My World Comes Crashing Down

Oh. Dear.God. I've had the most horrible day. I am in terrible despair and must call into question my whole outlook on life.

Now I know, readers, that you will be concerned about poor Mrs T and curious to find out what has brought her to the edge of the insanity. So let me now regale you with the tragic event which has been the source of my misery and which happened this very afternoon...

Mrs T (moi) is having a bit of a jig to an unknown but rather catchy tune at the service counter in the restaurant at the tennis centre.

"Who is this?" says Mrs T the to the gentleman making her tea.

A flash of  horror passes across his face as he plops Mrs T on the counter.

"Justin Bieber," he replies.

And so, dear readers, my world came crashing down.

It's official. Mrs T has lost all her musical taste.

A New All Time Low for The Housewife Extraordinaire

Oh dear, dear, dear, readers, something terrible has happened in the Turley household and put my position as Housewife Extraordinaire up for serious review.

Now some time ago, I had to replace my washing machine. I can't remember exactly when that was so I reckon that's well over a year ago and probably closer to two years.

And last week the Good Mr T pointed out to me that, for all that time, I had only been putting the clothes onto wash on the rinse cycle.

I haven't, in fact, washed any clothes properly with detergent for nearly two years.

Oh God. This is a new low for me. That'll teach me to read instruction manuals without my glasses.

The funny this is I had noticed that some of Master Jacob's sweaty tennis shirts had come out of the machine not quite as fragrant as I'd expected. Unfortunately, I had put this down to the synthetic nature of the shirts. I'd even noticed that there didn't appear to much (or any in fact) soap suds in the machine. However, it still didn't click.

Anyway, it turns out it with there was nothing wrong with the tennis shirts or the quality of the detergent it was just my gross incompetence.

Mr T hasn't filed for divorce yet. But he has taken his shirts to the launderette.

Mr T's new attire. Don't you just hate it when someone keeps labouring a point?

25 Bookish Things Males Have Actually Read By The Age of 25

If you're an avid reader, you've probably read one of the many articles advising you which books to read before you're 18/25/30/40/dead. Well, last week I came across a lively discussion on Facebook about the dominance of male authors in many of these lists. Unfortunately, some accusations about male misogyny were being bounded about. I was reasonably impartial about this accusation as I happen to like men (cough, cough) and probably read more books by male authors than I do by women authors.

However, this morning I have cleaned the Young Master's bedrooms and transferred the good Mr T's underpants from the bathroom floor to the laundry basket so I am not feeling so impartial. As a consequence I have come up with my own take on these annoying book lists. My list is called:

 Twenty-Five Bookish Things Males Have Actually Read By The Age of Twenty-Five.

It's not your standard list. Obviously. But it is, nevertheless, a very important list.

Right here we go:

1. Top Gear Annual 2014.

2. Playboy July 1997 (Farah Fawcett.)

3. Thomas the Tank Engine - A Cow on the Line. (Trains + farm animals = deep joy.)  

4.The Joy of Sex (Essential reading for  university undergraduates.)

5. The Dandy (4th Dec 2012 - last physical edition - perfect collectible for every saddo Dandy geek.)

6. Playboy September 1985 (Madonna.)

7. Top Gear Annual 2013.

8. The Viz - any edition. (Ideal reading material for an intimate bonding experience between father and son.)

9. The leaflet inside a packet of condoms. (Any brand.)

10. The rear of a packet of Kellog's Cornflakes.

11. The dating adverts in their local paper.

12. The telephone numbers scrawled inside their local phone box

13. The menu at the local Chinese Takeaway.

14. Playboy December 1992 (Sharon Stone)

15. The lingerie section of their mother's mail order catalogue. 

16. The Sun newspaper. (Available at the local barber's shop.)

Farrah Fawcett in 1977 - the golden haired icon of a generation who had men drooling before lunchtime.
Picture courtesy of Wikipedia. (Public domain.)

17. Their exam results slip. ( Very briefly - before returning their attention to No 21)

18. The washing instructions on the jeans they haven't cleaned for eight weeks and the bedlinen they haven't cleaned for twelve weeks.

19. The product description on a Lamborghini Roadster.

20. The price tag and mileage on a 2002 Vauxhall Corsa.

21. Playboy June 1998 (The Babes of Baywatch.)

22. The Google search results for Keira Knightly.

23. Captain Underpants and the Tyrannical Retaliation of the Turbo Toliet 2000.(Kid's book with universal male appeal.)

24 The alcohol content on a litre bottle of cider.

25. Their sister's diary. (Especially the section on menstruation.)

So there we have it. I think I have more than made up for all that male bias in those books-to-read lists. 

*Sticks tongue out.*

Also, if you want a darn good read by a female author read my novel. It's (almost) a work of genius. And a bargain price. 

The Right to Rant

Now I don't want to blow my own trumpet but I am no ordinary writer. This means a number of things but probably not what you are thinking I think it means. What it means is:

One: I have absolutely no desire to talk about writing on my blog unless it's in my usual disparaging way because, let's face it, some writers are so up their own backsides they probably haven't seen daylight for twenty years and I'd rather not get caught up in those long debates about commas, adjectives or self-publishing v trad publishing. If I feel the need to vent I can go onto another writer's blog or, alternatively. I can make up a pseudonym and comment on culture articles over at The Guardian.

Two: Having thought about the terms "author" and "writer", I think it is stretching it to call myself either. I prefer "entertainer." This means I may yet subject you all to a video of me pole dancing in a Hawaiian skirt whilst reciting Ode to a Grecian Pasta Dish.

Three: It means I can use this blog to rant about any subject I please.

Which today is...

People Who Invade My Personal Space.

Okay, so here comes some examples:

1. The Good Mr T.

Oh wait a minute - I signed that marriage contract. It's legal.

2. Those really irritating people in the swimming pool who, even when the rest of the pool is empty, will come and swim right next to you so you are either:

a) Forced to inhale their surf up your nose and end up having a respiratory attack.

b) Forced to inhale the vast amount of the perfume/deodorant they have sprayed over their head and neck. (For what purpose I don't know - maybe to ward off evil spirits or marauding sharks.)

I have yet to question one of these perfumed swimmers on their motives for spraying a whole bottle of cologne or hairspray over themselves prior to submerging themselves in water but I fully intend to one day - when I stop gagging.

There's always someone where you least expect them...

3. Those even more irritating people who, even though the car park is empty, will squeeze their car so close to your's so that you can't get back into the driving position without climbing over the passenger seat and hauling your ass over the handbrake.

4. Charity collectors who harangue me in the street. Look, I am no meanie. I given to lots of charities.  And I've adopted six stray cats. That proves I am sucker for a sob story. But please do NOT wave your bucket at me when I am weighed down with bags and only have two minutes left before my car parking ticket runs out - I need all of my two minutes to climb in the passenger seat and over the handbrake.

5. People who nudge their knees up to me in the cinema. Please just keep your knees to yourself. Unless you're a seven foot tall basketball player I ain't gonna believe you can't keep your legs together unless you have a very, very large third leg.

So there you have it. Another rant from Mrs T which concludes with the thought that personal space-invaders should probably be shot on sight.

(Not Mr T obviously- that would be counterproductive as he pays the household bills which allow me to indulge in this wanton waste of time.)

I know that was a somewhat dramatic statement. However, if you have ever encountered all four of these space-invader specimens (especially on the same day) you will probably feel the same way.

I really should be in politics.

Bargain Alert, Bargain Alert!

I've just got home from Morrisons petrol station where I saw such an absolute bargain at the checkout that I feel compelled to inform you of it, dear readers, so that you can rush out and get it for yourselves.

This was the wording I saw on display at the checkout:

Customers spending over £15.00 will receive a voucher for three minutes of FREE air.

Vouchers valid only on day of purchase. 

What the *uck? I am sorry to let that slip out - but I've never seen anything so ridiculous in all my life (except this blog of course). I mean, I appreciate the FREE air (no doubt factored into the £15.00) but I can only have it on the day of purchase? Is there a rush on air or what? Is it in short supply? Is Cameron going to start taxing it or what? I am gutted, absolutely gutted, I cannot pick up my FREE air tomorrow. I am going to complain to Morrisons about this - I spent £100 in the store and another £50 in the petrol station and I can only pick up my FREE air today? What sort of customer service is that?

"It doesn't matter that our car has broken down - if we keep pushing we can make it to Morrisons for our FREE air by midnight."
"I love you, Josh. I'm so glad you spotted that FREE air at Morrisons - now we can be together all day!"

In fact Morrisons have not just got it coming to them from me with the FREE air issue as I'm also going to complain to them that their FREE air nearly got me killed. Unfortunately, after I saw that sign I couldn't stop laughing and I laughed all the way home - it is a miracle I didn't kill myself or someone else with my erratic driving. So I'm lodging a complaint with them for making me a danger to myself and to everyone else. 

Ahhhh ... look how happy this young couple are knowing they have got some FREE air. It will making saving up for their first child soooo much easier.

Well now it's time for me to go back to doing something constructive. I'm going to pump up my tyres on my driveway with my own FREE air and I shall, very generously, give my voucher for FREE air to my neighbour with the one leg.

"Quick - come over to Morrisons the air is FREE all day. I'm getting two  bursts!"

Patience, Impatience and a Mission Statement

Now, I am sure you folks out there know how patient we Brits are about standing in queues. I'm not sure where all this patience originates from because personally I'd like to club some of the people standing in front of me in the supermarket queue. You know the ones - you've been standing in the queue for twenty minutes and the person in front of you announces they've forgotten something and heads off to the meat counter and doesn't return for ten minutes. Meanwhile, you're still standing in the queue watching the hands of your watch tick away like an unexploded bomb knowing that you've got pack, pay and repack the groceries into your car and drive across town pick up your kids in less than ten minutes.

Then, of course, when the customer finally returns from their sojourn they forlornly announce that the turkey mince they wanted for their cat wasn't supplied in a small enough quantities.

It is at this point that you grip the stick of French bread your holding so tight it starts to crumble as you imagine clubbing the customer with it before strangling them with a string of sausages.

Hmm...I wonder if they need a new script writer for CSI?

 Episode 24: The Serial Sausage Killer.

Works for me.

I think I need to write more murderous fiction. I need to let out all my pent-up frustrations with supermarkets.

And quite a few other things. My weighing scales for starters. Those things are jinxed. I have to keep buying new ones as there is no way I weigh that much. There's a lot of faulty manufacturing going on out there in the world of bathroom scales and someone needs to sort it out.

Episode 25: The Revenge of Womanhood

Yeah, so murderous writing could be good therapy for me. Instead of verging on my usual mania, I'd probably end up really chilled-out, performing yoga and floating votive candles in the bath. I might even start wearing crochet multi-coloured jumpers.

By the way, do people really float candles in the bath? Or is that just in the movies? Maybe it's what incredibly rich people who live in LA do - I suppose they're the only ones who can afford the plastic surgery if they accidentally set their pubic hair alight.

So anyway, I expect you've all heard the phrase "patience is a virtue."

Some phrases just annoy the hell out of you. "Patience is a virtue" is one of them. I mean, having patience is plain boring isn't it? You know what I am talking about -you're stuck in a traffic jam on the motorway and whilst you exchange empathetic grimaces with the driver in the next lane and glance at your watch trying not to look too concerned, what you really want to do is leap out off your car, march to the front of the queue and rant and rave (and possibly kill) whoever is holding up the traffic.

Except no one will be there, of course. They'll be just a load of cones which seem to have no purpose whatsoever. They'll just be rows and rows of cones which have descended on the motorway like a fleet of Daleks, determined to screw up your life for all eternity.

Episode 26: The Cone Exterminator.

Anyway, what I am getting around to saying is that I think I am getting less patient as I get older. I have feeling this is not how it is meant to be. Aren't people meant to become more patient and wiser as they age? Aren't I supposed to sit patiently for hours, chewing tobacco like one of those Indian Chieftains, before dispensing some profound statement like "Man who is impatient will get speeding fine," or "Woman who makes haste will catch her heel in pavement."

Now unfortunately, having patience is something a writer needs lots of. It takes a long time and a lot of self motivation to write a full-length novel. However, the amount of patience required to write a book is nothing compared to the amount of patience a writer must have when dealing with literary agents.

You see, literary agents are the key to a traditional publishing contract. You can't get anywhere without one unless you hit the seriously big time as a self-published author like E L James did with Fifty Shades or Hugh Howey did will Wool.

Now imagine being stuck on the traffic lights on AMBER for four whole months. Every now and then you rev your engine and think any minute now I'm gonna GO and then just for a moment you think it flicks to green but before you can put the car into gear it flicks back to orange and then finally onto red.

STOP!

Yep, so that's Mrs T's story. A leading UK agent had my full manuscript for four months before finally rejecting it. Some pretty good stuff was said and some other agents have said some pretty good stuff too like "funny," "engaging" and "well written."

Hey, don't blame for getting some good stuff in amongst the rejections. Do you want poor Mrs T to become depressed? A gal's gotta keep her ego up somehow.

So anyway, as yet, no one wants to take a chance on a comedy novel that isn't a romance or by some big cheese author.

What the hell more do they want? I mean isn't "funny", "engaging", "well-written" and "entertaining on all levels" good enough?

Do these agents want my blood spread over their desks or what?

Maybe they want my super seductive 48-year old body as well? Is that it? Maybe I should dress up in a low cut dress and sing "Hello, Mr Agent" all gooey like Marilyn Monroe did for JFK?

What? What? What is they want? 

(Apart from a sure-fire bestseller written by a celebrity obviously.)

Now I could work my way through all the UK agents but I can't be bothered my engine has burnt out with all the revving.

So I've come to the conclusion, you can't always wait for things to happen, you have to make them happen. After all, I could get run-over tomorrow and The Changing Room would never see the light of day and I have worked too hard to get to this stage to let it die with me and the bus.

So I have ordered my ISBN numbers and I now anticipate A Modern Life will be published later this month when the ISBN numbers arrive in my inbox.  A Modern Life will also contain the opening chapter of  The Changing Room which, if you haven't worked it out by now, is a rip-roaring roller-coaster of a comedy. The first chapter will give you a good flavour - but you'll have to pay to read the telephone sex chapters. But they're good. Worth every penny of the extortionate amount I'm going to charge.

Okay, it not going to be that expensive. Just a fair price.

Anyway get ready, folks, Mrs T is finally going into the unknown. Accordingly, I've put together a mission statement. It goes like this:

Publishing: the final frontier. These are the ramblings of the Housewife Extraordinaire. Her seven-year mission: to explore strange new words, to seek out new characters and new genres, to boldly go where no writer has gone before.

Obviously, I spent a lot of time thinking about that mission statement.

Well - at least thirty seconds.

Anyway, you know what that kind of mission statement and ambition does to a woman like me? It does this: 

I like challenges!

I've revisited some old posts and rewritten them for the Readwave reading website as part of their weekly writing challenge competition. If you're new to my blog and haven't explored my old posts, here's an opportunity to read a couple of my posts, re-vamped, re-edited but just as stupid as ever. If you click on the pictures it will take you the stories on Readwave. Don't forget to share if you enjoy them. Thanks!

Me and My Laundry Pile - A Short and Sorry Tale of Ironing Incompetence.

Oh. Dear. God. I am in serious trouble, Readers.

My ironing pile has spiralled out of control. (I'm not even mentioning the dirty washing pile.) I have no idea where to start. I look in the utility room and I just want to die. Or at least get therapy.

I'm not sure if I can afford the therapy but I'm pretty sure that Mr T will wring my neck when he opens his wardrobe tomorrow morning and finds there isn't shirt.

I hate ironing. How do some people run ironing businesses? I would rather swim naked in a large pool of sewerage than iron for a living.

I was not destined to be a housewife. I was destined to be something else. Maybe a taxidermist. At least then I'd have somewhere to stuff my laundry out of sight.

Help.

Designer handbags are for women who are afraid they can't keep their man. Apparently.

This morning I read an article in The Daily Mail (yes, I've caved in and started reading some of that tripe again as it makes me feel intellectually superior ) which reported on an article in The Journal of Consumer Research. Apparently, the report claims that a woman's choice of handbag is a method she uses to tell other women to back off from her man and how much a woman spends on accessories is a sign of how much she feels threatened by the competition.

So my handbag choice, which is usually on the large side, has nothing to do with the fact that I like to carry a lot of stuff? You know - like spare knickers, epipens, shop receipts from 1982, several varieties of painkillers and indigestion tablets (essential for any woman approaching/in the menopause), eye drops, reading glasses, sunglasses, more reading glasses (I like to be sure I can see that tiny writing on food packaging that says 100grammes/1500 calories) and a various assortment of other essential equipment that are necessary for my and my children's existence. At one time this essential equipment used to include a nappy and a dummy but now it's usually a tennis ball and my bank card. Of course, the bank card is really the most important reason I carry a handbag - although I could just carry my purse or perhaps even wear it around my neck on a cord.

Okay, I'm lying. The spare knickers are the main reason I carry a handbag. But I refuse to wear them around my neck. It would just look silly.

Anyhow, if someone could please pass me some cardboard, glue and scissors. Also, some Semtex and brown paper would be appreciated as I'm going to make my own "handbag" and mail it to the report's authors as a reward for writing the biggest load of vacuous tripe I've read for a long, long time. And last week I read the Labour Party Manifesto so we're talking a seriously long time here.

Now, to look at this report in a more serious manner - if it had claimed that women buy bigger handbags so they can club their love rivals to death I might have had given it some some credence. But according to the psychology professor in charge of the research women buy designer handbags as a status sign and that other women infer such accessories means the owners are well provided for and have a "devoted partner."

*chokes on cornflakes*

Yeah, right. So you couldn't just treat yourself to a handbag with money you earnt yourself? Has this professor even heard of the feminist movement? You know, I'm not absolutely sure this professor's qualifications are genuine. Maybe he's trying to hide the fact he's really got a degree in Media studies by making up some crappy stuff about handbags? Because, let's face it, that's got be a helluva lot easier than stem cell research.

I'm going to my Book Club on Friday. I'm going to study my friend's handbags and see who is trying to warn me away from their husbands. However, I'm being honest with you now, Readers - I think most of them would willingly give me their husbands if I wanted them. Free of charge. Probably with a holiday thrown in.

I think I'll get out my best handbag for the Book Club (I'm not actually sure which one that is) and see if any of my lady friends notices. I shall be on my guard just in case I see any of them pull out a little black book and scrub out Mr T's telephone number. 

I shall report back on this vital matter next week. In the meantime, if you're a woman please ignore the stares of any woman looking at your handbag - the truth is they probably just noticed your left the clasp undone and your spare knickers are on show.

As a result of this blog I decided to sort through my old handbags to select one to take to The Book Club. These are my spare knickers found in a handbag from 1991. The spare knickers in my current hand bag are... somewhat larger. And less frilly. Possibly even a little more absorbent.

The Dangers of Female Changing Rooms and Aqua-Aerobics

Right, first thing's first. I do not participate in aqua-aerobics. Aqua-aerobics is a sure sign of impending death through one of the following:

a) age
b) obesity
c) an irate swimmer grabbing you by the head and drowning you in the deep end.

The irate swimmer may or may not be called Mrs Jane Turley.

Ten Gifts for Children to Buy for Father's Day

It's Father's Day tomorrow and I'd like to recommend to all you mothers kiddies out there some gifts for your dad.

Here we go:

1. A four pack of beer. If the shopkeeper won't let you buy it you might just get away with 4 cans of shandy if you're over three and half years old. Alternatively, buy four cans of lemonade, wrap them in special paper and just enjoy that moment of satisfaction when his delight turns to despair.

2. Buy him a copy of Fifty Shades of Grey so he can fantasize that all twenty one year girls talk like Batman, drop their knickers at the mere mention of sex and are even prepared to swallow. Male bliss.

I am inadequate

Do you ever feel inadequate?

Well I do. I've just spent several days trawling through The Writers and Artists Yearbook and checking out the websites of literary agents with a view to making a list of who might be a suitable agent for my book. Sadly, the words "comedy" and "humour" didn't appear that often. In fact, it transpired there was more chance of me emptying my laundry basket (which hasn't been empty since the 1987) than coming across than the words "humour" and "comedy" in the same paragraph, let alone the same sentence.

Anyway, as a result of my search I feel hopelessly inadequate. Like those times you go to the swimming pool wearing one of those costumes with the tummy control panel and just as you're entering the water in a dignified manner some bright young thing dives in wearing a white bikini and splashes water in your face.

So why do I feel inadequate? It's the fact that most of the literary agents had degrees in English from posh places like Cambridge or MAs in creative writing or even a wacky literature course from a top American university. Some agents even had two or three of these suitably impressive qualifications. So by the time I'd worked my way through all their biographies I felt suitably demeaned, like I'd been called before the headteacher to explain why I've only got a BA in History from Bangor University and not a first class degree from some ancient seat of learning.

So I should explain that Bangor University is in Wales. Remote Wales. It's in the middle of a small town surrounded by sheep, hills and some very lonely farmers.( I've no evidence, it's just hearsay of course.) When I tell people I went to Bangor University they usually respond by saying:

"Oh Bangor! I love Ireland, it's such a lovely place. The Irish are such wonderful people."

To which I reply:

"Not Bangor in Ireland, Bangor in Wales. The Bangor where people spray spit over you when they tell you it's only fifty miles to Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch."

To which they reply:

"Oh. Well, never mind, that song Day Trip to Bangor was great!"

To which I reply:

"Yes, wasn't it." (Internal sigh.)

And then there's the fact my degree is in History, not English and that makes me feel inadequate too. My degree (specialising in the Tudor Navy) qualifies me to write a book about... precisely nothing. Except perhaps some rotten planks of wood lying off the coast of Portsmouth harbour.

In fact, the truth is I can remember sod all about History. It was twenty seven years ago. I can vaguely recall there was some talk of some kings and queens, a few battles (one lasted for hundred years which must have been the medieval equivalent to listening to a Justin Bieber song) and a lot of public hangings. Unfortunately, I now can't remember what I cooked for dinner yesterday, so the chance of remembering enough facts to write a historical masterpiece is absolute zero. I have every admiration for Hilary Mantel. God knows how she does it but I'm sure it involves a lot of Valium.

So getting back to my lack of English knowledge, my last experience of English Literature in the formal sense was at A Level which was so hideously boring and analytical I chose history instead at degree level. You see, in the 1980s schools were big in analysing to death certain books - which is why whenever I see a copy of The Grapes of Wrath I get a panic attack.

However, giving up English Literature has now proved a big mistake. Because I can't cozy up to those learned literary agents over tea and biscuits and chat about important stuff like Marlow's metaphors or Voltaire's verbs. The best I could say about Voltaire is that he probably wore big pants.

So you see, Readers, I feel slightly pathetic that I haven't written some great academic or literary masterpiece that I can lure all these highly educated agents into giving me a contract. What chance have I peddling my raucous proletarian comedy? I fear the only hope I'd have in conversation with an agent is if I steer them onto some of my other more glorious achievements, establish a rapport and talk myself into a book deal.

So if I am to succeed in talking my way into a contract I need a topic of conversation that I'm knowledgeable about and at least partially qualified to talk about and which an agent is also likely to have some knowledge. At the moment I'm thinking swimming is a safe option as I have a bronze medal from school in it and most children learn to swim, even bookish ones. I reckon I could easily impress any agent with my knowledge of breast stroke and the fact I can pick up a brick from the bottom of a pool in my PJs. What's more, I'm fairly certain I could talk at length about the moral dilemmas of Michael Phelps peeing in his trunks.

So how does one actually hook an agent? I've no idea. If you've any ideas please do let me know!

Me and My Moustache: Another Embarrassing Story

Yes, this is another of my true-life embarrassing stories. I know there have already been plenty of other humiliating incidents like the lost car, the tights falling down and being caught short and dropping my knickers on the railway track... but these moments still keep on happening. It's probably a curse.

Perhaps someone, somewhere, has cursed me. In fact I'm now so worried about the possibility of a curse I'm beginning to think Tom Cruise is getting me back for all those tasteless jokes I've made about him. They were only small, almost unnoticeable, jokes - that's why I thought he wouldn't really mind. But now I'm not so sure. What if Tom really is some bad-ass tough guy like Jack Reacher?

Okay..maybe not.  It's probably just bad luck: I've just remembered the laws of probability.

So anyway...before Christmas Master Ben was in dire need of a haircut. I wasn't going to put up with anymore feeble excuses and decided to take a firm hand and frogmarched him into the barbers which in the run up to Christmas was pretty busy. Now this is a barbers which is principally a male barber's shop but will occasionally cut women's hair if they're not busy or if you look kinda...masculine but aren't masculine. If you know what I mean.

By the by, I am actually almost too scared now to say words like "lesbian" and "homosexual" these days in case someone takes them out of context and decides to nail me to a lamp post by my nipples.This is one of the reasons why I'm not on Twitter where I might spontaneously say something politically incorrect and be lambasted for all eternity. I'm told Twitter is the place to be for aspiring writers but as my mouth is sometimes bigger than my brain it's probably not in my best long term interests.

So back to my story...

Master Ben and I are awaiting his turn in the barber's chair. It's been a long wait and there are now two barbers, two clients in the chairs and two other clients in the waiting area alongside us.

Master Ben: The women's haircuts are more expensive.

Mrs T (Looking up at the price board) I know - but it's still cheaper than my hairdressers down the road where it costs a lot more.

Master Ben: But why do they charge more for women's haircuts?

Mrs T: Well....ladies' hairdressing saloons are usually a bit more luxurious... and it can take much longer to cut ladies' hair.... and (keeping voice low so the barbers don't overhear) women on the whole are more vain so they tend to get more easily ripped off.

( I know - it was a tad cruel to be mean about my own sex but I figured I might as well break it to Master Ben now - that way he can have the pre-nup in place first time around.  And if he earns a tonne of cash when he's older hopefully he'll still have some spare to support his old mum rather than than several high maintenance ex-wives.)

Master Ben: But your hair is short. Why should you pay more? (pause) Why don't you pretend you're a man?

Mrs T (Momentarily flabbergasted) Umm... because I look like a woman?

Master Ben: But you have a moustache.

(Slight pause as Mrs T contemplates a) suicide b) putting Master Ben up for adoption and c) pretending to be deaf.

Mrs T: Well I do have very dark hair....

 (Mrs T is now as bright as a pickled beetroot but trying desperately to look totally nonchalant )

Master Ben: And you have a beard.

(Mrs T's hand immediately flies to chin to check for giant facial hairs whilst turning a deep puce and feeling the stirrings of a panic attack.)

Mrs T: ********* ****** *********!!!*******!!!!!!

 ( It's not expletives - I just can't actually remember what as I said - I was too distressed.)

Master Ben: But in the sun I can see blonde hairs beneath your lip!

Mrs T: *************Ummmm.......********  Ahhhhhh.....******

 (I said something but again I can't remember what - probably some unintelligible dribble as by this time I was practically an incoherent red mass of blubber on the floor.)

Master Ben: You could wear a baggy jumper and no one could see your....(giggles)...no one could see that you're a woman.

Mrs T: (Still trying to be nonchalant) I still think people could tell I'm a woman.

Master Ben: But no one's going to check.

Mrs T: I suppose so. (Anything to shut the kid up.)

Master Ben: Well they're not going to look down your pants.

Mrs T: Oh look it's the football highlights......

It's a sad fact of life that as women get old they get hairier and as men get old they go bald.  Currently, I'm offering my facial hair for sale on Ebay. It's the  ideal birthday gift for any man considering a hair transplant as it will replicate and get thicker on a daily basis. And - just in case anyone asks - my pubic hair is not for sale. A woman has to have some self respect.

Finally, I just want to confirm that conversation really did happen. Now I know some of  you will now be thinking one of the following:

a) I need a shave

or

b) Master Ben sounds so sweet and innocent he probably didn't really mean to embarrass me in front of six men and push me to the edge of a violent and bloody suicide.

To which I answer:

a) My life would be a lot easier as a man. However, I swear to God I am not as gross as I sound. In fact about 25 years ago I once got my arse pinched twice on the same day. The fact they were both school kids is totally irrelevant.

b) Master Ben is about as sweet and innocent as Dita Von Teese. I saw his face. That boy will go far, believe me.

Ten words and phrases that really annoy me

1. "Transparent"

Transparent has become increasingly popular over the last few years as one of a range of politically correct words. People who use transparent are usually politicians, business execs who have just been on management courses, members of the Human Resources Dept and civil servants specialising in policy and population control. A typical line from one of these people will read "We need to move forward with clarity, vision and transparency."  You can pretty much guarantee that anyone who uses the word transparent is a total bullshitter.

2. "Human Resources"

Formerly known as the Personnel Department. This is the department which used to deal with people but now deals with the mammal species known as homosapien. Human Resources sounds a lot more efficient but as anyone who has ever worked closely with a HR department will know - it doesn't reduce the length of their tea breaks.

2. "We will have a referendum after the next election"

This is a stock line of all the political parties. They are usually very transparent. In the normal sense of the word.

3. "Fifty Shades of... "

Grey, black, blue, sheds, pink, red, white  and so on and so on......

Yep, I am bored stiff of reading about Fifty Shades of Grey and all the spin-offs - although I fancy cashing in on E L James success like everyone else. However, I'm not sure my title of One Coat of Varnish will have much appeal.

4. "Awesome" and "Totally awesome"

Awesome is awesome in its awfulness. Especially if it is totally awesome. People who use the word awesome are usually under 30 and people who use the phrase totally awesome usually under 21. Neither know the word "Thesaurus."

 ( See my post Stop Feckin' Swearing for ironic use of the word awesome.)

5. Headteacher and Houseperson

If you're a woman why deny it? If you're a man why deny it? Does non gender specific terminology really promote equality? One for debate. In the meantime, I've ordered a particularly bland apron.

6. Diversity.

Another word that is grossly overused. Many of those who use the word diversity actually mean the opposite. In fact, they would probably like is us all to turn into amorphous sexual beings preferably with light brown skins, wearing one trouser leg and a half a skirt. And if you could wear some sort of ethnic hat even better. It must only be worn on Tuesdays though. After half past six.

7. Russell Brand. 

Sorry, I think I may have mentioned this before. However, the words Russell Brand are conclusive proof that humour is subjective. The only time Russell Brand made me laugh is when he resigned from the BBC - and that was unintentional.

8. Fart

A particularly uncouth and unpleasant word used by the male of the homosapien species. As a point of interest Fart was never a word used in my family when I was growing up. A polite and proper young lady  is taught three things regarding expletives of the bowels:

a) A fart should be ignored at all times

b) A fart should be ignored at all times unless the circumstances are exceptional and the owner of the fart is unidentifiable - whereupon it is acceptable to blame the dog.

c) A fart should be ignored at all times unless the circumstances are expectational and the owner is identifiable - whereupon he who has committed the crime should say a polite "excuse me" before leaving the room so the occupants can open the windows without further embarrassment for either party.

9. Mankini 

No further explanation is required. If you want to see a mankini in action watch Borat.

This picture of a mankini (courtesy of Wikipedia) is actually the least offensive I could find. If you add a head (on the neck) and some body hair the stomach soon begins to churn. I am worried that the mankini will soon become regulated non-gender specific beachwear. 

10. Whatever

When used in the slang sense (I don't care what you say) it is probably the most annoying word that has ever existed. Silence would be a better alternative.

A Review - In the style of a Daily Mail Femail Feature Writer

When my husband and I first married we used to read a lot. Rory liked hardbacks and I liked trilogies. We both adored hardback trilogies though, especially the fantasy stories with gold, embossed covers. Sometimes we would luxuriously trace our fingers over them, losing ourselves in the scent of the pages and imaginative descriptions. Often I would be transported to another dimension and enjoyed myself so much I would weep, even beg Rory not to stop and turn the lights out so I could read another chapter. I should have known back then, when he began to turn the lights off progressively earlier, that he was losing interest in out hardback trilogies and was secretly reading other books under the covers.

It was after our first child, when I discovered a passion for Thomas the Tank Engine, that I knew for certain; Rory was hiding books. And magazines. Sometimes I found them on top of the wardrobe or underneath the mattress. I’d had my suspicions when Rory had begun to read short stories but I tried hard to keep him interested as deep down I knew I was more beautiful and knowledgeable than other woman. In fact, I knew other woman were jealous of me and especially my rare editions of Pride and Prejudice.

The situation worsened when Rory began working late and, one day, to quell my frustrations at the library being closed for a refit I decided to give the bathroom a thorough clean. It was there that I found it, The Book, wrapped in plastic and hidden in the cistern. I knew for certain then that Rory had betrayed me. He hadn't been working late: he’d been attending late night book signings at Waterstones. Only now it wasn't just short stories, magazines and dog eared copies of Private Eye to destroy my sense of self-worth there was another book, a “special” book. A book that I was now going to tear apart chapter by chapter, page by page, for its casual abuse of our reading material, for its ruthless assault on my senses and for destroying everything Rory and I had once held dear.

I pulled the gaudy red book out of the plastic in abject horror. I opened the cover and read the inscription.

To Rory, Love Joanna.

Silly Olympian Thoughts

Do you remember Mrs N? She's my friend who is also a tennis mum and who ages ago set me this challenge. Now she has set me another challenge - which is to write a paragraph about a picture which was  doing the rounds on Facebook during the Olympics. Take a look:

Break out the champers, Ladies. If your over 50yrs it maybe a long time before you see one this size again.

Impressive.

I can be succinct at times. Not often, I admit. But this is one of them. However, I think Mrs N was imagining more than a one word paragraph so I'll have another bash.

Actually, I should point out that I'm pretty sure this picture wasn't photographed during the 2012 Olympics and was probably taken in Sweden (the clue is in Goteberg on his kit) which is the country where they wear funny hats and clogs and talk in strange voices - except for Abba who sing in high pitched harmony but who also, by strange coincidence, wear Lycra. Anyway, this confusion made identifying the athlete more difficult and despite my inserting some descriptions of the athlete into Google I've come up with nothing - which is not unusual for a woman I suppose but, as you can imagine, incredibly frustrating. Humph.

You see, what happened was after a few hours  minutes Googling I had a horrible thought: I recalled that the internet police are pretty big on that kind of research and as I have a reputation as a Housewife Extraordinaire to maintain I had to quit. In other words, I stopped researching as I didn't want to get banged up. Well not by the the internet police anyway.

Hmm. I have a feeling this article may well be the end of my writing career. Although how it can end before its begun I don't know - it's a bit like premature ejaculation, I suppose.

Right then, in order to complete this task I shall have to study the photo in depth in order to come up with some ideas.

Hmm, nothing is coming easy to me. I need to focus which is difficult for me as many of you will know I have a tendency to go off on obscure tangents. I need to do something to help me focus. Hmm..let me see. Let's try this:

I'm definitely focusing now.

Okay, that helped.  Now I've got a first thought:

Tom Daley, even in those itsy bitsy swim shorts, is still a boy really isn't he?

Okay, so I suspect some of you don't recall Our Tom. He's the Team GB mascot really - small and cute and he won a bronze medal in the diving. Apparently Cheryl Cole fancies him - she obviously didn't eye up some of the other talent because let's face it if there was a choice between a date  between Our Tom or the fella in the picture I know who I'd chose.

Now I know that you ladies, and possibly some gentlemen, across the world (I'm so PC these days it's untrue - *spits into bucket*) will be saying that's unfair to Our Tom and how lovely our English gents are opening doors for you, throwing their coats on the pavement so you don't have to step in puddles and talking in that wonderful aristocratic accent. However, please remember not all Englishmen are like that. Some of them look like this;

The lovely Boris, as always, having a good hair day. It's hard to believe he became Mayor of London.
But, then again, maybe not when you consider Bush Junior became President and Tom Cruise is a big movie star. Life is full of strange quirks. Picture courtesy of someone mad enough to take it - probably on self timer then.

So that was Boris Johnson, the Mayor of London. You may have seen him waving the GB flag at the Olympic closing ceremony. Usually, he's adjusting his underpants.

To be fair to Our Tom he does seem a lovely young gentlemen and is dashingly handsome as well - but he's only 18 years old and at that age  a boy has only just learnt to undo and zip up his flies. And some of them can't even do that properly - well not according to Mr T. And I should know as I've seen the evidence.

Tom in 2008 aged 14. He looks even cuter now.
They'll probably make an Action Man of him - or possibly a Steiff bear.
I'll probably get one then and keep it under my duvet at night.
 Picture courtesy of Wikipedia.

Okay, so back to the main photo. Well I love the green and red Lycra suit but I'm kinda of wondering if the athlete gets uncomfortable how does he adjust himself discreetly? It's not like he's a cricketer with those baggy white trousers where basically you can hold a tea party in them and no one would notice. There just isn't any room for manoeuvre in that Lycra. Perhaps when he runs he gets friction burns?

I've been a bit presumptuous. The athlete may not even be a runner. He might be a triple jumper or more likely - a pole vaulter. I guess it would be handy to carry your own pole around like that. It might even save on excess baggage charges at the airports. Yes, I think he's more likely to be a pole vaulter; I certainly don't think he's a hurdler which could be a little dangerous. Still, I suppose if he clipped the hurdles and crashed to floor and knocked himself out there would be more than enough volunteers to give him the kiss of life.

Okay, so the thoughts are coming faster now but the one that really sticks in my mind is this...

If this is what an anonymous Portuguese athlete looks like fired up before a race - what the hell does Usain Bolt look like when he gets excited?

I think I'm going to pass out just thinking about it.

God, I wish I lived in Jamaica. I wonder if Mr T would fall for the old line about visiting relatives next summer? Probably not. I think he's noticed I'm white. Still, maybe I haven't told him about my old uncle, Winston. We were really close back in the days before Mr T. Me and Old Uncle Winnie did fishing, smoking, reminiscing in rocking chairs, playing the banjo - that kind of stuff.  I hear he's not well and needs to see me before he goes to meet his maker....

So somehow I've managed to get onto Usain Bolt who, as well as being a magnificent specimen of manhood, is also a pretty good runner. A bit like me. I can run really fast when I have to - sometimes that's after I've spent too much time "researching" on the internet, at other times it's when I've had extra hot curry but mostly it's on school sports days - I like to be first in the queue for the barbecue.

I wonder if Usain will run in the next Olympics? I hope so. I've just filled out my application form to become one of those officials who stand behind the runners and look after their baskets of clothes. Finally, I think I have found the perfect job for me as those baskets are just like shopping baskets and I know everything there is to know about shopping baskets. If I became an Olympic official I could get to look after Usain's undies and eye up his arse.

What could be more perfect?

Apart from a trip to Jamaica of course.

On the Morning Watch

Well just to keep you informed I did eventually manage to get some sleep between 5 and 7am this morning. I'm not sure exactly how much but I was sleeping when Mr T woke me up with his usual endearment;


"If you don't get up the boys will miss the bus."


Interpret as you will.


Well the boys did catch their bus. Master Jacob had no school tie though and neither of them had brushed their teeth. Hmm. I hope my dentist isn't reading this; he gives me a really hard time if they're not brushing properly. It's like the Spanish Inquisition at my dentist. How many times are you brushing? Left to right? Gums? Backs of teeth? Electric? Blah, blah, blah, blah. It's enough to shock any decent mother into lying.


"I'm afraid bad teeth is genetic, Mr Dentist. I blame their father."


So anyway, I did actually get some sleep and because I was woken up suddenly I can also remember what I was dreaming about...


So I dreamt I was a secret agent during World War Two. (Obviously, the contents of my previous blog which mentioned secret agents had been instrumental in this turn of events.) In my role of secret agent I was to be parachuted into German occupied France.


With my horse.


Yes, even in my dream I thought it was odd. And I have to say I was bit worried that our shared parachute would break and we would both plummet to our deaths.


So I suspect you're imagining I was to ride the horse in Lawrence of Arabia style across the French Alps randomly taking out any passing Germans with my slingshot. Not so my friends. It was a far more cunning plan. I was to ride the horse to my destination (somewhere in France obviously) where I was to slaughter the poor animal. ( I watched Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall take his lambs to the abattoir last night - I looked away but it obviously still had an impact on me.) Now if watching Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall isn't gruesome enough in my dream my instructions were to turn my unfortunate horse's carcass into sausages.


I'm not sure why I was to make sausages- but I am assuming it was part of some cunning plan to poison the Fuhrer. Now the reason I don't know for sure is that the dream never got as far as that I was still in training and had to undergo some more essential exercises which, somehow or other, involved having sex with Hugh Grant. Now, if you remember I almost had a close encounter with Hugh Grant few weeks ago but Mr T's alarm clock woke me up just as it was getting interesting. Anyhow, the good news that this time I managed to squeeze in most of the encounter before (regrettably) switching back to the dilemma of how to safely share a parachute with a horse.


It's a strange world I live in. And dream in.


Now I've no idea why I should suddenly start dreaming about Hugh Grant. I don't even fancy him. Well not much. Maybe a little because he's funny and I like funny men. It could be because he's been in the news lately in relation to the News of the World telephone hacking scandal and even more recently fathering a child. Anyway, I'm not complaining. I'd like more dreams like that. Yes indeedy! The only problem was that when Mr T woke me up he was a bit taken aback when I pulled out a cigarette and said "How was it for you, Darling?" Fortunately,  I quickly realised my slip up so I leapt out of the bed (which would distract any man I can tell you) and screamed at the boys "Hurry up the bus goes in ten minutes!"


So there you go. I'm not sure what that dream was about really. I don't think it was anything deep and meaningful like psychologists would have you believe. However, if you want to interpret it for me please feel free to do so. (No need to interpret the Hugh Grant bit - I've worked that bit out already.)

On The Night Watch

Three small sherry sized glasses of wine and 2 cups of non decaff and I can't sleep. That'll teach me.  Who knows what I'd be like if I did drugs if this is what mere wine and coffee does to me. I can't sleep at all. Nope, not a wink. I can't even imagine what taking some LSD or such like would do to me - forget the hallucinations I'd probably have enough energy to swim the channel and back. I know that sounds impossible but if David Walliams can swim the Thames whilst he has tummy trouble I reckon I can swim the channel with insomnia.

You know, I keep wondering what the inside of David's wet suit looked like while he was swimming. I'm not having pleasant thoughts. 

Maybe he wore a diaper?

Still, at least my kids don't suffer from insomnia. If they did I reckon they'd be pretty shocked to discover on Christmas Eve that Santa is a cross dresser and looks like a middle aged women with an addiction to cotton wool.

I should be in the secret service. If I was captured by the enemy and they tried that old trick of not letting letting you sleep in order to wheedle out vital information I'd be able to laugh in their faces. In fact whilst my interrogators were asleep I'd simply undo the locks with metal keys fashioned from my bra clasps and walk free.

James Bond overcomplicates things don't you think? All that thuggery when he needs to get out of a tricky situation. Maybe he should just wear a bra.

Hmm. Could be kinda kinky. Daniel Craig in Elle MacPherson's latest underwear collection. There's definitely a feature film in that. I nominate myself as script writer.

I've made myself a milky drink. That's supposed to work with insomnia isn't it? It doesn't usually for me but well I might as well try the simple methods before I bang myself over the head with the rolling pin. The rolling pin method does work but I feel bad for Mr T when I tell him he's been having nightmares and clubbing seals in his sleep. 

Well not that bad obviously. Amused maybe.  

Well nearly 5am. Time to hit the sack and see if sleep comes. I have to get up at 7am so I need to take emergency action.

I'd better go and find the rolling pin.