Because of My Deep Affection for Tom Cruise

I know I mention Tom Cruise too often. I'm sorry, I can't help it. He's just so small he's gotten under my skin. Anyway, it's wet and rainy, cricket is rained off, tennis is rained off and I feel a little unwell. Therefore, there is nothing else to do but cheer myself up as best possible.

So I have designed a special suit for Tom to wear in the next Mission Impossible film which I believe will be call Mission Impossible: Rabbit Warren.  I love this suit and I think Tom will too - and since I only had to buy size 13-14 years which was a snip at £98.00 I may even order a second suit just in case his ears get caught in a trap.

My Garden and Elizabethan England.

I am building a boat. It has been raining far too much lately. My back garden which has already been decimated by Master Ben's chickens now looks like a cesspit. It's wallowing in mud. It probably looks like London in Tudor times. The only difference is - instead of me throwing excrement out the window I have chickens on hand to save me the trouble.

It must have been great fun to live in Tudor times. Apart from the cholera, dysentery and the plague. And all those men dressing up as women on stage. No wonder the men wore tights all the time. I think there was a lot of gender confusion going on. To be honest, I'm not even sure if Queen Elizabeth was a woman. For a start she never had any children and she wore those big dresses - and you can hide a lot under one of those dresses. Even a small circus. In fact,  I wouldn't be surprised if Queen Liz employed a dwarf who hid under her skirts and picked the lice out of her petticoats. He might even have played the lute when she was watering the flowers... Hmm. Now that I think about it - I always knew Tom Cruise had a previous existence.

Anyhow, in Tudor times - and I don't want to appear to be rude here but there aren't many ways you can say this - but basically you got to throw your crap out of the upstairs window and no one complained. Imagine what fun that would have been...

Whoa Mistress Bottomley!  I see young Master Pratt making his way up the street in his white breeches. What a pompous fellow he is! Bring me the bucket of shit so that I might pour it over his head. Quickly, quickly Mistress Bottomley here he comes....


Whoa Mistress Bottomley! I see old Mister Scrooge approaching with his hand upon his wallet and his wife tied to his belt. What a miserable, miserly fellow he is! Pass me the bucket of piss so that I might pour it over his head. Quickly, quickly Mistress Bottomley here he comes....


Whoa, Mistress Bottomley! I see that rogue, Knave Rodger, coming up the street. His tights are on fire and his wig is a smouldering. Pass me the bucket of piss, the bucket of shit and the sick bowl so I might put out his fire. Quickly, quickly Mistress Bottomley....


Oh what fun it would have been living in the Tudor times. I would like to have lived back then just so I could have married King Henry and see if I kept my head.

Hmm. Probably not. I'm not sure he would have been used to a women who answered back. Still, you can't have everything. I think I could have kept my mouth shut for a feast of chicken drumsticks and a selection of fine wines on a regular basis.

I am all of a dither - should I buy this gift?

Oh Readers, I've just been on Amazon and browsed through their deals of the week and saw an article of clothing I am sorely tempted to buy for the good Mr T. In fact, as soon as I saw it I immediately thought:

 Why that is just so stylish and elegant for the debonair man the about town. I am sure Mr T would love to wear it!


And Readers, this lovely article of clothing is only a paltry £98.00. I think it will make a great gift for any man for Father's day. Start saving now.

So what do you think? Shall I get it or not? Honest opinions please.

Oh Gosh - I'm not sure about the colour though. Maybe I should go for the pink? Although I'm not sure if my budget can stretch to £140 for this one which is obviously very fashionable indeed at the moment.

 Hmm...or maybe the red?

Oh God, the dilemmas, the dilemmas! Maybe I should just throw caution to the wind and buy all three. I might even get one for his brother. I'm sure he'd really appreciate one of these lovely suits for Christmas.

Oh alright. You've sussed me out - the truth is I would rather marry a lesbian than be seen dead with a man wearing one of these. I like men who look like men not like they've forgotten their potty. And clearly any decent man thinks so too as there is only one review on Amazon which reads:

My dear grandma asked if i wanted this for xmas or to be smothered in meat paste and attacked by wild dogs....I chose the wild dogs.


Enough said.

Me and My Courtesy Car

Yes, I am driving a courtesy car. This is because last week I managed to successfully wreck the clutch on my Ford Cmax. Apparently, according to everyone I know, it is because of my (lack of) driving skills - apart from my good friend Mrs A who is blaming it on normal wear and tear.

Now that's what I call a true friend.

So last week Master Ben and I set off for Cambridge for a tennis tournament and it became apparent en route all was not well with my car.  As we returned home later in the day, we had to negotiate a small but steepish hill just outside of Cambridge where the revs moved into the red danger zone and there was simply no power at all in the engine - despite my gentle verbal encouragement - which normally my car responds to very well indeed. We only just about made it to the top of the hill - whereupon I knew a difficult journey lay ahead.

Thus followed a humiliating journey - I actually had to stay in the inside lane and at one point even sit behind a caravan. Frankly, this is one of my worse case road nightmares - stuck behind a caravan going at 50mph and not being able to do anything about it apart from drum my fingers on the steering wheel and sing "Why are we waiting?" It's almost worse than being stuck behind a Sunday Driver - unless, of course, you're stuck behind a Sunday Driver towing a caravan. Frankly, these people should only be allowed to travel between the hours of midnight and 6am in the months of July and August because otherwise they cause major tailbacks, road traffic incidents and widespread blood pressure amongst general road users. (Including me, obviously.)

I have to commend Master Ben on his bravery though - as I spent the whole journey narrating every clutch change, rev, manoeuvre and maligning every passing vehicle with copious colourful descriptions while he had his head in a copy of the Famous Five only looking up once. What a cool dude! If I recall correctly, the moment he looked up was my first and only attempt to overtake the caravan when my descriptions might have been even more colourful than usual - not only because there was simply no power in the engine but having gently encouraged (again) the car passed the said offending vehicle - I found myself stuck behind Caravan No 2.

Anyway, on the route back I planned to take a few minor detours to avoid a few hills. There was, however, one unavoidable stretch of road with a series of gentle minor hills/inclines which has a long flat stretch preceding it. I decided the best course of action was the to build up as much speed as possible on the flat segment in order that we might somehow propel ourselves forwards  up the inclines. This tactic worked admirably as we managed to get home safely - although I have to say I was a little sweaty and slightly red-faced on arrival. Master Ben took it all in his stride though - I think his first words when we got home something like "What's for tea?" whereas mine was "You have no idea what I've been through! The clutch has gone! I had to sit behind a caravan!".... and so on and on and on. For about an hour. At which point Mr T was looking rather too fondly at the kitchen knives.

So I have a courtesy car at the moment. It is some Japanese thing. I'm sure it's very economical but it's like a shaky baked bean tin made out of fibre glass. On Sunday I drove on the M25 on it - which if you're unfamiliar with the British road network - is a 117 mile orbital road around London which, as you can imagine, is very, very busy indeed. I swear to God trying to get up speed in that tin can was worse than driving my Cmax with a naff clutch. Accelerating to 60 mph took about  - 5 minutes? Okay, okay it was probably was about 30 seconds. But it was the longest thirty seconds of my life! I can't wait to get my Cmax back - I miss the old girl!

( I'd still rather drive a Bugatti Veyron though.)

Stop talking about shoes!

Warning: this article may offend some women: read at your peril.

Please, please, please, please, please stop talking about shoes.

Look, I like shoes. Some I like better than others.  I walk in them, play tennis in them, occasionally dance in them and sometimes I even muck out the chickens in them.

But I do not want to read about them, either in magazines, books or newspapers unless it's a humorous article which points out how ridiculously stupid and expensive some of them are or it's something poignant like my friend Marie's article here.

I also do not want to see them on the cover of any book. A book with high heels on it is like a red rag to a bull to me - it screams to me;

Hello, I'm another tedious piece of anal chick lit! I will probably have numerous references to designer shoes and handbags and after you've read me you'll wish you spent your time scrubbing the loo or cleaning out the compost bin.

Okay, so I supposed you want to know what brought this rant on. (By the way it's 4.30 am I have indigestion so I'm a little grumpy.) I was perusing the internet and I came across an author who was promoting her first novel. The cover of the book did not feature a pair of shoes. Excellent. So I read the author's bio which said amongst other things:

She has great collections of African sculpture and Italian heels.

I don't think I need to explain myself any further. 

All I need now is to read that Samantha Brick is publishing a book about shoes and I will probably take a gun to my head.

I have had too much white wine

I've been up since 5am - who can blame me? So I am currently working my way through a bottle of dessert wine which is 16% proof. The fact I can type is actually a miracle. Thank goodness for spell checker. God may have made man in 7 days but I reckon on the 8th day he made spell checker. Don't you just love him?

Anyway, Mr T believes I am working at my writing. Which, of course, I am - as blogging is writing. Of sorts. Still, it's a good learning curve. That's what Quasimodo said when he reached the top of the bell tower. He was also pretty knackered. But then again, that's what happens when you stuff your shirt with a bale of hay and 2 chickens.

I should say that when I have had too much wine I am liable to say anything. Which is why I restrain from such decadent behaviour on a regular basis. It's also because I have a prenuptial agreement.

You know, one of the funny things I've noticed over the years when I'm a bit tipsy is that I have amazing powers of recall. I mean most folks can't remember where they live or who they are married to (which could be pretty embarrassing) but I have a weird habit of recalling the most bizarre things. One time, I even remembered where the bathroom was. Another time, I remembered my that knickers go underneath my trousers and not on top.

Alcohol does strange things to the mind. You only have to look at Ozzy Osborne to see that. If ever there was a good reason for me to stay sober it's the fear of ending up looking Ozzy. Although I have to say that after I've worn my mascara for more than about 30 minutes there's more than a passing resemblance. You know, I have tried almost every mascara possibly (for less than ten pounds) and they all have the same effect - I look like Ozzy when he wakes up in the morning, turns over and sees he's sleeping next to Sharon. Say no more.

Anyway, if there's any retailers out there who'd like to send me a wagon load of mascara please feel free to do so - I need to blacken the wood stove. You know, isn't it annoying how all the celebs get all these free gifts? I mean they can afford to pay full whack for them whereas us poor fools have to cough up the full price. That's PR for you. Apparently, Karl Lagerfield has just sent singer Adele a whole load of his bags as way of apologising for calling her "fat" - which okay is not very nice but well it's not if it doesn't have a smidgen of truth in it. I guess it was a nice gesture to make up for being rude though - although I'm thinking he did rather play it safe by sending accessories and not clothes....

Oh no - my wine bottle is empty! I have no choice now but to go to bed and rest my weary head. No doubt I will be up early tomorrow to let the chickens out. (More on that at a later date.) In the meantime, I leave you with a recent picture of myself and the two younger masters - and believe it or not I was actually sober in this picture - which if you think about it doesn't bode well.

Master Ben:    Look, Mummy - a chocolate fountain!

Mrs T:             Ohhhhhhhh - I see it, Master Ben!  Let's go and get a closer look!

Master Jacob:  I can't believe I am related to these two idiots...

Born to be a clown

I have a habit of being a clown. It comes naturally. I look around me and see sophisticated women everywhere and wonder where I went wrong.

So today I got so excited watching Master Jacob play tennis that when I went to sit down I sat on the edge of my chair, tipped it right over and landed on my arse and splayed all over the floor in front of about twenty or more people. Much to everyone's amusement.

And I thought the petticoat incident was bad enough. Oh wait a minute, there was the knickers round the ankles incident too....

I am 47 years old. These things are not supposed to happen. What's more I still get spots.

It is soooooooooo unfair - I am lodging a complaint with Him Upstairs!

On another matter, here's my favourite record of the moment; I Won't Give Up by Jason Mraz. I went to see him in concert a couple of years ago and what a heap of talent he is. This is the sort of music I like to listen to in my car when I need to chill out after I've just made a complete prat of myself. Which is probably why I now have an extensive Jason Mraz collection....