miles maketh a matyr

77 miles to Hertfordshire. + 77 miles back to Sussex. + 38 miles to Brighton. + 38 miles back to the cottage. + one whole bag of fresh pasta. + one whole head of garlic. + half a tub of butter. + crap television. = heartburn and burnout. goodnight. cul8tr.

Le plume de ma taunt

Sometimes the only thing to do is go with it.
So I filled a bucket with hot water and floor cleaner and scrubbed the kitchen floor.
Why I felt like ironing is beyond me, but I did.
I then gathered up all the stray bits of washing.
The house is now grime free.
I then found myself vacuuming, in the buff, well the demons had got me. I was too hot to wear anything, and no I don’t look anything like Ms. Griffiths in ‘Working Woman’.
Dom, was raking leaves and snipping hydrangeas. I feared he may walk past the kitchen window with his wheelbarrow so every time I went down stairs I draped myself in a quilt that was made for BB when she was born.
The thing is ripped and all the stuffing is coming out of it, I can’t get rid of it, throwing away twenty years of memories.
But it’s just the right size to do one turn round my body and it stays up for about 20 paces.
I did our bedroom, smiling as I went back and forth with the Dyson. Then one unwealdy move and I’d sucked up the belt from Jim’s blue-polkadot-silk, dressing gown. I must remember to tell him.

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I’m not a celebrity keep me in here.

I know there are bugs flying around because I’ve snapped one up.
I have had a headache for two days that is so bad I feel like my eyes have been sewn up.
I have visited the bathroom more times than Una Armetage Shanks.
I ran for 30 minutes this morning, hoping that it would make me feel better.
It did, of sorts.
I made porridge and grated an apple into it. I thought I could do with the roughage. Jim shouted at me and said I should have eggs to bind me.
The thought of it made me feel queasy.
The daughter called trying to track down tickets she’s lost for a gig she’s going to on Sunday. I hot-footed it to the computer to assist.
Then the old man left with his guitar, amp, box of make-up, and various other bits of pantomime paraphernalia, and set off for the theatre.
I didn’t feel great but Jackson looked at me with those big, brown eyes of his and so off we went.

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Manners maketh a wo-man

Dear bloggers, Thank you for your contribution this week. The Self Sufficiency show came and went. Now you know how hard it is to keep up the momentum. This weeks homework is ETIQUETTE. You, and food and manners. I heard a wonderful talk from Lisa Jardin, who quoted her favourite intellectual hero MARAGART DOUGLAS, who … Read more

I’ll take the High Road

Dear, dear bloggers. You did it again. I nearly managed to get you all on radio this afternoon. Your stories were really well written and bang on, so thanks. I’m off at 4.00 a.m. tomorrow to fly to Glasgow. I’m meeting a man to talk about an idea. I’m back on Wednesday. So in the … Read more

The Fresh Bean

Having been to TOADS to have my hair done, I set off in the drizzle to London Town. The hair stayed in tact. I have to admit to having a stiff neck from trying to keep my head as still as possible.
Annie, one of my oldest friends, sacrificed her gardening to babysit Jackson and Emmy, so I left Sussex with a guilty, though happy heart.
Got to the flat by 2.30, Jim turned up shortly after me. He’d been rehearsing all morning.
The ‘Nearasdamnitson’ turned up an hour later.
In the hour before he arrived Jim and I nipped into Sloane Square to buy him a ‘Tiffany’ bean.
You all know Tiffany’s.
You all know what a bean looks like. Well imagine a bean cast in silver and wrapped in the tourquoise blue packaging that Tiffany’s are renowned for, and there you have it.
We had a little ceremony in the kitchen where we gave the boy his bean and wished him well for the opening.
He then went off with Edge, his long term partner in crime, and Jim and I followed on later.

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chicken tikka soup

11.45 pm. I made chicken tikka soup. It was very tasty and filling. I am so full of chicken tikka soup that I fell asleep in the chair. I have no idea how much ‘Children in Need’ need. I couldn’t care less which celebrity gets out of the jungle. I am too pogged to care. … Read more

Public Announcement

Oh Dear, Mrs. Jones, having to nit-pick after hours.
Like most creeative poeple I ma extreemely bad at speeeling and grandma.
The frost on the lawn, this morning, was a most welcome sight – normal November weather. Hurrah!.
The old man got up to go to the theatre whilst I lingered a little longer in bed.
When I finally got down stairs the dog was so happy to see me he nuzzled his head between my knees; I had to tickle him behind his ears until Terry Wogan had finished.
We went out for a sprightly walk, then I went out again for a run.
On the way I phrightened a phlock of pheasants who phlew up in the air. I wanted to count them but they were too quick phor me.’Phlip me’ I said phonetically.
On the way back past Mrs.S’s cottage I heard Selina, the nurse, say, ‘Don’t forget, we’re going to the pub for lunch.’

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Words of Wisdom

After 6 hours sleep it was off to the dentist.
This time for the daughter, who amazingly revealed that all of her wisdom teeth had torn through her gums without so much as a yelp.
She had absolutely no pain whatsoever, unlike her mother, who suffered so much she had to take a week off work.
When mine came through I was understudying Rachel Kempson and Denise Coffey in John Osbornes play ‘A Sense of Detachment’ at the Royal Court Theatre in London.
It was a new play that everybody was eager to see.
I had been asked to play the silent wife of the angry husband played by Terence Frisby.
Mr.Frisby was well known for having written the award winning play/film ‘There’s a Girl in my Soup’.
We had met whilst filming the ‘History of Sadlers Wells’ and the ‘History of Pantomime’, but that’s another story.

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