D is for...Divorce.

The only word beginning with D that has been cropping in my mind all day in order to write about tonight is "Divorce"- even though I'd already decided I wasn't going to write about it. So I'd been putting off writing all day, hoping some other word would come into my mind, so a few minutes ago, as it's almost the UK 12pm deadline, I decided to go to one of those random word generators for some much-needed inspiration. I requested ten words, beginning with D...and the second word that came up was... divorce.

Spooky.

The first word was directory.

Anybody want me to write about "directory"? I doubt it. Maybe some weird techy geek with a telephone directory fetish, but that's about it.

Okay, so I'm going to write about divorce, as that kind of spooky stuff is fate's way of telling me it's okay to let loose.

But I now only have...12 minutes before the deadline! Crap. I better make this quick.

So this is what I know about divorce:

Elizabeth Taylor got divorced 7 times.

Zsa Zsa Gabor got divorced 7 times

Mickey Rooney got divorced... 6 times, I think

Lana Turner got divorced 8 times.

So...you know I ain't doing so bad - only 1 in over thirty years!

Now let me see - I'm 52. I have approximately 25 years left in me. So, if I want to beat Lana Turner's record, I need to marry and divorce 8 more times in the next 25 years, assuming I don't peg it early. This means I need a new husband every... 25 divided by 8 = um um um..... nearly every three years.

Cripes. I better get a move on.

Okay, any of you folks out there who know any willing victims (preferably with large wallets), email me at Jane@easylay.com.

Okay, that's it. I've got 4 minutes to spellcheck.

Ps -  I'd prefer a toy boy, but if you know a rich oldie, make sure he's senile so I can line the next one up whilst he's kipping.

C is for Cream Crackered.

I was contemplating a few words over the course of the day for tonight's post including castration, conception and carol singers but it's already 10.30pm, I've done three hours of housework, two hours of commuting and a nine-hour working day so my brain is fried. I finally got home at 9.30pm, cooked tea for my youngest son and will be leaving the house at 11pm to pick up another from a nearby town so I think I'm just going to go for "cream crackered" instead.

If you've not heard of the expression"Cream crackered" it is a slang phrase here in the UK which means "knackered"- or to put it politely - very, very tired. Cockney rhyming slang is particularly prevalent in the East End of London although some expressions like Cream crackered have filtered into wider usage. Essentially, Cockney rhyming slang is a group of phrases used by Cockneys as expressions instead of using the correct word. 

Cockney rhyming slang is pretty simple to undertsand. Here are some simple famous examples:

Rosie lee means tea

Apples and pears means stairs

Trouble and strife means wife

Adam and Eve means believe

So you'll understand that now when I write I am cream crackered you know what I mean! 

Anyway, time to go and finish my parental duties for the day. And when I get home I'm going straight to bed!

B is for Brighton Cock

To fully appreciate this post it is best to read my A is for Anno Domini post. (Scroll down.)

Julie knew, before she had been in Brighton three hours, that he meant to corrupt her. With his smooth fingers, and manicured nails, his manner charming and sophisticated, anyone could tell he didn't belong -  belong to the early summer sun, the cool Whitsun wind off the sea, the normal crowd of dental hygienists who worked in Sunny Smiles Dental Practice. They came in by the front door every five minutes, swaying down Queen's Road after closing, teetering on their high heels. But he was different - for a start he was a man in a female-dominated role and, secondly, for a man of his obvious attractions, he'd slipped discreetly through the side door whereas other handsome men of his demeanor might come through the main entrance reveling in the attention of female admirers. Julie's pulse began to race a little as he took a seat not far from where she'd been sipping a vodka observing her co-workers with their fake teeth and false smiles.

The soundtrack to the local six o'clock news played on the large screen television in the corner of the bar, distracting Julie from the uncomfortable feeling that the male hygienist aroused in her. She swivelled her stool around to watch the news, ruing the fact that her secondment to Sunny Smiles was a total disaster. It was obvious from the gleeful glances of the other hygienists that they were still bitching about the fact she had tripped over in her new heels and inadvertently injured the left ear of a local celebrity with a dentists drill. Julie watched the television for a moment and then swivelled back to face the bar, draining the last of her vodka and sucking an enormous ice cube into her mouth.

"Wive me a wubble," said Julie despondnetly, her cheeks puffed out like a hamster.

"Pardon?"

"A Wubble!"

"Oh you mean "A double,"" grinned the barman.

"I've wad a shwit way," said Julie regretting sucking up the ice cube but not wanting to spit it out in front of the barman and the male hygienist who, worryingly, was now perched even closer.

"A shit day?"

"Wes...shwit, shwit, shwit!"

"That bad eh?"

Julie nodded and attempted to ignore the hygienist as the barman prepared her drink with two generous shots of vodka. However, ignoring her co-worker was very difficult when his smooth tanned skin, chocolate eyes and raven hair were attracting the attention of all the nearby women. Normally, Julie would be flattered by the attention of a man who could have his pick of any women in a bar but she sensed his interested in her was not romantic but something else - but she didn't quite know what and somehow she wasn't sure if she wanted to find out.

"You'll be out of a job tomorrow."

Julie's heart began to beat a little faster as the hygentist pushed a copy of the local paper in front of her.

"Fuck!" cried Julie, spurting her ice cube out all over the headline news which read Hygienist From Hell.

"I reckon it's an inside job," replied her co-worker with a rueful smile.

Julie took a swig of her replacementtt vodka and read the opening paragraph.

Julie Watson, 24, a hygienist on secondment to Sunny Smiles, the largest Dental Practice in Sussex, caused a drama at the Brighton branch today when she fell and injured the ear of local TV presenter Matt Coleridge, 54. According to an eye witness, Mr Coleridge left the practice with a bloody ear, his teeth uncapped and declaring he would sue the practice "for every fucking penny".

"Oh God, I don't want to lose my job," wailed Julie, forgetting her earlier apprehension. "All my life I wanted to be a dental hygienist. I wouldn't know what else to do!"

"You're either mad or drunk," said the male hygienist. "Nobody plans to be a dental hygenist."

Julie took another gulp of her vodka.

"She's drunk," said the barman. "That's her fourth double."

"I'm not shrunk!"

"You are," said the hygenist and the barman in unison.

Julie looked from the barman to the hygenist and back again.

"Did I just say I was shrunk?"

"Yes," they replied.

"Oh God I am shrunk. I'm shrunk AND wobless."

"She means "jobless"" said the barman, grinning again before sauntering off to serve a customer at the other end of the bar.

"You don't have to be jobless," said the hygienist. "You have a great body. There's lots of other things you can do."

"But I've always wanted to wook after weople's weeth," blubbed Julie.

"You're never going to work on teeth again, Julie. But I know something you could do," said the hygenist with a sly grin.

"Wot?" said Julie, tears running down her cheeks.

"The same as me."

"But wor a wental wygenist!" wailed Julie.

"But that's not all I am."

"Wot do you mean?" said Julie pulling a face of drunken confusion.

The hygenist smoothed Julie's hair back over her ear and leant in close to her.

"I'm also a porn star," he whispered. "And my stage name is The Brighton Cock."

********

To be continued at a later date.

With thanks to Graham Greene (who is probably turning in his grave right now!)

A is for Anno Domini

So it's the beginning of the A to Z challenge. It's going to be a challenging month for me as due to my usual lack of diligence I have not prepared anything. This will probably be exacerbated by the fact that this particular month I also intend to petition for divorce which is the reason for the change to my blog title from The Witty Ways of a Wayward Wife to The Witty Ways of a Wayward Woman and from Housewife Extraordinaire to Creative Extraordinaire. However, I'm not set on "Creative Extraordinaire" so if any you have any zany ideas feel free to fire away. In fact, my original blog title was the result of a competition I had on my blog after I discovered my original title Jane Turley, Diary of a Mad Housewife was being used by a woman to rant about her husband.

Hmm....

All things considered, we'd better not go down that avenue. Let's just say I am slightly more sympathetic to that blog writer than I was at the time! Even though some might consider me a fruitcake, I'm actually more responsible than some people think (well perhaps not whilst behind the wheel of car whilst reversing down my driveway) so I shall be reigning most of my angst in as, having read a lot of blogs over the years, its always been my thought that some things should be kept private. It's a modern day phenomenon to let everything hang-out on social media. Of course, there are good sides and bad sides to this - I've have witnessed some incredible support amongst facebook friends and in the blogging world for people in turmoil - especially for my blogging friend Marie from Nourish who very sadly indeed died from cancer and complications from MS in August 2015.  Conversely, social media can have downsides: cyber-stalking, catfishing, and bullying can have very serious consequences. So when it comes to talking about the more serious side of my private life I'm cautious about writing about it directly. That said, all my life experiences contribute to my writing so I've no doubt that some of the pain I feel right now will materialize in my writing someday. Maybe one day in the future I'll write a book called Fifty Ways You Can Stack Your Pans Without Interference.

Yeah, I've got to say that title really appeals. In fact, there's a lot of potential humour in that one - maybe I can get it in the A to Z.

So anyway, as I would have been celebrating my 26th wedding anniversary on the 20th and a 31-year relationship, I'm thinking distracting myself with the A to Z is a good idea. Let's just hope my sense of humour can see me through. Fingers crossed everyone!

Oh well moving on....

So I chose Anno Domini for my word(s) which means In the Year of Our Lord - or to simply things - the year Jesus was born. It was the beginning of a new life which changed the world. Now I'm not comparing myself with Jesus (although occasionally I have a beard) but I like the concept of a year of birth, of new beginnings.

So maybe this is my year of rebirth and new beginnings. In a sense it already is - the question is how well I cope and whether I am able to move forward. I think we all have an Anno Domini moment at some point in our lives and sometimes there's no choice in the matter. This is mine. I probably, at best, have no more than twenty-five years left on this planet so I want to make the most of them - which is somewhat tricky when you been left up shit creek financially. I shall definitely have to rule out that retirement world cruise now. Blast. Maybe I can have a weekend in Brighton instead? I've always fancied seeing the Bright Lights - admittedly I'd had the bright lights of New York and Vegas in mind but as we say in the UK "beggars can't be choosers".

Hmm... maybe Brighton will be the place I knock out some mind-boggling piece of erotic chick lit and make a stack of cash. Maybe all that Brighton rock will give me inspiration. It certainly worked for Graham Greene. I'll have to think of a good title though.

Maybe Brighton Cock? 

Okay....maybe not. That one might be a little too bold. Even for readers of EL James.

This is what happens in Brighton - in the nerd community. If I write a book
set in Brighton mine will be about a (male) dental hygienist who works undercover as a porn star.
A writer's gotta start with the ideas somewhere.......

Well if you made it this far I thank you for your patience. This blog is usually very stupid and slapstick and this has been one of my more serious posts. I don't know what the rest of the A to Z will bring but hopefully more laughter than tears.

One last thought, I did think about writing about the word "anal" but I thought that might be too daring for this year and put off a few readers. I'll probably write about that next year though when things are flowing through me a bit smoother....

My previous A posts: A is for Air Guitar
                                   A is for Arses and Aidan Turner

Thinking Creatively

It's the April A to Z next month which I have enjoyed enormously the last two years. However, with my life currently up shit creek (no point putting rose-tinted glasses on), working full-time, commuting two hours day and organising my three boys, I'm not sure whether I'll have the time or stamina to complete it.

And yet I feel I should try as over the last few years I have lost a great deal and If I give up writing and my freedom to express I will lose even more.

And I can't allow that to happen. I have always been a creative. I will probably die creatively - perhaps while parachuting into France on a horse. 

Anyway, by the end of the year, I suspect my life will have changed even more and I will need to think creatively if I am to support myself and my children. So I might as well start now.

So the obvious solution is I could shack up with a rich man. That would solve a few problems. But how? At 52 the odds are stacked against me finding anyone who doesn't look like corpse since Jerry Hall has already snapped up Rupert Murdoch and Amal has got her teeth into Gorgeous George. That just leaves only Prince Harry, Tom Hiddleston and Tom Cruise as eligible bachelors. I've got to be honest, even though HRH and I are pretty tight I don't think she'll want me as a daughter-in-law. For a start, the balcony at Buckingham Palace might collapse during a fly-past if I was required for an official waving session. And my big gob could be potentially very embarrassing at state occasions. Plus I'm old enough to be Harry's mum as I would be for the dishy Tom Hiddleston.

So that just leaves my arch nemesis Tom Cruise as a potential mate.

God, just how unfortunate can a woman be? The one available man who is old enough for me is a nutter who believes in little green men and wears platforms heels.

Still one can't be too picky at my age. Anyway, I reckon Tom has a good sense of humour so he won't have taken all my jokes on this blog seriously. After all, they were only little jokes. And Tom needs a woman with a sense of humour to counteract all his serious thinking. I could even help him build up his muscles for his next Mission Impossible role by feeding him up with British delicacies like fish and chips and pie and mash.  In fact, I'm fairly sure I could win him over just by throwing myself out of a multi-storey wearing only a harness and a t-shirt which says "Tom for US President."

Well lets' face it - even Tom's got more political savvy than Trump. And Tom can even fly a plane!

Okay, so it was only in a movie. But he was darn good in Top Gun. Tom's flying ability alone would definitely get him through the first electoral eliminations. 

And with a British Rose by his side it would be easy route all the way to The White House. Then, once he's elected, I could leave him to do all that political warmongering stuff whilst I hang out in The White House hot tub.

Hmm. Sounds like a good trade-off to me.

Right. I have a plan of action. Now all I need to do is lose half my bodyweight and stock up on perfume to spray on my love letters.

I think I'll go for Poison by Dior.

Just when you think life can't get any shittier...

I forgot to get my beef out of the freezer for our New Year's Day meal. Bah humbug.

So shall I go out and get some or go with frozen pizza?

Hmm...

Maybe I'll just create a new Turley Surprise dish -  pizza slices on a bed of Yorkshire pudding and brussel sprouts. With gravy.

Could be a winner.

Ten Years of Blogging and the Dawn of a New Era

Today my blog is ten years old.

It is, frankly, a miracle I have kept this blog up for so long. Who would have guessed that this blog which was started on a whim with a glass of wine in my hand would last so long! However, this last year has been my least productive in terms of writing with only 33 blogs posted and no new novels. This is due to a dramatic change in my personal circumstances which is reflected in the subtle change in my blog title. I intend to keep on blogging but it will be a while before I am organised enough to find time to blog frequently or to continue with the novels that lie dormant in my files as I am back working full-time and looking after my boys' welfare in my spare hours takes priority over my creative endeavours.

The last year has been a particularly sad time for me. I am in now in my own changing room. It is one I had not anticipated at my age but there are times in life when you have to make dramatic decisions and when faced with the choice of sinking or swimming, I chose to swim. The door to my past life is closing and the one to my future is opening. I hope happier times lie ahead.

A big thank you from the bottom of my heart to all of you who have supported my creative endeavours over the years. Normal service on this blog will resume when the legal papers have been signed. In the meantime, expect random caustic posts from the newly created The Witty Ways of a Wayward Woman. Hopefully, there will be ten more years of musings and several more novels in me yet.