Mrs T's Birthday Present has finally arrived. Yippee!

Well, I know you’ve all been sitting on the edge of your seats wondering what the Good Mr Turley has bought his beloved for her birthday. Now I’d like to say I was sitting on the edge of my seat too but alas that’s not possible; my bottom is just too big.

Well here it is… the present is… a…. satellite navigation system.

Yes, that’s right; a satellite navigation system. Apparently when we were in the traffic queue there was one on the dashboard of the car in front. Well, you know, I can’t say I noticed as I had my eyes focused on the road, two hands on the wheel and was concentrating on the business of driving at the time. Now, I always pretend to be concentrating when Mr Turley is in the passenger seat because he is a little “jumpy” when I drive. Which is really not fair because I’ve only had the one accident which you may recall was the other week when I reversed into a car. In my defence I have to say it would not have happened had not one car been illegally parked and obstructing my exit. I’m not going to mention the other wing mirror incident as I wasn’t to know the other car had wing mirrors was I? Aren’t they just optional extras?

Of course when Mr T is not in the passenger seat, I frequently drive with just one hand; this is because the other one is either unwrapping a bar of chocolate or winding the window down and yelling “What the hell do you think you’re doing, you’ve got 10 seconds to get out of my way or I’m coming to get you!”

Anyhow, back to the satellite navigation system. Well now I can heave a huge sigh of relief because, at last, I will be able to find my away around town without getting lost. Yes for years and years I have not been able to find Tescos, The Bank, or indeed The School. Indeed, I’ve rarely made it to school for the last twelve years and I’ve just been driving around and around in circles all day. In fact, I’ve been educating the boys in the back of the car whilst I’ve been driving and I can assure you they know the difference between their left and their right and what “Oh God it’s a one way system” means. (Deep shit)

So at last I’ll be able to do all those things that other mothers do! Hurrah! Of course, first I’ll have to work out how the Sat Nav actually works. Obviously I could read the manual but that’s a man thing in isn’t it? Oh how they love to be absorbed in a technical gadget manual for hours and hours until they’ve studied every minute detail. Where’s the fun in that? I like to work it out all by myself. It only took me about any hour yesterday to figure out that;

1. It won’t stick to the dashboard. Nope definitely not. It’s got some suction thingy on the holder with a clasp thingy that moves. But it definitely wouldn’t stick to the dashboard even when I threatened it with a) painful and merciless dissection and b) chewing gum.

2. It will stick to the rear view mirror… but then I couldn’t see anything behind me; probably not a wise idea as I have “delicate” manner of braking.

3. It would stick to the windscreen. For about 30 seconds and then it fell off… about 20 times because I just had to make absolutely sure…

4. It would stick on the panel in front of the speedometer but then I wouldn’t be able to see how fast I was going…..and Mr Turley would be most cross if I got a speed ticket…especially if I got one before him; he keeps trying but they don’t issue many for travelling at 30 MPH.( I’m not saying he’s slow but last time he drove us to town I took a packed lunch.)

Well finally after much huffing, puffing and cursing I managed to work out that if I did just the right thing to the suction thing in a sort of thingy manner you could stick it to glass but definitely not to the dashboard. I’ve now placed it on the driver’s right window in the corner where I can see it easily and it does not obstruct my sight. It does, however, prevent me from winding down the window….

Of course now I’ve got it to stay put I actually have to figure out how to use it… I tried for a while yesterday but then boredom set in so in the end I decided to just press “Home” for the preset destination Mr Turley had set for me. Can anyone tell me why it said “Make a U turn you are on the wrong road to The Channel Tunnel”?

On the subject of Instruction Booklets; why is that men spend hours reading ones for electrical gadgets but when it comes to DIY leaflets and self build furniture like that stuff from IKEA they barely even glanced at it? Have you noticed these leaflets usually give an approximate completion time? For example “This wardrobe will take about 1 hour to build” Strangely enough, 24 hours later he’s still at it and after you’ve discovered he’s lost several screws, broken a panel and you’ve supplied endless cups of coffee, headache tablets and you’ve filed for divorce he realises that maybe he should have the damned instructions…..


(Oh when I say “he” I mean that in a purely generic fashion as Mr Turley is obviously supreme at DIY.)

Sorry, I had a bit of a choking problem for a moment. Well yes, to be fair to Mr T he is quite handy with his screwdriver but unfortunately not so good with blunt instruments.

Now where was I? Ah yes DIY and cars. Well sad news folks, I no longer have my Volvo. The Old Dear was proving vastly uneconomical and had to be replaced by a more practical Ford CMAX with a diesel engine as Mrs Turley actually does a lot of driving (and I suppose one day that satellite navigation system might come in handy.)

Obviously, it’s been a bit of an inconvenience to have my tannoy system and missile launcher remounted but I did strike lucky as the garage mechanic took a fancy to me and fitted a machine gun and some spiky wheel scythes aka James Bond free of charge! So The Blue Volvo has finally been replaced by The CMAX. It has rather a nice ring to it doesn’t it? And guess what?... I’ve already got a little Renault Clio sticker on the side! I feel confident I can out number The Red Baron by the end of the year…

Anyhow friends I must go and tend to my housewifery duties and on a serious note Mrs T has fallen behind with her novel which she must finish this year so if I am not around so much or drop in as frequently as I have done do not be alarmed and I will drop by as often as often as I can…

Toodle pips for now….



© Jane Turley 2008

Where's Mrs T's Birthday Present?

I’m not sitting on the floor. Hooray! Now you may wonder why I should be celebrating this fact. This is because twice a week this is what I usually do for an hour and a half while Master Benedict has his tennis lessons. Oh, the indignity of it all; a woman of my advanced years forced to sit on the floor because of the overcrowding at the Tennis Centre. But today I have a seat. There was one left, just suitable for a fat bottomed lady who looked like she might be preggers…and that of course was me. Of course since my gut has expanded a number of people have mistakenly thought I am pregnant. The last time I was in the mobile library and the gentleman driver piped up;

“I suppose you’ll be wanting a girl this time.”

“Nope,” I replied. “I’m just fat.”

Now I’m not saying he was embarrassed but it was so hot in the van the sprinkler system came on. I wasn’t embarrassed though; I’ve got used to people looking at my tummy and wondering whether an alien is going to burst forth from my stomach like it did from John Hurt’s.

Anyway I have breaking news… I have new iron! Well, I offered to purchase the new iron for Mr Turley but he opted to buy one himself. Oh how disappointed I was; thwarted in my plans to reinstate a new pink iron.

But can you imagine my utter horror when… Mr Turley brings home a LILAC coloured iron. LILAC?? What has come over him? Buying himself a lilac iron is just downright worrying. What will he do next? Buy a checked pinafore? Or some oven gloves decorated with daisies? Perhaps some woolly slippers with pink fur and ribbons on? Oh no, no, no! What is happening to the man I married?

Can it be that he is turning into a HOUSEWIFE???

Tonight Readers I am going to check he has not developed man breasts. I hope not or all my worst dreams will be coming true…

Also, despite Mr Turley’s reassurances I AM STILL WAITING FOR BIRTHDAY PRESENT. I’m becoming increasingly despondent. Perhaps the Good Mr Turley doesn’t love me anymore. Perhaps he has a found a slimmer, younger woman with a pert bottom who actually likes cooking. He has assured me he hasn’t (although not for want of trying) and he has given me some hints what my prezzie might be;

1. It's not jewellery. (Blast; my preferred choice after chocolate.)
2. It’s not chocolate. (Oh the absolute rotter; fancy denying me the ultimate pleasure.)
3. It’s not underwear. (Thank goodness, they’re sick of me at the Marks and Spencer’s Returns Counter.)

Now I’ve demanded a PROPER clue and here’s how Mr Turley began our conversation…

“On Saturday when we were coming back from tennis and we were in the traffic queue at the junction by the railway bridge….”

“Yeeessssss?” interrupts Mrs Turley rapidly loosing interest.

“…You could see one then...”

“Lovely darling, I look forward to the high speed train running through the back garden,” replies Mrs Turley.

“It’s not a train.” Flinch of annoyance crosses Mr Turley’s face

“It’s an anorak and a Guide to Train Spotting by B. O. Ring?”

“No.”

“A pedestrian crossing?” (Mrs Turley is now on a wind-up mission.)

“No!”

“Traffic lights?”

“No!!”

“Two rubbish bins and a telephone booth?”

“Look, do you want it or not?”

“Depends what it is Mr Turley.”

“I’m not telling you what it is.”

“Well how do I know if I want it or not?”

“I’m sure you’ll love it.”

“It’s a new car! I knew it! I knew it! A Mercedes?”

“It’s not a car.”

“Yes it is!”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Yes, it is!”

“No, it isn’t.”

"Yes, it is!"

“SHUT UP!”

“It is a new car, isn’t it?”

“This may well be your last Birthday.”

“Oh.”

Well there you go; I still haven’t got a present and I may soon be dead. Humph.

So on what may be my final, final note and continuing on the picture analysis theme. Please give me your reactions to the picture below. Again, please feel free to be as descriptive as you wish.
(By the way I always look as seductive as Nigella when I'm washing the greens; it's my dressing gown that does it.)

I will of course be performing in depth psycho analysis for any of you who care to leave comments.
© Jane Turley 2008

Irons, Costumes and a load of rubbish.

Now they say things happen in threes… and they do… on Sunday my iron stopped working. Now this is particularly annoying as it is less than a year old. Obviously, I could take it back for a repair or a refund BUT that would mean having to find the receipt. And to be honest I don’t have a chance in hell of finding it because paperwork, filing and general organization are not exactly my forte. (This may come as a surprise to you as I am such an excellent cook and efficient cleaner.) Now ironing is in fact Mr Turley’s domain; he positively loves it which is why I had bought a pink iron; it gave me much amusement to watch Mr Turley who is a strapping 6 foot 6 inches, ironing his pants with a girlie pink iron in his hands. Now I detest ironing with a fervour that is only matched by my hatred of Delia Smith; so Mr Turley does the majority of the ironing in exchange for “favours.” This is very good exchange; I get to avoid something I dislike in exchange for something a whole lot more pleasurable and Mr Turley gets to iron his shirts just the way he likes them without me complaining of a headache.

Forgetting the iron incident, now that I’ve started on the subject of receipts and paperwork I think I'll have to continue…

Now my lovely postman dropped yet another pile of the usual garbage of bills, circulars, bank statements and adverts for double glazing upon my doormat this morning. Damn him. (There was, however, also a couple of birthday cards so I didn't set the dogs on him as usual because I was feeling generous. )

But I ask you…Doesn’t a Housewife Extraordinaire have enough to do with out attending to these sorry piles of mindless rubbish?

I have enough paperwork already as my three boys are at three different schools; I am inundated with letters informing me that there is yet another fund raising event, school trip or general request for money. WORST of all there is the polite (but with threatening undertones of implied inadequacy) request to make costumes for an entire legion of Roman soldiers out of old loo rolls, some tin foil and (never quite big enough) cereal packets.

The truth is Readers - I would rather take a double barrelled shotgun to my head than manufacture another costume; I’ve been doing it for 12 years and If I never see another Roman soldier or Tudor King again I will be a very happy (albeit dead) woman.

To be fair, I don’t receive that many letters (well relevant letters) via Master Samuel as being of a teenage disposition he never gives them to me until such time as the information has been rendered useless, causing me to miss various meetings, parent’s evenings and generally to look grossly incompetent. (Which as you can imagine is pretty difficult.)

The question is how should one dispose of all this worthless paper rubbish? Here are a number of methods which I find particularly useful over the years;

OPTION ONE.

Lighting a small fire, or indeed a large fire, under Master Samuel’s backside.

This is about the only thing to cause Master Samuel to move at a pace faster than a dead slug. This is in contrast to Master Benedict who is very light-footed (and regrettably light-fingered) and also a budding pyromaniac who will happily set alight any inanimate or animate object.

To this extent I must explain that on a recent outing to football practice with Master Jacob, Master Samuel did not perform his childcare duties with due care and attention and Mr Turley was unexpectantly later than norm. Whereupon on my return from Footie, I found Master Benedict had put the catch on the door and eventually when he did open it informed me he was "making a fire" and indeed he was... he had stoked up the stove with coal and paper and various household accoutrements which were burning nicely away and to which he was adding more articles... Needless to say Master Samuel, who was upstairs with his headphones on wooing his Xbox360, did receive the full wrath of my anger which is a rare, yet hideously unpleasant occurrence.

I must also explain that on the weekend Master Benedict “acquired” from a friend’s house a squeaky mouse to which he had become more attached than a little boy should decently be to a small furry creature. Now when Mr Turley discovered the squeaky mouse hidden in Master Benedict’s football kit he was most cross and lectured Master Benedict till the little lad looked positively crestfallen at which time he was duly sent to his bedroom under instruction that he may not exit until such time as George Bush had passed the MENSA test.

A short while later we heard the click of the front door and discovered Master Benedict in the process of running away. He had bundled up his school fleece, football kit, pyjamas and his wallet into the cat blanket that is on his bed and having tossed it over his shoulder in the manner of Dick Whittington was heading down the driveway to seek a new life full of squeaky mice at the local park.

Needless to say Mr Turley was most remorseful and duly explained to Master Benedict that he loved Master Benedict very much but stealing a squeaky mouse was not permissible in the Turley Household, (irrespective of the undeniable attraction of the fluffy vermin.)

Hmm…I seem to have got distracted from the subject of Master Samuel… probably just as well other than to say setting his pants alight is a good method of raising him from his bed after midday and has the added bonus of extinguishing any unfavourable odours. (It is certainly preferable to extracting his pants from underneath his bed with barbecue tongs…although I believe they are shortly to be inventoried at Porton Down as a new and deadly weapon of mass destruction.)
.

OPTION TWO.

Making a selection of high performance paper planes.

I am proud to announce that in the Annual Paper Plane Race at School my planes out perform any rival by a staggering 15 metres. I am particularly fond of my Stealth Fighter Plane which last year crept slyly up behind Dear Johnny’s mother pranging her in the back of her head causing her to drop Dear Johnny’s plane into the her cup of highly nutritious but unpleasant vomit-coloured carrot juice. (Excellent.) It’s not that I’m competitive but I’m rather partial to winning (provided I don’t have to partake of any vigorous movement of limbs which as I have already indicated can have serious environmental consequences.) However in view of the fact that I do not participate in The Parent’s Race at Sports Day I must point out that I am extraordinarily clever at school quizzes; particularly ones which require knowledge of completely banal and useless subjects such as granny knickers, hair loss and weight gain…when I can score an impressive 10/10. (Plus I’m pretty hot on answering bonus questions which are usually relating to football; to which my answer is always “Balls.”)

Anyhow, I can heartily recommend Sunday supplements for the manufacture of planes as their glossy nature improves aerodynamic performance.

OPTION THREE.

Recycle them into luxury toilet paper.

This a “Must Do” activity. You will save yourself a heap of cash and the inconvenience of transporting large packs home from the shops. Follow my tried and tested formula;

1. Shred the paper and then dampen it down with water and a small amount of flour to ensure cohesion.

2. Kneed for five minutes and then form into a sausage shape.

3. Using your pasta machine (lasagne style) or a mangle (if you’ve been lucky enough to inherit one from granny) feed the sausage carefully through it and leave the resulting paper to dry.

4. Finally, congratulate yourself that you have produced organic, environmentally friendly luxury toilet paper. One tip though; do not use prior to using a communal changing room – you may receive distasteful stares due to residual grey streaks and the adhesive nature of the paper may mean that some of it may have stuck to your arse.
OPTION FOUR.

Making a costume for yet another school dressing up day.

The least attractive option and the less said about this the better. Only to say that today was…

YET ANOTHER DRESSING UP DAY AT SCHOOL!

Have they no pity?

Do they not know it’s my birthday?

When will I be released from the torment?

I calculate not for at least another 4 years… when I will have manufactured enough Peter Pans, Tin Men, Robin Hoods, Captain Hooks, etc etc to make me go COMPLETELY and UTTERLY INSANE. (Thereby fulfilling the criteria to become a Member of Parliament and so beginning a lifetime of political incompetency and free lunches in The House of Commons.)

However, today has been my easiest dressing up day to date; it was “Dress up as your favourite book character day” and Master Benedict decided he wanted to be Legolas. Now just in case you’re not familiar with Legolas; he is the blond haired elf in The Lord of the Rings who is the expert marksman. Now there’s not too much sticking and gluing involved in this one which is excellent. But it did leave me with a dilemma; Master Benedict has only just turned 7 so it’s fairly obvious that he hasn’t read The Lord of the Rings. It also implies that he seen he film… which is a 12 certificate. Now I’m not saying he has seen it but last night he garrotted the cat because he mistook for an Orc. Shame… but you know those vet bills were getting a little expensive….

So did I let him go as Legolas which required but a few minutes of preparation and some weapons (obligatory) or did I manufacture another vile costume of cereal boxes, crepe paper and pasta?

Answer; he went as Legolas and I’m expecting social services at any minute.


Now before I sign off for the evening I just want to say that I’ve become addicted to Pentad’s Simplifying Life and Love blog. (Still can’t do that link thing but it’s on my list of favourites.) I strongly believe Tamera is trying to entice me into revealing all about myself and using me as a case study for her next book which I believe will be entitled “Simplifying Housework and Accompanying Madness.” Now one of Tamera’s techniques is to post an image and see what feedback she gets and what crazy mixed up people like myself and Young Master Sy scribe. Anyway, I think this is an excellent technique which I’m going to try myself. Please look at the picture below and let me the first thing that comes into your head. You can be as explicit as you like. Thank you.

Now where's Mr Turley?

© Jane Turley 2008

General Inane Waffle.

Now before I get down to the very serious matter of proper blogging later in the day I must first recount a little true story from yesterday morning....

Mrs Turley is waking up slowly in her cosy bed ready for yet another arduous day at the kitchen sink when she feels Mr Turley's hand upon her arse and his dulcet tones in her ear....

"Happy Birthday Mrs T."

Silence.

Mrs Turley replies;

"It's my Birthday TOMORROW."

Silence.

Hand slowly withdraws.

Now really... wouldn't you expect The Veritable Mr Turley to remember after nearly 17 years of marriage that my birthday is the 6th and not the 5th? Still, he has informed me this morning "that a package will be arriving sometime in the next three or four days."

Hmm... there's nothing like forward planning is there? It had better be a good prezzie or he'll be in deep trouble I can tell you ( possibly involving a damp tea towel.)

Now how old is Mrs T today? To help you work it out here's a mathematical formula;

100-60 + ½ + 79⅓ -153% x [a- b+ 7 kilos Galaxy chocolate – half a banana + ab- c} x 3c -78% - ½ x ⅔ +
⅛ - ⅝ x 61⅞ -⅓ ≠ <100>12.5 % √ 40 ∑ 11≤ 2234 ≥ ↕ 56 x ½ sausage ♂ + 3 children ∑ 1 husband x sheer bloody exhaustion x 44.7≈ 2 = ♂ 67⅓ x 0.0000001 x 3.14 = ??

Answers on a sympathy card please.

Now I'm feeling really daring and for the first time known to man I am posting a piccy of myself from about 2 years ago. I would like to point out that;


1) I was having a bad hair day.

2) I was having a bad face day.

3) I'd forgotten to put my anti wrinkle cream
on for the 2000 consecutive day. Damn.

4) The strained look on my face was due to the constipation I had been suffering from at the time.

5) The sun was also in my eyes which accounts for the excessive amount of wrinkles in that area.

6) I've since had my teeth whitened; it didn't work.

7) I can't remember why I was bending over but as Pierce Brosnan is not standing behind me I don't think it was for any interesting reason.

8)That is my "Sporty Spice" look. Usually I'm a model of sophistication and glamour with a touch of Joan Collins thrown in for good measure.

9) It's possible I may have put on a kilo or two since this piccy was taken; the sun was still shining then... now we regularly suffer from eclipses.

10) I'm saving up for plastic surgery and liposuction and any contributions will be greatly received. Please address cheques to the " Save The Whale Foundation."

Now before I toodle off to read some blogs and scribe another of mine own later I just wanted to give you an update on Luke Warmwater. Well, he is a particularly fine young washing machine with smooth contours which are silken to touch and most appealing to the eye. He washes perfectly and his spinning is smooth and quiet. In fact… rather too quiet. My dearly beloved Zanussi, being of an archaic and wonky disposition, did vibrate somewhat violently when on the spin cycle. Why it jumped so fervently across the room that it was often necessary for me to sit upon it in order to pacify it. Indeed it was sometimes necessary for me to sit upon my Zanussi for a whole hour at a time…….

Oh yes one more thing, my friend Fordfocusmum (one of these days I'll work out how to do that link thingy) who has the gross misfortune of standing at the school gates with me has drawn to my attention that a comment she left on my blog did not appear last week. Fordfocusmum was most perturbed and wondered what had happened. Had her remark that I was a fat, lazy, good for nothing, self indulgent egotist with pompous aspirations of bionic supremacy, a desire to have my own chocolate factory, take over the world and introduce compulsory silly hats and red noses for all politicians offended me in some way? The answer is no! It takes a lot to offend Mrs Turley who is of a jovial disposition and so if any of you Dear Readers also suffered the same experience Mrs Turley assures you it must have been a technical hitch (or possibly gross incompetency on my part.) So please keep commenting as MrsTurley loves to chat and be distracted from all those boring household chores....

© Jane Turley 2008

The Great Escape

Mrs Turley, Housewife extraordinaire is in very deep trouble, Readers. I am under house arrest. Yes, at this very moment two (lovely) young gentlemen from Her Majesty’s Secret Service are standing to attention outside my door. Why? I hear you say… 

Well, it happened like this… 

Mr Turley forbade me from doing any more blogging until the house was spick and span and I’d completed all my charitable deeds for the boys' sports clubs. So by last night I was wild, livid, and prepared finally to throw the tea towel in. I could stand no more drudgery and so I planned a cunning escape. Having failed with the tunnel, I decided to take the more conniving route of escape... Through the front door in the early hours (Mr Turley would never expect such blatant audacity) and Mr Turley who sleeps like an elephant (and makes a similar sound too) would not hear me and I would slip quietly away into the night… 

And so I packed my handbag with all the necessary items I needed to start a new life:

 1. Mr Turley’s credit card. (Also his cheque book, savings account, current account card and the loose change he keeps by the side of the bed.)

 2. A kilo of chocolate. (It’s a large handbag)

 3. Clean knickers. (Essential for any woman who’s had a child)

 4. Spare clean knickers (Essential for any woman who’s had three children.) 

5.Lipstick. (Just in case I ran into Pierce again, I needed to look my best.)

 6.Tissues. (So I can wipe around the toilet seat of any public convenience that does not have sufficient squatting room.)

 7. A small pen knife which has my emergency tin opener on it. (Vital for impromptu meals.)

 8. A can of baked beans. (For the emergency meal.)

 9. A map of The Outer Hebrides and a one-way ticket to said place (and also a map of Pierce Brosnan’s house just in case I decided to stalk him.) 

10. A wind up two-way radio so I can keep in contact with the outside world in case of nuclear war.

 And so at 12.45 am I tiptoed out of the house. I decided not to take the car in case anyone should hear and I also took the precaution of puncturing Mr Turley’s tyres with my penknife so he could not pursue me... and then I headed off into the night.

 At first, I walked. Then I trotted...and then feeling the breeze on my face and the sense of freedom I broke into a run… my pulse was racing, my heart pounding… I could hear the music of the theme tune to The Six Million Dollar Man in my head as I gradually ran faster and faster. My imagination took flight…

 ♫♫♫ Der, der, der derrrr…Der, der, der, der, der, der, derrrrrrrrrrr ♪♫♫ 

“Mrs Turley, housewife. A woman barely alive. Ladies, we can rebuild her. We have the technology. We have the capability to build the world’s first Bionic Housewife. Mrs Turley will be that housewife. Better than she was before. Better. Stronger. Faster.

 ♫♪♫ Der, der, der, derrrrrrr…Der, der, der, der, der, der, derrrrrrrrrrrrrrr ♫♫♪♫ 

And so I ran on and on and on… until I reached a stile and as I made a daring leap over it… the earth began to shake, the trees tremble, I began to sway from side to side and then suddenly… I landed flat on my stomach with my face in a cowpat. The ground continued shaking. 

What was happening? Had I lost my senses? Had I gained more weight over Christmas than I dared imagine?

Eventually, I wearily raised my head and to my amazement saw an array of black shiny boots. 

“Mrs Turley, Housewife Extraordinaire?” A voice barked in the night. 

“Ye…essss,” I replied fearfully. 

“You are under arrest for the wilful damage of Her Majesty’s Lands."

 “I am?”

 “Your running, Mrs Turley, has caused the strongest earthquake in this country for 25 years.”

 “It has?” I replied, suddenly anxious that I might be imprisoned in Her Majesty’s Tower and forced to watch endless reruns of Prince Charles’ wedding to Lady Diana Spencer. Worse, I might even have to watch The Duchess of Cornwall at Ascot. (Although I’m not sure which race she might have been taking part in.)

 “5.2 on The Richter Scale, Mrs Turley. It was lucky you fell otherwise we might have had to call a national emergency.”

 And so here I am - confined to my house under house arrest. Responsible for an earthquake and with nothing better to do than housework…. and blog... 

EARTHQUAKE ROCKS THE UK 

On February 27 at approx 1am The UK experienced its largest earthquake for 25 years, registering 5.2 on the Richter Scale. Fortunately, there was no loss of life although structural damage is expected to run into millions of pounds. A woman in her forties has been placed under house arrest pending further enquiries into her weight problem.

 © Jane Turley 2008

More ludicrous waffle....

Oh what joy, at last I have (temporarily) finished doing all those charitable deeds that a mother of three boys must do and at last I am free to blog again! Anyhow before I get going tomorrow on various dubious subjects connected with the Art of Housewifery I thought I’d post my latest football report for the BBC; I’m afraid all that talk of Luke Warmwater put me in a Star Wars frame of mind over the weekend. There’s not a lot about football in it really… anyway if you like it and fancy reading other complete garbage in the vein of Charles Dickens and Jane Austen click on my BBC links for the other drivel.

Soccer Wars; The Return of Samba

Southcott Owls U7 3 -7 Samba Rio U7

A long time ago in a field far, far away there was a great Soccer War. The Rebels, Aylesbury Athletic, who came from a hidden Buckinghamshire base, had lost their first conflict against The Evil Sithcott Owls.

During the first battle, Samba Pele lost 2-4 but now they were fielding their premier team, Samba Rio, in an attempt to win The League and steal the secret plans of Sithcott’s ultimate weapon; The Death Ball, an armoured football with enough power to destroy an entire army of Droid football supporters.

Pursued by The Emperor’s secret agents, Darth Johnston and her Sith Younglings, The Young Jedi Masters of Samba took to the Sithcott field in the attempt to save their reputation, steal The Death Ball plans and restore sanity to The League……..

Darth Johnston, standing tall and flinging her black cape around her, assembled The Sithcott Younglings at her feet for a severe scolding. They crouched fearfully as today she was in a mood as vile and wretched as a school dinner because across the field The Evil Emperor of The Sithcott Owls, Chairman Murtagh, was training yet more Sith in the wicked ways of the Dark Side. The Chairman too was in a foul, hideous mood because despite his devilish powers he had not been able to discover the Magic Elixir of Eternal Youth and was growing even more aged and withered on this the day of his 40th Birthday. His only compensation were his plans for The Death Ball which he had secretly hidden in his shorts; it was Darth Johnston’s unpleasant task to protect these plans at all costs, for which she needed her infamous mask.

“Now Young Sith you must use your trust in The Dark Side to win this match,” commanded Darth Johnston. “Use The Force and it will make you strong; if you win you will become more powerful than you can ever imagine!”

The thought of increasing their Dark Powers inspired The Sith into some forceful, attacking play in the first quarter from captain Benedict Turley and his able conspirators Jake Sanders and Jaime Hunt and within minutes Sanders had scored a fine goal. The defence partnership of Craig Rattray in goal, Karl Waydick and Miles Drabwell was also looking resilient. Drabwell was particularly adept, running the full length of the field to add to the strength of the Sithcott attack. Rattray kept a clean sheet and as the end of the first quarter drew to a close Sithcott were looking formidable.

In the second quarter The Samba Jedi began to utilize the noble powers of The Force as their passing and aptitude began to increase. Unluckily though, they had forgotten their lightsabres but fortunately so had Sithcott… so both teams had to make do with their right foot and occasionally, their left. If Samba wanted to restore balance it was vital that they equalised and sure enough, despite Sithcott keeping up the pressure with substitutes Lauren Avery and Tommy Johnston on the field, Samba fired an unstoppable shot that flew into the top corner of the Sithcott goal over Turley’s head to bring the score to 1-1.

In the third quarter, the more experienced Samba’s skill began to show as they shot two more goals past Rattray to take them into the lead. Sithcott began to tremble with fear because the wrath of Chairman Murtagh was known to be awesome and should he loose his plans for The Death Ball there would be a punishment worse than death. (Watching a Luton Town FC match.)

In the final quarter Sithcott began to panic as their defence fell apart entirely and Turley was abandoned in goal with only his gloves for protection. In quick succession Samba shot four goals past him. Turley’s anger began to mount and his eyes glow red as the power of the Dark Side began to grow inside him.

“Where are you Sith?” he cried “You are my brothers! Do not leave me to the mercy of The Samba Jedi!”

Suddenly reawakened by the cries of Turley’s distress and fearful of Darth Johnston’s anger Sithcott regrouped and in the dying minutes Sanders scored two rapid goals to bring the final score to a more respectable 3-7.

Turley’s mother was returning to her Speedo with her son trailing behind. He was still furious with the defeat and as his mother strapped him into his restraining harness she could see his eyes burning with intense rage.

“This is the end for you Mother,” he said. “You were supposed to buy me magic goalie gloves that would bring victory to the Sith, not leave us in defeat. You will suffer.”

“I am no stranger to the Sith,” replied his mother. “Do not underestimate my powers.”

“My strength is growing and yours is fading,” the juvenile Turley responded, drawing out his water pistol. “And now Mother you must feel the full force of the Dark Side!”

Meanwhile, The Young Jedi of Samba gathered proudly in the centre of the field and made as if to capture Chairman Murtagh. Fortunately, he had surrounded himself by a huge circle of vicious Trainee Sith, so fearful for their lives and not enamoured by the idea of retrieving The Death Ball plans from his shorts, Samba decided to return to Aylesbury knowing that they had won the second conflict fairly.

However, Samba should be warned that with more practice, the naturally talented but relative novices of Sithcott, will soon Strike Back.

© Jane Turley 2008

Oh, for the Love of……Washing Machines.

Well, it wasn’t long after I’d finished posting yesterday when Usha left her comment asking me if I was going to be allowed a period of mourning for the beloved washing machine. She’s quite right, of course, an item that has served the household with such honour should be given the send off it deserves. However, Mr Turley in his eagerness to install the replacement which arrives tomorrow has already dragged it, huffing and puffing, out onto the driveway awaiting the Deliverers of the New Washer who are to remove it for the unwholesome sum of £15.

Now I’ve never known Mr Turley to be so generous in the disposal of any item before; he has cut up sofas, paving slabs, cabinets and various household accoutrements in order to avoid paying refuse charges. But not this time, his is unbearably eager for the replacement as he knows his life will not be worth living if it is not installed promptly. However, I have suggested a number of more attractive disposal options, including;

1. Burning it in the back garden in the manner of Darth Vader’s funeral pyre. Whereupon it’s spirit will arise and restore balance to The Turley Household. As a result, its replacement, Luke Warmwater, will have his powers increased and be able to spin at incredible speeds of 1600rpms.

2. Stuffing the drum with a small, but effective package of Semtex explosives, which I then will light when the next door neighbour’s cat is passing (just for the added thrill.)

3. Tying it to the back of my car and dragging it along the nearby bypass singing through my tannoy, “Give me joy in my heart, keep me praising…” while it breaks up into many small pieces which inadvertently puncture the tyres of passing boy racers.

4. Since the cooker is terminally ill, I could use it as an impromptu barbecue; I could light a small fire underneath it and place the sausages, oven chips and onion rings inside the drum whereupon I believe they would be appropriately burnt in the fashion there are normally accustomed. Excellent.

5. Burying it in the back garden in the area in which we normally dispose of the cat litter and planting a fragrant rose bush on top so that when it blooms it will always remind me of the many hours I have spent in its precious and welcome company.

Now, Ladies and Gentlemen to continue on a vaguely related matter, I wish to inform you that I am writing my own Dictionary. You’ve heard of The Oxford English Dictionary and The Collins English Dictionary… and soon to be on the market is The Turley English Dictionary. It will available for vast amounts of cash and hopefully make me a millionaire. Now it’s not a normal dictionary; it gives you the standard definition and then the REAL definition of the word. So I’ve just checked what I’ve written for Washing Machine and this it what it says;

Common definition; a square shaped inanimate object used for the cleaning of clothes. It holds no interest for men even though it has a round door which opens and closes with ease without any required foreplay.

Genuine definition; a short, fat woman in her forties, highly animated but with very sore hands.

If you’d like to add to these definitions please leave a comment as I’m still at the drafting stage. Just for your interest here are a couple of my other recent definitions;

Vacuum Cleaner.

Common Definition; a heavy, oblong or circular shaped object which is the cause of much earache. Used for the removal of fluff and dust from the households of over zealous husbands afflicted by the disorder Cleanus Upperus, which causes a life time of agony and unadulterated madness for their unfortunate partner.

Genuine definition; a short, fat woman in her forties with a large space between her ears.

I’m working on the genuine definition of Umbrella at the moment to which I’ve come up with…….

Posh Spice.

Again, if you have anything further to add please leave a comment.

And now my friends I must go… Happy Washing Everyone!

Oh and if you fancy watching Darth Vader going up in smoke and imagining the alternatives, here's the link;

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bIaYfLkpCdg

© Jane Turley 2008