this is angie's blog

A shameful plug ...

2013-08-24T13:20:00.005+01:00

Hi - I’ve just popped back to tell you my book The Catalyst, which is available on Amazon as a paperback or ebook will be free for download as an ebook next week on the 29th and 30th of August.

So if you fancy an easy summer read full of romance, suspense with a free taster of beautiful Cornwall in the UK thrown in get yourselves a free copy. If you like it I would appreciate a good review.

For a less sensible post on the subject see my blog Sleeping with the cat …

Last Post.

2013-01-29T14:57:00.003+00:00

Okay so it’s been a load of fun for nearly two years now … and I’ve got a lot off my not inconsiderable chest (this is not a boast, believe me … the chest thingy, I mean).

But, much as I have enjoyed ranting and being ‘outraged of Cornwall’, much as I have loved writing ludicrous posts about life, I think the time has come to concentrate on other things.

So, I’m sort of clearing the decks, as it were, and after 45,536 views to date (plus those on the posts I deleted) I think it is time to shut up shop and get on with some real work; it’s time to put the buffoon back in its box. (See what I did there with that semi-colon? Impressive, huh?)

From now on I have decided to put my keyboard where my opinion is and use my remaining time on this earth to try to write another book … a proper printed book … with paper and everything.

This time it will not be a self-published book, I will try it out on traditional publishers and if they do not want it I hope I will be phlegmatic (disgusting word) enough not to take it personally. Believe me I am under absolutely NO illusions about trying to get a book traditionally published but I felt it was a bona-fide goal to set myself.

I have produced an ebook, The Catalyst, and I’m reasonably chuffed that I managed to do that given my great propensity for vacillation and idleness but now I need to get on with the next one.

So, dear reader, as they say in Jane Austen novels, au revoir, you can still find me in rather more serious guise on Hubpages and on rather less serious form on my website 'Sleeping with the cat …' at angelajardine.com where I will be wittering on about writing, the progress, lack of and all things south etc., rather than my usual more random burblings on the vagaries of being alive.

I would also like to thank you for being so patient with me, watching the views mount up has been so very heartening. Bless!

Thespy leanings … or mincing for amateurs.

2013-01-27T16:47:00.001+00:00

http://www.flickr.com/photos/tomsaint/3265581942/

This is a real lion and he just can’t bear to look. I know how he feels. (Fear not, all will become clear after one of my rambling discourses … that’s if you can bear with me, of course).

To begin at the beginning, I have to admit I’m not sure I would have married husband number three if I had realised where his innate luvviness would lead him. As he will admit with cheerful abandon my beloved is a show-off and we have to go through the death scene from Richard Ⅲ (the hilarious 1955 version) if he has so much as a splinter in his finger.

Being a sneaky, low-key, back of the crowd sort of person myself it came as a shock to realise that the amiable chap who was moving in with me had a propensity for drama … and dramatics. To be fair he had told me he had once played in The Pirates of Penzance but that was at school eons ago so, naively, I thought it didn't count. Little did I realise that sort of beastliness was still latent in his blood.

So in the early days of marriage we signed him up to do some extra work … no, not extra work … extra work. You know, working as an extra, those bods that bumble about in the background of films muttering 'rhubarb, rhubarb’. This kept him entertained walking along beaches holding hands with young ladies or rowing them about on lakes and so feeding his addiction (hopefully only for acting and not for young ladies).

Once, memorably, he was Professor Little complete with expansive side whiskers, see … that’s him.

Another time he donned a white coat and was a forensic scientist for a somewhat disturbing film made by a German TV company. In fact, most of this work was for German film companies, who it appears have a thing about Rosamunde Pilcher novels and Cornwall in particular.

We seem to be forever stumbling over them lurking about in our small towns and villages and changing the look of them with fake trees and sand on our double yellow lines. I suppose we should ask why Cornwall, why Rosamunde Pilcher but you don’t like, do you?

So now, all this experience has resulted in him mincing about to a packed house for three nights this coming week as the Cowardly Lion in the village panto of The Wizard of Oz. I would tell him to ‘break a leg’ but he’d probably take it literally and I’d never hear the last of it.

I’ll be the little biddy scuttling about with the teas at half-time or whatever they call it in the theatre which is, more accurately, the Chapel, doing double duty as our village hall.

There will be photos … oh boy, will there be photos. Watch this space …

Update: As promised … photos of the Cowardly Lion ...

How gay is he?

He did all his own makeup … worryingly.

He had my broom so I was marooned all week.

His award?

Meeting up with the rest of the cast.

The stars perform ‘Somewhere over the Rainbow’.

angelajardine.com
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Libertè, egalitè, femininitè ... in defence of cast-off women.

2013-01-16T15:30:00.000+00:00

http://www.gutenberg.org/etext/13103

I watched a programme last night about the descendants of Charles Dickens, his mistress and the poor unfortunate who was blamed for the devastating Staplehurst train crash they were caught up in in 1865.

And I got thinking, and then seething … as you do when there is a whiff of injustice.

However, and probably most unfairly, I was not so much incensed about the injustice done to the railway employee who carried the can for the accident, even though that was indeed appalling, but more for the casual way Dickens treated his wife who had become fat in later life and was therefore apparently expendable.

Like he was some oil painting, as they say.

Having fathered ten children on Catherine, he just cast her off and picked up with an actress twenty-five years his junior (as you did if you had money in those days) although, ever mindful of his fame and status, he took great pains to keep her well below the prurient radar of Victorian society.

The fact that he had obviously enjoyed sex with Catherine many times in their youth (you don’t get ten kids by playing Ludo) did not seem to have cut any ice with him. She was older and fatter so he obviously thought her no longer a suitable partner for a ‘great man’. It apparently never occurred to him that having so many children (which he had caused to come into being by not being able to keep it in his trousers) might have had something to do with her losing her youthful figure.

I have never been a rabid feminist and have never felt the need to ignite any of my underwear, mainly in the name of public safety. Having the bad luck to have the unfortunate 'battleship bosom' (my thanks to Germaine Greer for this quote) of many older ladies, I know few of us would get out alive if I chose to let it run free.

And anyway my own experience, apart from a couple of blipettes, has been to be treated with respect by men without having to bare my fangs … or anything else for that matter.

But patriarchy does trouble me with its patronising view that once a woman gets to middle-age she is immediately invisible and can be replaced if she doesn’t fit in with her husband’s view of his own inflated self-image.

For a moment I almost apologised for banging on about this … I’m sure I am repeating myself from an earlier writing but then I thought sod it, this is important, I won’t apologise. Why in the name of arse should men get away with such monstrous self-absorption?

Okay, so Dickens is back in history but we all know nothing has changed. It is still the same old, same old today. Men still hunt the trophy wife, and are willing to keep remarrying as the old one withers. Statistics show men remarry twice as much as women, which is revealing.

Bless them, there seems to be some awareness that they still need looking after but it does help if the replacement wife is a looker who can do the tart-in-the-bedroom thingy with a degree of sincerity and without you both collapsing with hysterical laughter.

But older women rarely fall for the patter again (even in the surprising event of their being asked) because the scales have fallen from their eyes and they know what is in store. It is only younger women who, in their romantic, pink and fluffy, la-la land have no idea of what they are letting themselves in for and they are the ones the men are targeting anyway. They’ll either learn or get lucky.

There are some that think women have too much power in the modern world but that is only superficial. The world is still the same as it ever was and many, many wives are still cast-off once they have lost their youthful charms.

But there is a positive to this possibly unlooked-for freedom. Surely I am not on my own in thinking discarded women should celebrate being cast -off and grab their liberty in their hot stickies with alacrity? Surely they realise that being without a husband is actually a passport to paradise?

No more listening to his whining when he has a cold, no more paralysingly smelly socks, Y-fronts, teeshirts etc, no more having to listen to asinine screams and yelps from football commentators, your own remote control!

No more having to eat the rubbish he wants to eat, no more having to listen to him moaning if you cook something you want to eat … in fact no more having to cook when you don’t really feel like it. And no-one commenting on how much wine you are drinking when it should be obvious to any perceptive person why you drink.

And best of all, no more having to put up with the fumblings, non-existent fore play and supreme selfishness that passes for sex. Let’s just hope that Catherine Dickens realised how lucky she was.

With apologies to my beloved and all the nice men out there … you know who you are.

angelajardine.com

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Under the paw: living with feline OCD.

2013-01-13T14:34:00.001+00:00

He who must be obeyed …
Source: Angie Jardine

Today I was going to write, more or less sensibly, about the fiscal cliff, the state of the EU and how we’re all financially stuffed, a là The Slog, but as I know less than nowt about all that deep and doomy stuff I decided to stick to what I know …

So here is my latest diatribe about the cat and the realisation that he has developed OCD, Overbearing Cat Disorder ... which should be of some interest to veterinary types if no one else.

The Toof, our cat, has been steadily, and stealthily, training us ever since he persuaded us to take him in from the outdoor life as a wandering meowstrel nearly ... ooo … seven years ago. Over the years we have got used to the training sessions. It’s what cats do, we thought, end of.

However, lately, just when we thought we were due to get our final diplomas in ‘Slavish devotion and Absolute Subjection’, a new module has popped up which could, no doubt, extend our course indefinitely. Hey ho, the goalposts had moved … yet again.

(I can never understand why the CIA and MI6 have never gone straight to the horse’s mouth, or indeed more correctly, the moggie’s mouth, for brain-washing techniques. Whatever brains I and the beloved had have not just been washed but have been pre-soaked, washed on hot cycle with three rinses (final rinse with softener) and spun at 1200 revs by The Toof).

It would appear that his new training module consists of barked (!) directives which must be understood, decoded and acted upon immediately, if not sooner. So apparently all the softly-softly, being cute and ooo, tickle my tummy stuff was simply some sort of seven year warm up to the real hard-core obedience training.

So much for gratitude for being rescued from the cold and starvation of a life on the road with his little red-and-white spotted hankie of belongings!

Now we have realised this new regimen means his breakfast is to be produced as soon as he loudly demands it (what happened to all that quiet, respectful waiting?) and he is pleased to take high tea at four thirty sharp and no later, thank you!

I will stand aside to let him go down the stairs first (or risk a broken neck) and we will open the back door and stand there with the cold draught reverberating around our night-clothed nethers, waiting for him to make up his mind about the weather, the insouciance of the garden birdlife and the possibility of enemies lurking in the shrubbery. All so's he does not have to incommode himself by using the tradesman’s entrance (i.e the cat flap).

He insists on having the right hand side of my bed, the side near the door, and is not above standing on my throat to ensure this. Although I’d like to think this is to protect me if a mad axeman comes raging in I think it is more likely it's so he can make a speedy escape if there is a fire.

However, it must be said it is gratifying to realise that we are responding well to this challenge. We are apparently not too old to learn which, as we are now reduced to the status of aged retainers, is vastly encouraging.

It is such a relief to know that he still does not appear to have thought seriously about dispensing with our services just yet, although how long that will last I quail to think.

But despite all this, he’s still just a soft-pawed, purring old tart and we love him to bits.

angelajardine.com

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The Birthday Meal Tribulation?

2013-01-09T15:58:00.000+00:00

http://www.flickr.com/photos/26555823@N08/7998284395/

Now as you know I’m not one to moan (much) but I just have to share this with you.

It was my old man’s birthday and, as I didn’t have a distinguished service medal for living with me handy, I decided to take him out for an airing instead, as you do. So I booked a table for dinner at a quaint little whitewashed country pub sitting on a scenic village green. So far, so predictable.

Well, yes but this is me so it was not quite as predictable as you might think. This was one of our local pubs where my beloved had some of his paintings up for sale - we do that sort of thing in Cornwall - so it was chance to do a bit of ‘networking’ too as it were. (I like to kill as many birds possible at one time with the smallest stone available. Not that I’m tight-fisted you understand, I prefer to think of it as good, sensible thrift.)

So, putting on our best bibs and tuckers (what the hell are those?) we duly trundled off into the dark night in our trusty wuggle (remind me to tell you what that is sometime), just two old coots off for a rare night out.

The pub looked inviting, all warmly glowing windows in the dark night and all I had on my mind was a large glass of red wine, a deep dish of sliced duck breast on stir-fried noodles with an orientalish orange sauce against a comforting background burble of sotto voce conversation.

Well, the conversation was off for a start thanks to some woman, who obviously had her head stuck, wailing emotionally and far too loudly over the sound system but I wedged myself philosophically as close to the roaring log fire as I could and waited for himself to finish checking his paintings.

As it was deep mid-winter and the setting was remote the pub was not busy, just us, another middle-aged couple … and a youth. Now, I’m not against youth … I distinctly remember being young once ... but they are a different sort of young now. They have … GADGETS! (Cue dramatic music). In this case it was the ubiquitous mobile phone, maybe even the coveted iPhone (I am not worthy!). All I know is he kept me entertained for ages.

Bless him, he tried to be discreet but it really didn’t work and honestly it sounded to me as it he was trying to run two girlfriends ... at least two. I will give him his due however, the phone must have been on vibrate (’scuse me) as I never heard it ring but his protestations of love were just a leettle too loud and toe-curlingly prolonged. I would have had to have put my head down the bog and flush it not to have heard them.

She (they?) was evidently the needy sort and he had to insist he loved her more than she loved him ad nauseum. It was all I could do not to snatch the phone off him and shout, ‘He said he loves you, you daft bint, so think yourself lucky and go and do something useful with your life before he decides he’s had enough of your stupidity’.

Unfortunately for this blog and my reader I didn’t do that but sat in saintly, matronly silence with the vague smile expected of old dears plastered round my gob … but I was wetting myself inside … if you know what I mean.

Now my regular reader will already know that I am not really a nice old dear so my reactions will come as no surprise to them … but if you are new to my posts, I apologise now for being a full-blooded viper in old dear’s clothing. And if you believe my apology you’ll believe anything.

But, even better than the unlooked-for entertainment was that my beloved had sold a painting so, as we only ever have one pot of dosh between us, that paid for the meal. Yay!

Just in case there is any outraged youth out there who wants to wade in with vitriolic comments I would just point out that if you are going to make love to someone on a mobile phone in public you really are fair game. The answer is please be more discreet and keep it all in private … or risk being a side-show. Your choice.

Oh, and the food was wonderful.

My website: angelajardine.com

Fairly sensible-ish stuff: angiejardine.hubpages.com

The Mince Pie Torpidity.

2013-01-05T16:59:00.001+00:00

http://www.flickr.com/photos/adactio/77636214/

Bleugh! I just cannot get going again! It’s already Jan 5th (which is thought to be the real Twelfth Night rather than the 6th so I have taken our Christmas decorations down) and I have not written anything even remotely intelligible ... and evidently I am not about to start with this post.

I think I’m suffering from a surfeit of mince pies which I’m quite worried might kill me … rather as ‘a surfeit of lampreys’ killed King Edward 1 in 1135.

Although as Edward died on December 1st I think it is rather more likely that he died of an attack of early mince pie eating. This seems a great deal more likely than dying of an over-indulgence of eels if you ask me. That does not bear thinking about.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/devcentre/339931492/

See what I mean? Mince pies or eels? Hmmm, think that’s a no brainer. Anyhoo, back to my gluttony and inevitable comeuppance.

As I must apparently have eaten every mince pie that was not nailed down over Saturnalia I am reaping what I have gorged. You’d think I would be able to walk it off, wouldn’t you? Well yes, you’d think…

But that isn’t going to happen either. One of my knees has gone on strike for some reason (never let it be said it is the extra weight?) so I am very lame and cannot manage my usual brisk-ish, daily-ish walk. Oh, the trials and tribulations of extremely late-late youth.

So, what is the answer? Who knows? Luckily for me open season on mince pies has now come to an end so hopefully the extra weight might dissipate allowing the knee to recover its fat bint carrying capabilities.

As to whether the cerebral fog that has descended on my brain will also clear is anyone’s guess. I suspect it won’t be anytime soon so bear with, bear with …

Now I just must go and lie down in a darkened room (sans mince pies) until I feel better. Please feel free to talk amongst yourselves.

angelajardine.com
angiejardine.hubpages.com

Merry Christmas!!

2012-12-22T13:35:00.000+00:00

Ah, so if you are here you have not been Apocalysed or Raptured or spirited away by aliens from Bugarach … and you are very definitely not on my website Sleeping with the cat … so you will not have picked up my Crimbo message.

In that case I would just like to wish you all

A very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year for 2013!

See you after Christmas, m’dears.

angelajardine.com

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Goodbye everyone! Oh, we’re still here then ...

2012-12-20T21:09:00.001+00:00

My study - hardly seems worth putting up the decorations really.

Just a brief notette to say if we all wake up in the morning and we aren’t here … have a Merry Christmas wherever you are!

With much love from Angie.

Update: 21/12/12: Er, okay then, it’s presently 8.43 GMT and we are still here. It’s a misty morning in downvillage Cornwall and a neighbour has gone out for his daily run, the cat has swiped the baubles off the Christmas tree and I’m writing this in my dressing gown (not sure that sounds right?).

So the Apocalypse has not bothered to pitch up just yet - I wonder which time zones it’s using? Probably EST rather than GMT. I know one thing … the prospect of being wiped out has sure brought the loonies out of the woodwork. Sorry, loonies.

My beloved has just popped off to make me a last coffee before the Apocalypse so I’ll check back with y'all later …

Update update: Right, it’s now 14.37 and we are all still here, I presume. I’ve enjoyed watching the ~~loonies~~ believers thus far. Mayan Indians with mobile phones, you couldn’t make it up … well, you could but …

Perhaps the Apocalypse is late?

angelajardine.com

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Uh-oh, it’s Armageddon day ...

2012-12-07T15:06:00.000+00:00

http://www.flickr.com/photos/georgio/1921763866/

Right, this is just a quick post as there are only 14 Armageddon-free days left and I need to do things.

Don’t ask me what things … just things. Although now I come to think of it … why? There’s no point in putting the cat out or writing a will if the Mayan’s are right. I suppose I could get my hair done and paint my toenails to go out in a blaze of glory.

Okay, hands up all of you who think I’m not taking all the Mayan end-of-the-world malarkey seriously. Well done, you would be right. Do I believe it? Do I 'eckers like …

They didn’t specify how it was all going to end, did they? They didn’t say only the good would be Raptured and the rest of us would be ruptured, did they? They didn’t say one of their fiery alien gods would blast us all to bits with a Flash Gordon-type blower-upper, did they? At least I don’t think they did.

Frankly I think it will all be a lot more subtle than that … and take a lot more time. So we could sort of prepare ourselves for it more.

The rise in sea level has now been quantified so I think, what with the sea rising thanks to the polar ice caps melting thanks to us being spoilt and self-centred, we could all find ourselves running out of land to stand on. Maybe have to stand on each others shoulders … I dunno.

Obviously the process will be a long drawn-out one although the global monetary meltdown might help thin us out a bit over this period, what with having to live in cardboard boxes and eat grubs and whatnot. I mean all it takes is the wrong grub (as in fat, white, wriggling thing).

Which reminds me ... Boris Johnson. Being on the side of the banksters he is inexplicably opposed to the rest of us lynching them for bringing the planet to its financial knees. (Is there such a thing as financial knees?) So let’s hope he gets his first. Unlikely I agree, such people are practised neck-steppers.

But all in all I do believe the outlook is hopeful. I know you are wondering how I arrived at that conclusion after the above doomy thought processes but I look at it like this.

By the time the planet is all water we will have built underwater cities in large plastic bubbles because the banksters will have been forced to lend to small businesses and the entrepreneurs, as usual, will see the way things are going and a new Steve Jobs will come forth and save us all by creating the necessary underwater refuges. Simples!

And all will be well ... just as long as we lock Boris and the Banksters out of our bubbles.

Update: I have been changing the title of this post as the days have passed in a sort of countdown mode and that’s why the title and content no longer may complete sense … just in case you were wondering.

angelajardine.com
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The Bad Press Revenge

2012-12-05T14:28:00.000+00:00

http://www.flickr.com/photos/wwarby/2989238425/ Ah, Nectar.

Call me naive … don’t worry, I’ve been called much worse … but I’ve been suckered in by an online deal.

Let me explain. I shop at Sainsbury’s supermarket. It’s not a snob thing. It’s just that it’s nearby so it's convenient, it has good quality food reasonably priced and … the ultimate persuader … it gives Nectar points. (For anyone who doesn’t know, these are a sort of loyalty point that you can collect whenever you shop there and, even better, also when you shop with a lot of other UK businesses so they soon add up).

With this form of saving I can usually pay for a weeks groceries with Nectar points alone a couple of times a year. Nectar, neat, n'est ce pas? Well, yes and no …

Now, I’m not usually one for spin-offs and add-ons being far too lazy (and it must be said, increasingly confused) to try and keep track of such things, but I was persuaded that I should join Nectardailydeals online. Why? Because I thought I might occasionally get something I needed a little cheaper. Duhhh! Stupid, huh?

Now the phrase that has been my mantra most of my life and has served me very well thus far ‘There is no such thing as a free lunch’ has come back to bite me on the bum.

I’m not asking for sympathy here … I’d settle for revenge.

Okay, so it went like this. I saw a Sonic Toothbrush Kit deal advertised on Nectardailydeals (showing the correct Nectar logo so I thought it was genuine) marked down from some extraordinary price to £8 (I know, I should’ve known).

As my present elderly electric toothbrush sounds as though it runs on diesel I thought a high speed sonic one would preserve my old pegs just that bit better. Wrong!

When the ’Sonic Toothbrush Kit' arrived it looked like a toy. It had all sorts of weird gadgets for scraping and poking and peering which I knew about when I ordered it but didn’t think I would use. I was right but for the wrong reason.

Not only were they surplus to my requirements, they were also flimsy and poorly made. Cheap and nasty is the correct phrase here but I could have lived with that … I would just have binned them anyway.

I was only interested in the toothbrush which was … words fail me ... but only momentarily. It looked like a large plastic biro which ran, handily I thought, on an AAA battery. Plus point: battery supplied.

Minus point: the bloody thing would not turn OFF once the battery was fitted. Nope, no matter how hard I pressed the on/off button. Picture me set on full SEETHE mode (despite being a placid sort of cove most of the time).

Right. Time to contact Nectardailydeals by email (and this is where you will appreciate the full beauty of this scam) for instructions on how to return said useless fecking item and obtain full refund and grovelling apologies.

I kept my email short and to the point … and even polite … despite wanting to rip their guts out through their nostrils at their perfidiousness. Over reaction? No, I don’t think so.

I composed my restrained and dignified email, pressed the send button … and guess what? Up pops a huge error message -

500 Internal Server Error

The server encountered an unexpected condition which prevented it from fulfilling the request. Please try again later.

I bet it has … and yes, despite trying many, many times later this message is still appearing. So this would appear to be their equivalent of the raised middle finger once they have your money for their crap goods.

Now it’s not the money that bothers me, after all it is only £8 but as us oldies are wont to say it’s the principle of the thing. But they’ll only pull this stunt once on me … and I will not be the only one. So, hardly a good sales ploy then.

And, cogitate on this, if this is the business model Brit firms are employing in their sales it’s no wonder this septic isle is fast sinking beneath the waves.

Yours in utter fecking despair … Angie

angelajardine.com
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The Sad Cake Solution.

2012-11-26T15:26:00.000+00:00

http://www.flickr.com/photos/notmyshoes/6753533911/

Being idle old bodies … i.e. retired … he who must be ~~endured~~ adored and I do have the time to spend supporting others in their endeavours … but if you read my last post you will know that I, quite often (quite often as in, most of the time) resent this bitterly.

However, just sometimes I heave my churlish body off to an occasional coffee morning in aid of some worthy cause or another … and even in some not-so-worthy causes … if cake is involved. This however does not always end well …

Baking, as many of us know, can be a temperamental art. So many things can affect outcomes adversely, such as whether the wind is in the west and how heavy your water is. Okay, so I lied … but only a little. Most home bakers know there are many things not shared with others in the dark art of baking. Secrets that can only be shared on one’s deathbed … and maybe not even then.

Some things, such as needing to get the ‘feel' of a new oven, are obvious but there are also other unseen factors such as the temperature of the eggs you are using, the correct depth of baking tins and any number of other imponderables before we get on to possibilities of over-beating mixtures and correctly judged consistencies.

In short the whole baking enterprise can be fraught with complexity and disastrous outcomes. I should know, I’ve been perfecting my cake making techniques for umpty-numpty years and know when something should be strangled at bake. As for my hard-won secrets, if I told you I’d have to kill you.

So now here’s the thing ... occasionally … i.e. when cake is involved … I can do philanthropic (hard to believe, I know) and I usually head straight for the cake stall at any function I have graced with my surly presence.

This has two side benefits for our household … we get the vital commodity of food (well, cake anyway) and I run out of money so am unable to buy used books, ornamental dust collectors, yet more plants for the garden or raffle tickets for facecloths, tins of ham or Englebert Humperdink CD’s.

But cake buying is as much an art as cake baking and what looks like an innocent Victoria sponge can turn out to be the cake from hell, which is just what happened on Saturday.

Attending a local craft fair to support … er, something worthy, I’m sure … I scrutinised all the cakes thoroughly. Cupcakes are not our thing (too much icing/frosting for us … yes, there is such a thing), the lemon drizzle looked too heavy, the old boy doesn’t like fruit cakes so I pointed to an innocuous-looking Victoria sponge and paid for it.

Mistake!!!! I should have picked it up first and then put it down again. I could tell my husband thought the same thing when I handed it to him. Our eyes met over the sponge cake and I read his mind. ‘Worthy'.

Worthy is our code word for something, usually artisan bread, that is heavy and is going to be like having a third job to eat. He put it in the boot of the car and the front wheel steering was light all the way home. It was the only thing that was light.

Bless him, not willing to be beaten by a mere cake, he stoically tried a small slice of it when we got home. But there was nothing mere about this cake, it had him rooted solidly to the sofa all afternoon.

Now, don’t tell the RSPB but I have been feeding it to the birds ever since ... obviously in small batches to avoid having birds lying about on their backs all over the garden waving their little feet despairingly in the air. Even the starlings, who usually hoover up everything that’s not nailed down, are looking gloomily at the bird table saying ‘Seriously?!’

Perhaps the solution to the whole thing is to eat less cake? Nah, surely that's not the answer?

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The Unavailability Contrivance.

2012-11-15T17:15:00.000+00:00

http://www.flickr.com/photos/31707807@N05/2968416147/

As you can see I obviously felt the need to burden you with yet another of my bucolic burblings from darkest Cornwall … sorry ‘bout that. Well … not really... I just have to get this off my, rather considerable these days, chest.

Y’know how it is when your mouth says ‘yes’ whilst your mind silently screams ’no’? When the vicar or the local Obergruppenfuhrer from the Women’s Institute calls round to rope you in to 'do things’? Well, I can inform you now that this only ever gets worse when you retire.

Retirement appears to be some sort of codeword for 'available for weddings and bar mitzvahs, setting out the tables in the Chapel for the coffee morning and selling tickets for the tombola’.

No-one ever seems to realise that this may be the only available time you have left to do the things you have always wanted to do, such as play the stock market with the loose change from down the back of the couch or start your own ebusiness in knitted goods or floral underpants.

It’s almost as if there is some sort of open season on pensioners and they are preyed upon, often by other pensioners in a sort of aged vampirism, who want you to live their dream rather than your own and try to hijack your free time to that end.

I used to be a soft touch … no, honestly… but recently a lot more mettle has entered my spine, mainly because I’ve realised time is galloping by with all the abandon of a politician at a free bar.

This realisation has driven me to the desperate measure of disappearing at the times I manage to spy that the hand knocking on the door belongs to the usual suspects. I simply become unavailable, an intimate of every thread on the back of the sofa. I have learnt to do shifty. I am now a black belt in shifty.

If cornered in the village street however the whole thing has the potential to turn rather more ugly but, thanks to years of politeness conditioning, I try to conceal any mutinous rage beneath a simple expression, which many would say comes suspiciously easy.

At such times it is only by keeping my humble dream of writing the best literary novel of the century (well, no one said our dreams had to be realistic) in the forefront of my mind that I can find the courage to, apparently regretfully, decline to help with fund-raising for the relief of crocodile wrestlers of the Upper Limpopo or the underprivileged of the local beard-knitters society.

Churlish? Maybe. Curmudgeonly? Hmmm, quite possibly. But in my defence … there are some village enterprises I do support and who do claim some of my valuable time.

Raffle ticket for the Wine Taster’s Liver Replacement Fund anyone?

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The Fried Breakfast Impenetrability

2012-11-08T17:19:00.001+00:00

http://www.flickr.com/photos/ian_munroe/4431053719/

And so it begins … the steady downward decline into all-out, raging senility. Farewell, my friend, my time for writing drivel may well be severely limited. (Ed: About time too).

It all began quite harmlessly with a loyalty voucher from our local garden centre. They send them out twice a year to us old gits who have nothing better to do but coo over the cotoneasters in their emporia.

As our garden centre is a feeding station for all us twittering types they tend to send out vouchers for a cheap carvery or a half-price full English (the thinking behind this being that food is all we have left in our lives at this age … can’t argue with their reasoning there.)

This has the advantage of luring us in to hopefully spend what is left of our vast baby-boomer pensions (hah!) on all sorts of the unrelated-to-garden tat they are peddling at this time of year. (Intensely annoying ho-hoing-every-time-you-pass-him Santa anyone?) You can practically hear my 'Bah, humbugs!’, can’t you?

Well today the garden centre got rather more than they bargained for, thanks to my outrageous mother of all senior moments which brought chaos and mayhem to the tills of the hot food serving area.

(I’m surprised I have the nerve to recount it here but luckily I know I’m safe as no-one reads these, my most earnest and important, outpourings).

However, be that as it may and other such inconsequentials, we each ordered our slightly less than full English (I hold there is no need for fried potatoes at breakfast) and the Beloved One went in search of a table near the swans (don’t ask) and away from the other, louder, members of our ilk.

I added a cup of tea and a cup of coffee to our order and went to pay. And that’s when dementia struck. Tricky blighter, dementia.

Two breakfasts with voucher came to £6 plus the addition for a tea and a coffee brought the total to £9.60. Simples, no? Well, yes if you’re playing with a full deck. I, apparently, was not … and probably never have been.

Well, after the fighting had died down and people had stopped tutting at me, rolling their eyes heavenwards and moving on to the next till as I looked blankly at the cashier whilst she patiently continued to explain the cost by making me stand beside her as she keyed the items in again, I worked out where I had gone wrong.

It seems that I must have programmed myself somehow to think that the voucher wiped out the cost of the breakfasts entirely and I was only expecting to pay for the drinks. I know! How insane! The worst of it was that I left the till still not understanding her explanation until I sat down and thought it through.

But what the worst worst was that I didn’t even have the grace to be thoroughly ashamed and covered in embarrassment at my inability to grasp the simple mathematics of it all. Nope, nary a blush passed my withered cheek.

So old age isn’t all bad then. I think I shall start wearing my bag lady cardigan and practise spitting in the street next.

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The Rotundity Reciprocation

2012-11-03T12:14:00.003+00:00

http://www.flickr.com/photos/mcohenchromiste/2744486861/
This, sadly, is not me and Squaddie … just in case you were wondering.

At the risk of grossing my reader out I just wanted to talk about ‘secks' in old age. The misspelling is intentional … it’s to fool Google, they’re a bit squeamish about such things … and, reluctantly thinking about it, who isn’t?

So, if you are at all of a nervous disposition, I advise you to step away from this blog immediately.

Me and my old man are knocking on a bit having reached late-middle-age (never let it be said that we are elderly) and we’re now at the stage of preferring a cup of tea and a cheese sandwich to doing ‘it’. This way we don’t have to acknowledge each other’s wobbly and/or droopy bits and extra-curricular adipose tissue.

This, I feel, is how it should be. It is a delicate and tactful solution and it saves a lot of angst. And as you know angst is to be avoided at all costs, as are arguments and unseemly titterings at one another’s expense … or should that be ‘expanse'.

However I suspect there may still be a lot of older folk out there who are still not this ~~resigned~~ sensible and who still feel they should ‘keep their end up’, if you see what I mean.

Now, I don’t want to prick their bubble but why, in the name of arse, would you feel the need to keep playing hide the sausage? At your age? Puleeeze! At this age the risks far outweigh any dubious, and all too fleeting, benefits.

Women, why would you want to go to all the trouble of pretending you’re Lolita when you’re sixty-five? With a face like a road map that’s just plain wrong … and skimpy nighties are no substitute for the good, solid warmth of peach-coloured Winceyette from chin to toe. I can see you nodding, ladies.

Let’s face it, at our age you may as well just blindfold your husband and give him a last cigarette, he’s probably only one orgasm away from keeling over anyhoo. Unless your plan is to collect on his life insurance.

And on this, of course, I could not possibly comment … which makes a change.

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The Apocalypse Factor.

2012-10-28T10:13:00.001+00:00

http://www.flickr.com/photos/cfunderburg/5275127625/

Gloom! What I want to know is what will I do for readers after the Winter Solstice on December 21st … and not because that’s the date of the end of the world according to those mischievous Mayans.

You think the wits are wandering again, don’t you? Even those of you who are used to my stream of consciousness blog burblings. To those doubters I say, ‘Keep up, keep up!’

Above is a photo of Stonehenge sans druids which, for the purposes of this blog, let’s say was taken at the Winter Solstice. Tenuous? Possibly. Whatever.

But to expand. My most widely read post is this one about the Mayan calendar presumably predicting the end of the world by stopping quite abruptly on the 21st December 2012.

This post far and away collects the greatest number of hits because, amazingly, people are still out there googling themselves silly in the privacy of their own homes looking for answers in case they’ve got to suddenly write a will. Oh no, that wouldn’t work … no one left to inherit. Durr!

This is despite the fact that unless you live down a hole somewhere and never come out everyone should know by now that the Mayan calendar only stops on the 21st December simply because they ran out of paper to write on … or stone … or whatever it was they worked it out on.

Frankly you must admit it was pretty good going to work it out this far considering they all popped their clogs over 700 years ago. They evidently didn’t see that coming, now did they?

Which begs the question that if they didn’t have the nous to see their own demise how come we have decided they could see ours. Obvious, no?

Although I will agree it seems a leetle spooky that they knew how to put the clarts up us all by ending it on our already significant Winter Solstice? Eerie or what?

Anyhoo, to recap … what am I going to do for readers after the 21st December when everyone stops googling for 'end of the world, mayan calendar’? Selfish, moi?

Perhaps I’ll just have to invent another Armageddon scenario … unless of course we’re all not here.

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The Wellie Boot Principle.

2012-10-16T14:51:00.003+01:00

Waiting to go … bless ‘em!

It has come to my attention that my blog is rather less than erudite, possibly even a bit parochial, when others are out there exposing conspiracy theories, the behind-the-scenes machinations of most politicians and the usual skulduggery of that perennial brotherhood of bastardy, the bankers. Or should that be ‘bonkers'?

For any of you who haven’t a clue what I’m on about I must tell you I have been reading the blog ‘The Slog’ and scaring myself to death. The Slog is by way of being the polar opposite of my blog and I thought I would drop in a plug for it as you might appreciate something a little more … er … highbrow (ish).

The Slog’s author conjures up posts that are often hilarious, in a behind the sofa scary, no shit! sort of way although I now see that I may well just have fallen on my sword in bringing you the above link. My computer has just started to do the weirdest things as I write … things it has never, ever done before and I fear I may have brought myself to the attention of the spooks, as we in the know call the spies who monitor well-known village anarchists like myself.

Here I feel I must warn 'those who watch us' that I have left a sealed envelope with my solicitor ... and the Chapel. To those who have just hacked into my computer, believe me, you don’t want those grandmas on your trail in the event of my suspicious demise; they torture with knitting needles and tales of bunions and bowels, hæmorrhoids, the malfunctioning of Stannah stairlifts and massive bosoms. Those girls will do you serious mischief I can assure you, so back off!

Anyhoo, as I am sure you have gathered by now, all this is by way of a massive deviation from my original idea for a post, which was to inform you of my firm belief in sartorial congruity. But that’s where stream of consciousness writing gets you, you never know what’s coming. Me even less than you … and I’m doing the writing.

What, you don’t know what sartorial congruity is? Well, it’s the novel idea that you dress according to the season. You know, coats when it’s cold, mankini when it’s hot, that sort of thing. And if you think that this would be obvious then you have never lived in Cornwall.

Here they wear shorts and flip-flops in winter in all but the deepest snow … usually to allow the flaunting of the tattoos on one’s calves. Those who do wimp out and wear a jumper for winter regard the first day of March as high summer and teeshirts and/or little strappy tops (… tattoos again) will be worn even if it is minus 5. Sartorial incongruity is de rigueur for our little Duchy.

Except for me (and I have Yorkshire blood so I’m bound to be an arse) and the ladies from the Chapel. I just love getting muffled up in winter and I especially love my wellies. (At f ….g last, I hear you moan).

I find there is nothing more absolutely liberating than going for a vigorous stomp about the lanes and byways in my wellies. I can put my feet where the heck I like and walk through every puddle and every pile of cow poo I like with impunity.

I can gaze about like any old careless loony and my feet will take care of themselves … in wellies. What utter bliss! So let’s hear it for sartorial congruity. Yay!!!!

And I bet you never saw that coming, did you spooks?

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The Missing Mouse Extrapolation

2012-10-10T12:46:00.002+01:00

Where’d he go? Where’d he go?

Our cat’s flipping useless. Okay, so he’s handy for scrumping and getting a cuddly fur fix … but I’ve got the old man for that too. (Hmm, on second thoughts probably not wise to have said that … it conjures up unpleasant images).

Whatever. So now it looks as though the old man is going to have to turn hunter as well. We have a mouse! In the house!

What I can’t understand is how I have got to numpty-nump years without having a mouse in my house before. This must surely be a record. Anyone?

I’m obviously not counting those mice and other small furry things in need of a good orthodontist that come into the house unwillingly here ... those that have strayed into The Toof’s mouth whilst he was lying asleep with his mouth open on the lawn. No, honest, that is only way he coulda caught them.

Well that doesn’t happen very often and I suspect it’s only when he is trying to make a point about the lack of fresh meat in his diet. Those mice I can capture and send on their merry way, which is not a euphemism for knocking them on the head. No, being Buddhist, they are released back into the wild … or at least into a heavily wooded hedge bottom when the cat’s not looking.

And how do they repay me? By clandestinely entering the kitchen (cue music to Mission Impossible) and taking up residence in the under sink cupboard so they can raid the cat’s biscuit pot in comfort! Who says mice have no sense of irony?

I must go into that cupboard soooo many times a day as it also has our lidded waste bin on the back of a door. That sure is one cocky little mouse. We haven’t actually seen him but he has left clues. Mouse, in the cupboard, with the candelabra.

It was only yesterday evening we noticed debris all over the floor of the cupboard. Mousier Mouse had removed the cork lid of the cat’s biscuit pot and tried it for flavour … and spat it out. There were bits of cork everywhere, he had obviously found it a little dry for his tastes. Good job he didn’t find my red wine, is all I can say, then there would have been hell on.

It was clear he was less than gruntled with this situation as he has also left a succinct opinion in excrement … or poo, if you prefer. I have no way of knowing what he thought of the cat’s biscuits. Probably hated them … they are pretty rank ... but felt obliged to take a stand against the oppressor (huh!) and stuff a few into his cheeks on principle.

Anyhoo, the upshot is that today the old man has gone in search of a mouse trap … so much for Buddhism in this household.

Wha ..? Did someone mention biscuits?

Update 11th Oct : C’est fini! Poor mouse has now gone to that great creamery in the sky. I do hope he hadn’t been anyone I knew :(

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The Septic Tank Determination.

2012-10-01T15:56:00.001+01:00

The bug in the bog … we are not alone.

It’s not easy … living with a septic tank. Or cesspit as I have been known to call it in my more senior, senior moments which are now coming fast and very thick.

As this last conjures up pictures of something out of Dickens at best or Hammer Horror movies at worst it is a term I try desperately not to use.

But let me start at the beginning and we will see whether I am going anywhere with this thread ... your guess is as good as mine these days.

One morning as I was religiously ingesting my disgustingly wholesome home-made muesli whilst secretly lusting after Weetybangs my beloved stumbled downstairs (this is not hard in our cottage, the staircase has only nine, very steep, wooden treads and has obviously been engineered for stumblability … so definitely no chance of a Thora Hird stairlift complete with mauve hairnet here then).

I glanced fleetingly at his ashen face (we only ever glance fleetingly at each other these days … it’s safest and saves a lot of rows and accusations) and wondered what had got into the old coot. But then he pensioner-handled me out of the back door and out into what was passing for sunlight at the time.

'We are not alone', he hissed into my ear, furtively eyeing the hedge and the rather wooden looking pigeon that appeared to be keeping a watching brief on the garden … or us.

‘Wha …?’ I sprayed through my muesli, pebble-dashing him in golden linseeds and other goodies.

‘Look, just tell me what you’ve done this time. Who have you insulted? Which country are you trying to bring down now?’

I tried to look innocent which is not easy for me … well ... well nigh impossible really. I seem to have a shifty cast to my eyes these days. I blame old age … and piles. (Hæmorrhoids to use their proper English technical term - note the fancy thingy I did with the a and e? Hemorrhoids for my American reader).

Anyhoo, as I was obviously completely out of the loop and my muesli was starting to congeal awkwardly he explained that he had gone into the bathroom for his usual despicable constitutional commune with the porcelain and noted that we had been bugged! There was a listening device in the loo! They were very definitely onto us … whoever they were.

At this point the muesli was beginning to be a serious health hazard to my epiglottis and various other regions so I decided against spinning him a yarn about the Russian mafia trying for a take-over of our village marrow-growing concession and the protection racket I had going on with the Chapel.

And it did seem somehow churlish to point out that anyone listening in to our household via the bog would get an earful they would never forget.

But, sadly, as the breeze was shooting up my nightie and threatening to freeze my assets (yeah, right) I decided it would be better just to own up and tell him it was an eco-friendly gadget for keeping the lav fresh.

Evidently the water from the flush running over the stainless steel eliminates odours (if you get my drift), it lasts a lifetime and is much safer than the constant use of dodgy chemicals. Simples!

And this is where the septic tank comes in (finally, you groan). Many chemicals are just complete no-noes with a septic tank … they interfere with the little critters that munch through all the ... er … waste. (Hmm, how I wish I hadn’t said that).

So, to protect them whilst they are doing their … good work … it is better just to have only gentle, natural substances as cleaning agents … and to do away with anything that is not absolutely necessary, like blue water and lemon scented pong maskers.

Ah well, you can’t have everything and we do only pay a fraction of what other people pay the water companies because of all those jolly little varmints who deal with our … oh, enough already!

Going off piste for a moment ... have y'all had a look at my more formal(-ish) maunderings on the link below and if not, why not? Answers on the back of a postage stamp please.

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The spousal polarity syndrome.

2012-09-18T17:37:00.002+01:00

http://www.flickr.com/photos/dok1/2172722497/
Right …

http://www.flickr.com/photos/russelljsmith/349079318/
Wrong … this is cheating and frowned upon by basal ganglia.

I was going to exercise my basal ganglia … no, not by training them up a pea stick (I really must stop it with the gardening analogies) but by giving them a workout going for a kindling walk. (It must be said here I’ve read up on them, basal ganglia that is, and I still don’t really know what they are ... but I know they like exercise.)

However I’m not one to let reality get in the way of lunacy ...

Now, for those of you who don’t know … and why the hell should you … a kindling walk is where you walk the lanes round the village saving a few bob by picking up the dry and manky wood in the hedge bottom to start the fires with.

This is all very laudable, I’m sure you are saying, but what about the creepy creatures who need this stuff as a home? Sod ‘em, I say, only the dottiest of TV wildlife presenters can like these guys.

I mean have you ever seen them close up … yeugh! They have faces only a mother could love … a mother creepy, that is, not one of those white-haired, cherry-cheeked, wrinkly old-dear things.

Anyhoo, where was I going with all this? Oh, yes … a walk.

Well, having put my snout out of the door and divined that the wind was most definitely in the north-west and I would need to root out my thermals I decided the ganglias would just have to lie idle. Frankly, I think they were rather relieved.

So I fell to pondering instead, as you do.

My old man, he who must be ~~endured~~, sorry I meant adored, is snug in his ivory tower. Well, not so much an ivory tower really as a hut at the end of the garden which we grandly call ‘the studio’. I am not quite so snugly ensconced (due to the lack of kindling for the fire) in my study.

What a wonderful arrangement this is! No … honestly … no sarcasm intended. It really is the perfect solution to long-distance marriage.

We meet up for lunch and discuss our ‘work’ then return to our sanctuaries until it’s time for dinner. With the occasional day out to renew our acquaintanceship it works like a dream.

Because, after a time, doesn’t all marriage just become 'friends with benefits’? The woman gets someone who can open jars and the bloke gets sex, if he is a cad and hasn’t had the decency to give it up.

But let’s face it, until middle-aged women give up the whole slavish idea of having to stay eternally young on HRT for fear of their men straying, men will take everything that is offered. (And you thought I was a romantic … well, I was once, a very long time ago).

Y’see, here’s the thing that gets me. (I expect you feel a rant coming on? Too true!) Why should women poison their bodies with extra doses of hormones they no longer need and that really should not be there?

They only do it because they have been persuaded by the media (mainly run by men) that they need to appear attractive and available forever. They have been brainwashed into believing their only worth is in their looks.

And why do they fall for it? Is it because they still love the balding Adonis who shares their bed (okay, now that was sarcasm) or because they know they could possibly be traded in for younger models with go-faster lines at any time. Age is a woman’s in-built vulnerability.

And what do these women get in return for opening themselves to possible illness ... besides a jar opener, that is? Beats me …

(with sincere apologies to my own balding Adonis who would never trade me in as I know where the knives are kept).

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In recovery from the dark art of growing veg.

2012-09-16T12:23:00.000+01:00

Before ...

Look, I know you’re sick of me banging on about growing veg but try and remember what I have endured in the name of self-sufficiency and cut me a little slack here.

You will no doubt be most relieved to know that I am cured. Yes, I’m in recovery … I’ve learnt my lesson. No ... truly!

So, no more interminable weeding, no more flying lessons for snails, no more slimy slug hunting, no more pulling up a carrot only to find some sneaky little sucker has already munched great chunks out of it.

It wasn’t even as if ‘growing our own’ saved us the money it was intended to. After buying seeds, seedlings, organic fertiliser and the chiropractor’s fees we were well out of pocket.

Growing veg is a mug’s game ... worse than … worse than … the torment of massed ukuleles (trust me, I’ve been there).

Growing veg is more insane than a footballer’s WTF hair.

But that’s it now. Finished … fini … finito … terminado … färdig …

This is the very last epistle you will have to suffer on the subject.

The veg patch in now a tame lawn thanks to the instant gratification of turf … and, even better, it’s my old man who has to cut it. Yay! Who says there is no God?

Now, pass the Pimms and just move that sunshade a tad please.

After …

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The writing lark uncertainty.

2012-08-21T11:51:00.000+01:00

http://www.flickr.com/photos/neilconway/3660731052/

Ha! So you thought I had died off, eh? Long time, no write. Well, you don't get away that lightly, I'm afraid.

The reason for the reassuring silence was not just to lull you into a false sense of security but also because Squaddie and I have painted the whole of the downstairs of Michaelmas Cottage just before the Michaelmas Daisies come out in the garden. Neat, huh?

You may wonder why I'm telling you this (in fact I wonder myself) but it has been no mean feat as the walls were bare stone and the ceilings are beamed and I need to crow about it.

Painting all of that a soft white has been just as fiddly as painting the Sistine Chapel ... but without the creativity and the naked seraphim. Well, I did take my top off when I got hot but that really doesn't count ... no, really, I assure you.

So, where was I? Ah, yes, writing.

I get tetchy when I don't write ... there are some, not a million miles away from here, who would say I'm always tetchy ... but that's a load of b ... alderdash. So, I'm rather like a shark. Not that they write, of course ... well, not as far as we know anyhoo.

Just as a shark has to keep swimming to survive (not sure that's true of all sharks ... it's a complicated subject) I have to keep writing so that I don't turn into a rabid monster. (Don't!!)

So, having finished my personal magnum opus, The Catalyst, (Ta-da! available as an ebook on amazon.com here or amazon.co.uk here ) I am rather at a loose end, writing wise.

So I'm casting about for ideas for my next book; having had a bit of a soap opera life there must be something I can dredge up. Or perhaps someone out there has a few ideas? Be warned, asking me to cease, desist and step away from the laptop does not count as a good idea.

Anyways, as you have probably gathered by the stream of consciousness drivel that I am passing off as my latest post, I am easing myself back into a regular stream of consciousness drivel writing.

Sorry about that.

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The Codpiece Connection.

2012-07-13T11:53:00.002+01:00

http://www.flickr.com/photos/joannadr/3736941802/

Say what you like about a play by Shakespeare, it’s always good for codpieces and bosoms. Not that I’m watching out for these especially (she says, blushing).

I’ve been watching Shakespeare on the telly. Yes, I know ... me! Hardly seems likely does it? But y’see, here’s the thing ... it is done sooo much better nowadays, especially on T.V.

I like a bit of history too, especially if it's spiced up a bit and doesn’t follow all the facts too strictly. I like the 'reading between the lines' versions best. So, Enter Stage Left: William Shakespeare.

Bless him, he had to tread a fine line with his history plays, particularly the ones I’ve been watching. If he had got it wrong with Richard Ⅱ, Henry Ⅳ (Parts 1 & 2) and Henry Ⅴ he could have seriously got up Queen Elizabeth Ⅰ’s nose and she would have had his dangly bits for a necklace and earrings. Truly.

But you see he wasn’t an outright groveller and arch sucker-upper either ... so what to do? Make them all ambiguous-ish and then anyone can read what they like into them. Result!

Okay, so the language is funny and often incomprehensible but that’s where today’s T.V. productions score.

So, if you think Shakespeare was all speaking loudly and waving your arms about like a plonker whilst spouting what amounted to almost a foreign language, you would be wrong. Once upon a time this is what actors did ... but not any more.

I have just watched the amazing Ben Wishaw as the fey, sexually-ambiguous, doomed Richard Ⅱ and the wonderful Jeremy Irons as the disillusioned Henry Ⅳ, the haunted killer of Richard Ⅱ. Every subtle nuance of speech, every fleeting expression is captured by the camera so they don’t need to declaim and speechify.

Rivetting stuff and guess what? It’s comic and tragic, romantic and stirring ... and above all ... understandable! Trust me, I’m more eyebrow than highbrow but even I understood it and felt totally connected with it.

If the scabby, illiterate, flea-bitten plebs in the pit at the Globe could understand what was going on and we, the superior beings of today, usually can’t be arsed unless it is presented as a soap opera using words of half a syllable and lots of shouting, what do you think it says about us? Hmm, best not to go there, as they say.

Oops, the Cornish monsoon has finished and the sun has just put in an appearance, gotta go or I’ll miss it. ’Til next time ...

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The Mistaken Identity Perplexity.

2012-06-22T21:26:00.000+01:00

The real Squaddie .... in past life persona.
Source: Angie

I don’t why it is that he who must be endured ... sorry, I meant adored (of course, I did) ... always attracts the loony emails.

My Mac is a bit of a Rottweiler in that respect and thinks that spam enters my inbox only over its dead battery but Squaddie’s Mac lets any old stuff over its threshold. This isn’t all bad though and some of it is even quite interesting. In fact we are presently awaiting our payment for helping a member of the Nigerian Royal Family move a large sum of money.

Well, anyhoo, Squaddie gets lots of people interested in his website ... he’s an artist and its amazing how many people want to help him sell his paintings. Sadly, rather fewer of them want to buy them but that’s their loss, they’ll be worth a fortune when he’s dead ... and he’s got both ears.

So yesterday he got this email asking him if he could attend a two day conference in Johannesburg, South Africa and give a presentation on some topic relevant to Promoting Infrastructure Development in Africa. I think he was very flattered to be asked but neither of us even understood the title of the conference never mind being able to talk about anything to do with it.

Y’see that’s that trouble with having the same name as the CEO of a large, important and powerful African company. The gentleman in question is undoubtedly very important and influential ... he is also very black ... and my husband ... isn’t.

On reflection we decided that Squaddie would be instantly rumbled so he had to email back and reluctantly decline to speak at the conference. Although he did remind me that he had one thing in common with such an important black man.

How he knew what size shoes he took I’ll never know.

Thought for the day: If a man says something whilst his wife isn’t there ... is he still wrong?

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The Black Ops Debacle

2012-06-12T16:38:00.000+01:00

Source: Angie

Good afternoon, I am writing this post from the Adirondacks.

No, not the mountain range in the north-east of New York State but the rather super garden recliners I bought off the net. They are extremely comfortable and they need to be. You know that recent bout of Legionnaire’s Disease I had? Well, it has come back with a vengeance and I am now laid low again so, as the sun has decided to pitch up for a while, I have decided to skulk about in the garden. The Adirondacks are helping me with this important task.

I blame my relapse on the slugs. Obviously.

It all started with my posh lettuces ... sorry, salad leaves ... as we are now to call them, apparently. Having noticed that many of them had taken on a rather fetching lacy look, I became alarmed. Underwear is lacy, lett ... salad leaves ... are not.

It was obviously the foul work of the slime brigade. Sure enough, the slippery little suckers had left me a tempting trail to follow but I was too cunning for them. It was obviously a trap and I knew that had I followed it they would have sprung out on me and overpowered me with secretions. I’m not big on secretions as a general rule of thumb, well, not as a general rule of fingers or any other sort of digit either if it comes to it.

The quandary was what was I going to do if I wasn’t going to beard them in their den, as it were. I was not about to 'moustache them in their den’ or even ‘nose hair them in their den’ either. So if I didn’t feel up to following them to their lair and I wasn’t going to pollute my organic garden with those blue pellety things that leaves the ground looking like gastropod armageddon, what was I going to do?

(Of course when you think of slugs as gastropods you can see why they would be tempted by my exotic salad leaves rather than a boring old lettuce. Perhaps they should be more correctly be called gourmapods? But I must not let my mind wander, it’s too small to be out on its own). Where was I? No, really, where was I? (Ed: in the garden, you dozy old bat). Ah yes. thank you.

Knowing well the nocturnal eating habits of these dastardly molluscs I took refuge in the old black ops trick of the night time raid. Luckily as my destination was only the back garden I was able to dispense with the black helicopters which, on balance, I felt would have made it prohibitively expensive. The neighbours might have had a thing or two to say about them too.

Having dressed in black I was a bit stymied to find we didn’t possess a black balaclava which seemed a bit remiss to me but I improvised with a black beanie hat to cover my somewhat glow-in-the-dark hair and daubed a few tentative muddy streaks on my face. I’m not a great lover of mud but if the moon had reflected off my moonface it would have been curtains ... or at the very least those frilly, Austrian blind thingys.

Anyhoo ... long story short ... slugs and snails nil, me, a bucket full. That’ll teach them to have midnight feasts in the dorm at my expense. And, before you get the RSPCA out to me, I didn’t kill them, I just took them for a walk down to the fields and dumped them far enough away so that the snails didn’t home. They do that you know. Bizarre!

All was well until I got back to my front door and found that the latch was down. I was locked out and the old man was watching an impossibly loud and excessively stupid bloke movie with lots of explosions and car chases. I was very cold and very cross when I finally got in. So then the knives, metaphorically speaking, were out for my husband as well as the molluscs.

And that is never a good thing ... for him.

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