A Village Affair

Okay, if you haven’t worked it out by now; I live in a village. It’s very small but you know there’s such scandalous goings on here it would make a Joanna Trollope book look positively staid. You know the other day I heard some terribly exciting news… The roses were still in bloom at no 43! Can you believe it? But shockingly, I also heard Mrs Cartwright hadn’t collected the milk from her doorstep until 11am. Outrageous! I shall have to lodge a complaint with the parish council… fancy leaving the milk outside to be harassed by vicious scavenging Blue Tits. Before long we could be overtaken by a squadron of suicidal Tits with little white bands around their heads emblazoned with The Rising Sun……

And as for those starlings I can barely chuck the bread out on the lawn before they’re swooping on me like a scene from Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds. I’m ducking and diving just to hang out the washing and if I don’t remember to give them an early morning feed the bastards crap all over my sheets. I’ve been practising taking them out with Master Benedict’s sling shot and marbles but so far I’ve yet to succeed….

Okay, so maybe the starlings have got the better of me of late but I’m not one to take things lying down so come winter I’ll get my own back and when they’re really, really hungry I’ll throw my Christmas Cake out for them……(Evil laugh)……

Did I mention that my friend Mrs C who lives 3 doors down has chickens? Lord, what a racket they make. Clucking and pecking all day long, waking me up at dawn with their cock a doodle doodling… Anyone would think they had nothing better to do but lay eggs. Oh yes, they don’t. Oh well.

But being an all seeing and all knowing mother, I happen to know that the clucking is actually the hens' secret poultry code. Frankly, I think they've watched Colditz and The Great Escape far too often. (Personally, I think Mrs C has been a little extravagent installing a plasma TV in their hutch but hey, it's not my money.) I'm sure Hattie, the ring leader, has got a crush on Steve McQueen too because I keep seeing her astride that toy motorbike in the garden. Actually, I happen to know they're planning to escape from Mrs C’s house before she stuffs and roasts them and move into Master Benedict’s bedroom. How do I know this? Well, I’ve heard Master Benedict plotting with them. Yes, I‘ve seen him down at Mrs C’s stroking their feathers, polishing their chicken shed and whispering sweet nothings in their ears…..

But I don’t want chickens in Master Benedict’s bedroom; it’s bad enough having a box of old fish bones, a snake skin, a wasp nest, a selection of old fossils, a prehistoric horse’s tooth, a bird’s skull, a robin’s nest, an assortment of egg shells and a sheep’s horn. Fortunately, he hasn’t yet brought in mummified hedgehog he found behind the garden shed. At the moment it’s still decorating the front doorstep.

Boy, the postman just loves us. Mind you, I don’t think he’s ever felt the same way since that package arrived from The Netherlands.

Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that cleaning Master Benedict’s bedroom is not an easy task. In fact sometimes it can be rather unpleasant. And I haven’t even mentioned his pants yet. But let me tell you - he takes after Master Samuel.

Anyhow, I have a plan to foil the chickens’ cunning escape and to cease their clucking once and for all. I plan to nip round to Mrs C’s at dusk, open their hutch and then sneak silently away….

From behind the garden fence, I will make the secret cluck-cluck noise that Master Benedict has instructed them will be the time to break free ….

And out they will come, waddling down the path like....chickens…. to their freedom…..

Only I happen to know that at dusk my friend, Ferdy Fox, comes a visiting………..

Yeah, I guess I’m bored at the moment. There’s nothing exciting going on around here. It’s dead. So are half the residents – well over 70 - Doesn’t that count as the same thing? I guess I’ll have to wait till the local Member of Parliament comes around on his mobile surgery before I can stir up any trouble.

Hmm… what can I complain about next time?

I know, those damned blackbirds that keep roosting in the eaves….

Oh, but wait a minute last weekend there WAS an incredibly exciting event held at The Village Hall….

The Women’s Institute Annual Harvest Festival!

Well, being a bit slack on the preparation side I only picked up the entrance leaflet about 4 days beforehand and immediately regretted not having made any raspberry jam to enter in the Preserves Category. However, I did think about entering my mother but then I thought maybe people would think I was being unkind….

I looked through the other categories and at what, if anything, I might be able to enter. Here were some of the possibilities;

1) Make a cross stitch picture (No chance)

2) Bake a Pineapple Upside Down Pudding (Well, the upside down bit I knew I could do… but the sponge cake???)

3) Knit a tank top. (Are you kidding? I’d rather die.)

4) Create a flower arrangement. (Well yes, that was a possibility but my idea of flower arranging is putting the bouquet still in the cling wrap straight into the vase. Not ideal really.)

5) Arrange a selection of your own home grown runner beans on a plate. (Hmm… I must say the prospect of cheating on this was tantalising. But you know I like to win fair and square…well sort of .. except for cards maybe.... )

6) Make a knitted teddy bear.( Oh joy… like I need anymore teddy bears in our house. I can’t give them away fast enough before another one arrives… so just in case any of my relatives are reading this…. NO MORE TEDDY BEARS. EVER. JUST SEND THE CASH PLEASE.)

I can’t remember the other categories now but there was a one that I thought Mrs A might attempt which was to make a jug cover. So I duly ran down to her house and posted the form through her door. The next day I received this succinct email;

“I have thought long and hard about my WI entry and now have finalised my concept for the jug cover (any medium). I propose entering in two media - one entry will be a jug covered with a saucer. The other will be covered in Clingfilm.”

Um. That’s Mrs A for you. Practical to the last.

Anyhow eventually, I entered in 2 categories. Firstly, I entered in the writing category which for once was entitled something vague; a poem entitled Memories. Anyway, I cheated; I just changed the title of that poem I wrote the other week and submitted it. Unfortunately, it didn’t even get into the top three! Well, I was mortified that my masterpiece had been ignored. Then I studied the opposition’s poems and I realised mine was fatally flawed because;

It didn’t contain any couplets
Like piglets or curly ringlets
Which surely is a heinous crime
When a poem should always rhyme!

(Blimey that was Baaaaad)

Also, my poem didn’t contain any of the following words; child/children/ playground/swing/mother/father/ sweet/ bikes and …supermarket trolley.

Yep, I must say even I was surprised at “supermarket trolley”…just can’t think of why I didn’t think of that myself…. Memories of a Supermarket Trolley….Has a certain ring about it.

Anyway, I’m not bitter. Well not much anyway.

Now my other entrance was a photograph in the My Favourite Face Category and I entered this;

Again, Master Benedict’s picture didn’t even come in the top three. Humph. Look what’s wrong with my child?? Isn’t he adorable?

Okay, he’s actually incredibly annoying at times, a bit of a rascal and is passionate in a rather unhealthy manner about chickens but he’s still my son and I love him. So I’m mortally offended… so next year I’m gonna boycott the WI festival.

Unless, of course there’s writing category entitled;

“Bored Housewives.”

Then of course, I might just have a chance of winning.

Copyright Jane Turley 2008

Ps Mrs T now has a column on the BBC; you can check out my first introductory piece by clicking onto the link on the right hand side of my blog. Hope you like it!

It's nearly Christmas...

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, itsy bitsy 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 detonation device 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……


Copyright Jane Turley 2008

My 51st post! (Brace yourselves; it could be worse than normal!)

Before the final (and rather late) instalment to my quest for The Blarney Stone, I just like to say…

Cripes, my last post was my fiftieth and I’m going to make a whole post out of my achieving the grand number of 50 posts! Kinda cheating don’t you think? But who cares, it’s more fun than cleaning the fat out of grill pan, de-scaling the kettle and certainly the hideous task of scrubbing Master Sam’s underpants.

However, whilst blogging is fun it is not as good as throwing darts at a picture of Tom Cruise which is extremely satisfying. My accuracy has certainly improved since I started using Mr Cruise as a target; I’m not sure why… maybe it’s because I haven’t felt the same way about Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs since I saw Top Gun. I did briefly try substituting a picture of George Clooney but my accuracy diminished overnight. In fact, for some peculiar reason, I found myself strangely attracted to George’s sexy, stimulating, tanned, well-hot body and polishing it lovingly with my duster. Hmm…strange. I mean it’s not as if Mr Cruise is unattractive it’s just next to George his weapon doesn’t look so Top Gun. In fact it looks rather like a Mission Impossible. Yeah, that’s what happens when you look at a Vanilla Sky and think that A Few Good Men from Far and Away with All The Right Moves can stop The War of the Worlds with a lethal Cocktail the Colour of Money and pretending you’re the Last Samurai. Here’s a tip Tom… GET OVER IT MAN. (Not Katie obviously; you’re way too short. Yeah, you know exactly what I mean Readers… but I’m not mentioning it for fear of persecution by strange aliens with short legs and funny noses.)

Boy, John Travolta gets everywhere doesn’t he? Still naming a film after yourself is a bit much isn’t it? Honestly, you would have thought someone would have told him that “Get Shorty” wasn’t a good idea.

Did you hear there’s a new film out soon called “Get Mrs T”? Apparently, a group of cerebrally under developed mammals but with short, powerful legs chase down a superior being in the hope of seeking justice. Unfortunately, they lose. Something to do with barbecue tongs and pickle forks. Watch out for it; it’s coming soon to a cinema near you soon.

Sorry about that folks. Just an late night rant. However, in a rare moment of affection ( The kids are back at school tomorrow I'm feeling generous) for Mr Cruise I’d just like to say he was great in Born on the Fourth of July. Watch it. The fireworks up his derriere were just great. (Just kidding.)

By the way here’s a Mrs T tip for cleaning the grill pan… Leave the dish on the floor by the cat bowl and by morning it will be sparkling like a diamond! (What’s more for once you’ll actually take pleasure in seeing the cat throw up - knowing it has nothing to do with those ghastly hairballs it usually deposits on your slippers.)

Oh, here’s also a tip for de-scaling the kettle. Don’t waste your money on all those special lime scale removers; just turn the kettle upside down and bash it with a sledge hammer. (Not only will this save you money but all your friends will complement you on your taste in fashionable kitchen accessories.)

I suppose I might as well give you a tip for removing stains from men’s underpants.

OK, I can’t think of one. So I suggest you just get a brown crayon and fill in the white spaces.

Well, I did say this might be a little daft, didn’t I?

Now what was I talking about before I got onto little Tommy and men’s underpants? Oh yes… I started blogging in Dec 2007; it was sort of a new year’s resolution. (Well actually Mr T was away with his parents, I was tipsy and I had nothing better to do.) Anyhow, despite the ad hoc manner of my posting I’m really pleased I’ve managed to keep it up so far. But you know we women have many whims (well I do) so any time now I may give it up and take up ballet dancing instead. (Hmm… those tablets the doctor gave me don’t appear to be helping me with the delusions….)

Now I know probably all of you out there have done more than a mere 50 posts. In fact I know for certain Mr Intrepid has recently passed his 100th, Master Sy has also passed his 100th and Usha has passed her 500th!! And I’m sure all you other bloggers out there have done equally well too. But nevertheless I’m is pretty pleased with my paltry 50 and I’ve had such a fun time writing and reading blogs and making some wonderful friends all over the world. So a big Thank You to everyone that has contributed to making the experience so enjoyable and that includes all you folks who just read my silly musings.

Well this seems a good as time to say an extra Big Thank You to Tamera over at Simplifying Life and Love for giving me this award recently and also nominating me for Best Humour Blog 2008.( Okay, I 've just checked my votes..what only 6?? What's wrong with you all?? I've also just realised Tamera has also nominated me in two other categories. Oh dear, I'm pathetic and I didn't even realise. Thanks Tamera!) Now I know it says “was” on that humour widget on the top of my page but actually the competition is still running so perhaps it should read “is” rather than implying the competition is done and dusted.


I know, I know, I'm no saint and a little bit lapse on the grammar stakes myself from time to time.( Especially when I’m in my hip hop trendy mum mode and I’ve got my baggy jeans on that fall down between me legs, me ripped tee-shirt and I’m gettin’ down in the der groove.) But bad grammar really does annoy me. So read this. Anyway, being the pain in the arse that I am, I decided to email the administrators to point that out this rather major technicality with the following sophisticated and charming email;

“I have been nominated for the 2008 best humour award. So I "claimed" the blog and got the widget thingy.... but is it the right widget thingy 'cos it is in the past tense? No doubt I have done something wrong, but would you mind explaining as I'm just a housewife and a slightly deranged one at that and technical stuff is beyond me. However, dishcloths are a speciality; I will happily instruct you how to use them in exchange for the appropriate information. Alternatively, just the information will do.”

Believe me, this was pretty tame compared to my draft email which contain the words “idiots”, “useless”, “up”, “ balls” and “Bushism.” Yes, that is “Bushism” as in the man (well that is questionable) who lives in Washington DC. However, I ‘ve worked out if I play the "Stupid Woman With No Brains At All" card, it works a lot better than looking like I have more than two brain cells. Take note ladies; this works especially well with garage mechanics, plumbers, electricians and carpet fitters.

Unfortunately, it does not work well with husbands. Damn.

Anyhow, I received this reply below from the Customer Love Department . Yes, that’s correct! The Customer Love Department!( I also received a packet of condoms but that’s a much longer story which I don’t feel is entirely suitable……)

“Great observation the badge does say 'was' and can be construed as past tense. It should be 'is' I’m curious myself why that is. You have done nothing wrong and are on your way to hopefully gather more votes for your blog even if it says 'was'. The badge will still gather voters to vote on your blog and that is it's purpose. I'll have our marketing team consider changing the wording for the badges. In just a few weeks there is going to be a redesign of this site and I'll try to get that thrown into the new stuff we have planned. Good luck with the voting!”

Umm… this was back in February. Need I say more? Except perhaps that I should have written…

“This is back in February.”

Oh dear, that rather pathetic joke rather tickled my fancy. If only Mr Clooney would tickle my fancy too - then I’d be one well happy middle-aged woman. Hmm, I can just imagine the gossip at parent’s evening too. Ho, ho ho.

God, this fantasy world I live in is bloody marvellous…….

Anyhow, if you want to, you can still vote. And I’m not going to beg or grovel like Master Sy. I’ll just say… have you seen that film Predator? You know - the one where the invisible alien hunts down all of an American Special Forces team and murders them one by one? No? Might be a good idea before you make any decision.

I also suggest that Barack Obama uses the Predator technique. Well, why not? Mr McCain seems to be playing a little unfairly. Hmm… perhaps at this juncture I should point out that McCain is a brand of chips in the UK. I find them a tad bit greasy myself. When they’re like that they just don’t taste that good. Know what I mean? But Black Pudding… that’s a different story altogether…

Now back to that award form Tamera. As a recipient this is what I have to do;

1. Select 5 blogs that I believe deserve this award for their creativity, design, and interesting material or for contributing to the blogging community. (So that excludes just great ogling sites then? Hmm..shame. I’m rather partial to Pierce Brosnan’s website.)
2. Each award has to have the name of the author and also a link to his or her blog .
3. Each recipient must then show the award and put the name and link to the blog that has given her or him the award itself.
4. The award-winner and the one who has given the prize has to show the origin of the award which is http://arteypico.blogspot.com/

Hmm… well this is very tricky indeed. Now a while back I gave a mention to some of my favourite blogs so I’m not going to deliberate too much because I hope you all know that I appreciate all the blogs I read in so many different ways. Therefore, I am going to use this opportunity to mention some recent finds and one or two old favourites.

So here goes….and in no particular order…

No 1 Goes to Marie over at Nourish whose blog is a fairly recent find. Marie is my kind of woman. She struggles with bad health caused by MS and has a particularly bad time this last year after losing her job but all the time I have been reading her blog she has faced her adversities with humour and courage. She makes me laugh out loud! And as for her parents….Good Lord it is a wonder the Marie is even sane. I am also deadly jealous of her because she only dreams about facial hair whereas I have a small beard.

No 2 Goes to Paul Burman. Paul was the subject of my last post and if you’ve not bought his book yet, The Snowing and Greening of Thomas Passmore why haven’t you??! Do you really want Mrs T to come after you with a large pitchfork and her feather duster? ( Btw…I will happily accept indecent replies from any George Clooney look a likes.) Now Paul usually writes about books, but you can also find him At the View From Here with other literary musings. Paul is also an ace commentator who indulges my rather silly side. So hurrah for Paul!

No 3 Goes to Usha with her blog called Ageless Bonding. Damn it, that is such a good title, I wish I’d thought it up! Usha has been blogging a long, long time and has a host of readers. And do you know why? Because quite simply, it is one of the best blogs in the blogosphere. No fancy gimmicks, just good old fashioned, thought provoking posts that exhibit thoughtfulness, humour and intelligence. Sometimes her blogs even tempt me to write something serious… and then I wake up.

No 4 Goes to Mewie. Now some of you may remember that Mewie closed his blog Sharing Life on Life sometime ago to concentrate on his novel but now he has restarted it under the title M.K Louie, Sharing Life on Life. Here’s what I like about Mewie. He’s intelligent, thoughtful, kind, and humorous and genuinely cares about other people and that transcends in everything he writes. Mewie is a Christian too. And I just like to say I’ve read some gibberish worse than my own (and let’s face it that’s pretty hard) about religion on the internet and I have no interest in fanatics of any sort of any religion. I also believe that all religions are inherently good; it is what fallible people do with them that make them into something they are not. Mewie represents everything to me that is good about religion and Christianity. He has the capacity to share his life and his love that many people do not have. More People should be reading his blog.

No 5. Goes to Mark Stoneman for reawakening my brain. Need I say more? That’s an important role Mark. So keep up the good work. Cos one day I plan to write a thesis that will blow the minds of the academic world apart and reduce them to begging for my next piece of intellectual genius and in the meantime I need to practice using my grey cells.

Just in case you’re interested the title will be;

“How to the get the best out of your Brussel Sprouts.”

Right I’m nearly done now. Just a last minute thanks to Usha for giving me this award earlier this week.




I’m going to pass this one on at a later date as I’m exhausted now and there is a rather large bar of chocolate that looks very, very tempting on the sideboard………

Blimey, after all those honours my head is as big as my bottom. Hang, on let me just check...... Ummm.

On second thoughts... (Mrs T glances at her arse) Nope. That butt is still way, way, too big to warrant such a comparison.

See you all soon and take care,

Mrs T.

Ps..I've just remembered that Master Sy wrote one post - so this really is my 50th post! Hmm that's almost as spooky as the time I went to school with my slippers on. Yeah Ok, that wasn't spooky, it was just plain stupid. Ah well

Pps I've just been reading the BBC news headlines which says Bush has given his backing to John McCain. So well done Obama for his forthcoming victory ! Persuading Bush to support McCain was a superb political move. No one in their right mingd would vote for McCain now he's received the Kiss of Stupidity! Oh and I really think you all ought to read this by Onedia

Copyright Jane Turley 2008

Just for Paul

This is a very special post and especially for Paul Burman. As many of you know, Paul has been a very welcome and thoroughly entertaining new commentator on my blog in recent months. Paul has been writing for years but on August 30th his very first book entitled The Snowing and Greening of Thomas Passmore was published. I've spent a lot of time ribbing him about that title but actually I think it's very lyrical and I very much look forward to reading his book.

Yesterday, I went to that veritable place that purports to be Milton Keynes, a major shopping centre in the UK. As usual, I'd left all my school shopping to the last moment - 'cos that's just the way I am! In addition, I love the challenge of whipping away that last pair of size 7-8 trousers from under someone else's nose, the search for shirts with some sleeves that fit and don't make your child look like Mr Elastic or a rucksack that has pockets where you can stand up a drinks container without it leaking all over the exercise books. Oh the sheer unadulterated joy! My goodness it's almost as much fun as Christmas Shopping! (Hmm.. I think I'd better devote a whole blog to that subject nearer the time...)

Anyway, whilst I was going all red faced, sweaty and cursing the length of the queue in Clark's shoe shop I saw this;

Then I saw this;
And then I focused on this;

Well, I can't tell you how much pleasure it gave me to see Paul's book sitting on the shelf. As an aspiring writer myself I know how much effort, frustration and love are wrapped up in making a dream come true. I was almost as pleased as if I written the book myself! Anyhow, after scrambling around in my handbag (a hideous task) I managed to find enough pennies to buy two copies; one for me and one for Mrs A, my friend, neighbour and member of The Book Club. I suspect Paul may be sweating now he knows Mrs A of the acerbic wit has a copy but you know somehow I still think he'll be pleased!

A thought also crossed my mind... Paul is very fortunate to have the surname like Burman because his book is sitting just below all those Dan Brown titles! And Paul's book has a much better cover... Hmmm maybe I should change my name to J A Towelling? Somehow, it doesn't have the same ring about about it though. Kinda reminds me of towels.. and dishclothes...

Well, I 've opened my book at page 1. That's unusual for me because I usually go for the pictures first... but I'm looking forward to reading this book and somehow I think I'm going to like it....

Well done Paul. May you reap all the rewards you so richly deserve.

A wet day in Ireland (again)

Hmm..where did I leave off? Oh yes, it was raining and my lips were rubbery. (Damn that Westlife poster!)

Well after visiting the Giant's Causeway and failing to find the Blarney Stone I sank into a severe depression until, by chance, I met a scantily dressed young man upon a slippery sidewalk who said to me in dark, mysterious tones;

"Mistress Turley, you must climb these mountainous steps and fight your way past the young Guardians until you reach a dark tunnel of hideous proportions. You must conquer your fears and enter it. You will be plunged into darkness and horror and you will see your life flash before you. But at the journey's end you will find a mystical pool where The Blarney Stone lies bathed in a wondrous green light!"

Following his advice, I trudged wearily up numerous flights of wet, slimy steps which had been smoothed by the passage of time. On my journey I encountered the scathing looks of pimply youths who nudged and winked and poured scorn upon me; what was a middle aged woman doing here amongst The Guardians? I met them with my steely stare! When they nudged me, I pushed back. When they jabbed; I pinched them. Mrs T, Housewife Extraordinaire, is not afraid to meet her fears!

(Unless it's a moth when I am overcome by sheer horror and can run faster than an Olympic athlete. Hmm - better make that a British Olympic athlete - I know my limitations.)

At last I came to the tunnel entrance. It was small and claustrophobic; an eerie red light flashed in it's depths. I sat cautiously down and then, believing my search may soon be over, I propelled myself (using the full force of my bottom which is quite considerable) at a tremendous speed down the tunnel. I screamed and screamed....


Ahhhhhhhhh......Ahhhhhhhhhhhh............HEEEEEEEELP!!!!!!!


My breath was torn from my body as it flew at speeds of over 40mph through winding passages covered with cold dripping water like ancient tombs of the dead until finally I could see daylight... I emerged breathless and battered, dizzy and dazed, into a cascade of water where I whirled around and around until, at last, I plunged into a deep emerald pool.

But there was no Blarney Stone to be found! I could see nothing; I searched and searched; my hands reached out exploring the cool depths. But there was nothing... all I could hear was the wicked, evil laughter of a distant Guardian; I had been tricked!

I jumped from the pool liked a delicate nimble frog. (Well...almost.) Where was that Guardian? I would poke him with my chopsticks, batter him with my rolling pin and then subject him to a week's worth of my cooking. A liar must be punished and punished severely! But alas, he was not to be found!

I looked around me and this is what I saw;



I had been fooled! My quest for The Blarney Stone would have to continue....

Copyright Jane Turley 2008

Ps - It was the blue tunnel; the green one was for the feint-hearted!

A bit more blarney and a lot of rain

Rain, rain, rain. Don't you just love it? Yes, yes I know it's essential for growing crops and maybe in 20 years time I'll be praying for it to rain because the land will be arid and desolate but why, why, WHY does it always have to rain when I'm on holiday?

Yep, I've been doing a good impression of a drowned rat here in Ireland which has been hampering my quest for The Blarney Stone somewhat. Only yesterday, I was wading down a stream towards an interesting boulder when the current surged and I ended up with my bottom wedged in a nearby bridge. It was most undignified. However, the local beavers were extremely pleased; I had to pay them off with an offer of some subsidised dental work otherwise they were going to make me stay there indefinitely. Huh, what beavers will turn to just to get some new gnashers.

Well, we arrived in Ireland safely. This was pleasing as during the journey I had to contemplate how the hell I was going to save my family should the ferry capsize. This was not a pleasant thought as neither Mr T or Master Benedict can swim. Master Jacob swims in a politically correct fashion, ( i.e he has received loads of certificates; "Best putting your toe in" " Best impression of someone who can swim whilst actually putting his feet on the bottom" and "10 metres breaststroke" (with the aid of a dinghy and a rubber duck.) Has anyone else noticed that these days school children get certificates for just turning up at school and for every little thing without having achieved anything concrete at all.? Maybe it's just a British politically correct phenomenon but I'm thinking of issuing some certificates/awards myself for the following people;

Gordon Brown; The Bronze Award for Services to the British Economy. Yep, I suggest Mr Brown is embalmed and placed in a bronze sarcophagus and exhibited in the Natural History Museum alongside some other old dinosaurs. Bronze, I feel, is a most suitable metal as that's all I have left in my purse after I've paid Mr Brown my taxes.

Cherie Blair; The Unreal Smile Award. Mrs Blair will be cast in wax and exhibited in the London Dungeons as an example of a 21st century horror story alongside Freddie Kruger and George Bush.

Posh Spice; The Matchstick Award. Victoria Beckham will be photographed with a red hat on her head and displayed in the foyer of The London School of Fashion alongside photographs of Marilyn Monroe and Jane Russell. There will be one of those little information cards reading "Twentieth Century Icons - which one can you start a fire with?" Answer; "The one that isn't dead yet." (Although some people would believe that she already is.)

I could go on... but I was supposed to be talking about Ireland. Well yes... anyway... we got there safely and fortunately I didn't have to swim the seas with all my family on my back. (With the exception of Master Sam who being able to swim moderately well I would just have to tow using the elastic on my knickers.) Anyhow, we arrived in Dublin, Southern Ireland and then proceeded to make our way to destination in Northern Ireland. I knew I was in Northern Ireland when I saw this;


Okay, I know it's good to be patriotic... but come on what happened to good old King Edward's?

And so my quest for the Blarney Stone began. Where shall I go first, I thought? Why, one must go, as explorers have gone before (dressed in a silly hat and the wrong shoes) to The Mountains! And so I arrived at the Mourne Mountains, where I took this photograph viewed from the nearby beach at Newcastle.

And just for Eddie, here's something I remembered whilst I was looking up at this beautiful sight written by the songwriter/poet William Percy French;

Oh Mary this London's a wonderful sight
With people here workin' by day and by night
They don't sow potatoes, nor barley, nor wheat
But there's gangs of them diggin' for gold in the street
At least when I asked them that's what I was told
So I just took a hand at this diggin' for gold
But for all that I found there I might as well be
Where the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.

I believe that when writin' a wish you expressed
As to how the fine ladies in London were dressed
Well if you'll believe me, when asked to a ball
They don't wear no top to their dresses at all
Oh I've seen them meself and you could not in truth
Say that if they were bound for a ball or a bath
Don't be startin' them fashions, now Mary McCree
Where the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.

There's beautiful girls here, oh never you mind
With beautiful shapes nature never designed
And lovely complexions all roses and cream
But let me remark with regard to the same
That if that those roses you venture to sip
The colors might all come away on your lip
So I'll wait for the wild rose that's waitin' for me
In the place where the dark Mourne sweeps down to the sea.

But did I find The Blarney stone? NO! Humph... and t'was hard work huffing and puffin up at those mountains with a child on my back and a year's supply of loo roll in my knapsack. (One should always be equipped for lavatorial emergencies - I learnt this after being caught short in a remote field in Scotland. Also, I've never felt the same way since about dropping my knickers anywhere that isn't concealed by dense shrubbery - especially after being eyed by a herd of cows and (regrettably) the passing 8.15 to Glasgow Central.)

So I travelled through the rich green mountains to where it was rumoured that I might find many more stones and in doing so I stumbled across the fascinating sight below. At the same time as being in total admiration of nature I could not help but imagine the branches of the trees as the calloused and spindly fingers of ancient witches;

Soon I came to the Giant's Causeway, a world heritage site, which has a truly remarkable display of volcanic stones that have formed into columns; in many places they look like a series of steps and it is almost impossible to imagine that they have been formed naturally. Old Irish folklore says they are a feat of a giant, Finn MacCool. Close your eyes, listen to the waves crashing upon the rocks and it is quite easy to imagine an angry giant stomping upon the stones, his nose raised to the air, his voice booming out across the sea "Fie, fi, foe fum I smell the blood of an Irishman! Be alive or be he dead, I'll grind his bones to make my bread!"

It is rumoured that one of the stones has only 3 sides; could this be The Blarney Stone? I searched high and low but I could not see it. So not to miss the opportunity I decided I must kiss every single stone. Boy, were there a lot of stones! By the time I went home, my lips were like jelly and wobbling like a baboon's bottom. In order to numb the pain I had to douse them with some strong Irish Whisky. Unfortunately, alcohol always badly affects my taste in music and I ended up listening to Irish boy band Westlife. Oh well, might as well listen to one of their tracks...

Hmm..that wasn't so bad.. time to get out my PC and dance around the living room again...( Blimey, the whisky's a good 'un....)

Copyright Jane Turley 2008

Ps It's raining. Again.

The Quest Begins

Ireland, The Final Frontier. These are the voyages of The Housewife Extraordinaire. Her two week mission is to explore strange new worlds. To seek out leprechauns and fairies. To boldly find what no woman has found before.....


The Blarney Stone

Yep, that's right. Mrs T has departed to Ireland for her hols because it has come to her attention that she has not been talking enough gibberish. I have been far too sensible lately and that is not acceptable! This must be put to rights. I intend to seek out The Blarney Stone which is a mystical stone said to bestow upon those who kiss it with the "gift of the gab." Apparently, The Blarney Stone is situated at Blarney Castle in Cork but I believe this a vicious rumour circulated by the Knights of Blarney in order to prevent the whereabouts of the real stone from being located... I believe the real Blarney Stone has yet to be found. Like The Holy Grail and Excalibur before it, it remains undiscovered.....waiting for the right man...or woman...to reveal it's lost secrets....

So to Ireland Mrs T must go on her quest.... (Please note 'tis possible Mrs T might get distracted en route with other matters.)

Alas, in order to get to Ireland, one must pass through Wales. This is the land of Postman Pat and Ivor The Engine; more hideous and annoying children's stories cannot be found (Except Thomas the Tank Engine of course.) Postman Pat stories are tales of (surprisingly) a postman who takes days to deliver just one letter whilst getting worryingly distracted by wandering sheep and a black and white pussy. (I'll spare you the intimate details.) It is inherently disturbing that children are being brought up on this stuff! But just to make matters worst... Ivor the Engine is a story about a steam engine; a welsh steam engine. You can't get anything more disturbing than that can you?! It's bad enough being subjected to years and years of Thomas without discovering that he has a cousin called Ivor....

Anyhow, I knew I was approaching Wales when at a toll booth I saw this;

Yes...that IS a car covered with artificial grass. Hmm... only a Welshman could think of that. I just hope the owner doesn't park up outside a dog show. Anyhow, it wasn't long before we hit Wales and a few sheep... it was a tad messy. (Although the resulting chops were excellent.)

The truth is I have strong Welsh connections and indeed went to college in Bangor, North Wales. Bangor is en route to Holyhead, the Welsh port of our destination, from where we were to sail to Dublin. In my student days I travelled to Bangor via the mountains of Snowdonia but this time I took The Turley Tribe by the coastal route; the pleasure of the dramatic mountainous scenery of Snowdonia will await our return journey.

Bangor University courtyard 2008

We made a whistle stop tour of Bangor which brought back vivid memories of college days; of friendships that have since endured the test of time, the joy and pain of a first love and most importantly the discovery of Cheese on Chips. (Staple diet for students back then - along with Weetabix spread with jam and Baked Beans on toast. Deeeelicious!) Oh and some academic study. Yes, even lazy old Mrs T fitted in a little study (read very little) - certainly not enough to disturb my sleeping patterns. ( 3am to 3pm)) I often think of the camaraderie of my friends back then... how we shared new experiences, family bereavements, how we clustered around the television when the IRA blew up the Brighton Hotel.... and of course some particularly vile cooking. I am always reminded of those times when I hear the following song by the Irish singer Feargal Sharkey which was popular at the time.


Soon we had to press on through Anglesey and onto to Holyhead..

On board our ferry, The Jonathan Swift, (It was amusingly late) I took this photo of the departing Welsh coastline as we headed for Dublin.

Two hours later we arrived at Dublin in Southern Ireland and it is here on The Emerald Isle that Mrs T's quest for The Blarney Stone truly began.....

to be continued at some juncture...(in a adhoc, bizarre and intoxicated manner as befitting a holiday disposition)

Jane Turley 2008