my eyes. It is warm and therapeutic. I start to doze off when suddenly I hear a little cough… opening my eyes I see Pierce Brosnan is in the Jacuzzi. His torso is looking particularly manly…
Mrs T, suddenly revived, pushes the button to make the Jacuzzi bubble even faster and stronger. The bubbles are erupting like small volcanoes on the surface…
Suddenly Mr Brosnan’s shorts float to the surface……..
Now they say things happen in threes… and they do… on Sunday my iron stopped working. Now this is particularly annoying as it is less than a year old. Obviously, I could take it back for a repair or a refund BUT that would mean having to find the receipt. And to be honest I don’t have a chance in hell of finding it because paperwork, filing and general organization are not exactly my forte. (This may come as a surprise to you as I am such an excellent cook and efficient cleaner.) Now ironing is in fact Mr Turley’s domain; he positively loves it which is why I had bought a pink iron; it gave me much amusement to watch Mr Turley who is a strapping 6 foot 6 inches, ironing his pants with a girlie pink iron in his hands. Now I detest ironing with a fervour that is only matched by my hatred of Delia Smith; so Mr Turley does the majority of the ironing in exchange for “favours.” This is very good exchange; I get to avoid something I dislike in exchange for something a whole lot more pleasurable and Mr Turley gets to iron his shirts just the way he likes them without me complaining of a headache.
Forgetting the iron incident, now that I’ve started on the subject of receipts and paperwork I think I'll have to continue…
Now my lovely postman dropped yet another pile of the usual garbage of bills, circulars, bank statements and adverts for double glazing upon my doormat this morning. Damn him. (There was, however, also a couple of birthday cards so I didn't set the dogs on him as usual because I was feeling generous. )
But I ask you…Doesn’t a Housewife Extraordinaire have enough to do with out attending to these sorry piles of mindless rubbish?
I have enough paperwork already as my three boys are at three different schools; I am inundated with letters informing me that there is yet another fund raising event, school trip or general request for money. WORST of all there is the polite (but with threatening undertones of implied inadequacy) request to make costumes for an entire legion of Roman soldiers out of old loo rolls, some tin foil and (never quite big enough) cereal packets.
The truth is Readers - I would rather take a double barrelled shotgun to my head than manufacture another costume; I’ve been doing it for 12 years and If I never see another Roman soldier or Tudor King again I will be a very happy (albeit dead) woman.
To be fair, I don’t receive that many letters (well relevant letters) via Master Samuel as being of a teenage disposition he never gives them to me until such time as the information has been rendered useless, causing me to miss various meetings, parent’s evenings and generally to look grossly incompetent. (Which as you can imagine is pretty difficult.)
The question is how should one dispose of all this worthless paper rubbish? Here are a number of methods which I find particularly useful over the years;
OPTION ONE.
Lighting a small fire, or indeed a large fire, under Master Samuel’s backside.
This is about the only thing to cause Master Samuel to move at a pace faster than a dead slug. This is in contrast to Master Benedict who is very light-footed (and regrettably light-fingered) and also a budding pyromaniac who will happily set alight any inanimate or animate object.
To this extent I must explain that on a recent outing to football practice with Master Jacob, Master Samuel did not perform his childcare duties with due care and attention and Mr Turley was unexpectantly later than norm. Whereupon on my return from Footie, I found Master Benedict had put the catch on the door and eventually when he did open it informed me he was "making a fire" and indeed he was... he had stoked up the stove with coal and paper and various household accoutrements which were burning nicely away and to which he was adding more articles... Needless to say Master Samuel, who was upstairs with his headphones on wooing his Xbox360, did receive the full wrath of my anger which is a rare, yet hideously unpleasant occurrence.
I must also explain that on the weekend Master Benedict “acquired” from a friend’s house a squeaky mouse to which he had become more attached than a little boy should decently be to a small furry creature. Now when Mr Turley discovered the squeaky mouse hidden in Master Benedict’s football kit he was most cross and lectured Master Benedict till the little lad looked positively crestfallen at which time he was duly sent to his bedroom under instruction that he may not exit until such time as George Bush had passed the MENSA test.
A short while later we heard the click of the front door and discovered Master Benedict in the process of running away. He had bundled up his school fleece, football kit, pyjamas and his wallet into the cat blanket that is on his bed and having tossed it over his shoulder in the manner of Dick Whittington was heading down the driveway to seek a new life full of squeaky mice at the local park.
Needless to say Mr Turley was most remorseful and duly explained to Master Benedict that he loved Master Benedict very much but stealing a squeaky mouse was not permissible in the Turley Household, (irrespective of the undeniable attraction of the fluffy vermin.)
Hmm…I seem to have got distracted from the subject of Master Samuel… probably just as well other than to say setting his pants alight is a good method of raising him from his bed after midday and has the added bonus of extinguishing any unfavourable odours. (It is certainly preferable to extracting his pants from underneath his bed with barbecue tongs…although I believe they are shortly to be inventoried at Porton Down as a new and deadly weapon of mass destruction.) .
OPTION TWO.
Making a selection of high performance paper planes.
I am proud to announce that in the Annual Paper Plane Race at School my planes out perform any rival by a staggering 15 metres. I am particularly fond of my Stealth Fighter Plane which last year crept slyly up behind Dear Johnny’s mother pranging her in the back of her head causing her to drop Dear Johnny’s plane into the her cup of highly nutritious but unpleasant vomit-coloured carrot juice. (Excellent.) It’s not that I’m competitive but I’m rather partial to winning (provided I don’t have to partake of any vigorous movement of limbs which as I have already indicated can have serious environmental consequences.) However in view of the fact that I do not participate in The Parent’s Race at Sports Day I must point out that I am extraordinarily clever at school quizzes; particularly ones which require knowledge of completely banal and useless subjects such as granny knickers, hair loss and weight gain…when I can score an impressive 10/10. (Plus I’m pretty hot on answering bonus questions which are usually relating to football; to which my answer is always “Balls.”)
Anyhow, I can heartily recommend Sunday supplements for the manufacture of planes as their glossy nature improves aerodynamic performance.
OPTION THREE.
Recycle them into luxury toilet paper. This a “Must Do” activity. You will save yourself a heap of cash and the inconvenience of transporting large packs home from the shops. Follow my tried and tested formula;
1. Shred the paper and then dampen it down with water and a small amount of flour to ensure cohesion.
2. Kneed for five minutes and then form into a sausage shape.
3. Using your pasta machine (lasagne style) or a mangle (if you’ve been lucky enough to inherit one from granny) feed the sausage carefully through it and leave the resulting paper to dry.
4. Finally, congratulate yourself that you have produced organic, environmentally friendly luxury toilet paper. One tip though; do not use prior to using a communal changing room – you may receive distasteful stares due to residual grey streaks and the adhesive nature of the paper may mean that some of it may have stuck to your arse. OPTION FOUR.
Making a costume for yet another school dressing up day.
The least attractive option and the less said about this the better. Only to say that today was…
YET ANOTHER DRESSING UP DAY AT SCHOOL!
Have they no pity?
Do they not know it’s my birthday?
When will I be released from the torment?
I calculate not for at least another 4 years… when I will have manufactured enough Peter Pans, Tin Men, Robin Hoods, Captain Hooks, etc etc to make me go COMPLETELY and UTTERLY INSANE. (Thereby fulfilling the criteria to become a Member of Parliament and so beginning a lifetime of political incompetency and free lunches in The House of Commons.)
However, today has been my easiest dressing up day to date; it was “Dress up as your favourite book character day” and Master Benedict decided he wanted to be Legolas. Now just in case you’re not familiar with Legolas; he is the blond haired elf in The Lord of the Rings who is the expert marksman. Now there’s not too much sticking and gluing involved in this one which is excellent. But it did leave me with a dilemma; Master Benedict has only just turned 7 so it’s fairly obvious that he hasn’t read The Lord of the Rings. It also implies that he seen he film… which is a 12 certificate. Now I’m not saying he has seen it but last night he garrotted the cat because he mistook for an Orc. Shame… but you know those vet bills were getting a little expensive….
So did I let him go as Legolas which required but a few minutes of preparation and some weapons (obligatory) or did I manufacture another vile costume of cereal boxes, crepe paper and pasta?
Answer; he went as Legolas and I’m expecting social services at any minute.
Now before I sign off for the evening I just want to say that I’ve become addicted to Pentad’s Simplifying Life and Love blog. (Still can’t do that link thing but it’s on my list of favourites.) I strongly believe Tamera is trying to entice me into revealing all about myself and using me as a case study for her next book which I believe will be entitled “Simplifying Housework and Accompanying Madness.” Now one of Tamera’s techniques is to post an image and see what feedback she gets and what crazy mixed up people like myself and Young Master Sy scribe. Anyway, I think this is an excellent technique which I’m going to try myself. Please look at the picture below and let me the first thing that comes into your head. You can be as explicit as you like. Thank you.
Now before I get down to the very serious matter of proper blogging later in the day I must first recount a little true story from yesterday morning....
Mrs Turley is waking up slowly in her cosy bed ready for yet another arduous day at the kitchen sink when she feels Mr Turley's hand upon her arse and his dulcet tones in her ear....
"Happy Birthday Mrs T."
Silence.
Mrs Turley replies;
"It's my Birthday TOMORROW."
Silence.
Hand slowly withdraws.
Now really... wouldn't you expect The Veritable Mr Turley to remember after nearly 17 years of marriage that my birthday is the 6th and not the 5th? Still, he has informed me this morning "that a package will be arriving sometime in the next three or four days."
Hmm... there's nothing like forward planning is there? It had better be a good prezzie or he'll be in deep trouble I can tell you ( possibly involving a damp tea towel.)
Now how old is Mrs T today? To help you work it out here's a mathematical formula;
100-60 + ½ + 79⅓ -153% x [a- b+ 7 kilos Galaxy chocolate – half a banana + ab- c} x 3c -78% - ½ x ⅔ + ⅛ - ⅝ x 61⅞ -⅓ ≠ <100>12.5 % √ 40 ∑ 11≤ 2234 ≥ ↕ 56 x ½ sausage ♂ + 3 children ∑ 1 husband x sheer bloody exhaustion x 44.7≈ 2 = ♂ 67⅓ x 0.0000001 x 3.14 = ??
Answers on a sympathy card please.
Now I'm feeling really daring and for the first time known to man I am posting a piccy of myself from about 2 years ago. I would like to point out that;
1) I was having a bad hair day.
2) I was having a bad face day.
3) I'd forgotten to put my anti wrinkle cream on for the 2000 consecutive day. Damn.
4) The strained look on my face was due to the constipation I had been suffering from at the time.
5) The sun was also in my eyes which accounts for the excessive amount of wrinkles in that area.
6) I've since had my teeth whitened; it didn't work.
7) I can't remember why I was bending over but as Pierce Brosnan is not standing behind me I don't think it was for any interesting reason.
8)That is my "Sporty Spice" look. Usually I'm a model of sophistication and glamour with a touch of Joan Collins thrown in for good measure.
9) It's possible I may have put on a kilo or two since this piccy was taken; the sun was still shining then... now we regularly suffer from eclipses.
10) I'm saving up for plastic surgery and liposuction and any contributions will be greatly received. Please address cheques to the " Save The Whale Foundation."
Now before I toodle off to read some blogs and scribe another of mine own later I just wanted to give you an update on Luke Warmwater. Well, he is a particularly fine young washing machine with smooth contours which are silken to touch and most appealing to the eye. He washes perfectly and his spinning is smooth and quiet. In fact… rather too quiet. My dearly beloved Zanussi, being of an archaic and wonky disposition, did vibrate somewhat violently when on the spin cycle. Why it jumped so fervently across the room that it was often necessary for me to sit upon it in order to pacify it. Indeed it was sometimes necessary for me to sit upon my Zanussi for a whole hour at a time…….
Oh yes one more thing, my friend Fordfocusmum (one of these days I'll work out how to do that link thingy) who has the gross misfortune of standing at the school gates with me has drawn to my attention that a comment she left on my blog did not appear last week. Fordfocusmum was most perturbed and wondered what had happened. Had her remark that I was a fat, lazy, good for nothing, self indulgent egotist with pompous aspirations of bionic supremacy, a desire to have my own chocolate factory, take over the world and introduce compulsory silly hats and red noses for all politicians offended me in some way? The answer is no! It takes a lot to offend Mrs Turley who is of a jovial disposition and so if any of you Dear Readers also suffered the same experience Mrs Turley assures you it must have been a technical hitch (or possibly gross incompetency on my part.) So please keep commenting as MrsTurley loves to chat and be distracted from all those boring household chores....
I am mortified…but at the same time I am a real cool swanky bitch (I’ve overdosed on Arnie movies.) So I grab one of the exercise balls left conveniently next to the Jacuzzi and ram it violently into the shark’s mouth where fortuitously it gets stuck on the shark’s teeth driving it into an utter frenzy. It lashes uncontrollably around in the foaming water. At this point Mrs T (with her bulging muscles) wrestles with the Great White and a battle of the titans ensues;
