Hex My Ex: Dabis, Improbe Poenas!

Where Have the Years Gone By?

noreply@blogger.com (Agnes Mildew) — Sat, 12 Mar 2011 15:51:00 +0000

I got fed up of blogging, I must admit. You see, I went into this job many years ago, where I was told repeatedly, Blogging is the way forward for SEO purposes...keep your content updated on a regular basis, and Boy, YOU WILL ZOOM UP THE SEARCH ENGINES.

All I wanted to do was bitch about the ex and some former employers...all of a sudden, it became a little too corporate and too much of a chore...and so I gave up...for nearly four years - haha!

I decided to have a break - I took leave of work and wrote a book (which is about 2 pages from finishing and entitled Ducks, Muck and Lots of Luck - shit title, I know, but a WIP) and attempted to breed ducks, geese and chickens.

After 18 months of the ducks and geese devastating everything outside of our bricks and mortar house, and making the most inordinate amount of racket, we sold them...after we had 'liberated' Gary and Barry (Aylesbury Ducks) on the beautiful River Weaver where we still see them and chuck them bread. Brenda, the Embden Goose died, leaving her sister, Mave the Rave on her own, so we sold her to a Welsh farmer whose gander was in a 'terrible state' having lost his partner.

And now we have 15 chickens. They are of varying breeds, but they all have names: Euphemia, Lavender, Ethel, Mavis, Maude, Violet, Betty, Joyce, Raquel, Tina & Cher (they are the Black Rocks and I thought a Rock Star name appropriate), Norma, Biddy, Hilda and Una. They each lay a mean egg - wholly free-range and wholly organic...and I now sell them across our village and beyond. For 75 frigging pee per half dozen when Tesco get two whole bloody pounds for the same!

What else has happened? As if you are interested??

I went back to work...I worked for the most racist person I have ever come across who made me feel physically ill when he ranted about his Asian customers...and so I got out after nine months of steely, gritted toleration, much to his chagrin. He threatened me, abused me and called me 'transient' when I handed in my notice. Out of goodwill, I offered to work a month, even though I only needed to do a week.

After he gave me a crap reference, even though I had netted them £1000s due to my PR and marketing (even landing them on prime time TV from PR), I walked out. His parting words were that he wouldn't pay me a sausage...and THAT is where you are wrong, Mister!

"Unlawful Deduction of Wages" act comes into play somewhere here...and thus I digress...

Hey! I grew some balls! I told that turd he was unprofessional, petty and filled with sour grapes. What a guy.

I mean to say, gurlies, how would you feel about a bloke who came in to work each day, unkempt, scratching his balls, burping and saying 'parrrr-dON' in a dodgy French accent, banging on about granny porn and the most recent consignment of porn he and his wife were expecting from the States (and then he would clear off home and go off work-chat while they watched unmentionable stuff)

...and then, when an Asian guy would ring up for his money back on one of his dodgy hair loss solutions, he would be screaming (while customer service were chatting to said customer): F*cking P*ki C*nts...tell them to F*ck right off!

Sorry, I don't buy into that type of hatred.

I start work with a new company on Monday. And Christ, I hope it works out because I am as stressed out as hell about it all - the case of fingers burned firmly springs to mind!

My biggest coup is landing my very first freelance PR gig with Planet Earth Logistics...now they cover all manner of sexual health issues...so that's going to be exciting, isn't it?!

I am going to TRY to keep this blog updated again...if I get more than five comments on this post, I will go for it!

Apologies for it being a dull one so far!

Agnes xxx

The Senescent Charles Parsnip

noreply@blogger.com (Agnes Mildew) — Sun, 03 May 2009 10:06:00 +0000

It was my darling husband's 40th birthday on Sunday. As befits a man of his age, at 11am, Sunday morning, he was back in bed, snoozing until lunchtime as he cannot stand the pace. That's OK. I will never let him live it down, though, believe me...

It took me ages to plan his birthday weekend. It is always made much more difficult because I simply cannot keep a surprise to save my life and walk around with a cheesey, yet hopefully knowing grin on my face, as if to say, "I know something you don't know..." Then I ask if he wants to know what his surprise is, to which he always says, "No!", I gripe and wheedle, he gives in and I blurt it all out triumphantly and then have to do something else instead.

I decided that, as #2 was away at her father's, we'd make a weekend of it all. I started preparing on Tuesday night, baking his birthday cake, making a fantastic seafood pâté for his Saturday morning brekkie with home-made bread (which we had all scoffed by Thursday night), booking us a room at Cranage Hall down the road, blowing up countless numbers of balloons with #2 and organising a plethora of birthday cards ranging from a paw-painted one from Oscar (there are still green footprints in the kitchen) to a Happy 50th Birthday from the tortoises which are still in hibernation since last Autumn...

I was very kind to him yesterday. I allowed him to sleep in until 7.30am. I tend to wake up with the Dawn Chorus and stare at him until he rouses himself. He must find it a very religious experience as he often wakes up shouting, Jesus Christ!

I was ever so good, dear reader: I held my water for four days. I had it all planned out, to kick him out of the house, fill the conservatory with balloons and banners, pack the cards, chocolate and wine and then pretend to be taking him to Shakerley Mere for a stroll, yet secretly driving him to the hotel for the night. I'd packed our bags, fed and watered all the animals (apart from the tortoises which have probably dried up by now and will be my newest ash trays).

Friday night, he caved, wanted to know the plans and I 'fessed up immediately. I showed him the Hall's facade and he appeared delighted, as was I for getting the room half-price on a late-booking deal.

We set off for a walk and lunch at the Duke of Portland, a supposed gastro-pub which has won all sorts of awards. I haven't got a clue how they have won these gongs, because the food was that insipid and bland, that I complained and got the booze knocked off the bill. My leek and potato soup tasted like weak cabbage water and Mr P's macaroni cheese appeared to have been made with Kraft Singles. Nasty, skanky junk. We were glad to get on and get to the hotel.

And didn't it look posh?! Gosh, I was chuffed, driving up the long carriage sweep to the main entrance, where we checked in...and were then directed to the Travelodge annexe. Boo hiss! I was most disgruntled. I'd paid all that money and could have gone to the M6 services for the same quality of room.

My face fell. Mr P tried to make light of it all and said the main thing was that we could have some hot sex without waking #2. That wasn't good enough for me. I wanted a luxurious pampering session in the bath with all my unguents, a salubrious room and a view of the rolling Cheshire Plains, not the car park.

Mr P sank down into his chair, heavily, and picked up a brochure to scan. Inside, it contained pictures of people with their throats cut.

"What's that?" I asked. "Are they the people who have died here?"

"No. It's an advert for a murder-mystery weekend..."

I decided the only way to get through the weekend was to get drunk, but Mr P put his foot down and told me I wasn't allowed to. Yet another avenue of pleasure denied me. We had to smoke outside and the nearest exit was about ten miles away, down a veritable warren of different corridors. I got lost a few times and seemed to keep finding myself in the bar...

We decided to go and explore the hotel. The cleaning staff were out and about, and their trolleys, filled with bubble baths, soaps, moisturisers and shower caps were littered along the passage ways. I am a sucker for hotel toiletries and have come away with enough body lotion to moisturise a small hospital. Yes, I am a tea leaf: I never steal anything but hotel toiletries. I believe it is something to do with me wanting to get my money's worth...

We found ourselves at the Tempus Restaurant and were greeted by a wonderfully acerbic hostess called Gill. She explained that the restaurant was closed off as it was being taken over by a Beauty Pageant. I asked if it was lettuce and raisins on the menu and she raised a weary eyebrow.

"They'll only go and throw that up, too..." she remarked astutely.

Sure enough, I have never seen so many anorexic teenagers before. But do you know what was so ironic? All their parents were massive. Clinically obese, some of them...There was also a wedding going on. I think Charles and I were the only 'normal' guests there to be honest.

We told Gill that we would be coming for dinner tonight and she winked at me - I'd already arranged for a birthday cake for Mr P to be brought to him and she told us she'd reserve one of the booths for us - which was very intimate.

We toddled off to the bar for a game of pool where I was mercilessly drubbed by Mr P, despite trying to get some advice from a young staff member who bore a strong Glaswegian accent. I could barely make out what he was advising me, and so it is hardly surprising that I continued to mis-pot the balls. I think Mr P was a bit jealous to be honest, but refuses to admit it. He claims it would never have future due to the language barrier...

The evening meal was jolly good, I must admit. And Gill brought out a birthday cake for Mr Parsnip. We only discovered the next day that she'd whipped down to the Co-op and bought one of theirs. The cavernous restaurant was practically empty and so we were waited on hand-and-foot - none of the beauty pageanters were in there for seconds, obviously.

We turned in pretty early, really, and were both out for the count when, at 2am, our hotel phone started ringing. I jumped out of bed in fright, started shouting, Where am I? What's happening? Where's that bloody phone? (I didn't know if it was on his side or mine) and then, Turn the bloody light on for God's sake.

The minute I answered it, it went dead. Boy, was I annoyed...but not enough to lose any more sleep and I started sawing logs pretty much instantly. Mr P took much longer to get off. Probably because I was keeping him awake.

I was half-tempted, next morning, to get my own back on our anonymous caller, and randomly play knock and run on the bedroom doors when I went for my 5.45am fag over on the other side of the world. There were a few Sunday Papers shoved outside doors, too, and I considered swapping them around just to confound the guests...but that would have got staff into trouble, so I decided against that pretty sharpish.

Charles treated himself to a Full Monty Fry-up of sausages, eggs, beans, mushrooms, toast, bacon and hash browns.

We have not heard the last of it since. He is now so constipated that he has had to take two of my laxatives. And still there is no joy. I have offered to give him a suppository of soap, but he has passed on that magnanimous gesture.

Mr P spent the rest of his birthday gardening. We have turned a large area of scrub land over to vegetables and Mr Parsnip, as befits his name, is nurturing all sorts of vegetables and cat shit. To date, we have spent about £50 on cat deterrent gizmos. One is a sonic thingummy-jig which just seems to set next-door's dog off on a frenzy, and the other stuff stinks of garlic and pepper. #2 loves it and inhales it readily, like a Coke addict. So, I am most dismayed to find two fresh dollops in my newly hown plot this morning.

Mr P loves his veg plot. Indeed, I think he loves it more than me nowadays. In his constipated, poorly state, yesterday, he even got his dressing gown and wellies on and went to inspect it. He was pleased to report a cat shit-free zone. And so it is to me to dash his ebullient mood today when he returns from the library, replete with SF novels, Photography guides...and How To Grow Vegetables...no doubt.

Love Thy Neighbour...

noreply@blogger.com (Agnes Mildew) — Fri, 01 May 2009 05:34:00 +0000

As our other reader may be aware, I live in a large village in the heart of Cheshire. I believe, a few years ago, the local County Council voted to re-term it as a 'town', but the residents kicked up such a fuss (probably something to do with taxes), that the idea was shelved and 'village' it remains. It's an eclectic mix of demographics. At both ends of the village are the Knobs' Hills - enormous country piles; thatched cottages; elegant 1930s townhouses - and then in the middle, there are two rambling 1950s housing estates, built by the Council, for the large chemical works, ICI, which has since closed down. Workers were given the chance to buy their houses, and many of them did, only to sell them on later. I live in one such house - it was owned by a Mr John Langley, an original ICI worker, who bought the property for £5000, raised a son, and died here a few years ago. A builder then bought the place, ripped its guts out, did it up, and I toddled along, made him an offer and moved in six weeks later.

This housing estate's roads and closes are all named after trees. For example, there are Walnut Avenue; Hazel Grove; Ash Grove; Rowan Road; Laburnum Close (which on the other side, reads 'Laburnam Close' - a schizophrenic Town & Country planner, obviously). And, thankfully, there are lots of trees about, which is always a delight to me, although not to Mr P who suffers terribly with hay fever, and whose eyes look like pickled eggs in the summer months. The houses range from those designated for the elderly to townhouses to semis (such as ours) and a few detached. Due to the wildly varying prices, there are people from all walks of life living around here.

To the rear of our property is a row of shops. I have mentioned the colourful characters in the past, but it never ceases to amaze me who you can bump into over there (not Jonny Depp, most unfortunately...). On Wednesday, I visited the Post Office to withdraw some money. As usual, there was a queue of blue-rinsers who fumble with surprise into their bags once they reach the window, as if they are shocked to find themselves there and have suddenly forgotten what on earth they have come for...

As I stood patiently, a young 'lady' (and I use that term very loosely) entered the shop pushing a buggy containing a snot-nosed baby, and dragging a 7-year old boy and toddler. I knew she was coming to the post office because I heard her telling her child a mile away. She stopped traffic. She was the inspiration for the Fog Horn. She genuinely was not shouting at her children; she simply yelled instead of talking.

Everyone in the shop stopped, aghast, at the noise which emenated from her vocal cords. My ears started to bleed and I got a fit of uncontrollable giggles. To try to stem my hilarity, I stared at the CCTV cameras and attempted to look as though I was about to stage a stick-up, imagining the hurly-burly of Cheshire Constabulary coming to take me away...It didn't work. I had to cross my legs as I thought I might wet myself. The faces of the other customers were pictures.

As I arrived at the window, the female teller rolled her eyes at me and shook her head sadly. She asked me for my request and I waggled a finger in my ear, and asked her to speak up as I had gone a bit deaf...By this stage, the woman had left the shop (and an audible vacuum). Had she still been there, I wouldn't have cracked this joke, as she was a big bruiser and would have snapped me in two. I quite like the arrangement of my body as it is, to be frank.

I got my money and then moved to the shop counter to purchase my cigarettes. An old bloke was in front of me, spending his pension on Lucky Dips, Thunderballs and Scratch Cards. He was taking forever, but he ponged of Famous Grouse, so perhaps he was just half-cut. Suddenly, the 7-year old boy returned, barrelling down the shop to the counter, picked up a Twirl and waited to be served. He was only there for about ten seconds when his mother 'said' from the door.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"

"I'M GERRIN' SERVED!"

"WELL 'URRY UP, COS I'M BURSTIN' FER A WEE!!"

Mmm. Nice. I was thrilled to have been treated to that gem of information. At least it was a Number One. I shuddered to think what she might have divulged had her bowels been moving at that point...

There was a tangible sigh of relief went around the other customers as she left the premises. Half an hour later, as she arrived at home, a mile away, I heard her exclaim, "AAH! F*CKIN' 'ELL, THAT'S BETTER..."

Pearl Necklaces and Other Gems...

noreply@blogger.com (Agnes Mildew) — Wed, 29 Apr 2009 07:35:00 +0000

I went to the hairdresser yesterday for a wee trim as my hair was starting to resemble a hedgehog which had mated with a Brillo pad. Sam, my hairdresser, knows me pretty well, and as my hair is still rather short, knows she can slot me in quickly in between lengthier appointments. Therefore, I didn't mind a short wait and decided to lower my IQ by flicking through the magazine, Closer.

In between scanning Jordan and Peter's latest scandal, and Kerry's weight gain due to her excessive vodka binges, I happened upon an article which displayed a picture of a grossly obese woman slathering what looked like flour and water on her face. Contained within the palm of her hand was a puddle of the stuff.

Intrigued, I read on further...

From a young age, the woman had been encouraged by her mother to look after her complexion, and subjected her skin to all manner of facials, unguents and treatments in order to have the perfect face (pity about the arrangement of it, I must admit). In her quest for the ultimate epidermis, she sought out labs in the United States and came across a company called CMEN*** (say it out loud).

Yup. That was no flour and water concoction adorning her rosy cheeks, but sperm: jiz; spunk; man juice...call it what you will.

She didn't have a boyfriend to ask for a few of his samples and 'didn't feel comfortable asking [her] male friends' (hardly surprising, I guess - 'Scuse me Steve, will you just jerk off in my face, please?'...) and so she spends a small fortune each month for a vial (or 'vile', depending on which way you look at it) of STD-screened sperm which comes with a bottle of lavender oil (to take away the pong) and a spatula for mixing. She puts this lavender-jiz mix on her face morning and night. The routine is to allow it to become crusty and then wash it off. She was amazed by the results! Within a few days, a dry patch of skin on her chin had vanished!! (Nothing to do with the healing properties of lavender oil, obviously, despite this being very well documented in alternative medicine journals). She has since spent £6000 on sperm, and although she felt somewhat uncomfortable at first, she pulled herself together and told herself it was 'just another skin treatment'.

Although she hasn't got a fella at the moment (and it's hardly surprising considering she's massive, not on the attractive side, and slathers her face in spunk), she claims she would NEVER give up her beauty secret if she did land some poor, unsuspecting sap. If he didn't like another man's jiz on her face, he wasn't the bloke for her...

I couldn't wait to tell Mr P, but I promptly forgot until this morning when I kindly brought him a cup of tea in bed. He was half asleep, had a go at me for snoring through the night, proceeded to snore himself and so I decided shock tactics might wake him up. I relayed the story to him in gory detail and suddenly his eyes opened.

'Wha? She puts sperm on her face?'

'Oh yes. And there was a photo of all this spermy gloop smeared into her cheeks.' I explained with glee.

'Oh God. That's disgusting. A stranger's sperm?'

'Yep! Probably sperm donor rejects...'

'Is it good for the skin, then?'

'I've told you many a time that it is. Why do you think I ask you to *&%$^££%%...?'

'Oh God. Oh God...'

'Don't think I'd fancy another bloke's man juice on me, I must admit. Anyway, the daft cow is paying a small fortune for the benefits of lavender oil, I'm pretty sure of that...'

I couldn't wait to tell #2 daughter, now that I had remembered the story. #2 loves to be revolted, so I collared her in the kitchen and started to tell my tale again.

'I was reading Closer in the hairdressers yesterday and there was this article about a really enormous woman, with long ginger hair...'

'Aw...bless,' #2 interjected.

'...who slathers strange men's sperm on her face as a skin treatment...'

'URGH! I'm gonna be sick! You mean SPERM? Proper SPERM?'

'Yes. She buys it from a lab called CMEN and has it posted to her every month. She's spent six grand on spunk now!'

'Oh My God, Mum! The dirty cow! Did you see it?'

'Yes. There was a puddle of spunk in her hand and she was slathering it into her face. It was quite putrid, to be honest with you...'

'Urgh. Doesn't it dry all crusty-like?' (I'm not sure how she has discovered the properties of sperm, and I must make a note to myself to interrogate her on this tonight when she returns from the ex's house)

'Yes. And that's the point at which she must wash it off. She reckons it has done wonders for her skin.'

#2 was speechless (which is a rare event) and cogitated this information for all of five minutes before continuing to bombard me with questions, the most modal being 'what did it look like?'.

And so, there you have it. Discard your Clarins, Clinique, Mac, Nivea, Oil of Olay and purchase some Oil of Ollie. If you have a man in your life, I feel certain he will oblige you and if not, don't be a wimp like this woman, just march up to the next man in the street and proposition him. It's cheaper than using CMEN. I feel certain that the erupting spot on my top lip will be gone by tomorrow now that I have this knowledge...

*** Please do not confuse CMEN with CMEN. I don't think it would 'go down' very well...

Flavour of the Month (Not)...

noreply@blogger.com (Agnes Mildew) — Mon, 27 Apr 2009 10:52:00 +0000

I have no idea about the rest of you in the world, but here in the UK, there is a brand of crisps called Walkers which currently has a marketing campaign to introduce a new flavour onto the unsuspecting British public.

The new flavours were submitted by people who obviously thought for all of ten seconds about the weirdest tastes imaginable and which were then 'developed' by infamous British chef, Heston Blumenthal, who appears to be two butties short of a picnic on the best of occasions (the guy makes porridge out of snails, for heaven's sake). Mr Blumenthal goes off with his chemist buddy, dickies around with all sorts of preservatives, E-numbers, carcinogens and MSG derivatives and comes up with the following:

Cajun Squirrel

Chilli & Chocolate

Builder's Breakfast

Onion Bhaji

Fish & Chips

Crispy Duck & Hoisin

So, in the interests of research, Mr P and I decided to try out each of these flavours for our other reader so that you don't have to (and believe me, you really don't want to...)

Cajun Squirrel

OK. The blurb reads that 'no squirrels were harmed in the development of this flavour'. Instantly, I am on my guard. If it says 'squirrel', I want to be sure I am eating squirrel. If no squirrels were harmed, how does Heston know what they taste like? Did he wait for some road kill or something? Did he ask a fox what squirrel tastes like? How many native Louisianans eat squirrel?

Verdict: Tastes like chicken which has been rolled around in orange dust.

Chilli & Chocolate

This to me, defeats the object of a savoury snack. Why put chocolate into it? If I want chocolate, I'll go and buy a bar of Galaxy, not buy chocolate-flavoured spuds. That's just bollocks. Yes, I know that it is fashionable to sling a few pieces of dark chocolate into your Mexican banquet these days since some bright spark discovered that the Aztecs used to do it, whilst worshipping their God, Costalotl, but it doesn't make sense to me.

Verdict: Tastes like spicy chicken with a sickly after-taste of something resembling saccharine.

Builder's Breakfast

Ostensibly, the Full Monty fry-up: bacon, eggs, mushrooms, black pudding, fried bread. What a mish-mash of flavours. When the packet is opened, there is an overwhelming smell of bad farts. It is reminiscent of the egg butties I make for #2 daughter who complains bitterly about the way she is ostracised on the school bus when her bag is accidentally kicked and an eggy pong seeps its way to the gobbiest kid's nose who then loudly asks, WHO'S FARTED?

Verdict: Tastes like the smell of rotten eggs with a smokey piquancy. Weird. Much to be avoided if you want to keep your friends and acquaintances close to you.

Onion Bhaji

I love onion bhajis. In fact, I love Indian food, full-stop. It has to be that cuisine dearest to my stomach lining. I decided to have a prawn vindaloo last week and suffered for 48 hours afterwards. I have never before eaten a curry which tastes of hot. I am glad I put the toilet roll into the freezer ready for the morning after the night before. But, I digress. These do not taste even remotely like onion bhajis.

Verdict: Taste like manky beef casserole.

Fish & Chips

Another bizarre combination for a bag of crisps. I mean to say, chips taste like crisps, don't they? So, is this not a bit of a con? I am paying extra money to have spud-flavoured crisps...which are made from spuds. Chuck in a bit of oyster sauce for a malodourous fish input and Heston reckons we can be kidded into tucking into a bag of fish & chips. Nooooo! You cannot bastardise fish & chips. It is illegal.

Verdict: Tastes like really bad prawn cocktail.

Crispy Duck & Hoisin Sauce

I'm not a great lover of Chinese food, particularly not the variety which has been devised for the 11.30pm chucked-out-of-the-pub-I'm-starving-let's-get-a-Chinese type. And Crispy Duck falls into this category as far as I am concerned. It's sweet gloop which has been created for those whose palates have seared off through the night after drinking ten pints of Carlsberg lager.

Verdict: Tastes like chicken. With chocolate.

Basically, Heston has revamped chicken, prawn cocktail, egg and beef flavoured crisps. And probably got yet another TV series on how to make castles of lard, black pudding and cress. So, there you have it. Which would you vote for? I wouldn't be bothered for any of them, personally. The winner will be as popular as hedgehog flavoured crisps were in the 70s.

Give me marmite rice cakes, any day.

Monstrous Memes

noreply@blogger.com (Agnes Mildew) — Mon, 27 Apr 2009 09:54:00 +0000

Linda. You are no longer my friend. Awards I like (rewards are even better), but memes, I despise. And I don't think I could encounter a worse meme than to list five sexy things about myself.

Mr P, #2 and I went out for lunch yesterday. The meme was weighing heavily on my mind. I consulted #2 daughter and asked her to list five sexy things about herself. She looked at me blankly, blurted "Wha'?" and so I gave her the remit in more detail.

"I like my eyes, hair and I think my shoulders are really nice. Dunno why, but I really like my shoulders..."

"OK. That's three things; anything else?"

"Such as?"

"Well, your artistic ability; your handicrafts."

"This is just daft," she replied. "All you're asking me is what do I like about myself."

I sighed, turned to Mr P and asked him to list five sexy things about himself.

"Nothing," he replied.

"What, not even your bum, or your calves, or your photography skills."

"Nope. I am not remotely sexy."

(I personally think he is, but that's by-the-by)

So, I have wracked my brains long and hard, and come up with the definitive 5-point list for why I am sexy and the points are as follows:

1. I am sexy because, when I dance, I can gyrate my pelvis as well as Madonna any day of the week and if I do some serious shimmying, my knees only lock in position around 15% of the time.

2. I am sexy because I can still wrap my feet behind the back of my neck, or bite my toenails off and not suffer for it the next day with muscle spasms.

3. I am sexy because, as I am a heavy smoker, my voice is quite 'come-to-bed' at times. Particularly if I am also suffering with a heavy cold. If you don't look at my watering eyes and streaming nose and squint a bit, with a bit of imagination, you could almost believe you were listening to Kathleen Turner as Jessica Rabbit.

4. I am sexy because I wear 6" heels most of the time and thus hit 6' in height. I will wear the dirtiest shoes known to man, even though they cripple me, because they make me feel superior. The cast of our pantomimes in Oman always knew when they were in for a pasting from me depending on which pair of shoes I was wearing that night. The higher the heel, the worse trouble they were going to be in. Shoes are my passion. All my shoes scream, 'F*ck me'. Apart from my slippers. And I pinched those from our honeymoon hotel. And I don't admit to anyone that I actually wear them. They have to catch me in the act.

5. I am sexy because I can put my whole fist into my mouth. Not many women can do that. Don't you think that is sexy? Or does it just mean I have a big mouth?

So, there we have it. That is the PG-rated five point list of why I am sexy. I could have given you the X-rated version, but this is a family blog, and anyway, it's none of your business. I don't kiss and tell unless there are vast sums of money involved. But just in case, drop me an email and I can provide you with my bank account details forthwith for all the dirt on Mr Parsnip and his penchant for me wearing my gardening gloves...

Working Wonders

noreply@blogger.com (Agnes Mildew) — Tue, 14 Apr 2009 14:47:00 +0000

Cor! It's been a long, long time, hasn't it? Agnes Mildew-Parsnip has almost forgotten what it is like to write a blog. There was I saying to my buddy, Keli, at Counterfeit Humans, that I was giving it all up for good. No more; no more blogging: Hasta La Vista Blogger...and then the urge bit me on the bum this morning.

And it all started due to an abortive journey to work!

I guess the story starts a little earlier than that, though...

Around August last year, I decided I was going to try domesticity, and attempted to become a Retro Housewife. To this end, I twirled around in dirndl skirts with my hair in a French pleat; indelible red lipstick; stockings...and wellies for planting spuds out in the newly dug-over veg plot. For months, the house gleamed; the freezer was stocked full of home-made fish-cakes, casseroles, pasties, pies, parfaits...you name it, it was in there: Charles Parsnip gained a stone in weight, and #2 daughter lost a stone (hating everything bar Subway and chicken nuggets). I redecorated the kitchen, lounge, and three bedrooms; sowed spuds, carrots, peas, onions, leeks, tomatoes and bedding plants (the leeks, though, now belong to Mr P, as he planted them outside...).

Around six weeks ago, I became so bored, I got destructive, drank heavily, graffiti-ed the wallpaper, abused old ladies on mobility aids, took to jogging (for two days), watched daytime TV and suddenly realised, in a moment of epiphany, that Housewifery, if Mr Parsnip is not going to impregnate me, is NOT for me. (And let me hasten to add, Mr P has NO chance of impregnating me at the moment, the way I feel about kids!)

So, it was time to re-apply for weeerk. What could I do? Could I go back to my old job-type-of-thing, of online marketing? On the back of sorting out the water pressure on our boiler, and stopping the leaking radiators in the house, should I retrain as a plumber? Or a joiner, having always enjoyed wood-working and carpentry from my schooldays and my father's influence? Or what about Interior Design? I mean to say, that lettering in the bedroom looks bloody good! How many of you can say you wrote "Amore Vincit Omnia" with a steady hand after consuming half a bottle of Shiraz? In Calligraphic lettering?!

I re-applied for what I do best (I think) and that is online marketing, being a bit of a techy freaky-geek, deep down. I didn't go mad, really, being rather selective about what appealled. Mr Parsnip, being the magnanimous chappy he is (and having an ultradian memory...) informed me that I should go for a job which 'ticked every box'.

So, imagine my surprise (I have always wanted to write that à la Sunday Supplement Sensationalist Columnists) when I was phoned, out of the blue, by a company who were offering a role for which I had not applied, in a county to which I would not consider commuting...I informed them, immediately, that the type of commute they were expecting was out of my remit, and Thank You, but No, Thank You.

How about working from home, though?

*Gulp*

Pardon?

You might be able to work from home if you show your face once a week?

*Ahem* Well, but of course. We can discuss this, can't we? We're all adults here! When shall I come over?

What about tomorrow?

*thinks* Bugger! I wanted to drunkenly write 'Noli Perturbare' on my bedroom door tomorrow in Italic Garamond script...

*brightly* OK! Send me the address, I shall SatNav it, and see you at 3pm, as I have a 1pm meeting.

The address came, with warnings that it was very easy to get lost. I cancelled my 1pm, called the interviewer, asked if I could come early and arrived at exactly the same time, had I not rescheduled...

The drive was horrendous. 52 miles away, into Black Pudding Land (Deepest, Darkest Lancashire) and I got horrifically lost as the SatNav refused, point blank, to recognise any of the roads, streets, postcodes, POIs, that I input. I sat outside the Renault garage (not the Mercedes garage, about which I had been informed) and thanked God for mobile phones. The chirpy boss answered and informed me that if I did find my way, unaided, to his business park, the job was mine, anyway.

Spurred on by this, I found it, by hook or by crook, and almost shook his hand as I walked in, to exclaim, Where's the contract, then?

He was lovely, as was his partner. Next day, they offered me the job and I nearly bit their hands off. Although an agency had usurped them, by sending them my CV an hour after they had found mine on Monster I visited with them further to sort out the more 'sensitive' details.

And I got lost...

Again...

For some, very odd reason, I read, COME OFF AT JUNCTION 6 as, COME OFF AT JUNCTION 4.

I came off at J4, followed all the RH Lane, LH Lane, 2nd T @ R/A shorthand I had written, and kept thinking, Bloody Hell! I don't recall any of these places. I went across the same roundabout over the A666 (no joke! It really is the A666!) three times. Eventually, I was almost in tears, had rung the company and spoken to a telesales oik to pass a message on, and pulled into a burger bar lay-by.

The chap serving had 'football eyes': one home; one away and teeth that only an orthodontist could care about. But he was very amenable, looked at my directions, looked at me in pity, as though I was some escaped retard and explained that this was junction 4.

"Oh Shit!" I exclaimed, most indecently, and staggered across the potholes in the carpark, after having thanked him profusely, hobbling in my 5" heels and tight work skirt. I was hooted by a number of wagon drivers, who served to make me jump out of my skin and make me appear to be suffering from St. Vitus' Dance.

I eventually proceeded to the office, wherein my boss exclaimed that I was 'rubbish' and allowed me to go home early.

I was rescheduled to return in four days. Mr Parsnip informed me that time would fly so quickly, I would no sooner get there, than it would be time to come home. He was more correct than he has ever been in his life...by the time I reached the office, having travelled for 1.25 hours, I parked up and checked my text messages. There were two: one was from Mr P wishing me a lovely day; the other from the director asking me not to pitch up that day due to other commitments. I turned the car around and drove home...

Next time I went up, I didn't get home until 8pm, which wasn't much fun, particularly as the weather was decidedly awful on the M6 and then Mr P and I decided to have one of our bizarre rows where neither of us really knows why it happens but it just does...

And so I am back up there tomorrow. I have not slept properly for three nights, now, and am hoping that I will get some rest tonight. Mr P is already tucked up safely in bed, having had a jolly nice back rub from me. He has a day off tomorrow, but I am hoping against hope that he mows the lawn, hoovers the upstairs and makes me a jolly nice dinner for my return, but I am not holding my breath, knowing how blokes get side-tracked by DIY sites, techy sites, gaming sites, and porn.

So, I am just about to set my alarm for 6.30am. Thankfully, I now wear my hair very short, so a quick splash of water makes it seem OK rather than the previous 30 minutes GHD straightening, and, since the weather is so glorious now, I can happily squirt my face with fake-tan and look OK with a bit of mascara and lippy.

Roll on 7pm...

Christmas Time is Here II

noreply@blogger.com (Ian T) — Wed, 10 Dec 2008 12:20:00 +0000

OK Agnes, you win.

So once again this year, I decided to try and engender some Christmas spirit, and also bond with step-daughters #1 & 2 by taking them Christmas Shopping at the Trafford Centre.

Agnes has nothing but hatred & disdain for these horrible shopping centres. A monument to consumerism, the Trafford Centre is a vast shopping complex on two levels, with a massive eatery in the middle. Fountains fire water jets high into the air, Christmas lights bathe all the shoppers in a happy glow as they elbow their way past each other. A brass band plays Christmas carols to those who walk by, and every single shop has Christmas music playing gently to soothe the souls of those who queue endlessly, to be served by sullen shop assistants who are fed up with Christmas and all the shenanegans of working until 11 every night for the four weeks prior to the two day celebration. (long sentence award here plz)

The bonding began in typical style, with both girls rushing in from school, excited at the prospect of a shopping trip. As we left a relieved Agnes and went to the car, then the antagonism began in earnest.

"I'm sitting in the front."

"No. I'm sitting in the front on the way there. You can sit there on the way back."

"Cow!"

Of course, there is no need to annotate which daughter said what to whom, because it's entirely interchangeable. It doesn't matter.

Imagine the scene...

5pm (rush hour)

Heading into central Manchester

Pouring down with rain

Dank, dark and cold night

Radio 1.

I could hardly see anything through the spray of the vehicles on the road. White vans screaming down the outside lane at 90mph with visibility down to a few yards. Terrified drivers sitting in any lane at stupidly low speeds. Lorries throwing up half an ocean in their wake. Brake lights on and off, last second lane-changing, me not overly familiar with the route, and two bored girls.

Radio 1.

I'll mention it again, because it is worth mentioning. Such noisy, talentless crap. Endless repetition of the same words "vummanizer... vummanizer... I'm a vummanizer, you're a vummanizer...." It was like those French lessons all so distant now... Je suis, tu es, il est, nous sommes... I remarked that her voice sounded like it was coming through a bucket-full of tights.

"She lost her voice," remarked #1 avidly. "She had a drug problem, lost her voice, and now she's making a comeback."

Perhaps she shouldn't have bothered, I thought, as I narrowly avoided being tossed into the side of a lorry by a nutter in a Mercedes who shot past me, only to slam his brakes on and cut across three lanes of rush hour traffic to dive down a slip road.

The radio got turned up, the girls started bouncing in their seats, and I rested my arm against the window and held my head as I continued to dodge the traffic. Christ, I was getting old. Music too loud, can't understand the youth of today... Did I sound familiar?

We hit a traffic jam with only 3 miles to the centre. I moved over into the left hand lane, as I knew I'd be pulling off soon. #1 looked at me with concern and suggested I moved out again to skip the traffic and pull in later, a tactic already being employed by half of Manchester, hence the reason we were stuck in this queue. I glared at the passing traffic and wished them all a thousand painful deaths. #1 tutted and went back to writing her letter in the dark*.

After about ten minutes of not moving, the girls got bored.

"I'm hungry"

"Are we there yet?"

"My back's hurting"

"I need the loo"

"Can I have that cushion for my back?"

"No! I'm using it as a pillow"

"But my back is really hurting!!"

"You can have it on the way back"

"Cow!!"

"When we get there, can we have something to eat first?"

I like order. The Trafford Centre is like a big long stick. John Lewis (my intended parking place) is at one end of it, and my plan was to walk up to the top on the ground floor, and back along the top, hitting all the shops we needed with military precision. There would be no time for dawdling. I knew what I wanted, and then I was getting out. Already I thought of Agnes, sat back at home, ordering everything online, and enjoying a cigarette without condemnation. Next year, I vowed. Next year.

And now The Plan was in danger of collapse. The food halls are half way up the stick. My mind went awhirl as I tried to figure out how to get to the food halls, feed the girls, do the shopping, and get back to the car without having to double back on myself and waste footsteps. I know, I know. You pity Agnes don't you?

And then, there was just one more worry.... I wanted to buy Agnes something nice. To wear under her clothes you understand. Things that step-daughters most definitely shouldn't see. Cautiously, and with great hindsight-enabled stupidity, I opened my mouth.

"Will you two be OK on your own if... well... you know... if I have to pop off for a bit?"

#1 looked up at me suspiciously. She can be terribly intelligent when the mood takes her. #2 dragged herself from her daydream, pulled her thumb out of her mouth and managed a "hmmm?"

"I need to pop off and get a few bits. Will you be OK in Boots or something?"

I caught a glance out of the corner of my eye of #1 turning this over in her mind. The penny dropped.

"Are you going to Ann Summers?"

I blanched. "Maybe. I'd like to get your mum something nice, and I might want to go into La Senza too (much more upmarket lingerie for the discerning woman)"

"What are you going to get her?" asked #1 innocently, yet veiled with impish maliciousness.

I, as usual when faced with #1's cockiness, momentarily froze. And like all of nature's victims, one second of hesitation is all it takes to prompt the attack.

A giggle came from the back seat. "Is it handcuffs?".

#1 guffawed. "Nah.. they've already got some of them." and then to me "Is it some sexy underwear?"

My face must have gone white, my hands felt slippery on the steering wheel. I wanted to vanish. I wanted to go home. I wanted Agnes to face this, not me.

"I'm thinking about getting her a nice nightie," I replied, surprising myself at the swiftness of my reply as well as the disarmingly un-interesting words. #1 immediately became bored. Thwarted, she returned to her letter, but #2 persisted in the back.

"I can help you choose it you know. I know what she likes!"

"No. It's OK thanks. I'll just bumble around on my own. Besides, I don't want you two in there poking fun at me, I'll be embarrassed enough as it is. It's just not right having you there while I buy night things for your mum."

#1 looked up, a gleam returning to her eye. "We won't poke fun at you. We'll just be there to help."

"Mum had a really nice nightie that she really loved," continued #2 from the back. "It had Eeyore on it."

I could imagine Agnes' face opening an Eeyore nightie. I remained resolute in the face of adversity.

"It's OK. Thank you. I'll be fine."

Eventually the traffic began to move, and five minutes later, we parked up.

After we'd had something to eat, which was an amusing experience whereby #2 went healthy with a Subway and #1 went unhealthy with a MacD's. After finishing her healthy option, #2 asked for a lone chip from #1's pile which was met with a venomous "NO!". I asked #2 if she wanted me to get a portion of chips and she said, Yes please! Sometimes the smallest things can make one feel good. The look on her face as I returned with the chips was worth the queue and the clueless service. I still refuse to call chips "fries", which utterly confuses most MacDonalds workers. I remember at school once, a group of us went down to MacD's and spent ten minutes going round asking the staff what the time was, counting up the amount of furrowed eyebrows or grunted responses. Quite a shocking revalation that was. Made me study a bit harder for my O'levels... But, I digress...

We hit the shops.

So. Without regailing you with a detailed account of the ensuing fun, here are the high points.

In Shop A:

#2 pointing at an item and saying "oooh. That's nice".

#1 responding in a voice loud enough for the shop to hear... "What?! Charlie can't afford that! It's X thousand pounds!"

In Shop B:

Me, browsing quietly and struggling to locate the Right Thing: "Can either of you two help me with this?"

#1, ignoring me "come and look at these boots I'm getting for Christmas"

#2, ignoring me "come and look at these shoes I like"

Me, repeating the question, in a sterner manner.

#1 and #2 shrugging their shoulder in unison: "Sorry, nope."

In Shop C:

I locate what I'm looking for, but lose the children. OMFG, I just lost the kids! Crap. I'm dead. For a second, I wonder whether Agnes will greet me with relief if I turn up back at the house without them, then I dismiss the fantasy and settle on the reality that I will, in fact, be dead. As a doornail.

#1 comes flouncing over with something in her hand. "Look at this! Isn't it lovely". #2 isn't far behind.

Stressed now, I come up with a Plan.

"Look. Here's some money. Why don't you go to Shop D and get your mum something nice. Look for something for her. Yep, For her.

#1 frowns as if this is something she will need to concentrate hard on. She nods, confident of her task, and the pair of them skip out of the store.

The shop assistant smiles gently as I pay for my goods. "They seem lovely girls. Do they get on?" I consider the truth, then realise that I'm holding up the queue, and that no-one ever wants to hear the truth.

"Yep,"I lie. I nod, smile, pay for my stuff and leave her mumbling about her sister with whom she constantly argues.

Outside of Shop C, I realise that I cannot see shop D. My fevered brain works overtime. I was sure it was close by. I look up and down the sea of heads. Crap. I lost them again. I look over the balcony. Nope. No sign of shop D. Shop E, however, is next door to C, so I figure that they'll finish in D then come back to C by the time I'm finished in E. Still with me? OK. Re-read from "Yep".

Shop E:

I dash inside, believing like some sort of SETI fanatic, that this shop won't be busy. It's rammed to the gills. I snatch what I want, and rush to the counter. God is smiling on me as the queue all but evaporates and I move to the empty assistant station. He smiles at me.

I clear my throat, fumbling for my mobile phone in my pocket and pulling out a pack of cigarettes which I rest on the counter. "I don't suppose you know where Shop D is do you?" I enquire.

He merely glares at the cigs and points to the warning on the packet which shows a mouth cancer victim in all its horrible glory. "That's 'orrible, that is." he states.

I wait. I look into his glassy eyes. There is no sign of movement.

"Wot?"

"I said... Do you know where Shop D is please?"

He furrows his brow. Jesus, I think. How hard can this be to figure out? It can't be that far away.

"Sorry mate, dunno. Is this a Christmas present?"

I nod absently. He's asking because he's going to give me a gift receipt. Agnes can take it back if it's wrong, but more pressingly, if I don't find the girls, none of this will matter, because I'll be dead.

"Lucky you." he states, and my mind stops dead. The words don't compute. What the f*ck is he on about? I look up at him and he is sadly picking the price tag off.

"What do you mean?" I enquire patiently.

"No-one's gonna get me nuthin' this year" he replies.

I consider telling him that if he doesn't shut up, he won't need to worry about it because my murder of him will be inconsequential to what happens to me when Agnes finds out that I have LOST HER CHILDREN. Life will be meaningless without testicles.

#1 saunters up to me as I leave the shop. They found Shop D without me, bought what they needed, then came back to find me. Good girls. I should never have doubted them. the panic subsides, but my head throbs.

After this, the visits to shop F, G and H, things go relatively smoothly. Even the visit to Ann Summers goes without a hitch as the girls are too engrossed in getting their respective boyfriends something nice to notice what I'm up to.

#2 was in the front on the way home*, which meant Rock FM, which was infinitely preferable to that commercial sh*t they play on Radio1. Although, having said that, even this so called "independant" radio station was pretty commercial.

Next year.

I use teh internets.

* Another story...

Christmas Time is Here!

noreply@blogger.com (Agnes Mildew) — Wed, 10 Dec 2008 11:02:00 +0000

I am getting excited. Only 15 days to go until Chrimbo (as us Scousers call it) and I have now spent a small fortune of money which I don't really have. Therefore, I will probably have to go cleaning posh people's houses, write a book or prostitute myself to pay off the credit card bill which will land with an almighty thump on 2 January 2009. That day when you feel a hell of a lot better than the day before when your head is pounding with ten elephant ballerinas and somebody has emptied a cannister of CO2 into your guts...You wake up realising that you haven't died. You got through New Year's Day and only had to spend 2.5 hours in the bathroom, which wasn't that bad as they were showing Only Fools & Horses: that episode where Rodney 'hilariously' (and I use that term very, very loosely and if it drips with much more sarcasm, it is liable to wash away...) gets called a plonker for the millionth time by Del Boy, and The Wizard of Oz on the telly. Again.

Then the postman arrives and your world caves in. Ah me...Why do I like this time of year so very much?

Well, I shall let you into a secret. I love giving presents to people. I get much more of a kick out of giving them than receiving them, (Mr P, please don't take this statement too much to heart. Eternity Rings are an exception to this rule...) and I am like a cat on a hot tin roof, desperate for the recipients to play my guessing games as to what they are about to receive (and for that they should be truly thankful...Amen). For example, I have bought Mr P a *******/****/********** for Christmas and I cannot wait to give it to him. So I pester him to play the guessing game with him, promising him that if he does guess it, I won't tell him if he's right or not. He doesn't like this game, and refuses to play for some considerable time until I have made his ears bleed with my incessant nagging.

So, this morning, he wearily acquiesced, I promised faithfully not to give anything away and he asked, Is it anything to do with photography?

YES!

Oops...

I clapped my hand over my mouth in shock at my utterance, blushed unbearably red at my error and then squawked at myself, loudly, for being completely incapable of keeping a secret. I couldn't believe that my mouth was in Top Gear when my brain was still strolling down a pretty country lane...

Last year, whilst very distracted by a telephone conversation at work, I noticed, vaguely, that my colleagues were whispering amongst themselves. As soon as I put the phone down, one of them asked, Who did you get for Secret Santa, then? I automatically told them and was screeched out of the department for being a 'gob-sh*te' and incapable of holding my water.

This year, I thought I was being slightly more clever in ordering everything on-line and adjusting delivery dates to just before Christmas. So I wouldn't be tempted to hand everything out, you understand? I ordered this digital tablet thingummy for Charles, about which I knew nothing and then fretted. Was this what he wanted? It looked more like a hot-plate for warming pans than something with which you could do whizzy digital photography things. By 10pm, I had showed him the reviews, the tech specs, and groaned because he didn't think he had the USB port it required.

Two weeks ago, I bought him three photography books. One evening, he was a bit down in the dumps, so I gave them to him to cheer him up.

So that's now four presents of which he has knowledge.

(Aside: I keep smelling blue cheese in here...I wonder what's wrong with my nose?)

He's got to have some surprises for Christmas Day, so yesterday, I returned to eBay, armed with my Flexible Friend and, eyes shut very tightly, heart beating wildly, I hit the 'Buy This Now!' button. I do hate being bossed around by an e-commerce site, but they are bullies and I am a weakling at times...

I also had a winning bid on the most amazing, brand new, Nicole Farhi silk and cashmere jumper for him. Every hour, I checked 'My eBay', just in case, and with only 23 minutes to go until the bid ended, I got up to prepare dinner for my beloved family. And lost the bloody jumper. I was spitting hell, fire and brimstone. They can buy their own chips next time...

Despite what he says, Mr P finds it very difficult to hold his water, too. By 2pm yesterday, two of my presents were in my grubby hands and that was without a single, ingle word of cajoling or nagging. I hadn't even mentioned his shopping trip to him - and 'trip' is the operative word by all accounts, when the girls got to him about going within a five mile radius of Anne Summers. (Actually, as another aside, I have a blog to write about the Anne Summers' catalogue. To say I was lost for words and almost hysterical is NOT an understatement...then again, perhaps Mr P should write this for a change...hint, hint) Not once. I am actually really good like that. I don't root in hiding places, I don't ask what I am getting, I just stay very quiet and wish, with everything crossed, that I am getting an Eternity Ring, with dirty big, square-cut diamonds. If I stay really, really still and don't breathe for about 45 seconds, it might just come true...

So, 15 days to go. Actually, Mr P and I are spending Christmas alone this year. #s 1 and 2 daughters are off to the ex's house for six days. Although he has magnanimously allowed them to come here for a 'few hours' on Christmas Day itself. And I wouldn't mind betting it will be either over the lunchtime, so I have to get cooking as from first light, or when the Christmas Rugby Special is showing over on BBC2 wherein the Barbarians drub the living daylights out of England. As usual...

We will be celebrating Christmas for the girls on New Year's Day. A sort of BOGOF deal (Buy One, Get One Free) for them. So, Mr P has agreed to eat salmon with me on 25th December - no petrified turkeys in this house, this year. And we shall probably open a nice bottle of vin rouge or two, maybe stroll down to the local to walk off the mince pies and enjoy the ambience of the Hanging Gate's two bar electric fire.

I simply cannot wait!!

A Dirty Welsh Weekend

noreply@blogger.com (Agnes Mildew) — Wed, 03 Dec 2008 06:08:00 +0000

So, off we go to Bodysgallen Hall Hotel for a mucky weekend, since Mr P had finally sold his house, there were a few, spare quid knocking about; #s 1 and 2 were at their father's house and we needed a break from household chores.

Mr P had a mad, final dash at work, meaning that he was unable to help me pack, load up the car, sort out the animals, wash-up or even make himself a cup of tea. It must be a nightmare replying to an email, mustn't it? #1, after a blazing row, wherein I threatened to stunt her growth for evermore, finally acquiesced to minding her sister and taking her to the cinema and so by midday, I was almost ready to leave the house. Bunnies fed? Check. Cat fed? Check. Doors and windows locked? Check. Handcuffs packed? What? What are they in your suitcase for, Mum?

I was sitting on the toilet at the time, reading a book, 'dropping off some timber', as my eldest so quaintly terms it and my brow furrowed in consternation wondering how I was going to get out of this one...

-They're to secure something in the car.

-Are you sure they're not for kinky stuff**?

-Positive. I swear to you. On my life. Really...

Bodysgallen Hall is an enormous country house hotel. Very snooty, very up-market and a bit better than the Holiday Inns I am used to. You even dress for dinner, which appeals to my vanity immensely - there is nothing better, for me, than putting on a slinky frock, 'boofing' up my hair, plastering on the make-up and getting out one of my hundreds of pairs of 6" stilettoes. Unfortunately, Mr P was unable to procure a room for us within the main body of the hall and so we were farmed out to the boondocks to stay in The Engine Room, a converted farm building in the form of a luxury cottage. It was fantastic, but the walk up the hillside to the Hall, in -6 degC temperatures, on ice and shale, in aforesaid 6" heels made the North Face of the Eiger look inviting. It was so bloody cold that over slinky frocks I had to wear a jumper, fleece, scarf, gloves and heavy overcoat. And I was still cold. And the hood from my fleece made me look like some dubious crack dealer.

The hotel is classed as a Spa: it has 'therapy and treatment rooms'; an indoor swimming pool; sauna; steam room; whirlpool and gymnasium. And it was for the gym I headed.

Many years ago, when living in Oman, I was a total gym-head. I couldn't get enough of the place, working out for two hours a day, almost every day, unless the ex took umbrage at the fact that I hadn't fed him fresh grapes for a few days. Since repatriation, I hadn't exercised in any way, shape or form and had become quite comfortably indolent and blasé about toning up or making my heart beat faster than at resting moment. So I packed my Nikes, my Bridget Jones knickers which look like gym shorts but are really my secret weapon, and a few skanky T-shirts to pong up.

I enjoyed it immensely, and I have to admit that the exercise bug has bitten me hard on the backside. I haven't been able to get to a gym since our return and I miss it like my right arm has been chopped off. I may just sneak off to LA Fitness tomorrow while Mr P is messing on his Photoshop, pretending to be busy...

On my third visit, I had arrived long before Mr P, who was only using the pool, and after our reunion in the steam room, and a big fat sweat in there, we were ready to clear off and head back home via TK Maxx, wherein I found the most fantastic pair of dirty designer shoes (at £10.00!), a pair of sunglasses (as mine have recently snapped and now make me look like Long John Silver with only one lens) and a box of crackers for Christmas.

Whilst doing some weight training, I had found a teeny-bopper CD and turned up the volume. It was all stuff that our girls love and force me to listen to on a regular basis. Artists like J-Zed, 50 percentage, Acorn...you know, those very trendy chappies. What happened to regular band names like The Grateful Dead, Ozric Tentacles and Black Lace? Unfortunately, after three songs in, and me pounding away like a mad woman, a sweet old dear limped in wearing her little black leotard, black tights, pumps and a horrified expression at the demonic sounds blurting from the sound system. Being the polite person I am, and always deferring to my elders, I asked her if she wanted to reduce the volume.

She switched channels to Classic FM wherein I then performed tricep dips to Vivaldi's 4 seasons in the 'A-Z of Composers'. I sort of lost my momentum.

Thankfully, her own work-out consisted of ten minutes of bouncing on the trampette and then stretching. She effusively thanked me for my consideration and then buggered off to the pool from where she waved at me before dipping her toe in the water. I cracked on until I saw the glint of Mr P's bald patch rising above the water during his breast stroke. I finished off, changed, and met him in the whirlpool.

After ten minutes of playing with his inflated swimming shorts, squeezing the air out of his herniated groin and cackling loudly, echoing around the building, we decided to remove ourselves and get ready to depart the hotel (boo, hiss!).

I retired to the ladies' and there found my 'Old Dear', stark naked, parading around as though she had the nubile body of a 16-year old. I was frankly quite startled at how the body sags in the late 60s. I averted my eyes as much as possible, but had it confirmed to me that,'Yes, it does go grey down there!'

As I padded around, grabbing my clothes and sorting out my changing room, she kept looking over at me and smiling. So when I emerged, fully dressed, and needing to dry off my hair, I suspected I now had a friend for life and would soon be learning a few things about this lady. Sure enough, she began with how 'utterly marvellous' Bodysgallen is and did I have membership?

-Er no. I am just here for the weekend.

-Ooooh. You're staying here. Well, how simply marvellous. We come here all the time. The food is marvellous (she did like that word) and do you know what I like about it?

-Err...it doesn't come in a bucket?

-The portion sizes. Nice and small. I cannot abide large portion sizes.

This was actually my only bugbear about the grub - portions were tiny. You can't get stuck in to a bit of nosebag if the meal is more about presentation than satiation.

-So where is your nearest Spa Hotel?

-We don't have any near us, really. There's a Spa up the road from where I live but it's not residential.

-It's name?

-Whitley Day Spa...(and I did feel a bit daft telling her this. Whenever we mention it in this house, it is always said with a broad Geordie accent.)

-No. Not heard of that one. My daughter is going to Hawkscross in the new year. Are you familiar with it?

-Er...nope.

Then she got chatting to me about her exercise plan which 'James' had devised for her. James is a veritable miracle man. He has reversed the stages of osteoporosis in one woman, reduced another man's hypertension and last week, he walked on the water of the swimming pool, chucking loaves and fishes to the visiting Germans. She proceeded to tell me all about her recent hip operation and how much better she now felt...

-I don't believe in operations, you know (why? I've seen them happen on 'I'm a Celebrity, Get Me Some Plastic Boobs'). No, I always tell people, If you don't need an operation, don't have it done.

Makes sense, I thought. I wouldn't book myself in for a spot of disembowelling if it wasn't necessary. I'd much prefer to visit the charity shops in Northwich and pick up a bargain.

-So, what I always say is, Beware!

Beware? Beware of what? Baddies? Spiders? Loan Sharks? Who? What?

She was obviously batty. I had been trying, for the past ten minutes, to leave and meet Mr P who would, by now, be on his tenth game of telephone Sudoku and wondering what the hell had happened to me. I took my leave and met him as arranged.

-Coo. Sorry. Couldn't get away from the old duck in the changing room. Do you know, she spent £35 to come here to watch eight minutes of fireworks. And I had to work-out to bloody Vivaldi...

-What? What's up?

Mr P was looking a bit green around the gills: The published room rate prices didn't include VAT.

I gulped. A further 17.5% to pay. And the muckiness of our weekend had pretty much extended to me almost slipping flat on my backside into a puddle. Now was not the time to ask for £400 to join LA Fitness in our local town.

-Ooh. Not nice. Are you OK? Do you want me to drive us home?

Mr P grimaced, gritted his teeth and said, with bitterness, Even the food allowance didn't cover the wine we ordered. You were right. (And I bet that hurt more than anything, having to admit that I was right for a change!).

-Ah well, at least we enjoyed it, eh?

-Yes. I think we should think about another break away, this time with the girls.

So we are camping at the bottom of our garden in a few weeks time, when the wood has dried out, we can have a bonfire and I can sling some jacket potatoes into the embers. Quality dining, quality accommodation. It'll even be en suite as I have a toilet in the outhouses and an outside tap. And I am not VAT registered...

**They never got used, honestly. Mr P crocked his back and the idea of tickling him with a feather around his armpits and being unable to fend me off just didn't cut the mustard, so we watched Schindler's List instead...

Hex My Pets

noreply@blogger.com (Agnes Mildew) — Mon, 17 Nov 2008 13:28:00 +0000

This post was reputedly going to be written by Mr Parsnip, considering he was the one who flew into high dudgeon over the event, but as per usual, he is all mouth and no trousers and his photography priorities come high above such quality literature as you read on HexMyEx.

As our regular reader may know, we have taken possession of a black and white, male kitten. I have had cats (as befits a witch of my calibre) since I was knee-high to a grasshopper but unfortunately, over the last 20-odd years, haven't had much luck with them.

'Tom #1' snuffed it of a heart attack just shy of his first birthday, so along came 'Lucky', a rescue cat whose fate wasn't that lucky if you care to read the link. Lucky was the last cat I owned at my parents' house and upon moving in with the ex, I obtained 'Scroff', short for Scrofulous, meaning TB-ridden. She was lovely. She got knocked down by a car within eight months of us owning her. 'Poirot' came along to replace her and we later had to donate him to the mother-in-law upon our expatriation to Oman. 'Sid' (short for Sidr, which was the Garden Court upon which we lived - and I thought 'she' was a 'he') adopted us from a bin when we lived in Muscat. She was a scraggy stray who wobbled from the bin into our house, ate my sausages and didn't leave. She was then taken on by another family upon my departure. Repatriation brought 'Tom #2' who now resides with the ex and is the size of a small pouffe upon which you can rest your weary feet; 'Holly', in my own house, was donated to a friend whose daughter longed for a pet and since I was living alone and out at work 12 hours each day it was deemed kinder; then 'Ollie' and 'Norman' have been here and since done a runner, having found that living on the other side of the main road, where there are many foxy Tabbies is infinitely preferable to living on this side of the road where there is little but Carling Black Label cans, smelly old dogs and too many curious children for their liking.

After a short gap and a resolution NEVER to get another cat, I got all starry-eyed for a kitten one afternoon in the local hostelry having read the Mid-Cheshire Buy-Sell free paper in which there were plenty of scrawny runts for sale at exorbitant prices.

-Mr P? Can I have a kitten, please?

-Err...Yes. I guess so. If you want.

-OK!

Ten minutes later, I have a postcode, a time to collect the remaining male of the litter and suddenly, Mr P is more excitable than a bag full of monkeys. I learned that he had never had a pet from scratch, never named anything (apart from his City of Heroes' villains) and thus, I decided to 'give' the kitten to him, to love, cherish, feed, clean out its litter tray and leave the kicking and abuse to me.

'Oscar' came to our abode at the end of August, when #1 and #2 daughters holidayed in Spain. He was pampered, fussed over, molly-coddled and generally treated like a piece of precious porcelain by Mr Parsnip who even, at one point, suggested that he slept in our bedroom with us!

No bloody chance!

I have had one infestation of cat fleas in the house, many, many years ago and it was nightmarish waking up itching all over and as spotty as if I was suffering with Rubella...it wasn't even my fault for being a tardy pet-owner - the ex refused to give me any money to get some Bob Martin's; Tom #2 went a-wandering; obviously got in with a dirty woman cat and brought back his own version of VD to infect the manky carpets in the ex's house. Despite my constant complaining of flea bites, he refused to allow me to do anything other than scrub everything with bleach. It was only when #1 threw the Mount Etna of temper tantrums at the bites bedecking her legs, arms, hands and torso that he submitted and I was allowed to bring the disinfestation guys in. But only downstairs...

I had to use all my feminine guiles to get that disinfestation bloke into my bedroom...and I shall leave the rest to your imagination...!

So, while Oscar is a very cute kitten, with a gregarious nature, he seems to prefer to crap inside the house than outside. He has a vast expanse of garden, including a soft, squishy compost heap but, no, he will go outside, pretend he is 'hard' in front of rabbits Lambert and Butler, and then yowl to come back in for a dump. It is tedious. There were a number of accidents at one point, after we had gradually edged the litter tray outside and Mr P would frequently be seen with his head resting on the kitchen floor, spreading his hands out, doing a reccy for cat pee. With the dim lights in the kitchen, his hands would often slide right through Oscar's latest offering, smear it even further and then an outburst of filthy, filthy language would colour the air blue, offend my sensitive nature and the cat would suddenly learn how to fly. Invariably, I end up cleaning the mess.

It is Mr P's duty to empty the litter tray. If he complains, the girls and I chorus to him: He's YOUR cat! I suspect he has now sussed that the small matter of the naming ceremony, and presenting the kitten to him, as his very own, had a few hidden agendas on my part...

Anyway, on Saturday night, there we were, dressed in all our finery, ready for a night out from which we blobbed and decided to cook at home instead and Mr Parsnip hears the plaintive meowing of his darling kitten from the outhouse passageway, raises his voice an octave and gently coos, Oscar! Ozzie, Come on, Come on inside out of the cold. Aaah. Look at you, you're all soggy like a drowned rat...

Oscar stalks in, looking most disgruntled from his bath to which I subjected him after he came down from the loft with blue legs, belly and face; skinny and matted, scowls as only a cat can, and sniffs in the corner of the kitchen, six inches from his litter tray.

There was then a moment of intense concentration. It was as if time stood still as Mr Parsnip stared at the cat; the cat stared back and suddenly, Mr P squawked, Is he having a sh*t? Another moment of stillness and then Mr P launched himself at the moggy, picked him up by the scruff of his neck, revealing a steaming, curled turd on the floor and suddenly had to arch himself backwards. The cat, all four limbs stuck out at odd angles had decided that his bowels weren't quite empty and continued to evacuate them mid-air. Cat poo splattered across the skirting board, the kitchen floor and the door mat.

The air became quite blue, the door was flung open and the kitten was flung out.

Dirty little F*cker! Dirty, Dirty Little F*cker!! That's just disgusting! Dirty, dirty Sod! Six inches from his litter tray. Six Inches!!

While this tirade continued to rage, I did the practical thing: got some toilet paper from the bathroom, started picking up the mess in between gipping sessions, and then disinfected the areas. It was all sorted out within a few minutes and Oscar suddenly had a much cleaner litter tray to use after Mr P galvanised himself to pitch the used kitty-lit.

Later in bed, the tirade resumed.

MY kitten. Oh yes. MY BLOODY KITTEN, isn't he? 'Here you are, YOU can name him. He's yours now'. Oh I fell for that one, didn't I? I'm never listening to you get all starry-eyed in the pub again. Never. It was a bloody trap.

But I clean up his accidents, I responded, mildly. And I feed him.

We ALL bloody feed him. That's why he sh*ts so bloody much. He never stops eating. I have to clean his bloody litter tray out. He goes outside, and then comes back in TO SH*T!!

And then I got hysterical. Mr P, when in high dudgeon, is one of the funniest sights known to man. It took me about 20 minutes to contain myself. I laughed so hard, I didn't need to remove my make-up as the tears had done it for me. Upon my return from the toilet, Mr P levelled a scowl so hard at me, that if looks could kill, I'd now be six feet under the clay.

What's that look for?

I'm writing my blog, he said, ominously...

Obviously not...

Hexing on YOUR Behalf...Ingrates! Tsk...

noreply@blogger.com (Agnes Mildew) — Mon, 03 Nov 2008 08:42:00 +0000

Right. Since putting up the Hallowe'en Hex post, I have been positively inundated with requests to Hex people (well, I think three of you asked, anyway...). So, as I am a very biddable person and always keen to assist, I shall attempt forthwith. Trouble is, you haven't really told me any of the whys and wherefores, such as names, dates, incidents. Rubbish, aren't you? Therefore, it is up to me to guess.

Here goes.

Karen: You asked me to hex some of your exes. I'll hex two of them for you (a sort of BOGOF deal - and in case you don't have that irritating mnemonic in the States, it means, Buy One Get One Free. When the noxious git who coined the phrase comes on the telly, squawking it at the camera in order to sell bloody double glazing, I have to mute the sound and hide behind a cushion. He is ghastly. So a hex on him while I'm at it, too...)

Ex #1. Let's call him Oswald. Oswald was a big, fat, slobbery chap with enormous rubbery lips. He was a terrible kisser and used to leave slaver all over your face. You didn't like this at all and asked him to stop making you feel as though you had been licked to death by a Labrador with halitosis. He wouldn't. This made you very cross. You also didn't like the way he would rub your cats' fur up the wrong way, thus making them very disgruntled. You don't like it when your cats are miserable. To top it all, every night, when you wanted to get jiggy in bed (as long as there was no kissing), he would bring up a plate of cheese and pickled onion butties, rest them on his big fat belly, and not offer you any. That was the height of bad manners to you. And then he dumped you. So you've never got over that ignominy. Thus, a Hex on Oswald. May his pickled onions chemically react with his slobber and his bottom explode...

Ex #2. Let's call this chap Norbert. Norbert was very, very mean with his money. He wouldn't allow you any spends and you would have to cut the NY Post up into strips for toilet paper. For six months, you lived on cardboard and beans, which unfortunately for you, was highly calorific, so you put on heaps of weight and became a right lard-arse. And you didn't like that in the slightest, did you? His meanness even extended to 'Belly-Button fluff farming'. Terrible. Each week, you and the girls had to line up while he extracted the fluff from your navels. Then he would force you to spin it into yarn and knit your jumpers for the winter. They were always grey-blue. After six years of this misery, he left you for a life in a Scottish croft with a woman he had met on a self-sufficiency website forum. They then wrote a book together, advising people on how to make money playing the stock markets and are now multi-millionaires and very happy since their marriage. What a cad, eh? Thus, a Hex on Norbert. May the tax man locate him, throw him in prison where he is too scared to bend down for the soap in the showers because he is a very pretty boy, isn't he? May he have difficulty going to the toilet for the rest of his life. And I know how awful that can be, so that really is a vicious Hex...

Ok, you're done. Next up is Keli who wants me to hex 3-4 people. No. You can have two like Karen. Stop being greedy. You don't give me any indication of who these people are...tsk! So, I will use my powers of clair-whatsit, and reckon that one is your husband's second cousin twice removed - Sandra; and the other is that bloke down at the Post Office - Ezekial.

Sandra. Well, what can I say? She really is a vituperous, malfeasant little vixen, isn't she? Do you remember that time you told her you were allergic to nuts, and during Thanksgiving dinner, she announced that since she had become vegetarian, you were having Nut Loaf as your main course? And as you are severely diabetic, you just had to eat it and blew up like a barrage balloon. Terrible. You've still got the swelling on your ear lobes to prove it, haven't you? She also sends Christmas cards addressed to your husband, 'Basil', the boys, 'Charlie and Chuckie' and 'her'. Not nice at all. In fact, she just doesn't like you because she sends me lovely Christmas presents like ornamental frying pans to hang on the wall. My favourite contains a chicken hatching an egg**. Thus, a Hex on Sandra. May the non-stick coating on her Teflon pans wear away so she can no longer prepare dinners and has to eat raw meat for the rest of her life (she's not really vegetarian, you know - she was lying...) which clogs up her colon and makes going to the toilet difficult. (As you may have gathered, this is a problem which is forefront in my mind at the moment and I cannot seem to get rid of it.)

Ezekial. Well, not only is his name rather daft and difficult to keep on typing, he keeps telling you to go to different windows at the Post Office when you want to tax your car, open a savings account, purchase some bonds, withdraw cash or buy a Lottery ticket. And, he short-changes you, every time, gawps at you when you correct him, calls everyone to witness what he is being accused of and makes you feel a right trouble-maker. From all this change he has creamed off you, he has bought a yacht which he sails in the Florida Keys (my geography is a bit crap - is that a watery place?). Thus, a Hex on Ezekial. May his main-stay mast get dry rot, and may he be forcefully beset about by Seaman Staines (say it out loud...) and Master Bates (again, say it out loud...).

Mars: Again, you wanted the exes, didn't you. Well, OK, one of them was my ex who you snogged at the Dubai Rugby 7s in 2002. I know. I saw you on the big screen. I have Hexed the Ex repeatedly in this blog so I can't think of much more to say about him at the moment as he has been rather quiet just recently. But it serves you right. You snog him, you get what you deserve. I know I certainly did. By gum, I must have been a bad bugger in a former life...Karma...that's what they say, isn't it? Am I rambling?

Linda: Now, thank you. Everyone!! Take note. At least Linda gives me something to work on. Blimey. She even gives names and vague incidents. So, first up, Maxine. Well, she was the golden girl, wasn't she? Everyone fancied her. And didn't she know it? And whenever she was on milk monitor duty, she'd always make you wait until last so you got the warm milk, didn't she? Not nice. Warm milk in the Australian heat. It was almost sour cream by the time you got your lips round that milk bottle. (I have a story about milk bottles, actually, but I don't know if it would fit in here as it is rather rude and it happened when my friend Andrew and I were very naughty teenagers and used to make crank calls to Gay Switchboard. We didn't know any better. We were horrible...). Fatty and ugly? You? Well, a Hex on Maxine. May her blubber be mistaken for a whale's when she is swimming off the coast of Tokyo; she is harpooned in her backside and can no longer go to the toilet properly. Rotten old faggot...

Your maths teacher. Mr Hiscock. His first name was Aaron. (Say it out loud, please, otherwise none of my excellent, subtle jokes will work. And I try ever so hard with them. Just ask Mr Parsnip...I told him a joke I had made up yesterday morning. It took him ages to work it out and I had to tell him the whole plot of Macbeth before he got it. Tsk! Sometimes I wonder what I am doing in this life...). So, back to Mr Hiscock. He knew, deep down, that you were related to Albert Einstein, a whizz at maths and thus had 'algebra-envy'. He made your life living hell, repeatedly dragged you out to the front of the class and forced you to deconstruct the Theory of Relativity, which he had learned off by heart and was waiting for you to write ♥=π + Ω / 2dy (∞ + 46 (Σ 1 + ½)) instead of ß = π + Ω / 2dy (∞ + 46 (Σ 1 + ½)). Bastard. (I hope you realise how long it took me to write out that sodding equation using all the flipping Alt keys...Ages...). So, may the fleas of a thousand camels infest his armpits, may his quadratic equations crumble to dust and may he be constipated for the rest of his life.

Bugger. I have just realised. Your maths teacher was a woman. Oh well, let's just pretend, eh?

Mr Charles Inigo Parsnip: You asked me to Hex cheeky kids. Well, I vividly remember that time Masher Malloy and Grebo Toerag threw cheese slices at you when you went to the chippy for your fried steak and kidney pie, mushy peas and fried rice. You were very shaken upon your return, weren't you? You also looked reminiscent of a McDonald's Bic Mac. But without the gherkins. I personally feel it is just zestful youth - an outlet for their angst and pain. To throw cheese slices at you isn't that bad, but, well...we can all be affected by trauma in our lives. So, a Hex on Cheeky Kids. May their pocket money dry up so they can no longer purchase cigs, Carling Black Label and WKD. May their tongues harden so they cannot speak and their bottoms cease to function normally so they feel sluggish and tend to stay indoors to watch Blue Peter where they can learn how to bake scones and apple pie.

Right, I am spent. This has taken it out of me, I hope you realise! Eight massive Hexes in just one morning. I've got nothing left for the cat now, who is presently humping a furry toy sheepdog Mr P purchased for #2 daughter on one of our mucky sojourns to Wales a few months ago. Thank goodness his testicles haven't yet dropped...the cat's, not Mr P's, if you need clarification.

Donations for Hexes are always welcome. In GB pounds, please - none of your silly money over in the States, Oz and Dubai. Or cheques. As long as you write your card details on the back. Just make them payable to 'Agnes Mildew' as I haven't yet changed the name on my bank account to 'Agnes Mildew-Parsnip'. Let's work it out as 50p/word.

Perhaps I should 'pad' those Hexes out a bit more...

**The ornamental frying pan. I genuinely did receive this gift once from the ex's step-mother. And it did have a chicken in it, hatching an egg. I was utterly confounded by what I was supposed to do with it. So I donated it to the Charity Shop. I wonder who bought it?

Curry Munching and Death by Grouse

noreply@blogger.com (Agnes Mildew) — Sun, 02 Nov 2008 07:15:00 +0000

I am an ardent curry lover. I can eat curry until it comes out of my ears, as well as other places (which is why a roll of toilet paper sits in our fridge). Whilst living in Oman, I was in Curry Heaven and it was The Real Thing! None of this wishy-washy 'hot' gravy stuff which seems to come out of every small town corner curry house in the UK.

Whilst pregnant with #2, I abused the rights of pregnant women and decided to feign cravings for curry and thus gorged myself on Pav (pronounced 'pow') Bhaji for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Every day. As they were the cheapest curries in the whole world, being made purely from potato, tomato, peas, chilli and onion, (some put cauliflower into it, but that is revolting and we won't go there...) it saved the ex a fortune on food bills, so his only complaint was having to drop into the 'pow barjee caff' each night on his way home from work. Unfortunately, what I saved on food, I lost on Gaviscon, as those curries certainly made their presence felt in the early hours of the mornings...

My very first curry was in the 80s when a group of us staggered from a seedy nightclub in St Helens, called Sindy's, decided we were hungry, and couldn't find a Donner Kebab van anywhere (which is a blessing in disguise when you consider that gunge aside →, from which they SHAVE meat into a warm pitta bread. It's reputedly lamb. I don't think it has ever baaa'ed in its life. Squeaked, maybe. Possibly even gnawed a few electric wires in someone's attic. But never baaa'ed).

So, into Tarik's we went. Being a nube, yet not wanting to appear a gurlie-wuss, as I was out with a group of rufty-tufty blokes who had been strutting their stuff on the dance floor to Mel & Kim and Wham!, I went for the chicken korma. A curry, but a mild one with coconut and mango. Sounded good. Unfortunately, my virgin tastebuds had never managed anything hotter than a Spicy Beanburger from Wimpy. The sweat oozed from every pore, I panted like an ageing incontinent Labrador, swigged back a few gallons of water and used every napkin on the table to mop up my tears. What a Girl!

Yet, there was something about those exotic spices which addicted me. And I persevered and toughened up. Every week, I would attempt a curry after Sindy's, and when the sweating and tears started to abate, I moved up a spice notch and tried the next one.

So, by the time I hit Oman, I was a Vindaloo Virtuoso and thus the whole menu had opened up to me and by gum, I hit the ground running...no wonder I ballooned at one point, what with all that ghee and coconut milk!

One summer, when most of the expat wives had fled the scorching heat of Muscat for the cool, wet climes of the UK, I was asked to write a "Challenge the Chef" article for Living in the Gulf magazine in Dubai. So, it was time to collar the bachelors. Those poor saps whose wives had abandoned them, who were living on shish kebabs, samosas and schwarmas, and teach them how to cook. So, what was the best thing to teach them? Yup, how to make a curry. I visited the restaurant, Passage to India, collared the manager, explained that it would be excellent publicity for them, being a brand new restaurant, blagged a free meal for four out of him for that night, and set the date up with their chef, Sanjay. And so, The Curry Munchers' Club was borne from that night.

Dave (the bachelor hosting the challenge) and I went to the shop with Sanjay and gave him carte blanche on what to buy with 20 rials (our budget to feed four starving bachelors, me and the photographer, Richard). All manner of odd-looking vegetables went into our basket which I couldn't name now if you paid me as well as chicken, fish and loads and loads of firey chilli peppers. We sped back to his house where the other three bachelors, which included my ex, who had whinged at me so hard about being left out that he had to come, were well stuck in to their Millers. Richard and I set the shots up, dragged the lads away from the footie on Dave's 42" telly and got them to work. To be honest with you, the lads were so drunk by this stage, they couldn't have opened a packet of crisps, let alone made a Korma, and so Sanjay and I did most of the work.

The food was utterly fantastic, the atmosphere was buzzing and we were all having a whale of a time. Until Dave got his 3-litre bottle of Famous Grouse whiskey out (1 litre left) and started pouring out the drinks. This was around 1am and Sanjay was long tucked up in his bed. I demurred and asked for a Miller Lite instead. But Dave set up a chant of obnoxious insults, to which the others joined in and suddenly my hi-ball was a third full of Famous Grouse. Then it was a case of "Down in One or Show us Yer Bum!". And, always one to accept my own challenges, I acquiesced...time, and again...

It's not a good idea to eat firey curries, drink a load of lager and then toss back treble whiskies as though they are Dandelion and Burdock. It's also not a good idea to be the only woman in a group of hardened drinkers who have taken you to their bosoms and decided to make you an honorary bloke for the night.

I wasn't very well the next day. I had an article to write up, photographs to develop, two children to care for and another interview to set up. I just went back to bed and died a thousand deaths.

At 3pm, Dave called me to see how I was. I simply groaned. He sounded lighter than air; all fresh and fun. Reckoned the spices had given him a few grumbles in the night, but had really enjoyed himself, thanks very much and all that. I gently put the receiver back on its hook and covered my throbbing head with the duvet.

There is a saying in the UK that the only way to kill a Vindaloo is with a lager. Take heed of that, fellow curry munchers. Because the only way to kill yourself is with a Vindaloo and many treble whiskies.

The curry I partook of last night (as we have finally found a superb curry house in Northwich) was accompanied by Adam's Ale. Aqua Vita. Water.

Hence why I am awake at 6.30am, writing this drivel, and feeling tickety-boo.

Learn from my research. That's why I do it. For you...

Hallowe'en Hexing

noreply@blogger.com (Agnes Mildew) — Fri, 31 Oct 2008 15:02:00 +0000

For some strange reason, my hand looks a bit abnormal on this photo. I can guarantee, it is not a penis at the side of my head...

Considering this blog was originally started to Hex my Ex and cast all sorts of curses and incantations on those who have thwarted me over the years, I'm not doing very well on the Hallowe'en front, bearing in mind it's the one night of the year that evil witches like me can get on their broomsticks and legitimately hex all and sundry.

So, out of respect for this day, I am going to provide a top ten list of those people and things which I would (still) hex with impunity. Although my conscience is generally quite alert, today, it can bugger off while I flex my talons, search inside the knife drawer for the sharpest tools, and rip forth with the most barbed remarks I can possibly make about the following damnèd irritations of which I have/had the misfortune to experience.

10. Lisa Tickle. The Head Girl at our High School. She beat me to it by one vote and so I never got to take home the plastic shield all Head Girls were offered for a grand total of eight months. She also claimed that being size 14 was enormous (that was my size at the time), yet when I peeked into the skirt she had taken off before PE, I saw that the label read size 16. AND she snogged Paul Speed after I did and ended up going out with him for six months. I think that is what makes me want to hex her the most. I snogged him first, he told me my brown eyes were as beautiful as a Jersey Cow's (was that a compliment, do you think?) and that he wouldn't mind getting into my pants. I declined that offer, I must admit. Knowing her, though, I bet she didn't...

9. Mrs Brown, our 4th year Junior school mistress. She sported a bosom upon which you could have set a row of pint pots with whiskey chasers and wore a conical bra long before Gaultier even thought of bedecking Madonna in his gold creation. One day, I snuck my maths text book home to ask my brother to give me a hand with some complicated work (this was punishable by death in Mrs Brown's book) and intended to surreptitiously slide it back into my desk the following day. Unfortunately for me, I fell ill with tonsilitis that night and couldn't return to the school for a few days. Mrs Brown decided to do a spot check for desk tidiness during my absence, and thus noticed the concomitant absence of my Alpha-Beta book. Upon my return to school, I was warned that I was 'in for it'. Sure enough, I was hauled up to the front of the class, bawled out and then the hand went back for an almighty wallop across the back of the legs.

I moved out of the way, just in time, and she clattered her arm right across the hard metal corner of her desk. I legged it, the Headmaster entered to speak to her, and I was saved...for once!

8. Mindy Hammond. This just says it all.

7. Mario, my former boss. What a lech. This egocentric, rotund, smelly South African decided that whenever his skeletal, equally smelly wife (who picked her ear wax and ate it) was out of the office, he would try it on with me. It got to the stage where I used to simply laugh at him. But he didn't like that at all. It was when he clicked that I was winding him up, asking him to regale us all with tales of his days in a band, when women threw their underwear at him, and I asked if they also threw their white sticks, that I got the sack. I can't stand people without a sense of humour...

6. Another boss, Bernard. Just a little upstart, really. Told me that I was desperate for him but he would have to fend me off, 'unfortunately' for me. Used to sneak up behind me and tickle me hard in the ribs, getting me screaming abuse loudly, at which he would then take umbrage and interrupt me constantly when I was trying to get work done. Never used to pay me on time, either, so that one Bank Holiday weekend, once again without a monthly salary, I had no money to buy cigs, fill my car up with petrol or buy any food. It was the lack of cigarettes which grated the most...

5. Trinny and Susannah. These self-appointed TV fashionistas are obsessed by boobs. On men or women. They grope, analyse, critique and denegrate every breast which comes into their line of vision (they would have had a field day with Mrs Brown, above). They are rude, obnoxious, sport the most dreadful dress sense (the picture aside is the only one I could find which makes them look well-dressed, actually) and purport to be able to tell us peasants how to dress our best. I have had the misfortune to watch their programme, Undress the Nation, once, and vowed, Never Again. Banal, puerile tripe for people who don't know how to make an appointment for a hair-cut; don't realise that Charity Shops sell the best designer gear for a fraction of the prices you pay in the High Street, and are generally gormless, slavering morons. 'Nuff said.

4. Steve Wright. A BBC Radio 2 DJ who is the most sycophantic little tosser one could ever have the misfortune to listen to. He invites guests onto his 2-5pm show, purports to have read their books/listened to their latest CDs/had them over for dinner and positively gushes over their every word. His laughter is that of a gurgling drain, belching over raw sewage: stinking, foetid and not pleasant to witness. He refers to celebrities as his 'great mates' (even if he has never met them previously...or perhaps they asked him directions to the toilet at some BBC awards ceremony) and his nose is so dark from 'brown-nosing' that you might suspect he has severe circulation problems in his extremities.

3. Air musicians. Anybody who plays the air-guitar, air drums, air-saxophone, air-sackbut. I don't care. Whatever they 'air-play' deserves a very extreme hexing in my book. Now, I am a classically trained organist (no jokes, please) and will, in deep reverie, mildly tap out tunes on the arm of the settee, or atop my leg - with only one hand, I will have you note - but I DO NOT close my eyes as I am doing it, I DO NOT simulate orgasms while I am doing it, I DO NOT pout and jut my head back and forth in a manner reminiscent of Mick Jagger, and I DO NOT think I look cool. It is a very private affair between me and the sofa. People, (and particularly men) who decide that virtual scratching of their privates, whilst pretending to pluck a bass guitar are just sad. Sad, lonely and need to get some outside interests such as toad-sexing. Anything but air-playing...

2. Sunday League Cyclists. If you live in a rural, or semi-rural area as I do, every Sunday the country lanes are plagued by these be-lycra'ed human-insects. They don all sorts of bright colours to stand out (and thus make fair sport for me to attempt to knock them down if I am out and about in my car), ride two or three abreast, gob everywhere as they are cycling and basically look abnormal. They also slow me down. And I only want to be slowed down in my car if I choose. Last time Sunday League cyclists slowed me down, I crawled behind them for about 200 metres then blasted on my horn so loudly that they wobbled dangerously, hit the kerb and I overtook, shouting the Highway Code at them (ergo: Thou shalt not cycle more than one abreast on a road. Particularly if Agnes Mildew is abroad).

1. Yes, it's the one you've all been waiting for. Well, possibly two of you have been, if you haven't dozed off yet. It's the Pick of the Pops (and you really ought to listen to this music, as it is seminal for us 30-somethings in the UK who listened to the Radio 1 charts!).

The Ex!

How could I write a blog called HexMyEx without mentioning that little malodorous junket of crap? Big Nose; Tosser; Knob-end...ah, my terms of endearment go ever on. If you want to know why I hex him, read the blog. If it's a case of TL;DR, well, your loss. Don't come crying to me when you can't follow what's going on...

Happy Hallowe'en, Hexers!

Hedgerows & Agnes's Hegemony

noreply@blogger.com (Agnes Mildew) — Mon, 27 Oct 2008 07:46:00 +0000

Mr P was 'my bitch' for all of one hour last night. I did ask for a sex slave for the rest of my life, but he wouldn't go along with that, much to my chagrin, claiming that he would like a turn from time to time.

After working for around three hours making Sunday Roast (which was chicken, not rabbit) and spectacularly spitting my dummy out when #1 complained that I had poured fresh cream on to her lemon cheesecake, Mr P decided to get me out of the house to calm down and cool off - it was certainly the right temperature outside to do this, I can assure you: it was bitterly cold; at one point I could hardly see through the driving rain and the gales were whipping down the collar of my coat, freezing me to the bone marrow. But nary one word of complaint came out of me. Probably because I had to grit my teeth together so forcefully in case the chattering dislodged some important brain cells.

And then, in true English weather-style, the sun shone brightly, the wind died down and I was able to thaw out. And then I spotted the wild mushrooms growing on the Alder trees. In Britain, there is a variety of wild mushroom called the Jew's Ear. They are not a pretty sight when they cluster together in a bit of a creepy, Uriah Heep-type way, and they have a rather gelatinous quality to them. But, if you first soak them in boiling water and then add a pinch of salt, they'll rival any Truffle rutted up by a pig in Provençale. I had no bag with me, so I stuffed handfuls into my coat pockets. Then my gourmet imagination got to work and I picked handfuls of young nettles. I requested that Mr P found me a stray plastic bag and he spotted one which he suspected had originally been designated for dog poo and blanched slightly. But it was clean (and would only have added to the flavour anyway) and into the bag went my mushrooms and nettles.

-Mmm! Wild mushroom and nettle soup, eh? What do you reckon?

Mr P's face looked like a bulldog licking urine off a thistle.

-It'll be fantastic! This is what we said we'd do - go foraging; live the Good Life. Be Tom and Barbara!

Mr P's face remained bulldog-like.

-Honest! Full of iron, goodness, taste. It'll taste fabulous, believe me. All I need is some butter, white wine and creme fraiche.

-And if I don't like it, I don't have to eat it, do I? And you won't get cross with me? I am warning you, you know.

-Listen, if you don't like it, I'll eat raw nettles. If you do like it, you'll be my sex slave forever. OK?

Mr P declined to respond...

Well, I set to work, chopping, soaking, brewing up, having a wee nip of wine as I went along and the most wonderful smells started to emanate from that pan on hob. And Mr P started to look more and more uncomfortable.

After an hour of simmering, I blended my brew and the most wonderful mushroom-coloured broth emerged. Mr P gingerly stuck his nose into the pot and looked puzzled.

-It smells bloody lovely, actually, he confessed.

-Yup! Try it! It is lovely.

-You have washed everything haven't you? A dog won't have peed on this stuff?

-Oh, come on! How can a dog cock its leg four feet up a tree?

-Might have been a big dog...

He gingerly tasted the soup. And then had another spoonful. And another.

-That's really, really nice!

-Mwahahahaha! Told you, didn't I?

#2 was in the kitchen with us at the time. She was shocked out of her skin to see Mr P go down on both knees and beg forgiveness from me.

-Please forgive me. I am sorry for doubting your culinary expertise. I am sorry. *kiss, kiss, grovel, grovel*

-OK. So you are now my sex slave forever?

-No. I want a turn from time to time, too.

-OK. You can be my bitch, then.

-Alright. I can go along with that. Can I have a bowl later, please?

And so, the Battle Of The Hedgerows was Agnes Mildew (1) - Charles Parsnip (0). A big fat, round Zero!

And off he has toddled to work this morning armed with the chicken legs from yesterday's roast, some home-made biscuits, and Hedgerow Soup.

What more could a man ask for?

Cheap and Nasty...

noreply@blogger.com (Agnes Mildew) — Thu, 23 Oct 2008 14:26:00 +0000

I appear to come from a long line of bargain-hunters. It must be in the blood; a twist in my DNA which was created when first I was just a twinkle in a boiler-house fitter's eye. My mother is the most repugnant bargain-hunter: belligerent; rude; arrogant and embarrassing. I mean to say, one simply doesn't haggle the undies down in a charity shop, does one?

However, I am a watered-down version of her when it comes to bargains and the 'reduced' aisle in our local supermarkets. Only today, I informed Mr P that I was going to the Co-op for milk and prawns. I returned with a bag filled with miniature cheeses - those ones which are very poncey, look great on the dinner table and make you bankrupt (reduced from £2.19 to 40p); a lemon cheesecake (reduced from £3.29 to 60p); six organic, free-range eggs (reduced from £1.75 to 75p) and Scotch eggs (reduced from £1.99 to 99p).

I forgot to get the prawns.

I am always seduced by the reduced...

I shop at charity shops and second hand shops most of the time - eBay is my best friend. I don't mind wearing other people's cast-offs in the slightest. I have even been known to make 45 minute drives over to Wilmslow, home of the Manchester United players, whose wives and girlfriends (WAGs) donate their Armani, Gucci, Versace and D&G to the local Oxfam, British Heart Foundation and Cancer Research shops. It's the place to pick up a designer bargain most of the time.

On one of my trips, I got chatting to a fellow bargain hunter who told me only that morning he had purchased a Hugo Boss suit, pure wool, still with tags for £25.00. It had been donated literally minutes ago by footballer, Roy Keane. Colleen Rooney (Wayne Rooney's new wife, little Scouse bundle of fluff and £££s that she is) makes a point of donating all her cast-offs to the charity shops in Wilmslow. And women fall on them like ravening wolves. Particularly as she doesn't fit the usual WAG stereotype of being rake thin and shapeless. She is 'all vumman'! And therefore, half of Unposh Cheshire, those of us filled with Pies and Prejudice [apologies, Stuart Maconie] (that's where I live) cannot wait for her to have a jolly good clear-out. And I don't mean on the toilet...

Now, my bargain hunting doesn't always turn out for the best, I have to be honest. I have risked 'sell-by dates', forgotten about them, having stored said items in the fridge, and returned to find a green, furry mass of seething cures for the diseases of the Third World. I have also bought items of clothing from eBay, claiming to be such and such a size, got them for £3.50 plus P&P and the discovered that they are size 8, but only if you are a midget with anorexia. I even, much to my utter dismay, bought the most fantastic Karen Millen dress the other month from eBay for £40 when it should have been £200. It was on the kinky side, I must admit - all black, fitted satin; bondage style zips and just quite dirty, really. I bust the side zip, trying to pour myself into it in a very ungainly manner. I had to actually be cut out of the damned thing. Mr P got his pliers and broke the zip so I could breathe again. I decided to take it to a seamstress to have it let out slightly and have the zip mended, but I left it on a pile of books designated for donation to Oxfam before doing so.

And the dress went with the books...

I was extremely, very, awfully, very, exceptionally upset...

Now, we are attempting to tighten our belts at the moment and save money where necessary as we are in a rather precarious financial situation, waiting for Mr P's house down south to sell. So, I have been bargain hunting in ways which I know would make #1's and #2's stomachs turn were they to ever read their mother's blog...which they refuse to, because IT'S BORING!!!

So, they will never, ever know that last night, their 'chicken casserole' was actually 'bunny brew'...A whole bunny for three quid! I can't even buy one decent sized chicken breast for that amount! It was a pretty grotesque thing to behold, I must admit. It was vacuum-sealed in plastic from our local Master Butcher and had this bit of absorbent 'paper' upon which it lay, and which appeared to be speckled with the detritus from a hairy man's razor blades. It turned my stomach and I had to ask Mr P to take it from the plastic, give it a wash and make it slightly more presentable before I could attack it.

Although my best intentions were to carve the uncooked meat first and then casserole it, I simply couldn't do it. Outside, gambolling in their run, were Lambert and Butler, our two Netherland Dwarf rabbits. I felt evil; a turncoat; a pariah of virtue.

Then I snapped its spine and popped it in with the leeks, carrots, garlic, shallots, cider and stock...

Mr P reckoned the smell emanating from the oven was fantastic. It did smell pretty good, I must admit, but I was starting to sweat profusely. It was six hours before the girls returned from school. Would they suss? Would there be a row? How could I blag my way through this one? I have never, ever managed to pass fish off as chicken, but an esteemed cookery website informed me that 'young rabbit tastes just like chicken'. I just hoped my rabbit hadn't been drawing its pension...

'What's for tea?' said #1.

'Chicken casserole,' I replied.

'Oh Yum! Great!...What's this? Is this fish?'

No. It's not fish. What I did was, I didn't have any chicken breasts, so I bunged a whole chicken into the casserole pot, cooked it up, then pulled the meat off. That's why it looks like your meat from a Sunday Roast.'

'It's fish, isn't it?'

'No, I swear to you. It isn't fish.'

'It's not fish, Rosie' [from #2] 'Look at it, fish doesn't look like that. You've never eaten fish like I have, so you wouldn't know.'

'OK. I want to see the bones'

*thinks* Oh Gawd. They are in the outhouse. The cat has cleaned them dry. They don't look chicken-like any more. At all...

'I didn't know chickens had such prominent spines...'

'Yeah. That's because we clean up after the Roast Dinners.'

They both ate their Bunny Brew. Even complimented it. You will never, ever understand the sigh of relief I released when I washed up later on.

Trouble is, my conscience is pricking me dreadfully. I cooked Thumper. I may as well have killed Bambi's Mum. I feel sick to my stomach. £3.00 or not, to feed three people.

I have bought a kilo of tomatoes to make tomato and roast pepper soup. Nobody cares when a tomato screams...

A Hex on the Sexes

noreply@blogger.com (Agnes Mildew) — Wed, 22 Oct 2008 11:37:00 +0000

I am in a state of bewilderment. And if there are any male bloggers out there who would care to enlighten me, I'd be very grateful as I get nowhere fast with my own Caveman.

I realise that women have the most inordinate amount of daft foibles, such as nicking all the miniature toiletries from hotel rooms, including the shower cap, which we wouldn't be seen dead in; saving plastic bags 'because they always come in handy'; recycling old T-shirts for dusters; and promising to make chicken soup from the Sunday Roast carcass (which generally sits there until it gathers the cure for HIV in our kitchen).

My list of enigmas surrounding the less-fair sex include the following:

Not getting your hair cut
Not shaving and thinking snogging 3-day old stubble is a turn-on (when really it just ribbons your chin)
Not clearing out your skanky underpants which are full of holes and splits
Ditto with socks
Never finishing a DIY job which they have set about with great enthusiasm and then walked away from for a cup of tea, never to return...

So, let's take point 1. Getting the hair cut. My husband is currently trialling a brand product for me called Fast Hair. Prior to this, he trialled Nisim. We are having great success with both products as, previously a rather follicly challenged individual, he is now giving Fabio a run for his money. Unfortunately, Mr P's golden tresses don't lend themselves to the GHDs like Fabio's (not that I would want them to, either, I hasten to add); they tend to sort of 'spiral' out at odd angles. Over the last two weeks he has been called anything from Samson, to Tintin, to, this morning, #1 accused him of sporting a jaunty Afro. Mr P claims she doesn't know what one is. I put him straight...

After repeated nagging, and threats this morning to cut it for him...even going so far as to get the comb, kitchen scissors and a towel out, when he called my bluff (and you really don't want to do that, as I will always rise to the bait), he realised It Was Time. It took a grand total of 20 minutes and he was back. Not too hard, was it?

Point 2. Now, I must admit, a bit of stubble can sort of 'do it' for me from time to time (unless it is ginger and then I would rather view raw offal: Viking heritage and virility, or not). And so this is a bit of a mealy-mouthed complaint. It looks good on certain chaps, but it doesn't feel good on my face. I vividly recall the first snog I had after having been in the wilderness for a few months last year. He hadn't shaved and nearly ripped my delicate skin off. For three days, I sported scabby scratches down my chin which itched and caused me to pick incessantly (I am a dreadful spot-picker). So, while it looks good, it feels awful and I prefer babies' bums to bristly bears' arses...

Point 3. Not getting rid of your skanky pants. Why? Why is it such a comfort to have your testicles poking through an unfeasibly small hole, which strangulates the scrotum, wrecks chances of fertility, looks like a turkey's neck and must be uncomfortable? Surely? I have never known a man to get rid of his undies. I have had to do it for him...albeit very surreptitiously, under cover of darkness, wearing a disguise and bolstering my side of the bed with pillows and a dark wig. There are then the inevitable questions:

Where are my pants?

Which ones?

You know, those black ones.

What, the ones with the dirty big holes in the crotch?

They're not holes, they're ventilation shafts...

Check under the kitchen sink. I think I used them to wipe up the last dose of cat pee from the kitchen floor.

Point 4. Socks. I don't even pretend with these. I just tear them up in front of any man and tell them they are not Robin - 'Holy Socks, Batman!' It just befuddles me.

Now, admittedly, I have socks from years and years ago, which are still doing me proud...but "I iz vumman". I wear stockings, hold-ups, tights etc most of the time, so my socks don't get a daily wear and tear...thus they can last me for years...unlike aforesaid nylons which only seem to grace my legs for an hour and then they are laddered. As my clear nail polish has gone hard, I cannot really dab the 'ladder' with chocamocha and walk round with what look like carcinogenic melanoma all over my legs...

Point 5. Never finishing a DIY job. The amount of times I have had to stalk through the house bearing arms such as hammers, Phillips screwdrivers, hacksaws and nails is beyond comprehension. And this has gone on since time immemorial, so don't think I am Parnsip-baiting here.

But just a little bit of Parnsip-baiting for you Parnsip-baiter fans...he took the side of the bath off about 8 months ago to get at the taps. The screw covers have never been replaced and are shoved, in a margarine tub, behind the bathroom door...

It took three months for the shower power point to be sealed up - after he had removed it, and left the wires hanging freely, he walked away and got cracking on something else instead.

Yet, he put up the best fence panelling known to man! He and a friend, Phil, got cracking one Saturday, tore down the kindling which was our boundary fence, dug the holes, inserted the concrete posts, and erected 16 panels of Waney Lap. They were both crocked by the end of it, admittedly, and could hardly stand. But during the most recent high winds, they have stood firm and fast, like the Old Man of Hoy. So, I am not moaning there, either...

Is it the League of Gentlemen? Does a Caveman need another Caveman in order to show off his prowess to complete something? Not exactly 'penis-envy'. Fence-envy? Nah...that doesn't work, either...

Anyway, I am still as flummoxed as ever, so I would appreciate some guidance in these matters. Once I am enlightened, I can nip out with my club and pummell a passing dog to spit-roast for my very own Mr. Ug.

Hex on Health & Safety

noreply@blogger.com (Agnes Mildew) — Sun, 19 Oct 2008 05:10:00 +0000

So, a bright and shiny day on Saturday and a perfect opportunity for Mr P to get out into the fresh air together with his trusty camera and get some material for his portfolio which is required for college.

I had a remit: find him somewhere 'different'; with atmosphere and spirit; standing as solitary as possible; few people about and interesting. I considered the local pub before opening hours, but that wasn't quite what he had in mind.

Picture of Bunbury Graveyard courtesy of Mr Parsnip, Photography for Fun

So, after some thorough research which took me about 0.8 minutes, I found Peckforton Castle which is about 30 minutes drive away and also on the way to St Boniface's Church in a village called Bunbury, which has some rather creepy gravestones and gargoyles.

A wedding was taking place at the castle (indeed, there were two that day, and grand events they looked to be) and I saw a woman walking around with a flower arrangement of lilies, spleenwort, roses and all sorts of paraphenalia for the next hour. She wouldn't put it down. Everywhere she went, she held the arrangement in front of her. I wondered, idly, if she was a gate-crasher and if it might be acting as camouflage, but the thought seemed too ridiculous really considering she was also dressed like a peacock. I suggested to Mr P that he removed his wedding ring (I was wearing gloves) and we pretended to be newly affianced and seeking a wedding venue. Then we might get access to the battlements and turrets for better photo-opportunities. He did so for a grand total of 60 seconds and then I snapped at him to put it back on as there was no point lying. I don't see why he should get chat-up opportunities and I can't...

As it stood, nobody is allowed on the battlements for 'Health & Safety' reasons. 'Health & Safety' in the UK is the biggest single kill-joy known to man. Children are no longer allowed to play 'conkers' at school in the autumn; office chair racing is banned; lunchtime drinking is banned in most places of work; bonfire night, in certain parishes has been banned in case sparks fly from the bonfire and burn a passing kitten or old lady...and the list goes ever on. I believe H & S's Top Secret remit is to turn us into lifeless imbeciles who sit in front of the telly (but not with it on in case we get some form of radiation sickness) and never budge outside our front doors. They really are the biggest bunch of jobsworths the Government has ever seen fit to create and we should all stage an uprising against them.

Latest scandals to come out of the Bureaucracy of Berks led to the patron of a pub being forced to sign a disclaimer when she took her leftovers home for the dog. In the event that the dog got ill, the pub's chef would not be held responsible. And then a nutter who wanted to cut down all the palm trees in Torquay due to the falling palm fronds..."They're like tigers," he was quoted as saying, "Beautiful to look at, but you wouldn't want them wandering the streets.

Can anybody tell me where this chap got his whacky baccy from? When was the last time you saw a palm frond stalk its prey, leap atop its back, attack the jugular and disembowel it slowly and with great pleasure? No, I can't remember, either, and I really have wracked my brains.

So, chances are, there will be a number of people on November 5 this year having to watch a large screen TV in the freezing cold showing images of a roaring, crackling bonfire. That's what happened in Ilfracombe, North Devon in 2006.

In the 1970s, when I attended Junior School in our village, we had a concrete playground, 'monkey bars', an open drainage ditch which was fed by the effluent from the large sewerage works a mile away, British Bulldog was positively encouraged (where kids smash through a chain of hands using anything short of a hacksaw) and the autumn conker championships saw the teachers running a book with best odds on Warbie's vinegared and baked prize winners. Last time I visited the school, in passing (as I never did return my Mental Maths book), I noticed that all the concrete had gone (that silly rubbery stuff now), no monkey bars, the stream had run dry due to the closure of the sewerage works with the rill itself cordoned off and there were no conker trees in sight for miles around.

And people complain that all their kids do is sit indoors and watch telly or play video games?

What else is there to do? Every bit of fun is taken away. A makeshift swing only has to be roped up to the branch of a tree and some do-gooder comes along and cuts it down. All children must apply their own sunscreen at school in case a teacher is accused of abuse...and I am so glad #2 is old enough to apply it herself now as in the past, she would definitely have squirted it onto her crackers and eaten it.

A turn-up for the books, though - our local off-license has the Remembrance Day poppies in today. And we have pins again - hurray! Last year, Health & Safety decreed that poppies could not be held on your lapel with a pin - in case someone 'poked their eye out' (has this ever happened to anyone?). So we all went round with poppies stuck in our zips. Which made for some interesting flies on the men at our office...

At least Health & Safety couldn't complain about that...

Hexing House-Keeping

noreply@blogger.com (Agnes Mildew) — Sat, 11 Oct 2008 14:31:00 +0000

In my wildest dreams, I want to be a Retro-Housewife. It is my ardent desire for my darling husband and two beautiful daughters return from their respective places of work and school to a perfectly coiffured wife/mother, sporting a 1950s frock, nipped in at all the right places and lipstick applied without a single smudge. The house will be gleaming like an advert for Glint, it will NOT smell of my Lambert & Butler smokes (1950s housewives only smoke in the evenings alongside their Martinis, replete with green olives) and the healthy, but sumptuous, dinner will be ready to dish up as I twirl around the kitchen, my dirndl skirt flaring out provocatively, yet efficiently.

God! Reality bites hard, doesn't it?!

For health reasons, I have not been at work for some time and have thus had Mr Muscle, Flash, Zoflora, Cif and Domestos at my disposal on a daily basis. The house has shone but due to aforementioned health reasons (let's call them HR, because we all know a bastard in HR) I have not been quite as diligent as usual. The place is clean, but the lustre is not there. It's tidy, but it's not immaculate. This annoys me immensely, but for the time being, it will just have to do.

However, baking and cooking still must be done.

I am too much of a cheapskate to pay for mass-produced cakes and biscuits and will therefore make my own on a regular basis. It is rare for us not to have at least one flavour of home-made cake in a plastic bag on the kitchen worktop. Indeed, at the moment, we have coffee and walnut, and lemon and coconut, which I smear with raspberry jam. I tend to get free-range eggs via a contact at work, but as I am not in touch with him at the moment, eggs come from Eddie the Grocer, round the back, who leers at me whenever I walk into his shop. He looked a bit glum the other day, so I brought him round samples of my cakes (in the hope that he'd offer to sell them for me). He just looked furtive, slipped them into the stock room, mumbled something about it being a good job he was married and then ducked as his Mrs stomped around the cleaning products aisle.

Despite my best intentions, something ALWAYS goes wrong with my baking. The last two times I have made triple chocolate brownies, they have ended up like breeze blocks and thus landed in the bin. My quiches burst through the ceramic beads which I ladle on to prevent the pasty rising during blind-baking and look like the surface of the moon, and I can regularly undercook the veg. Last time I made fresh bread, instead of using Bread Flour, I reached for the regular Plain. And then one of Mr Parsnip's teeth cracked as he took a bite with his tomato and basil soup (home-made!). That cost quite a lot of money in dentistry a few days later...

Today, as #1 is off to Normandy at 4.30am tomorrow, I decided to make a lovely 'Ta-ta, See You, Hello Peace & Quiet Dinner' to see her off with which involves chicken casserole and something I have been threatening for a while: a baked chocolate and mint cheesecake.

Now, normally, my cheesecakes turn out spectacularly. Even #2, who is averse to anything not wrapped in plastic, enjoys them. I have turned out Baileys, Tia Maria and fresh lemon ones to date. So, off I toddled to the Co-op and spent about £8.00 on the ingredients. Philadelphia Cheese (low-fat); Fair-Trade black chocolate (so I am not exploiting the workers); free-range eggs (so those poor chickens' bums get a break); 'Light' sugar (for obvious reasons); and 50% extra free McVities' Digestive biscuits...cause I am a cheapskate and always look for a bargain. Despite not wearing the 1950s frock, having contemporary music on very loud and being caught boogying dramatically by Mr P wherein he made me jump out of my skin and blush somewhat at the movements I was then making with my hips, I did twirl around, got the dirty dishes done as I whisked the mix, melted the chocolate and made the base...

I had a spring-form tin ready for it all. It was looking fantastic. I even got adventurous and 'marbled' the mix with the melted chocolate, forming a cobweb of patterns. My smile of pride stretched from ear to ear!

Then I picked the tin up to place into the pre-heated oven (160degC) and the f*cking bottom fell out of the tin. I had got the wrong 'bottom'.

The squawking out of me was both blue and desperate. Thank God #1 walked in at that point and offered to assist as I was covered in raw chocolate/mint cheesecake mix. Mr P, with the doors thus being wide open, heard my expostulations, came in, saw the mess and set to to help me clear up.

#1 told me it was OK to cry. And I almost did. Purely for the former beauty of the thing.

However, it's OK to cry over spilt milk, but not over spilt cheesecake mix.

It was salvaged, turned into a gloop and baked. So we now have chocolate/mint 'crunch' for pud tonight.

During the mop-up operation, #2 came in to snitch on her sister who had used some rather nasty profanities on her while my back was turned. And for once, I simply couldn't be fagged intervening. White mess dripped from the worktop, down the cupboard doors and onto the floor which I had scrubbed twice yesterday (twice because the bloody kitten decided to pee on the lino in the evening). I snapped at her to sort it out herself and she stared at the mess.

'Has it gone wrong, then?' she asked.

'No, it's bloody marvellous, isn't it?' I retorted, somewhat obviously sarcastically.

Mr P was on his hands and knees at this point, mopping up the gloop. With reassuring 'shush-shush' noises and an explanation to #2 of how sarcastic angry women can be, she vanished with a bit of a flounce of indignation.

So, the proof of this pudding is certainly going to be in the eating. It looks like a nasty brownish/grey mess and I am still heart-broken at the loss of my cobweb. Mr P is going to have bacon butties at early dawn tomorrow since we have to get up at Stupid O'Clock. I'll probably bloody burn those, too.

One of these days, I will produce a meal fit for a Queen. I just hope it isn't Queen Anne I.

Hex My Express

noreply@blogger.com (Agnes Mildew) — Thu, 09 Oct 2008 10:46:00 +0000

There is a newspaper here in the UK called The Daily Express. Most UK newspapers are only fit to be torn into strips and used in the outhouse toilet when the Andrex has run out and the Express is no exception.

It is a pathetic Tory comic designed for the un-thinking, aspiring middle classes who pretend not to enjoy gossip about Z-list celebrities, such as most of those retards found on Big Brother and I'm A Celebrity, Get Me on the Ice With a Strictly Come Off It Salary; it bear-bates the current government (which most of the British population now do, anyway, so that's possibly an unfair criticism); it provides no balance; scare-mongers and purports to be fighting the good fight for us Stiff-Upper-Lip Brits.

It's tripe.

But. It has a fantastic General Knowledge crossword on Sundays in the supplement and I do succumb most weeks in the hope that one day I will complete it without having to refer to Google for the answers. I mean to say, who knows the answer to this one: *In Greek myths, one of the three Erinyes or Furies, along with Megaera and Tisiphone (6). Responses in the comments box, please. * For the impatient amongst you, the answer is right at the bottom. I am teasing you all...

When picking the fluff from my navel, and watching paint dry has ceased to amuse me, I will flick through the rest of this magazine. And without fail, every Sunday, my blood starts to boil at the article written by one of their 'new' columnists, Mindy Hammond.

Who?

Mindy Hammond...

Do you know what she is famous for?

She is famous for being the wife of Richard Hammond of Top Gear fame. And how did he become really famous? He did it by almost killing himself in a high-speed crash whilst filming for Top Gear. There was almost a public mourning, he received so much publicity about it. But the fact was, he was doing something which gives him an erection (driving high-powered vehicles) AND pays him bloody good money. OK, he's a nice enough chap, but he hasn't got the irony and wit of Jeremy Clarkson nor the charm and good temper of James May, who co-present the show. He's a stooge, basically. He's the good-looking short-arse who wears the trendy clothes, looks a bit bewildered at times when Clarkson is tearing a strip off him, and provides a bit of eye candy for the women who have to watch the show with their blokes.

So, about three months ago, there was an article written about her - how brave she had been through Richard's crash; how her beauty was 'luminous'; photos of her walking in her bare feet across an emerald green pasture, leading her white charger; how stoic she had been during the photo shoot in the bitter cold weather, never losing her smile (it was the thought of that fat pay-cheque which kept her going) and then, the stupid rag announced that it was proud to present their new columnist, Mindy Bloody Hammond.

She has the page 5 spot, straight after the contents and masthead. Pole position, as Richard would probably say. And she writes complete and utter Mills and Boone, schmaltzy, cheesey, gut-wrenchingly awful drivel. And it drives me berserk.

This week, she recounted us poor blithering idiots with a tale of getting on Richard's brand new Harley for a romantic get-away for two, sans kids. But they were constantly beseiged by set-backs, such as no petrol in the tank (*gasp, horror!*), getting lost in the dark (but Mindy did her Girl Guide thang and navigated them not only by reading her map in the dark, but fumbling for her mobile phone and speaking to the Hotel Staff.) *swoon* My Heroine. I'd never have thought of doing that. To add insult to injury, the heavens had opened and she now had rainwater in her biking boots. That must have been bloody awful for her.

Richard became 'gloomy'. He thought he would have to have room service rather than patronise the restaurant (never lose a photo opportunity, though, Rich?). But Mindy came to the rescue! She stripped off her leathers, and there underneath the biker gear was her LBD. She fluffed up her hair, wiped her smeared mascara and "Wow," said Richard (I always thought 'Wow' would have an exclamation mark after it, but obviously not in Mindy's world). "How did you do that? You look like a girl and everything." (Eloquent, eh?)

"You'd be amazed what you can get into a handbag," I smiled. [Insert: *smugly*]

I get 40 fags, my mobile, my cash card, shut-up grub for the kids, 5 lighters, 4 lipsticks, keys and my purse into my handbag, when I can be fagged carrying it, which is almost never - back-pockets do me fine. I don't tend to cart Gucci dresses around with me...

Another thing which drives me bananas is her name. She was Christened Amanda. She is in her mid-40s. What middle-aged woman walks round calling herself, Mindy? MINDY! I ask you. Mandy I can cope with. Mandy is a normal derivative of Amanda. But Mindy?? Oh, come on.

My real name, which most of you have been waiting for with bated breath is...NOT AGNES...Nope. And I have had a few cutesy-piekin nicknames in the past from soppy blokes, all of whom have been given short-thrift the minute they bastardise my name. Ok...*deep sigh*...it's really Alison. So I was called Allsy-poo, Ali-babes, Allsy-Wallsy.

No. Just stop! Right there...

It is simple: A-L-I-S-O-N. My middle name is Ann. I can cope with Annie, too, from people very close to me.

Just because she is short, petite and has 'Titian hair and an aura of goodness' does not mean she can toy with our affections and worm her way into our hearts with her silly, coy name. She can't even write well. Her tales are bland, boring, 2-dimensional and so 'ordinary' (apart from the fact that she lives in a dirty big castle) that I get angry. I get angry for us struggling bloggers who'd love to be published on our merits - not because we happen to have shagged somebody famous and got their rings on our fingers.

How many of us have to face traumas through our lives? Fatalities, deaths, soul-destroying illnesses, terrible set-backs which can leave us depleted? Do we get paid for writing about it? Do we all WANT to write about it? (and you can call me a hypocrite for writing Annie's Rexia, but it's not being done for commercial value!).

And I wouldn't mind if she was a decent writer and had something of intelligence to say. Then I wouldn't be on my self-righteous rant...

Although not taken last night (my face-pack was brown then), Mr P tells me this is very reminiscent of my scowl as I expostulated about Mindy Bloody Hammond. My own 'luminous beauty' came after the pack was washed off...

PS. The answer to the crossword question is Alecto, the Goddess of Constant Anger. That pretty much sums me up, eh?!

A Little Toilet Humour for the Day

noreply@blogger.com (Agnes Mildew) — Sun, 05 Oct 2008 06:07:00 +0000

So, a day which started off with drizzle, turned to rain, then a deluge of such intensity that I have just seen every animal on God's damp planet strolling in pairs towards an old gentleman with a long beard who seems to be in a hurry to get his Ark cruise underway.

Conversation in every local shop went like this:

-Turned bitter, hasn't it?

-Brrr. I know. Had to stick the heating on last night it was that cold.

-I didn't. I wore two jumpers, a T-shirt, a fleece, jacket, thermals, jeans, three pairs of socks...*pause while they think of something else to have worn*...AND my wellies.

-Just never seems to have stopped raining. All it did all summer was rain. Now autumn's upon us and it's just bloody raining. All the time.

-Turned bitter, though, hasn't it?

-Brr. I know...and ad infinitum...

Mr Parsnip decided he was going to be My Hero and do all the ironing - of which there appeared to be an awful lot. I found this an extremely generous gesture until I really got thinking about the motives behind it. Mr Parsnip likes to watch trashy horror movies - anything with a Zombie in it is right up his street. He also knows that an evening's viewing of these is just not going to happen in this house. Not unless I was suddenly hospitalised for a mysterious tropical illness or Jonny Depp called to see if I wanted a pie and a pint down at The Gate. But when he irons (and I will generally prostrate myself to anyone who offers to do this chore for me) I scurry out of the way sharpish and he is thus left to put on any DVD he wants.

I caught a snippet of one such film yesterday as I was walking through the lounge to get to the kitchen. At this particular juncture, the two main characters appeared to be learning how to conjugate the verb, 'To f*ck'. I am sure any old English masters would have been impressed by their enthusiasm, if not the actual conjugation. There were also too many split infinitives involved...

Thus ensued a philisophical debate about why on earth these characters were trying to kill Zombies when Zombies are already dead. I argued back and forth that it was impossible to kill something which is already dead, ergo, Zombie Movies are utter codswallop. Mr P looked at me enigmatically, raised an eyebrow and said, Ah, therein lies the question. Which basically means he hasn't got a clue, either.

When it was time for bed, we decided to take our books upstairs together with a hot drink (and the cigs...yes, disgusting to smoke in bed, I know, but I pay the bills on this house, not you) and have a read. Mr P enjoys Fantasy Fiction books. You know the ones I mean? They involve characters called Skilgarrion The Impaler; Garth The Destroyer; Horace The Pencil Sharpener...that type of stuff.

I prefer autobiographies, travelogues; anything factual, really - but my preference is for humorous anecdotal tales. So, I picked up Bill Bryson's The Thunderbolt Kid. I got up to chapter 4 and I don't think I have cried laughing at a book as much as this. At certain parts, I wasn't sure if I was going to make the toilet on time. I giggled, guffawed, chuckled and howled at the prose. I don't recommend it, though...why should he get a plug when he's already loaded? (Note to Mr Bryson: If you ever stumble over this blog, I think you are marvellous and would love to be your highly-paid researcher. The above was only a joke - see, I have even put a photo on...I love you, really, I do xxx)

In one of the chapters, he tells the reader of a kid called Lumpy Kowalski - so-called because he always had a lump of poo in his pants. I think every junior school child knows a Lumpy Kowalski, don't they? I certainly did. His name was Stuart. He was a slobbery, loving child, goofy and fussed over by his mother who was a bit ineffectual and probably never raised her voice in her life. Almost every day, Stuart would 'have an accident' and until one of us alerted the teacher to the God-awful pong, Stuart would sit there on his own personal cushion of warmth and stench, oblivious to the gipping noises and fainting children surrounding him.

Miss? Stuart's pooed his pants again.

*a weary sigh*

Come on Stuart, let's get you a new pair of pants.

And Stuart would return ten minutes later wearing a pair of Lost Property shorts.

As soon as his mother saw him at the school gate, coming ambling towards her wearing pants designed for a boy way much bigger than he, she would also sigh wearily and say: Ooohhh, Stewdle, Not Again.

'Stewdle' would just grin amiably and rattle off about his day of needlework, maths, English and all the other dull subjects to which 1970s teachers subjected us poor children.

Another boy at our Junior School (and he was a bit tough, so I shall not be giving out his real name here) was nicknamed 'Warby'. Warby stank, no matter what time of day. He was grimy from the moment he got to school and got worse as the day wore on. He had badly crossed-eyes, chipped teeth and knuckles which looked like they were made of India rubber, they were that calloused. The stains on his clothes were quite remarkable. In fact, I am wondering if he was attemping a Map of the World, they were that interesting. They were certainly reminiscent in their size, shape and different colours, to the fascinating countries on my globe at home.

One fateful day, and again, it was raining, therefore 'Wet Playtime' wherein the teachers locked themselves into the Staff Room with their coffee, tea, Digestives and a bottle of Gordon's Gin and left around sixty under-11s to their own devices. I was sat at my desk drawing, as usual and Warby sat on my desk lid. I politely asked him to move (I was a very polite child, and also, it didn't pay to anger Warby). Surprisingly he did, after shoving a grimy finger into my sketch and demanding to know 'Warrizit?'

A thermo-nuclear reactor for a supersonic warhead, I responded.

Borin'...and thus he left...

And left me with a smear across my desk.

I am a wimp. I don't like nasty smears and smells, and will always tentatively sniff the dishcloth before each use, just in case it has gone a bit 'foisty'. I don't like mucky toilets; I don't like sticky splashes...and I certainly don't like smears on MY desk.

I ran to the toilet, got a handful of wet paper towels and the ubiquitous Buttermilk soap which was found in every cheap school toilet in the 70s (and probably still is now) and scrubbed at my desk until it gleamed. I dried it off, and then proceeded to sniff it vigorously. I continued to sniff it all afternoon until Mrs Brown squawked at me to Stop That At Once Or You'll Get A Smack (that was how she also dealt with the OCD kids). I was utterly mortified. I thought I might get Warby's Disease (which is what we secretly said behind his back if he touched you or any of your possessions). And Warby's Disease meant that you got crossed-eyes, black fingernails and smelt for the rest of your life. Not nice.

An expression from #1 and #2s junior school days has also entered this household: The Alvanley Poo. God help you if you leave an Alvanley Poo in the toilet here. This entered the Mildew-Parsnip vocabulary via #2 who was revolted by the Alvanley Primary infant school children who simply 'forgot' to flush the toilet after going for a poo. The poo thus squats in the bottom of the pan, 'frays' and leaves a pool of brown water surrounding it. This is an Alvanley Poo. It can happen frequently in our house as the water pressure (despite all the bloody rain) isn't that marvellous and there can be a few escapees. #2 is unforgiving. She doesn't give a damn about water pressures, United Utilities, second flushes, high-fibre diets. She DOES NOT want to sit atop An Alvanley Poo. And therefore, the perpetrator (and a first-class interrogation will take place) is discovered and frog-marched to the toilet to Get Rid Of It. Invariably, she is hopping from one foot to the next by this stage, desperate to go, but refusing to use the downstairs, outhouse loo, which is always spotlessly clean, but there are some rather large spiders who like to over-winter in there and I do, therefore, empathise with her on that score.

So, if you were to ever visit our house for a nice piece of home-made cake and a large glass of whiskey, and get caught short, please, please, ensure that the toilet is empty before you leave. And always change the toilet roll when it has finished. Thank you.

Herein 'lies' Lady Gregson

noreply@blogger.com (Agnes Mildew) — Wed, 17 Sep 2008 11:06:00 +0000

Right, so this is my second post of the day, and more in keeping with HexMyEx...I hope!

I am sure that many of you receive Spam emails from allegedly extremely rich people offering to let you have a share of their vast wealth as long as you reply to their personal email address providing them with all your financial information, full address, date of birth and inside leg measurement. Anybody who does this has to have a vacuum located between their ears, in my personal opinion.

Generally, I just hit delete on these and think no more about them, but the following (together with my 'comments') really tickled me and I saved it for future reference. Please note, the appalling grammar and spellings belong to Lady Gregson - I have left them in intentionally!

Here writes Lady Dianne Gregson, suffering from cancerous ailment (sounds like she has started writing her epitaph already). I am marriedto Sir Richard Gregson an Englishman who is dead (who, not unsurprisingly, has ever actually been alive, according to my Google research! (this also sounds scarily like she has kept him sealed in a vault somewhere in her house)). When my late husband was alivehe deposited the sum of 20 Million Great Britain (Britain??) Pounds Sterling (I would herein state that this is one of the most fantastic uses of tautology I have ever come across! The only thing missing is the £ sign...) which werederived from his vast estates and investment in capital market with his bankhere in UK.Recently, my Doctor told me that I have limited days to live due to thecancerous problems I am suffering from (I would thus assume that, since I have held onto this mail for a while, she has now snuffed it. RIP).

I have decided to donate this fund toyou (She's trusting, isn't she? How does she know I won't do a runner and buy myself a Mini Cooper S?) and want you to use this gift which comes from my husbands effort to fundthe upkeep of widows, widowers, orphans,destitute, the down-trodden, physicallychallenged children,barren-women (Well, I think I'd just hook the orphans up with the barren women and kill two birds with one stone...) and persons who prove to be genuinelyhandicapped financially (I definitely fit this description.)

I took this decision because I do not have any child (Hmmm. I am also getting the impression she didn't have much of an education, either...Do you think she'd like an orphan?) and my husband relativesare bourgeois and very wealthy persons.I do not want my husband's hard earnedmoney (er...hang on, she's just told me that it was derived from his 'vast estates' and capital investment - I wouldn't reckon there's much hard work going on there would you? Ask the National Trust to look after the estates and get your stockbroker to invest wisely. Then he can clear orf to his Club and play billiards...I wouldn't mind working as hard as him, either...) to be misused or invested into ill perceived ventures hence the reasonfor taking this bold decision.

As soon as I receive your reply I shall give you the contact of the Bank inUK (The Bank is a very famous one you know. Almost as famous as The Agnes Mildew Banking Corporation). I will also issue you a Letter of Authority that will empower you as theoriginal beneficiary of this fund (Ooh, ooh, ooh! I am getting excited now! I am to be the original beneficiary! Strange, though that my email address wasn't in the 'To' line of the mail...just 'undisclosed recipients'. Do you think she is having me on? Cheating old witch!).

My happiness is that I lived a life worthyof emulation. Please assure me that you will act just as I have statedherein.Hope to hear from you soon (She's starting to sound a bit more chipper now, isn't she? I almost expected a 'Cheerio!' then!).You can contact me through my personal email address: dgregson02@googlemail.comMadam Dianne Gregson (She told me she was Lady Dianne Gregson! She's either fibbing or the cancer has made her lose her marbles...)

So, am I a hard-hearted cynic and this lady desperately needs my help, or am I sharper than all the knives in the cutlery drawer? I don't even think that question needs dignifying with an answer!

Sometimes Spam can be SO much fun! At least it makes a change from offering to extend my penis...

A Blatant Plug...

noreply@blogger.com (Agnes Mildew) — Wed, 17 Sep 2008 08:05:00 +0000

Every time I try to write this post, my blasted internet connection dies - is it trying to tell me something, I wonder?

Anyway, if you can't plug your own writing, who else is going to do it for you?

HexMyEx is an attempt at humour, but there is actually a more serious side to me which I am getting out in a new blog - Annie's Rexia...say it fast enough and you'll probably get more of an idea what it's about.

If you don't like it, don't tell me as I am a coward! If you do like it, please leave a comment - and if you think it will ever help anyone, pass the URL on.

Monday Morning Musings...

noreply@blogger.com (Agnes Mildew) — Mon, 15 Sep 2008 06:47:00 +0000

Mr Parsnip totally spoiled our Sunday 'Have-We-Won-The-Lottery' dreaming session this weekend by ruining the girls' viewing of X-Factor on Saturday night, turning channels and watching the balls being called out in real time. I was sitting in the conservatory and thus couldn't make myself heard to ask him to stop. I could also see them popping out of the strange bingo-esque machine and thus knew we didn't stand a chance. I was a bit miffed with him for wrecking our ritual (my alliteration improves with each blog, I reckon...). But I guess it was a good thing, as we weren't really talking yesterday morning, what with me accusing him of being 'too quiet' after I had made his ears bleed with all the threats of bludgeoning the ex to death with the butt of a shotgun. I guess a, 'Mffmm. Nuthin',' wouldn't really have worked in a dreaming session, would it?

Anyway, yesterday was a day of colours. There was certainly some colourful language, that's for sure!

We had our very first dinner guest at our new dining table and chairs - a school pal of #1 who is one of the nicest young ladies you could ever meet and since she ate utterly everything from her plates, I offered to adopt her. #1 and 2 gave me looks which, if they could kill, Mr P would now be choosing urns for my remains. We have a bit of a Sunday tradition these days: I stand on my feet for three hours, cooking a roast dinner which I don't eat (being pescetarian) and then stand on my feet for an hour cleaning it up. It's really good fun you know. I enjoy it almost as much as I enjoy cleaning the cat's litter tray, my third favourite task after ironing, and banging my head repeatedly on the wall...

Anyway, I was informed by #2 that I was asking 'the wrong things'. All I said was, How's the love life, E? She giggled, told me it was a bit slow and then I got my head ripped off by #2.

Blimey, I retorted, I was only being polite.

YOU JUST DON'T ASK QUESTIONS LIKE THAT, YOU KNOW!!

Sorry, I mumbled, and moved onto less volatile subjects such as how she felt about ousting Alastair Darling and shoving every HIP that has been ordered per house sale up his rectum.

The girls have moved schools quite a lot in their relatively short lives and their first UK school was in a village called Alvanley. #1 still keeps in touch with some of her oppoes from there but I nearly fell off my chair when she informed me that Emma N had undergone an abortion. Mr P thought my shock and horror was play-acting, but I genuinely felt sick and a real sense of 'There But For the Grace of God Go I'. Emma N is the same age as #1 and always was a bit of a precocious young lady who was encouraged to wear the latest fashions and make-up by her mother, who was convinced she had model quality. The child has obviously been hot-housed into being a nubile and is exploring every avenue of it.

Fu..Blo..Fu...Oh My Goodness! I expostulated, remembering just in the nick of time that we had polite company. No! You're winding me up. Don't fib. That's not true, is it? Is it?

Yup! retorted #1, #2 and E, somewhat smugly: Her best friend told us.

Some fu...blo...flippin' best friend she is, eh? I answered in abject horror.

Aren't girls bitchy? I guess I was the same at High School, but all I remember of my High School days is trogging off to the library to swot up, filling up the KitKat machine in the Science block and, once, taking advantage of my powers as Deputy Head Girl and telling Sporty Spice off who was a pain in the neck at our school.

Apart from meeting that obnoxious dwarf, Jerry Marsden, and telling him that my father had sold him his first guitar, that is my only claim to fame. What a life I have led, eh?

(Caveat: Get Mr P on the subject of famous people and he would have you believe he is best friends with Ozzy Osbourne, John Craven, Sue Lawley, some very rich Arabic Sheikh and Marylin Monroe...he put in phone lines for them when he worked for British Telecom...)
(Caveat #2. He didn't ever go to Marylin's house. I made that up...He's not THAT old...yet...)

Within minutes of the dining table being cleared and #1 suspecting she was being let off clearing the fat from the roasting dish, she scarpered with E, leaving me, Mr P and #2 to tidy the detritus. Mr P came over all romantic and crooned to me in the kitchen, whirling me around the lino. I would have preferred, "It had to be you" by Frank Sinatra. I got "Why Can't I be You?" by The Cure. Why does he want to be me? Does he like my underwear? Is it my luxuriant head of hair which he covets? Or is it the fact that on particularly 'windy' days, I can burb 'Abu Dhabi' and get away with all the syllables. Anyway, I shall be doing a stock-take of my knickers over the next few weeks, that's for sure...

Then it was Sunday Papers time. I have the attention-span of a goldfish with Alzheimer's and so I find it very difficult to sit still for more than about five minutes unless there is a crossword or a burning blog for me to work on. But one thing which is guaranteed to make me sit down are the supplements. Now, I guess this is a very long preamble into the post I originally intended to write, but some of our more loyal readers may recall that I wrote a post about Sunday Supplements some time ago. Read it. Here. You Must. Or I won't speak to you again...

Helloo..Hellooo...Hellooo...helllooooo?

Gosh, there's an echo in here and an amazing mass of tumbleweed suddenly. Will somebody stop that tolling bell?

Now this week's were corkers, and the one which really stood out for me in the Healthy Living catalogue was this (and bear with me here as I thought it was for candles...)

EXCELLENT FOR POWER CUTS

Ever been caught out without a toilet on hand? Now the problem is solved! Portable Loo is invaluable in a bedroom, car, boat or caravan. Also useful for those confined to wheelchairs and young children when travelling long distances...blah, blah, blah.

Now, correct me if I am wrong, but what does this ↑ have to do with power cuts? Does it provide a warming glow so you don't bang your shins on sharp table corners whilst fumbling in the dark? Does it give you some heat when the temperature has dropped below -2degC? Does it give you warming liquid to refresh your palate? No, don't answer that one. I just got a shudder thinking a bit too laterally...

What utter codswallop, eh?!

About two months ago, I had to attend a meeting with a larger-than-life Texan chappie who had set up his own business selling disability aids - indeed his 'knork' is advertised in this catalogue, and I did swipe one from him for Mr Parsnip who likes to make life as easy as possible for himself. But he was really pushing a bottom wiper which you can see aside.

I'm afraid I got a bit hysterical as this 6'4" Texan attempted to show me how to wrap the tissue in the holder, reach around to the anus, and wipe his bum.

When I got back to my desk, I demonstrated it in the Biblical sense - i.e. how it was meant to be used. And then I used it in a very non-Biblical sense, wherein men were coming to me to ask if I could give their wives any lessons...

Hmmm. There is some rubbish bandied about in newspapers, isn't there? Not least in the business and politics section.

Anyway, after that, Mr P introduced #2 to the wonders of Geeks on YouTube and they sat and watched very silly films about Star Wars wherein I went for a soak in the bath and pondered the paradoxes of Men and Women.

For example: Mr Parsnip had offered to come up and sit with me in the bath whilst I soaked, as soon as his Star Wars video had finished. Being of a pseudo-altruistic nature, I told him: No, no, no, you STAY and watch your films. That's fine. Spend quality time with #2.

I got into the bath and immediately started to fester in the event that he didn't come up. I argued with myself more than I argue with real people, attempting to make myself see reason. The sad fact of the matter is, when most of the time women say No, don't worry, they really do mean the opposite and I always abhorred that. But now I have succumbed, too.

It must be the menopause...but I'm only 38?

I have obviously turned into my mother...

Oh, to be a Winner!

noreply@blogger.com (Agnes Mildew) — Thu, 11 Sep 2008 07:43:00 +0000

Every Sunday morning, Mr Parsnip and I lie in our bed, smoking (disgusting habit, I know), drinking coffee (me) and tea (him) and speculating as to whether we have actually won the National Lottery this weekend. We had a massive dreaming session about it this Sunday, which continued even in the pub where we went for lunch. We hold off checking the numbers for hours, preferring to expound at length as to what we would do with our millions, which cars we would buy, what dreams we would realise, whether we would move house, and if we would put #1 into a High Security Boarding School from which she would never escape.

Our dreams this weekend were as follows:

Mr Parsnip:
1. To give up work and open his own photography business. He is a budding amateur photographer and, indeed, you can see some of his work on Words and Pictures but he is rubbish at keeping it up-to-date despite my nagging him, so don't hold your breath...
2. To buy some doozy sports car (he is fast approaching the 19th anniversary of his 21st birthday, so I guess this is some mid-life crisis thing in the hope that he can pick up blonde babes with his fanny magnet)
3. To get an all-singing, all-dancing camera which does all but set up the shots, complete with dirty big lenses and what-nots.

Agnes:
1. To open an Eating Disorders Clinic for adults in Cheshire
2. To have a Jeep Grand Cherokee (I still miss mine from my Oman days!)
3. To have an unlimited account with Karen Millen and Red or Dead
4. To send #1 daughter to a High Security Boarding School from which she cannot escape.

Strangely, what we both then agreed upon was that we wouldn't necessarily want to up-sticks and move to some Country Pile in the Home Counties. We'd be quite happy in our 3-bed semi, complete with new conservatory...but we would do something about the shops which border the rear of our property.

The row of shops consists of: hairdresser; Post Office; hardware store; pharmacy; chip shop; off license and general grocery store. The rear of the shops, atop which sit flats, is seen from our bedroom window and it is a total eyesore. There are enormous ventilation pipes climbing up the brickwork; ugly battered outhouses with felt roofing peeling off, derelict fences, and the ubiquitous Carling Black Label cans litter the unadopted road which separates us. It is a bit of a torrid mess.

Unfortunately, where there is Carling Black Label (a very cheap lager, favoured by the IQ-challenged 'yoof' in this area), there are idiots and trouble-makers. The first summer I spent here, I was on the phone to the police that often they started dropping in for a cup of tea and a natter, on the off-chance I wasn't doing anything. One particular night was memorable whence I had just come out of the shower and had donned only my knickers. The yoof had entered my garden and were terrorising the bunnies, Lambert and Butler. I literally *hung* out of the window, topless and shameless, and squawked out a chorus of expletives and profanities, whilst threatening to castrate them. The girls were mortified. But only by the fact that I was sans bra...The final straw came when I had to call out the Fire Brigade as the rotten little pukes had decided to set fire to the rear of the hardware store where they keep the gas bottles. It took two big, burly firemen to give me a hug to stop me from crying and sobbing in frustration...I guess I put the hand-wringing hysterics on a little bit as one of them really was rather dishy! (I was wearing clothes by this stage, I hasten to add...)

So, I galvanised myself after that, and instead of leaving matters to the police, took matters into my own hands and petitioned our local MP. Actually, I bombarded him with letters of complaint. And within a week, I received a letter on House of Commons letter-headed paper (I must confess to feeling the fear of God when I first saw the portcullis and chains logo on the rear of the envelope and thought someone had finally caught up with me from my own mis-spent youth...) and our MP promised me action. And indeed, action happened, much to my relief and chuffed-ness! We received a nightly patrol, and the scum-bag element moved on to pastures new.

Only once after that was there any trouble and I unfortunately didn't witness it, but our former Post Master, Geoff, told me about it in gleeful detail. It seems a gang of snots were causing trouble on the common which fronts the shops and one of the locals reported it to the police. Within minutes, a squad car pulled up and a rather enormous officer unfolded himself from his tiny patrol vehicle. The main protagonist of the trouble, considering himself a tough guy, decided to take on the officer.

Bad Move.

The officer spoke quietly into his walkie-talkie and minutes later, three more vehicles came whizzing round the corner. The youth decided to run for it.

Another Bad Move.

Four strapping policemen rugby-tackled him, laid him flat, sat on his head and made him promise To Stop Being A Bad Lad...The funniest part, according to Geoff, who had experienced it all, was how the lad had to take a pushchair, replete with his own child, and stalk off home. Big Man: teaching his child all she needs to know in life. I didn't think that was especially funny, although I could see the irony. I found it sad that ill-breeding breeds ill-breeding. Why aren't there sterilisation programmes for people like this?

So, we would buy out the off-license, and while we are at it, we would get rid of the chippy, as that is almost as magnetic for the yoof. There's nothing better (and more nutritious - to them) than a tray of chips with curry sauce and eight cans of Carling. That's a gor-may meal, innit?

In their place, we would install a traditional butcher and a traditional fishmonger. We would offer the girls who work in the off-license (who all, embarrassingly, know me by name and know exactly what I am going in for *ahem*) any jobs, with training, if they so wish. Mr P reckons Cheryl, who probably clocks in at around 22 stone, would be great as the butcher. She's dry as the desert, plain-speaking and doesn't suffer fools. She could cart sides of cow round as though they were feather pillows, believe me. I have seen her man-handle trouble-makers from the shop as though they were naughty toddlers.

Kerry, who has a smile and a chat for everyone - and actually manages to talk to the yoof sensibly and amiably, would probably be great serving behind the counter. She'd have the old dears flocking in for their 1/2lb of silverside and 'nice bit of fillet for me tea'.

Trish could be the fishmonger. I like Trish - a lot! She rarely smiles, is always sardonic, never has a good word to say for anyone, but makes me roar laughing with her tales, always delivered totally deadpan. I could just imagine her whalloping a dead haddock onto the slab and gutting it in front of me, bearing a face of total disdain...

The only girl I would find difficult to place is Diane, who always looks so sad, talks in such a quiet voice it is difficult to know what she is saying, and has too many tales of woe for one her age. I think I would just give her a few thousand and tell her to treat herself, pay off her mortgage and get rid of the spongeing control freak she is living with.

Having a decent butcher would probably annoy Eddie, our grocer/general store owner. He offers local bacon, ham, sausages and black pudding which he sells for exorbitant prices. He's a curmudgeon is Eddie, and I get the feeling he's a wee bit sweet on me! He was moaning and miserable the other week, so I told him I would bring him in some of my fresh baking to cheer him up. I returned, replete with coffee cake and lemon sponge. He turned pale, called me to the rear of the shop, and took it from me as though I was passing him a parcel of heroin. I then realised that he was as terrified of his scowling wife as I am...Since then, he has hinted more than once, that it is 'a good job we are both married, as I am having all sorts of thoughts now...'. He actually had me blushing dreadfully two days ago, so flirtatious was he. And unfortunately, Agnes Mildew is a shocking blusher and I give myself away so easily. The blushing was picked up on immediately. I think he took it as compliance that I felt the same - but I just felt uncomfortable. I looked at him plaintively and said, 'Stop making me blush. It was only a piece of bloody cake...'

I got out of the shop fairly sharpish and later, told Mr P what had happened, who suddenly became My Hero (he's pretty good at that, you know!) and next day, despite him being in agony with the dreadful dentistry work he had just undergone, he accompanied me to Eddie's where I needed to purchase two sticks of butter. Eddie looked a bit askance and kept giving me sly looks to which I refused to respond. Later that afternoon, I was driving past his shop to access the rear of our house and he came out of his shop. "Oi, yer bugger!" he exclaimed. "Yer brought yer bloody 'usband in fer back-up this morning, didn't you?"
"Yes, I did!" I retorted, and continued on my way...

Daft old bugger! He's about 15 years older than me and is married to a woman whose looks can kill at ten paces. Even #2 told me last night she doesn't think she has ever seen her smile once in the three years we have patronised her shop! I just think Eddie leads a frustrated life and likes to dream, such as Mr Parsnip and I do. At least he has his two Jaguars, though - a modern and a Vintage. It seems you can predict the weather by which one he is driving. If he is in the Vintage, the sun will shine all day as he is too scared to let raindrops fall on it. If the weather be inclement, he'll be in the modern one.

Village life, eh?

I wouldn't exchange it for a win on the Lottery.

Damn! Yes, I would!

PS. We didn't win this weekend, either...