A wet day in Ireland (again)

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

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

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

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

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

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


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


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

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

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

I looked around me and this is what I saw;



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

Copyright Jane Turley 2008

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

A bit more blarney and a lot of rain

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Copyright Jane Turley 2008

Ps It's raining. Again.

The Quest Begins

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


The Blarney Stone

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bangor University courtyard 2008

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


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

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

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

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

Jane Turley 2008

Help! It's the School Holidays!

Well this will be a very short post because it's that dreaded time of year...The School Holidays. Of course, whilst I relish the idea of not doing The School Run, I'm still Mrs T's Taxi Service running my Terrible Trio in my deadly Cmax all over the place. Our summer vacation to Ireland approaches too so I'm vaguely thinking about packing some stuff but as usual I will endeavour to leave it to the very last moment just so I can remember what the word "excitement" means. "Excitement" usually means a giant sized bar of Cadburys these days but the stress of packing which always nearly brings Mr T and I to blows is always good for letting out a little bit of pent up frustration. At the moment I'm trying to figure out how to get Mr T's fishing rods into a 4x4 sq inch space. Fortunately, I have a rather good idea; it may involve a mallet or possibly a small chainsaw. Who knows, I'm feeling daring today...maybe both!

Well I had some sad new on Monday from my home town of Weston Super Mare. Yes, that's right Mrs T was raised in the birthplace of John Cleese and Monty Python. Hmm... maybe that explains some things? On the other hand the delightful Jeffery Archer comes from Weston too - the only thing I have in common with Jeffrey is our political aspirations...to rule the world by fair means or foul! However, I don't think anyone could accuse me of ever telling enough porkies so that I end up behind bars like Mr Archer; I am 100% honest and never prone to lying or the slightest exaggeration.

Well back to the sad news... The Pier at Weston has burnt down. The fire was apparently started by a deep fat fryer early Monday morning and within a short time the building was ablaze and the pictures making headline news across the UK. ( I'd like to point out at this juncture I don't have a deep fat fryer for this very reason - I have way too many cooking problems without potential explosive electrical devices lying wantonly around) Anyhow, having spent many years wandering the seafront, strolling the beach, feeling the surf splashing on my face and the wind gusting through my hair and and gazing across to the Welsh coastline I shall miss The Old Girl. She was a grade II listed building and a feature of the coastline I will always remember with affection... especially in more recent years where I have revisted it with my children and played silly games, sat astride the ghost train and enjoyed overpriced ice creams. I suppose in time it will be rebuilt..but I guess it will never be the same again.


Life moves on.. every time I go back to Weston it has changed and expanded until in recent years it is almost a hinterland of Bristol. The Seafront, home to the second highest tide in the world, and with it's Victorian Hotels and sandy beaches was the one thing that had remained fairly constant and now with the death of The Old Girl my only attachment left is my mother who still resides there. Our family home was sold a few years ago and my mother now has an apartment looking out to the sea. It was a good move for her and I have no regrets.. but one day I reckon I'll move back to the coast.. probably not Weston though.. .so I can feel, once again, the sea breeze on my face and hair, the taste of salt in the air, watch the fierce waves crashing upon the promenade and rejoice in the cries of seagulls as they soar in the dull grey skies.

And when the holiday makers have gone, I'll know that this is once again England, my England.

Copyright Jane Turley 2008

Mrs T is back with a load of gibberish..

The last week has not been one of my best. The bad news of my last post set me off on one of my rollercoaster emotional periods which for Mrs T is like having laboured over the preparation of the most exquisite meal I have ever attempted (home made sausages rather than the shop bought ones) and then to drop the lot just as I’m about to serve it up to an eagerly awaiting Mr Brosnan. Not good! To top it off this week I had my first proper interview for a job for about 12 or 13 years which induced some mixed feelings. (These are the same mixed feelings that I normally reserve for viewing Sylvester Stallone movies; i.e. boy is his body hot but he just can’t act….)

To continue… Surprisingly, I was not particularly nervous about this interview because I knew I could do the job and do it very well and also I’m one of those people who enjoy challenging situations; yep I was one of those weird breed of people who actually revelled in doing exams at school. (Obviously, not maths as you would have to be really, really weird to enjoy maths.) But unfortunately, Mrs T who is normally good at concocting ludicrous waffle required at such times had a frozen brain cell moment during the interview when asked what her personal weaknesses were and as a result did not get the job. Was I disappointed? Well, yes and no. Yes, because I don’t like to fail at things - except cooking and cleaning where it is my moral duty to fail in the quest for female emancipation. (i.e. to fight for freedom from checked pinafores, shiny work surfaces and those small useless gadgets that serve no purpose whatsoever.)

(Also, it is my right, indeed my honour, to fail miserably at household tasks, especially cooking, because they are exceeeeeeeedingly borrrrrrring which is why I’m working on the design of a new stove which will revolutionize the life of suppressed housewives the world over and which I shall market as “Mrs T’s Thermo- Nuclear Cooker - A one step method to producing hot meals(and frying your husband) in less than 30 seconds.)

Now in preparation for the grilling I was to receive at the interview I had prepared some thoughtful and perceptive statements about myself for the interview panel which for some inexplicable reasons did not go down well. Here they are;

1. I am a former Miss World and have devoted my entire life to world peace. I believe in for the right for all women to have unnecessary surgical implants at the taxpayer’s expense and the right to produce their own range of designer swimwear constructed out of 2 handkerchiefs and a shoelace.

2. I was a child genius. (Unfortunately I grew up to be an idiot; this was due to a diet of Norman Wisdom films, bubblegum and the unfortunately switching the television on during an episode of the Jerry Springer Show thereby sending me into a life of complete stupidity and blatant overeating.)

3. I have 3 cats. (Theory; showing you are an animal lover induces a picture of a caring, nurturing person which is excellent. The cats also keep me cosy and warm; along with the other 98 it took to make the coat.)

4. I am excellent driver and will definitely not reverse over any small people or animals in the school car park. (Unless they get in my way.)

5. I will do anything to get this job; including handing in my Uzi at the police station, dancing to the soundtrack of Flashdance in the school canteen whilst eating lumpy semolina and finally, declaring to the world that I believe Gordon Brown is a financial genius.

Honesty, I feel, is always the best policy. However, strangely enough my honesty did not appear to be appreciated. Hmm... why ever not? Anyhow, back to my personal weaknesses which in the feedback I was told I had not embellished upon enough and appeared “defensive”. Now, after several conversations with friends I realise that I should have found a weakness and put a positive spin on it. For example, that I like chocolate too much which makes me fat but the resulting demand for the production of cocoa beans keeps thousands in employment all over the world! You see what I mean? Eating chocolate is a positive! Anyhow, at the time all I could think of was my genuine personal weaknesses and frankly since I wasn’t in a therapy session I had no wish to discuss them with complete strangers. Lack of experience in interview techniques after such a long break, I suppose. Ah well.

Anyway, I thought as it’s possible I might be asked this question again at some future point I’d just list my faults and weaknesses and any prospective employer can just take a peek at my blog and satisfy their curiosity! So here we go;

1. I fantasize about making love to Pierce Brosnan in a vat of custard. (NB; this is cold ready-made custard. My own custard, which is heated to boiling point, may scald him in his vital places which would be catastrophic. It is also very lumpy and not easy to digest which might affect Pierce’s staying power.)

2. I frequently conduct inane and totally pointless scientific research using search engines. For example, I recently researched “Men’s butts” (Well specifically Kevin Costner’s butt) and came up with this rather interesting video which in the name of science I have studied with due care and attention.


Ladies, I think you’ll agree with me that my research sometimes proves (um, cough, cough) somewhat “fruitful”. And Gentlemen, if you have a butt like Kevin Costner please leave me your details. (Photographic evidence required.)

3. I have penchants for chocolate and cream cakes (useful for weight gain if you get a part as a normal person in a Hollywood movie), small furry animals (useful for mittens), action movies, (useful for foreplay) and Leslie Nielson. (Don’t ask.)

4. I fantasize about getting a job which requires me to do no work whatsoever for an extortionate amount of money for a handsome (and single) wealthy employer. Whoops, sorry...wrong draft there... I fantasize about getting a job which requires me to work exceptionally hard (probably in IT) for very little money but nevertheless feeling deeply fulfilled for a bearded and annoying employer. (Richard Branson.)

5. I fantasize about writing a novel called “North or South; if only I knew what direction I was going.” The blurb on the back cover would be written by Paul Burman and read as follows “This is the biggest load of utter gibberish I have ever read, deserving of a kick up the arse and an award for sheer and utter stupidity; an instant bestseller.”

6. I have a fetish for Magnums (and yes that is a piccy of a Magnum .44 even though it says Colt in the corner) thus I fantasize that I will duel over Pierce Brosnan with Usha. Usha’s weapon of choice will be also be a Magnum. Unfortunately it’s a Magnum lolly. Therefore I WILL WIN. I will not gloat that I have won because I think it’s mean to do that when you’ve won. If someone has lost and you’ve won it’s really not nice to keep rubbing it in over and over and over again that you’ve won. I’m just too nice a person to mention the fact that I’d won and won easily.

7. I fantasize about a Hamster called Sy. Well about torturing him really and keeping him in a small claustrophobic cage where he must use his tiny pathetic feet to spin his cheap plastic wheel. The electricity generated will power my electric toothbrush. (He’s so weak and feeble it’s untrue.)

8. I have a weakness for Mrs A’s chocolates. This does not help me in my quest to prove I am academically superior to her because as soon as she gives me her chocolates I am at her mercy. Damn.

9. Men with clean ties really do it for me. I mean there’s nothing worse than a man with a tie with a load of custard on it is there? (Unless it’s Pierce Brosnan’s tie when that is perfectly acceptable.) Men with dirty ties need a spanking.(And some soap flakes.)

10. I have some bad habits. That was when I was a nun but now I’m a “normal” member of society I disguise them by wearing a white sheet over the top and pretending I am an angel.

11. I have an overactive imagination.

Is it any wonder I didn’t get the job?

Oh yes, and if anyone wants to employ me please do leave a comment.

Copyright Jane Turley 2008

Mrs T takes a leave of absence......

*Ding dong* the doorbell chimes, and Mrs T excitedly walks to the door.


“Oh Pierce. It is you! I always knew this moment would come!” Mrs T croons.


“Jane, my love, can I come in?” Pierce smoothly replies. His eyes smouldering with passion.


“Of course Pierce. Please. Come in.” Mrs T replies. Her nightrobe falling slightly open to reveal her tazmanian devil nightie, with stains of a Cadbury caramel bar.



“Oh, do excuse the stain!” Mrs T says, as she starts to suck on the chocolatey goodness stain.


"GO! GO! G O! Hold her down. No, harder. She is escaping! Come on...just a second more. OK, I got the sleeves around the back and the straps done up. That’s it. Take her away!"


*cue face peeled off a’la mission impossible styleeee*


Ahaaaaa! It is I. Master Sy. It is time to end this insanity of Mrs T’s.


Dear readers, after several “dodgy” posts, Mrs T has been replaced. As you read this, chocolate is being dangled in front of her eyes, and every time she goes for it, the straight jacket gets tightened a little more. Her face currently has the look of a constipated blueberry, such is the force at which she is going for the chocolate.


For a few months, I have been watching her behaviour, and it is obvious there are a few delusions occurring on a postly basis. Therefore, it is time to sort out a few bits.


*WATCH HER...SHE IS CHEWING THROUGH THE RESTRAINTS!*


My apology loyal readers, she is trying her best to get to the value own brand chocolate we are teasing her with.


Let me introduce myself. My name is Master Sy. I am not a housewife extraordinaire as the blog title suggests. In fact, I am not even a housewife. I am just a man. A man of extraordinaire proportions. Call me “The man”. Or “The Legend”. Hell, you can even call me Delilah. Either way, this is my post now. The king is dead. Long live the king. Well, I guess queen, but you know, the connotations of writing are just too many. Calling myself a queen...well...yeah.


Now. The reason for this takeover is two fold. The first is Mrs T’s infatuation with Mr Brosnan. The second is because I can, and because after I realised there were 2 folds after I folded the paper to put it in my pocket.


So I have arranged to interview them both. Get to the bottom of all the shenanigans. It seems to me to be the only way to get this sorted once and for all.


Master Sy: Tell me Mrs T. What is it all about? Hey? Why Pierce? Why a man with a name like the bad side of visit to the Dr’s for an injection?


Mrs T: Chocolate...Give. Me. CHOCOLATE. NOW!


Master Sy: Holy hell. She is spitting weird green stuff and her head is starting to turn all the way round.


Mrs T: GIVE IT TO ME YOU WEAK MORTAL! I WILL CRUSH YOU LIKE A FLY!


Master Sy: Ooohhhhkaaaay then. Guys...move the chocolate another 5cm away from her. Now. Mrs T. Answer me, or else. Why Needle Boy?


Mrs T: I hate you and everything you stand for!


Master Sy: I love you too poppy. But come on. Answer the question.


Mrs T: Fine. He is adorable, and he WILL give me more children. Mrs T needs to copulate and grow. My inner being is calling out for him. For him to fertilise me like an old pile of vegetables. The master race of Brosna-beings will take over the world and do my bidding. Cadburys and Nestle will be under my control. Chocolate will become more valuable then gold, oil and BOGOF offers for anti-perspirant in the warm season all put together. The French will want to be like me. The Iranian government will want to partnership with me. THE WORLD WILL TASTE MY SWEET TASTING GOODS!


Master Sy: *snicker* Taste your sweet tasting goods? Are you planning on selling chocolate or pornography?


Mrs T: Do not mock me mortal. I will come for you.


Master Sy: Riiiiiight. OK, well, thanks for making absolutely no sense at all. Here, have a mouthful of sugar free diabetic chocolate!


Mrs T: AAAAARRRRGGGGGGGGHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


Master Sy:Watch out lads, I think she is gonna blow! Now. On to Mr Brosnan. The man behind Mrs T’s infatuation. Mr Brosnan. How do you feel about all of what you just saw?


Mr B: Blibble flip poop stump gorby munching tea pot. My name's Pierce and I have big ears! Wooooooo!!!!!


Well, I don’t know about you readers, but I think they should get together! Now. Please be kind enough to leave a comment letting me know if you would like the restraints taken off of Mrs T, or if you would like her kept in stasis for a while.


Thank you for your time.



Master Sy

A life worth living

I was going to write a humorous post today. But I’ve had a change of heart. I’d like to tell you a story instead. I hope you don’t mind.

This is the story of Divya.

I first met Divya when she was in her early twenties. She was born in the UK to parents who had emigrated here from India. She was a pretty, petite woman. She was skinny but also had a quite sensual appearance with long dark curly hair, big brown eyes and the sallow skin inherited from her parents.

I suspect she must have quite a tough upbringing in many ways. She was raised in a small red brick terrace that opened directly onto the street in a large urban town and I’m guessing there wasn’t a lot of money for life’s little luxuries. I suspect Divya struggled too with cultural differences. From what I ascertain, her parents retained their own culture as much as possible but she appeared to embrace a more British way of life; a life with perhaps more personal freedoms than her heritage had foreseen. She studied and went to college, enjoyed her liberty, and shortly afterwards she got a temporary job where she met my brother.

My brother who was older than Divya and a long time bachelor was taken with her looks, her charm and her bubbly enthusiasm for life. So naturally, it was about this time too that I first met Divya. I felt she was a breath of fresh air in my brother’s life; I admired her friendliness and her vivaciousness. She dressed well in fashionable clothes that flattered her figure and I always found it amusing how she could flaunt a fake fur handbag with such audacity. A relationship developed between her and my brother and like other couples they fell in love and, in the course of time, they made plans to be married.

The possibility of marriage caused a little friction between my brother and my father who at that time was becoming increasingly frail and suffered severe pain; as it turned out he was actually dying from a misdiagnosed malignant tumour. Looking back, I feel his reluctance to accept the idea of marriage was as a result of him being drawn closer to his religion as his life was drawing to a close; the thought of his eldest son marrying out of the beliefs he held so deeply was a deep disappointment for him. Maybe his reaction wasn’t as it should have been but I also feel it was perfectly understandable given his age, beliefs and situation. I have always thought that this was the cause of the disharmony and not any personal dislike for Divya, who as far as I am aware, never held his reservations against him.

Amongst my other immediate family Divya was accepted without question despite our comparatively strict catholic upbringing. As children, my father never imposed his religion on us in an unpleasant, domineering fashion and I believe he taught us tolerance and understanding in his own understated and quiet way. His reservations about the marriage were silenced by my mother, always wise, who said “Don’t be so silly John; they will be alive when we are dead and gone. Don’t ruin their big day!” And so when the day arrived, the family were all present and correct.

I don’t know if there was conflict within Diyva’s family. Unfortunately, her father had been killed tragically in a car accident a few years before. But maybe in some ways this gave her freedoms she would not otherwise have had. I don’t know; I can only surmise.

The wedding was a civil ceremony held at a splendid location. It was truly a meeting of two cultures. Divya, who had embraced English culture but also retained much of her ancestry, wore a stunning red sari and looked absolutely fabulous. So did all her relatives who turned out in a colourful throng to support her. It was a cold winter’s day, the trees were bare and a few flakes of snow floated on the sharp breeze. Yet it was also a day full of colour, of laughter and of happiness. For me, that day says much of our British way of life; how it is possible that so many races and cultures can learn to live side by side, to be respectful of each other, to move forward in this ever challenging world.

For a few years my brother and his wife lived happily. The initial period was tinged with the sadness of my father’s slow and painful death. Divya, who was a wonderful cook, baked him cakes and sat by his bedside too as the cancer took his toll upon his ailing body. My belief that my father’s initial stubbornness to the marriage was not anything to do with her personally was confirmed. Indeed, he remarked to me in those last months that he had come to see her as another daughter.

Divya was young, pretty and ambitious but nevertheless after a few years of exotic holidays and working hard she gave birth to a baby daughter. As the result of two entirely different genetic backgrounds she is the visible evidence of our culturally diverse British society; she has her mother’s dark eyes and hair but the paler skin of her father. She is a natural beauty.

Divya though was still ambitious to succeed in her career. Possibly, this was the result of her modest background and a need to escape her past. I can only guess. Thus there came about a role reversal; my brother gave up his job to look after his daughter and when Diyva’s maternity leave ended she returned to work. Unfortunately, this is where things began to go wrong. It is not for me to dissect my brother’s relationships or make judgements. I will only say that I do not believe it was cultural differences that made the marriage flounder but more likely the issues of age and perhaps of dreams and aspirations.

And so, in the course of time, the marriage ended. There was, I am certain, hurt on both sides.

They say time heal all wounds. Who can say. But eventually my brother found a new partner and his angst began to subside. My loyalty was to my brother and I lost touch with Divya but I listened with interest to the little bits of information that were passed to me about her life. After several failed relationships, she too settled down with a new long term partner and her career progressed. Both she and my brother had both moved on in their lives but, I believe, were nevertheless still united in their love for their daughter. Finally to complete the transformation, 5 weeks ago Divya gave birth to a baby boy. It seemed everyone was now happy, the circle now complete.

The telephone rang this morning at half past eight.

Divya has suddenly and unexpectantly died.

I do not, as yet, know the finer details; I believe it may be a Group A streptococcal infection that her body, in its post pregnancy state, could not fight off.

I am truly sad. I am sad for my brother, his daughter, for Diyva’s partner, for their new baby son and also for Diyva’s mother who has had two such awful tragedies to bear. But most of all I feel sad for Divya; she has left this world too soon. Her gaiety, her enthusiasm, her obvious enjoyment at being alive was a rich gift. I feel guilt too that I did not re-establish our relationship once the grievances had passed. It was negligent of me.

I am always more deeply affected by the deaths of young people and children. It saddens me greatly to think of lives lost before they have reached fruition. That the chance to share love and laughter, to experience the full beauty of this life, which perhaps can only be appreciated fully as one grows older and wiser, is lost. And sometimes too there is an emptiness left behind for those who had loved them that is never truly filled again.

So once again, as I grow old, I contemplate the meaning of this life, this universe. I have my own religious beliefs based on nothing more than that I know my simple mind cannot understand the complexities of Life. However, when I look around at this world, this beauty… and yes, the horror too… I cannot believe everything I see is here by chance, by fortune. I believe there is a higher understanding, a knowledge that is unobtainable in this life. I believe that on death there is a joy to be found that is far greater than we can ever imagine.

And so, whilst I say farewell to Divya in this life, I also believe that whatever the Gods she believed in, whatever she will miss in this life, I also feel that somehow she will be rewarded in the next one.

In whatever shape or form it will take.

This is your story Divya.

And wherever you are, may you find peace, happiness and joy.