M is for Moustache

This is one of my true-life embarrassing stories that happened several years ago.

It was just before Christmas and Master Ben was in dire need of a haircut. I wasn't going to put up with any of his feeble excuses in an attempt to get out a much-needed haircut, so I frogmarched him into the barbers which, in the pre-Christmas rush, 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.

Anyway, Master Ben and I were awaiting his turn in the barber's chair. It was a long long wait and although there were two barbers both had clients and there were two further clients in the waiting area. I was filling in my time reading The Sun (standard barber shop reading) and Master Ben was filling his time just looking around. This was the conversation that followed:

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 get the pre-nup in place first time around.  And if he earns a ton of cash when he's older hopefully he'll still have some spare to support his old mum rather than several high maintenance ex-wives.)

Master Ben: But your hair is short. Why should you pay more? (Thoughtful 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 first 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...... (Anything to distract the kid - even football)

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 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.

L is for Laxatives and Loos.

9.59pm. Two hours and one minute before the A to Z deadline - Mrs T wanders into the lounge where Master Benedict is relaxing with his feet up watching the telly and drinking a glass of orange.

Mrs T: What subject beginning with the letter L should I write about for the A to Z?

Master Benedict (instant reply) Laxatives.

Mrs T: Laxatives?

Master Benedict: What is "laxative" not good enough for you?

Mrs T: No. Laxatives will do just fine.

You see folks, that is what my life is like as the mother of three boys who lives in a house with four males. If I am not being subjected to rude jokes and the regular breaking of wind, I am subjected to conversations that seem always to revolve around bowel movements. Oh, how I long for some sophisticated conversation about what's on the West End or the latest bestselling books! Sadly, that just does not happen in my house. I am the solitary female and must suffer the consequences.

So laxatives it is.

At present, I am not aware that any of the males in my house need laxatives. And I pray to God that they never do because cleaning my bathroom is already a punishment worse than death. It requires a decontamination suit, a Geiger counter and an extra large peg on the nose. I have seen things down our loos that, if I didn't know better, I would have thought were alien species. I have seen things down our loos that if Her Majesty's government knew about them they would be requisitioned and stored as weapons of mass destruction. I have seen things down our loos that make me wonder why it isn't men who give birth to babies.

I have seen things down our loos that no man, woman or child or even a Tory MP should see.

You know I look forward to the day when my kids leave home and I have my own spotlessly clean white bathroom so that when I sit down on my loo seat I can do what comes naturally without jumping up and shouting:

WHO PEED ALL OVER THE LOO SEAT?

K is for Kale and Karma

Being a girl who was brought up in the countryside I am fond of my vegetables. (And I am not talking about the locals.) I even eat Brussel sprouts which probably puts me in a minority group and deserving of a government grant. I must also be one of the very few who eats the gherkin slices in a McDonalds' hamburger. I'm not sure what a slice of gherkin adds to a hamburger - maybe it's to fool customers into thinking McDonalds' burgers are healthy because they have some ghastly greens in them. But anyway, I am one of those people who don't like to waste food (especially out-of-date chocolates and biscuits) as I was brought up in a family with a frugal budget where we couldn't afford to waste what little we had.

So this brings me to the subject of kale which, just in case you don't know, is a type of cabbage. It is described by the Oxford dictionary as "a hardy cabbage of a variety which produces erect stems with large leaves and no compact head."

This is a rather brief definition which, frankly, does not impress me. Thus, I have written my own defintion which I shall be submitting to the Oxford dictionary for consideration in due course. If you have anything to add to my defintion please leave a comment.

Kale: (Pronunciation: Vom-it) A hardy cabbage of a variety which produces erect stems with large leaves and no compact head. It is universally hated by women, except those who favour Feng Shui, due to its recommend use in (supposedly) healthy but foul tasting smoothies. Despite it's reputation for being healthy many women have reported vomiting, diarrhea, bloating, bile, violent stomach cramps, profuse belching and farting on the consumption of kale smoothies. Some women have been hopsitalised due to the onset of severe depression after atempting a 28-day kale smoothie diet.

Alternate thesaurus words for kale: disgusting, vile, inedible, sickening, rancid, gross and putrid.

Decorating your kale smoothie does not make it taste any better.

Now to end this post here's a question for you: Do you believe in karma? Becasue I have had such rotten luck for the past 18 months I am beginning to wonder what I have done wrong. In fact, I am deeply worried not just about what might happen to me next but also what might happen to me in the afterlife. Knowing my luck, I won't just burn in the fires of hell - I'll be forced to eat kale smoothies for all eternity or be reborn as a stick of kale that is pulverised in a mixer before being drunk with glee by some overly enthusastic dietican.

J is for Jowls

There comes a time in life when you look in the mirror and begin to see fine lines and wrinkles. This is pretty bad news in a society focussed on youth and beauty. However, that day it is not so bad as the one when you notice for the first time that your neck and chin appear somewhat...saggy.

In an attempt to disguise the sagging chin flesh you put on a roll-neck jumper, enormous dangly earrings and wrap a scarf decorously around your neck.

You plaster yourself with makeup.

You jut out your jaw.

You take off your glasses.

But whatever you do the sagging chin flesh is still there!

In despair, you crack open a bottle of red (even though it's only 10 am) slurp down a big glass and finally admit to yourself that you have a jowl.

Thereafter, whenever you look in the mirror you see this:

I is for Ice Cream and Innuendo

I am cheating tonight as I running out of time to meet the deadline. So I am posting an extract from my novel The Changing Room which features my heroine Sandy's initiation into The Beaver Club sex-chat service. The extract features ice cream in a rather saucy manner. Enjoy!

 “It just so happens I do have some friends here, Professor.” Deidre pulls an amused face. “But I’m not sure if you can handle us all at the same time…you think you can? You are a very naughty, naughty boy, Professor. I think I shall have to discipline you soon.”

            There’s a long pause whilst Deidre listens to the Professor talk. Unfortunately or fortunately (I’m not sure which), none of us can hear but as Deidre is contorting her face into all sorts of shocked, confused and revolted expressions, we all have a very good idea what the Professor is saying.

            “Oh my, you are one hot Professor!” says Deidre. “You are so hot, I think I’m going to cool you down with some ice cream. In fact, I’m going to smear it all over you, and my girlfriends and I are going to lick it all off. We are going to lick it off…everywhere!”

            Deidre listens again and pulls her face into such a horrific expression she looks like she’s seen the ghost of Liberace. After a brief pause, she nods to indicate that the Professor is ready and waiting.

            “Okay, baby,” says Deidre in a smooth, sensual voice. “I’m going to run my tongue luxuriously up your legs, licking off the rich vanilla ice cream which melts on my tongue and runs smoothly down my throat like a river of semen…”

            I convulse with silent laughter. Deidre whips off her Bluetooth and passes it to Mrs M, takes a big slurp of her wine and gives me one of her extra-special winning grins.

            “I’m nibbling your pert round arse like I would nibble a crumbly chocolate flake….” says Mrs M.

            I slide off the sofa onto the floor, clutching my stomach as Mrs M elaborates what she is doing with a chocolate flake. I’m hoping I don’t wet myself like I did at the school play but, unfortunately, there is absolutely nothing I can do about it; I cannot stop laughing.

            “I’m wrapping my legs round you as I suck the raspberry jam off your nipples,” says Tina.

            Deidre, now sitting on the sofa, lifts her legs in the air and waves them around.

            “Stop it, stop it,” I groan. “I’m going to die!”

            “Oh, honey, you turn me on so much,” says Josie. “I think I’m going to sit on your face and dribble some more ice cream over you.”

            “Oh God, I’m literally dying,” I whisper as I lie, aching with laughter, on Deidre’s shag pile carpet.

            “Not yet, you don’t,” says Morna with a grin.

            “Are your almonds tasty, Professor?” says Kate. “I do so love the sweet crunchy texture of nuts and grinding them between my teeth. But you should hear what my sister likes to do…”

            Kate yanks off the Bluetooth, kneels down and slips it over my head, despite the fact that I’m hardly capable of breathing, let alone talking. I hear heavy puffing and some weird groaning I’d rather not know about. Out of the corner of my eyes, I see Deidre making furious gestures to me to hurry up and say something.

            “Hello,” I whisper, clearing my throat.

            “You must be Virginia,” says a croaky old voice that sounds like the man on the other end genuinely is an ancient professor from the spires of Oxford.

            “Yes,” I whisper.

            “Madame la Pompadour said you’d be shy at first. You sound so sweet and innocent. But you can be bold with me, Miss Virginia. Now…what would you like to do to me?”

            I pause and see Deidre still gesturing furiously and the other ladies all grinning at my discomfort. I close my eyes and attempt to block everything out.

            “Why, Professor,” I say, trying to sound my sexiest. “There’s nothing left for me to do but cover your lollipop with sprinkles and slowly lick each one up with the tip of my tongue, suck it between my lips and gently roll it around in my mouth until there’s an explosion of colour fizzing on my tongue.”

            “Oh, Virginia!” cries the Professor. “You are delightful!”

I give the thumbs up and Deidre, Mrs M, Tina, Josie, Morna and Kate raise their glasses and cheer me.

My initiation is over; I am part of The Beaver Club.

H is for Human Rights

I lost my sight
Because I had no rights

I lost my soul
In a pitiful hole

I lost my heart
Because I played no part

I lost my mind
In all the unkind

If I could breathe
I would not grieve

If I could sing
It would be Spring

If I could shout
I would have no doubt

And if I was free
I could be me.

 by Jane

G is for G-Spot

So tonight my subject is the G-spot which, in my opinion, which would be more aptly named the Z-spot because I've heard on the Turley grapevine that many women are prone to falling asleep or dying from boredom whilst their man is searching for it. (Especially if he's also looking at the football results - see my F for foreplay post.)

Now I am not suggesting that all males are cack-handed at foreplay and finding the G-spot. On the contrary, I am sure there's at least half a dozen men out there who know what they're doing. And if any of you ladies know where they are please let the rest of us know and then we can all form an orderly queue.

To be fair to the male species, I admit it is well known that the G-spot is pretty elusive. Some say it doesn't even exist. All I can say is that after having given birth to three strapping sons there's more chance of me winning the lottery or losing half my body weight in a week than there is of finding my G-spot. My vagina is like a black hole. There's probably a couple of lost spaceships up there. In fact, my gynecologist once sent a search party up there to look for my cervix. Sadly, even though they were armed with flashlights and a week's rations they didn't find their way back for over a month.

You know, recently I've been wondering how I'm going to support myself in old age as writing books doesn't pay and I've been a stay-at-home for years so have zero pension. I've been trying to think creatively about how I can give my income a boost.

So far, all I've managed to come up with is hiring out my vagina as a backdrop for the next Star Wars movie.

I reckon if George Lucas filmed some really epic space battles in my vagina I could patent it and then make a pitch for the Star Trek movies as well. I could even set up my own stage production company. I'd probably call it Black Hole Productions.

Anyway, it's time for me to hit the sack so to end today's post on a postive note my advice is:

If you're looking for your G-spot you might as well give up and eat a packet of chocolate chip cookies instead. It will be a lot more satisfying and you can put on your headphones whilst you're eating them and block out the sound of your partner switching channels on the TV.

"One more take and I think we've got it!