A Formal Complaint about.... Socks

Folks, you know I'm a good natured woman, who hardly ever says anything out of turn or drops a verbal clanger, so I hope you won't mind if today if I use a word that you rarely hear uttered out of my sweet lips because I want to talk about socks. Yes, socks.

Look, what is it with these little f*****s ?

Where do they go? I swear to God they have a mind of their own! One minute I have a nice pair of cosy socks to keep my tootsies warm and the next minute they've disappeared into oblivion! Yep, I can search under the beds, in the linen baskets and drawers, in every nook and cranny are the little f*****s cannot be found anywhere! I am always, always, left with a huge pile of odd socks. It is soooooo unfair.

Strangely enough, it's not even just the old socks that go missing. I can buy a brand new pack, heave a huge sigh of relief that I've got socks for at least the next 3 days, but by the time of the next spin cycle I can guarantee that at least one sock has vanished.

Where do they all go?

I just can't figure it out. Is there a magical Pied Piper figure who bewitches all the socks that have been left lying around? Do they rise up at the sound of his sweet music, dance in unison along the hallway and slip out the letter box? Do they gather at secret rallies where they demand freedom from their cheesy owners?

I dunno..........

Maybe socks actually have little feet of their own like slugs? Maybe they just get sick of being worn all day and just leg it? Perhaps they're digging their way out under the floor boards? Maybe when I replace the carpets I'll find a pile of socks that have suffocated on some desperate suicidal mission......

You know Disney could make a movie out of socks. Forget Buzz Lightyear, you could have Cheesy Lightfoot coming to the rescue of a band of stricken left footed socks who have been separated from their right footed counterparts by a wicked housewife who pegs them to the washing line just for fun of it.....

Or 101 Socks - the story of 101 innocent white (with a few grey stains) socks stolen by the wicked Cruella Denier, a hosiery tycoon, who wants to rid the world of socks and at the same time as making a unique and wonderful coat......

Or The Lady and The Sock... a simple love story where a middle aged, slightly disturbed woman, loses one of her beloved bedsocks. As she goes in search of her beloved sock she gets lost in the city where she meets a devilishly attractive cheap nylon sock from Primark.....

Or The Jungle Sock - a small boy finds a good use for some old red socks. (Well how else did he make those pants??)

Yep, you may have gathered that socks and I just don't get along which is why I have a huge pile of odd socks in my house. And I mean huge. I might as well admit it (again)....as a housewife I am pathetic. Miserably pathetic. I just wasn't born to be a housewife. I was born to do other stuff. Ummm.... I'm not exactly sure what kind of other stuff ......but you know what I mean..... Maybe a chocolate tester who lives in an enchanted castle where everything is magically cleaned? And there's a prince with a huge load? Of gold?

Anyway I'm not looking for pity. I know my life is one big pile of holey socks but you know I try my best to be upbeat about things..... so I thought I'd give all you folks out there, who may have the same problem, a few tips on what to do with with your odd socks.

1. Okay -Hubby's odd black socks are ideal for those dreaded dressing up days. Take two of the offending articles, tie them together and stick 'em on your child's head. Paint their nose black and you instantly have a Goofy costume.


Don't be disappointed if you only have odd white sports socks....with the same technique they can look like Deputy Dawg.

Continuing on the same theme, if you've been invited to a fancy dress party and your tired of going as a Roman centurion or a nun take 2 coat hangers bend them in half and shove 'em up two odd grey socks and strap them to your head. Then take a cotton wool ball and stick it to your bottom. For the finishing touch, shove a carrot in your mouth and you'll look like this;



2. Now I know how charitable you ladies out there are but, like me, you may not be quite so good at knitting jumpers for the needy. So why not just sew all the odd socks together and make a patchwork quilt?

3. Put on a glove puppet show for charity. Keep your theme topical. With the UK general election coming up I'll be giving my puppet show a political theme... a black sock for Barack Obama, a brown sock for Mr Brown (Labour), a grey sock for David Cameron (Tory), a white sock for Nick Clegg (Liberal Democrat) and, of course, a pink sock for Peter Mandelson. If I find one of Master Sam's "special" socks which has been festering in his room for about 2 years and is now particularly ripe I'll be using that for Mr Blair.

4. Gather all the odd socks together, sew them end to end and you have a stylish Dr Who scarf. Fabulous. If you start calling your car "The Tardis" as well I guarantee you will not be asked for any childcare favours.

5. Put them on your hands and do the polishing with them. Pretty good for mirrors or silverware.
Look, I had to give one sensible tip! Otherwise folks would think I'm completely stupid! I know, I know, you don't come to this site for cleaning tips but today's that rare occasion when I want to share part of my world with you.

(Ho hum. Believe that tip and you'll believe anything.)

Not Another Back Seat Driver!

I'm going to moan.

No, no, no! Not another back seat driver in the family! I can't stand it! It's bad enough Mr T huffing and puffing every time he gets into the car with me and cowering like some wounded animal and his sister hyperventilating and stabbing her foot down on an imaginary brake pedal but now I also have to put up with Master Sam moaning too. Yep, Master Sam ,who hasn't as much looked out the window for the last 18 years, unless it was to uncannily spot a MacDonald's sign, has taken to back seat driving as well. God help me!

Yep, Master Sam is not long off taking his driving test and suddenly he has become an expert in driving techniques, indicators, roundabouts... you name it has an opinion on it. It is sending me nuts! And being a bloke, he has the unhappy knack of being rather pedantic on the subject. I mean he has to go on and on and on...... until this morning Readers when Mrs T decided enough was enough. I pulled up my car and said;

"OUT!! Get out off my car! Out! Out! Out!"

And do you know what folks? When he got out on the pavement he stuck his fingers up at me! Outrageous! Now I have to admit that, fortunately, Master Sam was still rather cautious about using such a gesture at his beloved mother even in jest because he never quite knows how Mrs T is going to react - I could laugh - or I could run him over. You know - depending on whether I have PMT or not. Still, it was remarkably brave of him so I've decided not to punish him by hospitalizing this time because I have another cunning plan. Yes, the silly billy left his mobile phone in the car but alas my memory is failing so badly and I can't remember when I last saw it..... Ha, ha, ha!! He'll be sorry for treating his mother with such disrespect! Because well - A man without his gadgetry is like a lost forlorn sheep, wandering around in circles, day after day after day.

Vengeance shall be mine and shall be oh so sweet!

Hmm...It's funny how man can't find anything isn't it? (Well except what's inside their pants - which they seem to be able to find at a moments notice no matter where you are.) Yep, Mr T can have me looking for hours, days even, when he has lost something. My whole life must preoccupied searching for the one inch screw that fell out of his drill case sometime between 4pm and 5pm last Saturday afternoon.... And heaven forbid he should lose his work identity card! By God they might not let him into the building despite the fact he's worked for the same company for about 25 years, everybody knows him and he's an easily identifiable 6ft 6in ! Shocking!

On the flip side when I lose something. It goes like this;

"I've lost my car keys."

"Have you tried your handbag?"

"Yes, several times. Have you seen them anywhere?"

"Huh? (Fiddles with TV remote control.)

"Have you seen my car keys?"

"Oh right." (Pulls back ring of beer can.)

"I said, HAVE YOU SEEN MY CAR KEYS?"

"Great stuff. What time did you say dinner was?"

Huh. Men. Don't you just love 'em.

See You Soon,

Mrs T.

Ps: If you love or even if you hate Thomas the Tank Engine you can find out what I feel about noisy, rotten, greasy, no good blighter over at The View From Here.

Is George Clooney the only man ever to look good in a beard?

It's early morning; the kinda time when I get serious and start philosophizing. So I just wanted to ask this question...

Is George Clooney the only man in existence who has ever looked good in a beard??? (I'm going to exclude Jesus here because I don't want to be deducted any brownie points.)


Yep, I'm afraid the answer is a resounding yes. And he's even managed to coordinate the grey with his hair! Stunning, simply stunning. Yep, I'd sacrifice myself to pimples and mild facial abrasions just to snog George with a beard. And look at those eyes! Grrrrrrrrrr! Darn it, I've always preferred older men (although I rule out the over 70s - well unless it 70 million.) I mean when you can date an older guy who's seen a bit of life and is (cough, cough) experienced and looks like George why would you date a guy barely out of nappies and who probably twitters whilst he's on the toilet like Ashton Kutcher? Nope doesn't make sense... Yeah, so Ashton's got youth on his side but let's talk brains here.....

Hmm...nice empty space there. Enough said.

Does George Twitter? Nah, I can't believe he does - far too smart and if he ever did he'd probably pay some guy with a PHD to do it for him.

Anyway, I have to admit to a really serious error of judgement. When I first dated Mr T he had a moustache. Yep, I don't know what I was thinking. I must've been having some serious PMT problems at the time. Fortunately, he got rid of it after a while. I can't remember exactly how long now but... ummmm... it could have been several years.

What the hell was I thinking?! I'm definitely a gal for the clean shaven look....although I don't mean the David Beckham style which probably means waxing all over so he looks like Barbie's playmate Ken. Yuck. You know, I'm of the impression that hair is a good thing on a guy in certain areas.... I mean have you seen some of those intimate areas, Ladies? Uh huh. They should definitely be covered up! They're just not a pretty sight are they? Yep, when "God created man in his own image" he was obviously having a bit of a bender. Let's face it; he did a grand job with women but when he got to man he'd run completely out of ideas and just did some doodling. Maybe he'd had a night out on the town and thought having dangly bits would be funny? He obviously didn't think of the problems of designing ergonomic underpants. Yep, show me a man happy with his underpants and I'll show you a man who wears braces.

Anyway. It's now 6.36 and I'm off to have my brekky. It's hard life contemplating these issues and I need sustenance. Gez, it's tough being a Housewife Extraordinaire.

Time for Sharing

I'm very busy at the moment catching up on my writing so I thought I'd drop by to share with you all a song that I'm really enjoying listening to at the moment. I played this young lady last year and Cry Me Out is her latest release. I think Miss Pixie Lott has a fantastic voice and is going to be around for a long, long time. I'm certainly looking forward to hearing what else she comes up with in 2010. Enjoy!

It's snow place to drive a car...

Well it's been a long hard winter over here in the UK. Snow fell on the night of the 18th December and since then temperatures have barely risen above freezing. Due to compacted ice, fresh falls of snow and lack of grit, the roads are becoming increasingly treacherous. My boys have lost numerous days of education and what, at first, seemed thrilling is rapidly becoming tedious in the extreme.

Fortunately, it looks like the weather is set to improve this weekend. Whilst today is traditionally the coldest day of the year in the UK, we are more accustomed to snow in February or even early March. Indeed, my father often recounted how, on a night in March, he drove through snow on a tractor to fetch the midwife to attend my birth. So what lies ahead in the months to come is, as ever, uncertain.

Our weather has always been somewhat unpredictable in the UK. Although never particularly extreme, it explains why, as a nation, we never stop talking about it. Will we be able to take our cucumber sandwiches and tea on the patio or must we adjourn next to the coal fire? It's a matter of the utmost concern for all and can generate conversation for hours and hours!

And as well as talking about the weather for yonks, if you're unlucky enough like Mrs T to have a family of back seat drivers, we'll also bore you to death with talk about motorways, route planning and how long it takes to get from A to B! And if you get bad weather and a long journey together it's sheer utter torture - like one of those dreams where you fall off a cliff and you just keep falling and falling into a dark oblivion......

All I can say is...

Thank goodness for Sat Navs - the best invention since chocolate!

Yep, now when I hear my sister in law mention the word "journey" I just put my ears muffs on, pour out the brandy and imagine her being beheaded.

I know, I know, I'm cruel - but hey my life's too short to die listening to a discussion about the time it takes to get from Penzance to Glasgow....via Birmingham....when the hard shoulder is closed and there's roadworks on the M1....

Anyway, unfortunately, my sis-in-law has just returned from being stuck in snow in a hell hole of a place (France) so no doubt I will shortly have to prepare myself for the usual description of gruesome journeys across the continent.

Mind you, that's not as bad as the entire evening I had to endure once of her and her ex hubby's trip to Canada - which could have been interesting except they spent about 3 hours debating whether or not a small black blur on one of the slides was a bear. I'm not saying I was bored but after 3 hours straining to keep a "absolutely riveted and oh so jealous" look on my face I started talking to the potted plants.

Anyway - I expect you are all curious about my car!

Well the news is that my infamous Cmax, which might have had a few "incidents" (about which I deny all knowledge) has performed admirably well in the hazardous conditions. It's got stuck a few times, slithered and slipped around but with the odd push, some high revs and some sweet polite nurturing (ho hum) it has been absolutely spiffing! Why I didn't even get cross with it today when it careered right across the road, hit a central reservation and got a little denty -wenty on the undercarriage! Indeed, I commended it for managing to make a matching pair; that little denty wenty sits so well with the other denty wenty on the other side from when I had my puncture........

Now here's a piccy of my car. Do you notice anything special?!




You can't see any dents??

True.... but this piccy is only taken from the rear. It doesn't look quite so good from other angles.

What else?? It needs a wash??

Yes, yes. Stop being pedantic on me!

Look harder! What are those little black spots on the rear bumper??

Why..... they're my new reversing sensors!! And guess what folks - I haven't reversed into anything lately! Hoorah! Rounds of applause and general merriment!!

Now finally... I guess you're wondering how wealthy I am with my own personalized number plate eh? Well, as you know, I'm not normally such an exhibitionist but just in case you haven't been following our news.....

This year we Brits are going back to the polls - it's a general election year - and I've started my campaign early!

Bring it on Gordon; I am gonna take you down!

The Man with Dark Glasses and The Man with No Name; A Tale of Embarrassing Ineptitude.

Okay before I get really started on this post about Bono (no, not the dog biscuits but the singer with U2 ) let's refresh our memories about the man behind the dark glasses.

Yep, there he is...wearing the obligatory dark glasses. So what do we know about the lovely Bono?

He's Irish. (Someone's gotta be.)

He's a very successful singer and lyricist with mega rockband U2. (Okay -let's not argue about the lyrics - we're amongst friends.)

He wears dark glasses all the time. (Hmm...kinda suspicious. Maybe he's trying to disguise he's actually an Irish beagle?)

He wears tight black leather pants. Even in hot weather. (Fortunately, I don't have to stand next to him.)

He has a reputation as a humanitarian and a philanthropist. Some might say it's narcissistic philanthropy but I say....anything that helps the world is goooooood. (Breath in...exhale Mrs T...Breathe in...exhale.....)

You know, I imagine Bono is the kinda guy who sleeps on black satin sheets...made in Peru.

I like U2 though. Honest, I do. Especially their earlier music. I'm just jealous Bono can still get into the same pants he wore twenty years ago. Although maybe that explains why dogs are always sniffing him? Can't just be the name can it? Anyway, here's one of my favourite tracks from U2's heyday taken from the album War. And since we've just welcomed in the New Year it's the appropriately named New Year's Day.



Well, now we've remembered just who Bono is, we can start on my story...

Over Christmas The Turleys took a trip over to see Mr T's older brother who moves in salubrious circles. As we chatted one night, Mr T The Older related a true story to me that had happened to one of his business partners. I'm going to have to paraphrase a bit (A not uncommon happening here on my blog) but I think you'll get the idea...

Well one day Mr T The Older's business partner was dining with his lady friend in an exclusive restaurant in Ireland. They are just coming to the end of their meal when the maitre d' approaches them looking anxious;

"Excuse me Mr Anon, I wonder if you would be so kind and assist us with a little favour? One of our most appreciative customers is coming in and we know he would like to sit, at this, his regular table. We were wondering, as you are approaching the end of your meal, whether you would be so kind as to take your coffees and liqueurs at the bar? We would be most happy for you to have your drinks on the house as a gesture of goodwill ......"

Now Mr Anon and his lady friend are hospitable folks. They are not in the least put out and subsequently agree to move over to the bar. As they are happily chatting away who should arrive to take their vacated seats but none other than the great man himself, Bono, accompanied by an unknown guest.

Well Mr Anon's lady friend is all of a quiver. Superstar and A List Celebrity Bono is now ensconced upon the very seat which she'd just been keeping warm with her botty! In fact, she is sooo excited that when Bono disappears for a minute Mr Anon asks the maitre d' if he might subtlety ask Bono's guest to persuade Bono to autograph a menu for her at an appropriate juncture - so as not to infringe upon Bono's privacy or seem unduly pushy.

How very nicely done Mr Anon - an excellent attempt to disguise simpering idolatry with some discreet but civilized begging! Now that's the style of a true business negotiator!

So anyway, in the course of time, the maitre d' brings over a menu which the charitable Mr Bono has duly signed. The couple are delighted and as they get up to leave Mr Anon tells the maitre d' he is more than happy to pay for their own drinks. At which point the maitre d' replies;

"No need for that Mr Anon; Mr Springsteen has picked up the tab for you."

Yep, the mystery guest, dining with Bono, was none other than Mr Bruce Springsteen! I guess he liked the anonymity of being Ireland!

And Mr Anon and his lady friend failed to recognise him! I bet they felt like a right pair of chumps!! Ha, ha, ha !!!

Gez, that makes me feel good knowing there are other people out their who wouldn't recognise an A Lister. Mind you, I wouldn't even recognise Ashton Kutcher.....even though I sit on his cushions every day. (If you don't understand that please read previous post.)

Ah well.... seems only fair I should end this post with a bit of Brucy and Bono together. Here they are singing the U2 track I still haven't found what I'm looking for



Great Stuff! I feel like rockin' and rollin'! Right where's my dark glasses and PVC pants??

Ps. I feel it's time time to give poor Tommy Cruise a break. If you can guess who my next victim is you can win a lunch date with Mrs T. ( It will be my delicious home cooking obviously.) I'll give you a clue though cos it's a difficult question....This man has a really, really silly name that is almost unpronounceable - unless you work in John Lewis's haberdashery department.

Pps. I hear Bono dog biscuits are quite nice spread with jam. Yummy.

Pps. I hope Mr Anon doesn't read this blog. If he does, blame Mr T the Older who said it was okay to say you were a chump. Okay, he didn't say the chump bit. I did. Hey, I just like the word!

Mrs T's Hot Dish Diet; A Perfect Recipe for The New Year!

Last year in my BBC article New Year Resolutions I came up with a new diet to help women lose weight. It was a totally revolutionary concept and I called it The Mad Axeman Instant Weight Loss Programme. You see, I'd come to the conclusion that the only way I'd ever lose weight was if I was handcuffed to a madman holding a loaded shotgun to my head demanding my abstinence from food under pain of my losing a body part; a darn good approach to dieting if you ask me and a hell of a lot cheaper than signing up to a programme that charges you to tell you how fat you are - I've got a husband for that.

Unfortunately, my revolutionary new diet failed. Abysmally. In a desperate attempt to fulfil my ambitions I wrote to all the nutters I could think off who might assist me in my endeavours. As (bad) luck would have it most of them were on Death Row so couldn't spare the time. A few celebrities trying to cash in on the publicity did turn up though. However, being celebs (who get confused easily) they didn't all bring the right equipment. For example;

Brad Pitt proved he's been taking fatherhood too seriously by forgetting his weapon altogether and arriving with a dummy instead; I think Angelina was after some parenting tips.

Simon Cowell turned up with only his ego; I reminded him I only wanted to lose weight not commit suicide.

Tiger Woods arrived with his club at which point I said "Can you move into the light - My flash is not working" and he legged it. Pity; it looked a promising scenario.

Ashton Kutcher's weapon of choice was his mobile phone. Yep, he thought he was going to be clever by threatening to bore me into dieting with his moronic Twitter ramblings. A promising idea but one which overlooked the fact that I knew the perfect place to shove his mobile. Yeah, Up There. Yep, you know just where I mean! And for anyone out there who thinks Ashton Kutcher is actually a range of designer cushions let me tell you he is actually a toyboy actor (I think) married to Demi Moore..... although hang on...let me check my Upholstery Manual..... Nope got it wrong...he's a small Taiwanese clothing exporter of polyester night shirts......

All credit to the lovely Tommy Cruise who you know I just adore.. who did turn up with a loaded shotgun. Unfortunately for him I'd put my bullet proof knee protectors on. So no joy for Little Tommy and no joy for Mrs T...

Anyhow, this year I've come up with an even better diet. It's called Mrs T's Hot Dish Diet. Now I know all my lady friends in India will be getting excited thinking they've got one up on my English and American readers with their shelves of lovely spices all at the ready. Not so my friends, not so! Mrs T can't have a diet based on curries because well ...poor Mrs T's tummy can't take anything stronger than a Korma. In fact the last time I had a Madras I broke the world record for the 100 metres dash.

No, it's not a curry based diet. It's a Hot Dish as in a Hot Male Dish. Confused? Right, let me explain. Here's the theory...

A hot, sexy, handsome celeb like my favourite Pierce Brosnan or perhaps the younger Daniel Craig or even an athletic God like Kobe Bryant or the (yummy) Andy Roddick offers himself up as a dinner date as a reward for the most successful woman to lose weight and get fit over the course of a year.....

And there you have it! It's as simple and easy as that! A cheap and effective cure for weight gain and obesity without having to even consume lettuce! Can you imagine the results? Women all over the world would lose weight instantly at the thought of a date with the likes of George Clooney or Clive Owen. A world wide contest would ensue for The Dinner Date of a Lifetime. There would be qualifying heats where contestants model aprons instead of bikinis and fight it out with frying pans and cudgels instead of singing and dancing. Hideously insincere speeches like;

"I want to be a nun and work for a pittance training rescue donkeys to sniff out water in the Sahara desert"

would be replaced by heart rendering pleading such as;

"Oh please, please, please let me have a date with George! I've lost 21 stone, run the New York Marathon, produced my own range of diet suppressants, climbed Mount Everest and now I'm a size Zero. I really want a date with George cos I know he'll love my Before and After piccys!"

( Possibly followed by copious weeping.)

Yep, it's time to dump the The Miss World Beauty Pageant and replace it with The Hot Dish Diet Pageant. Personally, I reckon I could lose half a stone in one day at the thought of a date with Daniel Craig. In fact, just trying on every outfit in my wardrobe would probably result in enough sweat loss to reduce my waistline by an inch. (Obviously a LOT of squeezing and panting involved there.)

What d'you reckon folks? A perfect diet scenario?! Now all I need is a nice hot male.... Anyone got any suggestions who Mrs T should approach for her Hot Dish? Or any of you guys out there want to volunteer? (Photos and particulars to my email please.) Note; I am discerning - so don't try and fob me off with piccys of Gordon Brown or Peter Mandelson.

Ps: Coming next - a true story about U2's Bono!