FACING 50 WITH HUMOUR

'Reach out and touch somebody's hand...'

2012-03-07T10:04:00.000Z

Today's brief post is for all of you who come and read my blog. It is for all of you who have shown me endless support and enthusiasm. For those who chat to me on Twitter and Facebook. It is for all of you who spend hours typing posts about your own family, hobbies, experiences and your thoughts and then share them with us. It is for all of you who support each other, who leave messages and comments on each others' blogs and here at mine. It is just, in brief...'Thank you'.
Sadly, I need to take a little time away from my blog. I can't keep up with all the posts, articles, features and other commitments I have and do justice to this blog. I shall be off until the end of March but then...I shall be back!
Until then, this song is for you all. It says more than I can.

'Always look on the bright side of life...'

2012-03-04T16:09:00.000Z

It seems that no sooner do I get up in the morning than it is time to go to bed again. My days are speeding past with an alacrity that quite frankly, I find alarming. The reason they are zooming past seems to be due to the fact that I spend at least sixteen hours a day typing articles for websites, magazines and newspapers, doing interviews and of course attempting to complete the next novel. So, today's post is something a little different from me.
Tomorrow, I am again appearing in the States on Star Radio 100.7. I am not talking about my book this time but a subject that is closely related to it and one that I think you will all find appropriate: Irritable Male Syndrome - or How to Deal With Grumpy Old Men! Those of you who have read Mini Skirts and Laughter Lines or indeed this blog will be able to identify with Phil or Hubby - we all seem to have a Grumpy Old Man to live with.
Should you not be able to tune in tomorrow morning then here is an example of what I'll be talking about. Please add your own comments and findings as appropriate beneath - I might feel the urge to 'steal' them for use in my next book.

Irritable Male Syndrome or How to Deal With Grumpy Old Men!

I discovered anarticle recently called Howto Deal with Grumpy Old Men which left me flabbergasted. The author gavesome suggestions that may help everyone cope with their irritable old chap.One of those was to give him aback rub. I had to laugh. I have spent the last few years dealing with thegrumpiest of men. He is worse than the television character Victor Meldrew in‘One Foot in the Grave’. He complains about everything possible.

Ihave tried every trick in the book and quite frankly nothing works. If the oldbugger is going to have a grumpy day or week then that is what he’ll have. The author of the above article also suggested repeating the mantra 'hehelped me so now it is my turn'. Snort! Just how has he helped me? If I’mhaving a bad day he hides.

There were other suggestions for partners which would help them through the day withthe grumpy fellow. Ladies, don’t waste your energy. Trust me, when a mansuffers from this syndrome, he won’t let you near him to rub his back or anything else for that matter. InHubby’s case a slice of cake is the best solution, however even that doesn’talways work.

One cause of grumpiness thearticle mentioned was declining testosterone levels known as the Male Menopauseor andropause. I had heard of the Male Menopause but I had never thoughtabout the connection between what I experience with my own personal grumpy oldman and the syndrome caused by declines in males hormones.

I looked into it further anddiscovered that in fact I should maybe stop being cross about his attitude andbecome more understanding. After all, I know all about the female menopause andits horrible side effects. Hormones are currently the bane of my life. I shouldpay more attention to the male side of getting older.

It gave me food for thought. Whatif a ‘Grumpy’ was not merely a grouch but was actually suffering from decreasedhormones and the mental side effects the decrease causes? What about if therewas a treatment for it? Would men actually seek help?

I brought the subject up withmy Mr Grumpy, only to be shot down in flames. He refused to acknowledge thatthere was a medical reason for his lack of enthusiasm for life. As forconsidering any treatment for the condition well, in his opinion, going to thedoctor is just not manly. Asking for help with male hormones is completelytaboo. He complained about doctors for a full hour following the conversation.

Men need to recognise and dealwith their problem in a responsible way just as women deal with menopause. Iknow why I am bursting into tears every ten minutes and why I want to rip Hubby’shead off for no good reason, but I do what I can to remain a functioning humanbeing. I stay out of the way when I feel I am going under. I take supplementsand try relaxation techniques. I use aromatic oils to produce positive energyand above all I laugh at life. Men also need to recognise and address theissue.

I don’t want to be the bearerof bad news but I also have a word of caution. According to Aging in Place, many men becomevictims of death by their own hand as a result of this syndrome. For many men retirement too can lead to a loss of identity. If you add tothis dropping hormone levels and a society that does not recognise malemenopause you have a potentially worrying situation.

The solution? Well, the onlyone I can come up with and seems to assist my own personal ‘Grumpy’ islaughter. An article in LAFitness seemed to corroborate my ownfindings. It suggested that laughing ‘promotes good health’ but at the sametime it also pointed out ‘researchers have found that grumpy old men (andwomen) tend to outlive their happier peers.’

All of that leaves me in aquandary. Maybe I should just leave him to be a miserable sod, after all hecould live to be a grand old age. Yet, because I am who I am, I try to be ascheerful as possible when Mr Grumpy is having a down day. If I am lucky he willcome through it and return to normal in a short period. Keeping your ownspirits up is fundamental to the whole affair. If you can stay positive itmight well have a positive effect on your GOM. However, I can’t promiseanything, but I am going to cook the dinner wearing a red clown’s nose tonightto see if it works.

'That's what friends are for...'

2012-03-01T09:45:00.003Z

Melynda posing for
the mini skirts
competition

You may recall a few posts ago I mentioned a wonderful blogger and eternally optimist friend of ours called Melynda aka Craziness Abounds who writes a chirpy, witty blog Crazy World. Some of you may remember her in the mini skirts competition I held at my blog last year, along with her husband Phil, who showed off his legs for us and pouted so beautifully. (Yes, I thought you'd remember him!)
I, along with many others, was horrified to learn that she was losing her sight. She has undergone treatment and tortures that quite honestly make me quiver in fear, to hang on to her remaining failing eyesight, and yet her spirit is as determined and as bright as ever. She has managed to keep up some entries and with help from friends she has had our posts read to her so she can remain part of the blogging community.
In the true spirit of 'blogland' some of her dearest friends: Elisa, Joshua and the fantastic fishducky have cleverly, yet unbeknown to her, have put together and published a book of her best blog posts. You can bet this will be a massive surprise for her when she finds out.
If you would like to read the post about what we are all trying to do for Melynda then please click here.
All the proceeds of the sale will be sent to Melynda so she can have treatment and hopefully get some help to allow her to continue enjoying life.
So, today I am posting links to the book, as many others in 'blogworld' have, and ask that you join me in purchasing it. We will all have done our little bit to show Melynda that she is loved and appreciated by us all.
'After all, that's what friends are for...'

http://www.amazon.com/Just-Nonsense-1-Melynda-Fleury/dp/1466381434/ref=sr_1_9?ie=UTF8&qid=1330536471&sr=8-9
http://www.amazon.com/Just-Nonsense-January-March-ebook/dp/B007EHO0B2/ref=sr_1_4?ie=UTF8&qid=1330536471&sr=8-4
http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/137018

'Smokin' in the Boy's Room...'

2012-02-25T14:34:00.000Z

Iknew she was up to something again when she phoned last Sunday. We speak everyweekend and this weekend she answered with one of those voices that suggestedshe knew something I didn’t. I could hear the smugness in her tone.

Whoam I talking about? Why, my mother, of course. My party-loving, chain smoking,wine drinking, mischievous mother.

‘Hello,’she said, cigarette clearly in her mouth. ‘How are you?’

Well,that’s odd to begin with. She sounded like she was talking to the postman. Icould hear soft giggles in the background.

‘Fine.What are you up to?’ See, I am a naturally suspicious daughter.

‘Me?Nothing. Why would I be up to anything?’

Theway she said it suggested that she certainly was up to something. There wasmore muffled giggling in the background.

‘Doyou want to guess who is here?’ She asked.

Great!She knows a million people. How am I supposed to guess who has decided to visither?

‘Yourneighbour, Pat?’

‘No.’

‘AuntieBessy.’

‘No,I haven’t seen her for years. Why would she be here?’

‘Afriend from Cyprus?’

‘Don’tbe silly. They are all in Cyprus enjoying the sun which is where I shall begoing soon. I’ve had enough of this never-ending winter.’

'Lady Gaga?'

'Oh, be serious!'

‘Mum,I have no idea who is there. How could I know?’

Moregiggles and a deep guffaw that I instantly recognised.

‘Okay- you’ve got my son there and his girlfriend, haven’t you?’

‘Ohblast! You got it.’

‘Whatare they doing there? Isn’t he supposed to be at home with his dogs? Oh no, hehasn’t brought the dogs down has he?’

Ihad visions of Son, Girlfriend and two large Labradors packed into a tiny CitroenC1 travelling the two hundred miles to visit my mother.

‘Now,you’re being ridiculous. Where would I put two dogs in this house? No, they arewith her parents.’

‘So,why is he there? He isn’t after money, is he?’

‘Don’tbe awful, he wouldn’t do that.’

Ithought for a moment. Yes, he would.

‘Okay,he has run out of food again,’ I suggested knowing that this is the only reasonhe visits me.

‘Ye,of little faith. He has come to see his favourite grandmother,’ she repliedinhaling deeply and coughing at length.

‘Don’tfeed him too much, Mum. He has been on a diet all year and is doing reallywell,’ I said, knowing that my mother insists on feeding you from the momentyou arrive to the moment you leave. She will force you to eat everything shehas prepared and believe me; she will have prepared enough food to feed afamily of twelve for a fortnight. Seriously, she does not know when to stop. Lasttime Hubby and I visited we had not walked through the door before she hadhanded over a can of lager to him and a plate of sausage rolls, sandwiches anda banana. It was 9.30am!

‘Well,he looks like he needs to be fattened up a little to me. He’s far too thin.’

Evidently she had stocked all the cupboards and fridges for his arrival. PoorSon! He has been trying so hard since January 1^st. He cut outalcohol and gave up his favourite junk like food. I have been proud of hisefforts. A weekend with my boozing, chain-smoking mother would put paid to anyhealth benefits he had gained over the last few weeks.

Shewas distracted for a moment as she attempted to light another cigarette. Iheard her mumbled voice asking someone for a refill – Great, she was on thewine too, which could only mean Son would be pretty pickled too.

Anyway,we had a short chat as she wanted to get back to entertaining her visitors. It’sno wonder she loves them visiting. She is like a teenager herself at times. Icould imagine them all sitting round drinking and smoking. She loves being withparty-animal Son because they can all act the same age, smoke, drink stay upall night and have a laugh at me ‘the mother’ who has become a completeparty-pooper. I sometimes feel I am the only responsible one about. My motherbrings that out in me. When does that happen? One minute you are the teenagerwho stays up late, gets up late, enjoys all the vices and irritates yourparents with your behaviour, and then suddenly, you become the responsible onewho is critical of your own parents’ behaviour.

Iheard no more for a couple of days and then a flurry of texts from my motherannouncing that ‘the kids’ were departing and what a fabulous time they had allhad. She had managed to not only fill him up with alcohol and fags while he hadbeen staying with her but had sent them back with sufficient food and drink fora couple of months. She was obviously delighted about the visit and to be fair,she doesn’t see too many people when she is in the UK. I just hoped that Sonhadn’t put back on the couple of stone he had lost and he still had functioninglungs and liver.

Acouple of days ago he phoned me up.

‘Ah,hello dear chap. How was your trip to Grandma’s then? Did you enjoy it as muchas she did?’

‘She’sa case, isn’t she?’ he groaned. ‘Neither of us could move; we were so full. Itgot so bad that I couldn’t eat and drink so I just had the food. I’ve beeneating apples since I got back. I don’t want to see another piece of steak or agiant sausage roll for at least a month.’

‘Youshould know better. You know what she is like.’

‘Yes,but she is good fun too and although I wanted to see her, I also had anulterior motive for visiting her,’ replied Son.

Myheart sank. What was it he needed from my mother that he couldn’t ask us for?

‘Sincewe got the dogs I have been getting much fitter and as you know, I’ve lost someweight. Well, I feel much better about myself. There was still one habit Icouldn’t crack though – smoking. A weekend in Grandma’s house with non-stopfags has done the trick. It was like smoking a year’s supply in three days. Icame back, tossed my cigarettes in the bin and bought an electric cigarette. Itjust glows and doesn’t have any harmful stuff in it. I don’t need fags anymore. I knew she would be able to cure me.’

So,it looks like I owe my mother a debt of gratitude. Wittingly or unwittingly,she has succeeded in curing Son of his one remaining vice and as I type this hehas not had a cigarette for six days. Fingers crossed he can hold out. If not –we all know someone who can help cure him.

'Video killed the radio star...'

2012-02-20T10:00:00.001Z

Please indulge me. I have been so busy that I haven't posted for a week. I have written a post which I shall put it up soon but today I wanted to share my good fortune with you, especially those of you who are my American friends.
I have managed to wangle a few interviews on various radio stations in the States. They are going to phone my 'cell' phone (see - I have picked up the right lingo in preparation for the event) which is great news, except high on this hill, in the middle of nowhere we periodically drop the signal. Fingers crossed that the wind is blowing in the right direction today.
There are also couple of TV stations who want to interview me (Yes, I have hit the big time) but I need to see about that because it would obviously require me flying over and what a great excuse that would be to meet some of you there.
I am working diligently on Surfing in Stilettos and have a deadline of February 29th to meet so now I have explained would you please forgive my lack of internet presence at the moment?
Should you wish to tune in to the radio stations this week I have put up links for you and times when I shall be appearing live on air, all the way from Old Blighty. You could even phone in and say hello to me. Of course, all of this depends on my telephone signal. If it fails I shall have to get that flight over the Pond and get my face on TV. We'll have to see how it goes.
I used to love television but with all the rubbish and all the repeat shows that are on I have found myself listening to radio more and more often. All of which leads me onto a question. TV or Radio? Which do you prefer for entertainment purposes?

Today, Monday 20th I am on Sunrise Seattle on 570 KVI at 9am PST/5pm UK with Mark Christopher and Elisa Jaffe

Wednesday 22nd I shall be on Clearchannel Radio WHAS-AM 840 (Louisville, Kentucky) Noon ET?5pm UK

Friday I am LIVE on the Morning Show at KCAA (California) 9.10am PST/ 5:10pm UK

'Que sera, sera...'

2012-02-14T16:04:00.001Z

Somedays you just know you are getting older, regardless of the efforts you make. Iwas reminded of the fact that I am no longer twenty, even though my mind thinksit is, this weekend when I mistakenly put body lotion on my hair instead ofconditioner. It took an entire day for me to work out why my hair was lank andgreasy even though I had washed it. Of course it was Hubby who pointed out thatI had used the body lotion which I had also left on the side of the bath andwhich made him chortle like crazy.

Mymother has been doing things like that for years. She has used fly spray on herair instead of hair lacquer and rubber solution on her curtains instead offabric freshener. She guffaws each time she makes an error, laughing that atleast her failing eyesight is preventing her from actually seeing what she isturning into. I have to agree with that sentiment. She seems to breeze through everything that life throws at her.

Thisweekend she was in unusually high spirits and delighted in my tale about thehair conditioner. She couldn’t wait to tell me about her week. The highlightwas Saturday when she decided to go to town to buy some hair dye. She’s beendyeing her hair for decades unassisted. Depending on the light in the shop andhow bad her eyes are on the day she may be a blonde, caramel or even red head.Generally, she takes down the first box of dye she sees and has a go with it. Herphilosophy is that at least it’s something to look forward to – a nice surpriseif she has chosen the right colour, or something daring and different if shehas, by chance picked up ‘electric blue’ or similar.

Shebegan to regale me with the latest episode in her life:

‘Ihad just closed the back door when I remembered I hadn’t got my library bookthat I needed to return. I went to retrieve the key from my handbag but it wasn’tthere! I tipped the contents of my bag out and searched through them: librarycard, phone, indigestion tablets, purse, bus pass, diary, an old birthday cardthat you sent me which I carry around because it makes me smile, photos of the ‘kids’(Son and Girlfriend) but blow me over, no key. I had rushed out to catch thebus, somehow left the key inside the house and pulled the door to withoutthinking.’ (The door locks automatically when you shut it)

‘Didyou get a locksmith to break open the door?’

‘Ah,no, I wasn’t going to ruin a perfectly good lock. Besides, they charge afortune. No, luckily the little window to the left of the door was fractionallyajar. I tried to get my hand in to reach the back door lock and release it butmy little arms couldn’t reach so I used my initiative. I went around the neighboursto find a small child who could crawl through the window and open the door. Youmanaged it years ago when you were a teenager and you weren’t that tiny!’ sheadded.

Shewas right. I had, in fact broken into the house having left my own keys behind in 1977.It had taken me a while, but in those days I was pretty flexible. Both myparents had marvelled at how I had got in and used that knowledge to ensure thewindow was always locked in future when we went out in case burglars got in. Mymother had evidently gone back to the old ways and left it open.

Thefirst two neighbours were horrified that I wanted to use their precious children.You’d have thought I’d asked if I could borrow one to shove up my chimney.Anyway, the third house understood my plight and lent me Toby. He’s about eight years old andjust the right size. His dad came too. Well, they don’t make children like theyused to. He snivelled and trembled and said he didn’t want to do it. Not evenfor £5.00! His father had to take him home crying.

Luckily,the commotion had attracted a few other neighbours and Grant was sent over fromNumber 14. He never misses a chance to earn some money that one. He is a proper entrepreneur and at the weekend when it's raining you'll find him hanging about the close with a bucket of soapy water ready to wash your car for you if its dirty. He’s a bittubby but with some heaving and pushing his mother and I got him in the house.I directed him to the lock at the back of the door and instructed him to turnit clockwise. That confused him. He turned it a few times left and right andfinally it unlatched. I gave him his fiver and a bag of crisps. He was very pleasedand said that any time I locked myself out he’d be happy to help.

Idropped my bag on the top and looked for the wretched keys to the back door.They weren’t in the usual place. They weren’t in the jar. They weren’tanywhere. You can imagine, I was perplexed by now. When I am trying toconcentrate I find sucking a Polo mint always helps. I had a tube of them in my coatpocket. I got them out and hey presto; the back door key tumbled out too! Ithad been in my coat pocket all the time.

So,' she added, pausing for effect and taking a huge lungful of cigarette smoke before continuing. 'I thought you might like to know what getting older will be about. Today it’s hair conditioner, tomorrow it’llbe your keys and...’ she added cackling like an old witch. ‘...And finally, it’llbe your marbles. Welcome to old age!’

Message from Carol: If you know the lyrics to the title of today's post which is based on an old Doris Day song then sing it out loud or hum it for all to hear please. You will find others will automatically start singing it unwittingly.Hubby is currently singing it while washing up ;)

'Eye of the Tiger...'

2012-02-06T09:57:00.001Z

Thismorning I got up and was frightened by a baggy-eyed, saggy stomached old ladylooking at me...who let her into my bathroom? After the initial shock of realisingthat the apparition in front of me was in fact myself, I decided it was obviouslytime to get back into shape.

Withall that has been happening over the last few weeks I have let myself go.However, it has been darn near impossible to do anything other than chasebuilders around and soothe a frustrated Hubby’s brow for weeks.

Over the weekend Mother Nature decided to treat us all to a wonderful snowstorm and wewoke toa few inches of crisp white snow yesterday which was still with us thismorning. Living on the top of a hill we are somewhat cut off now and that meantthat today we would not be beset by builders and workmen as they would not beable to get up the hill or indeed do any work today.

Atlast, there would be some peace and quiet and no workmen walking past my large windows everyfive minutes seeing what I was up to. It has felt like we live in a giant goldfishbowl. The windows are wonderful for getting a view of the garden but whenworkmen are outside they get a great view of you sitting having your breakfast,or reading, or cleaning, or in fact anything that you may be doing downstairs.They have been very discreet though and try not to look in, but you can occasionallysee them swivel their eyes in your direction as you stand by the sink. Igenerally just grin and wave at them. They are after all, a lovely bunch.

Anyway,I decided to exercise and warned Hubby that a mini hippopotamus was about toflounce about in the kitchen, giving him ample warning to hide in his office. Hisoffice, by the way, is actually a large cupboard under the stairs. The wickedpart of me is tempted to fit a bolt onto the outside of the door one day andwhen he is in there and lock him. He nodded wisely and disappeared in there,door shut tightly. He didn’t want to be put off his breakfast.

Iretrieved my trainers from the bottom of the wardrobe, hauled out my tightleggings and pulled on a t-shirt that is two sizes too small. It wasn’t twosizes too small when I last wore it...maybe it shrunk in the wardrobe.

Allprepared and tightly squeezed into my exercise gear, I put my motivating music on. I was going to do a nice easy warm upand gentle aerobic routine. Nothing gets you in the mood for dancing orexercising than a nice loud burst of eighties music. I started off with DuranDuran singing ‘The Reflex’ and had a good old fashioned warm up, knee raises,grapevine up and down the kitchen floor, marching on the spot and graduallycould feel the endorphins kicking in.

‘EnolaGay’ from OMD began and I started jigging up and down on the spot. I had forgottenmy planned routine by now. It’s been a while since I was a trainer and my mindwas on other things rather than counting the beats. I followed my instinctsinstead, led by the music and did some powerful punches: upper cut, left hook,right hook, side swings...each got wilder and wilder.

Frustrationover the last few weeks poured out as I suddenly went into a frantic Boxerciseroutine I used to teach and was hammering away at an imaginary opponent. Ismashed out to the right, out to the left. Fast paced upper cut, speed ball...Iwas puffing quite well now and was in the zone. Smash...that’s forBT...whack...that’s for burst pipes....biff...that’s for tiles blowing off theroof after we had just put them on...smack that’s for the waterfall into thesitting room.

Iadded some kick boxing moves. Gosh my legs do still raise that high! Impressedand enthusiastic I kicked out to the side as high as I could. The music wasfast paced by now. Somehow Chumbawumba was on my player. I gave a fewroundhouse kicks and pretended I was taking out a few bad boys. I was LaraCroft, albeit a shorter, tubbier version. I mule kicked a baddy standing behindme. Ha! That got him. I threw some more punches and bounced lightly on my feet.I went straight into a sequence I used to love...race forward punch, punch, twist thump, twist kick, bounceback, race forward punch, punch, punch...back and so on. After a while I couldfeel my too tight top was riding up exposing quite a bit of spare tyre so Istopped to yank it down.

Glowingnow I did a few air punches and went to the sink to get a glass of water. Istared out across the snow covered garden which was when I saw four faceslooking out beaming. The blasted workmen had arrived while I was working outand were in our garage looking out of the window there which stares directlyinto the kitchen.

Theygrinned wildly at me and pretended to cower. One bit his nails in a show offear and another pretended to cover his eyes. I daren’t go outside now. In factI doubt I can face any of them again. I have come upstairs to hide until sometimein Spring when they might actually have finished work on the place.

'Surf City, here we come...'

2012-01-30T16:18:00.000Z

Asyou know we have been beset by problems since we moved. Last week I discoveredit was the Chinese New Year - Year of the Dragon. I told Hubby who was busystaring gloomily at a heater that wasn’t working. I love Year of the Dragon. Itusually heralds much luck, particularly for us.

I passed all my school examsone Dragon year and spent the Summer in searing temperatures enjoying myselfhugely. I got a job promotion in Year of the Dragon. We got married in Year ofthe Dragon and it was in that year that Son was born. Hubby too was born in theYear of the Dragon (which means the clever ones amongst you make an educatedguess at his age). Just as a matter of interest, people born in the Year of theDragon are said to be innovative and self-assured, but can be quick-tempered.

‘Look, don’t worry about all the problems.It’ll all get better, after all, Year of the Dragon has always been very luckyfor us,’ I said to a morose Hubby.

Nosooner had the words left my mouth than a line of workmen arrived at our housewith the units we have been waiting for since the beginning of January. Theywere shortly followed by electricians, plumbers and a line of workmen. If I haduttered the words in a casino I am sure all the slot machines would have lettheir jackpots tumble.

Menensconced in getting the units and sink and electrics in place, we went out fora couple of hours. Hubby enjoyed a nice piece of cake and seemed to perk up. Iblathered on about Year of the Dragon and how I felt it would be a good yearfor us.

Onour return we found a BT engineer knocking at our neighbour’s door.

Hubbyhad hardly drawn the car up to a screeching halt in front of his van before I had the door open and had leapt upon the unsuspecting man who looked astounded at the Starsky and Hutcharrival.

‘Haveyou come to do my line?’ I asked breathless.

‘Uh,are you Mrs Footherly?’

‘No,I’m Mrs Completely Dissatisfied...the woman who has been waiting for six weeksto get a line and who has been Tweeting BtCare almost every day. I am the samewoman who has been waiting for an engineer since December 20th. In short I am desperate to get connected.’

Theengineer looked anxious and checked his job sheet.

‘Sorry,but I don’t have a job number for you.’

Iwent puce.

‘Howcome Mrs Footherly, who cancelled her order because she was so fed up withwaiting for BT, is getting connected and me, who has been pleading for a lineand who has been paying for a service I haven’t had every month is not?’ Ibarked.

Theman squirmed. ‘Sorry, er... I just don’t have a job number for you. If you giveme your name and order number I’ll see what I can do when I get back to theoffice.’

Iharrumphed, then told him I appreciated it wasn’t his fault but BT were a .....(I can’t type that bit because it consisted of a lot of profanity).

Imarched back to the house where Hubby was with the developer and workmen.

‘Sorted?’he asked. I growled and swore some more.

Thedeveloper has known about our problem for some time and has been verysupportive. He even phoned them up on our behalf.

‘BTare here?’ he asked.

‘Yes,they are supposed to be connecting Mrs F but can’t do us because we have no jobnumber even though I have an order number.’

‘Right!’said the developer and set off with Hubby in tow. He grabbed a couple of workmen enroute who raced off to their vehicles and almost immediately I saw a convoy of small vans leaving our house andheading back down the drive where they blocked in Mr BT man so he couldn’tescape. The developer and Hubby caught up with the poor man as he was trying todrag some cable through to Mrs F’s house. There was much arm waving andpointing. The man went pale. Hubby glowered. He is very good at glowering. Iusually hate it when he glowers. There was a lot of talking and head shaking.There was more arm waving. The developer pointed again and finally the mannodded.

‘Right,’explained the developer as he approached me. ‘As soon as he has fixed Mrs F’sline he is going to sort out yours, job number or not. He’s here so he may aswell do both jobs. As incentive we are going to keep him blocked in until hecompletes the job.’

TheBT man didn’t stand a chance. The workmen left their vans at all the exitpoints. Hubby watched over him like a Rottweiler guarding a property. Thedeveloper came over a few times to continue to cajole him. After a couple ofhours he declared we were connected and could make calls and surf the internet.Hubby stood by his side until we were sure we had a signal.

Jobdone we shook his hand several times. The developer thanked him, Hubby thankedhim and I hugged him. The workmen removed their vehicles so he could get backto base and we all waved him off. I bet he has never been anywhere like thisbefore and I feel very sorry for the next two families who move onto thisestate because I doubt they’ll get that particular BT engineer to ever come uphere again.

As for Year of theDragon, well, if I tell you the long awaited units are in place but yesterdaywe couldn’t get into the room because the door has swollen up due to rain andis now stuck and that my bath with the super doper fixed waterfall tap overflowedall over the bathroom floor, causing a minor flood because the overflow pipehasn’t been correctly connected, then you can make up your own mind. Idiscovered yesterday that not only is it Year of the Dragon it is Year of theWater Dragon...maybe that will throw some light on the subject.

'You've got a friend...'

2012-01-29T12:49:00.001Z

Asa humorous writer and blogger I rarely write a poignant, depressing or indeedvery serious piece. I was once described as 'horribly optimistic and frustratingly cheerful' and actually, Iquite approve of that. I love making people laugh and cheering them up in timesof trouble. However, I am also very aware that the reason I enjoy so muchsuccess and have so much fun writing is thanks to all of you who read andcomment on my posts. I have spoken before about friendship and how importantthat is. Since I began blogging I have made some very dear friends and so todayI really want to say a few words about a couple of them.

Somuch has happened since I have been off-line. The wonderful fishducky whowrites such hilarious comments and is a champion follower, now has her own blogposts which you can find at Elisa’s blog The Crazy Life of a Writing Mom from February 3rd where she has been adopted. Of course, I now have even more seriouscompetition in the humour department.

Fishduckywas the very first person to read my book, which she did in one lengthysession. She has sent endless supportive and hilarious emails to me over thetime I have known her and, as some of you know – she is definitely my mother’stwin sister. I am therefore honoured that she has gone to the trouble of creatingand bestowing my latest accolade the fishducky approval button which my blog will sport with pride.

Thereis another reason for mentioning fishducky and that is because her posts andblog were set up by one of the sweetest people I have met here in Blogland,Melynda from 'Crazy World'

Melyndais well known to some of you and writes with style and great humour. I was torn apart yesterday to learn that sheis giving up blogging because she is going blind. An incredibly courageousperson, I am sure she will come through this ordeal but if you could pop overand read her last post and offer words of encouragement I know it would helpher hugely. She has people reading the comments to her so please go by, afterall we all need support and times.

Thisis just a little interlude post and next time I promise to tell you about thegreat BT crime. Valerie thought I had arranged a drug deal with BT to get online...honestly, you all have such vivid imaginations and obviously know I amcapable of all sorts of things! So, until next time let me leave you all with mygrateful thanks for being there and a reminder of the song that inspired today's post title.

'Let's go round again...'

2012-01-26T17:31:00.003Z

They always say moving house is one of the most stressful things that can happen to a person and after the events of the last few weeks I can concur with that statement. What is even more stressful than moving though is having builders sort out the snagging on a renovated property like ours.I have been reminded of an old song that used to play which began 'It was on the Monday morning, the Gas man came to call...' People aged under fifty will probably have no idea what I am waffling on about but bear with me and I'll explain.

Everything that has gone wrong with this house has had to be fixed, which is fine except everything that has been fixed has resulted in something else being damaged or broken and therefore required fixing. For example, while putting up my new curtains the curtain man managed to drop a heavy pole on my newly laid wooden floors which damaged them. The carpenter came by to sand the damage out which resulted in sawdust flying all over the new curtains and my furniture. I tried to clean the sawdust up after he finished but the vacuum cleaner blew up rather spectacularly, which resulted in a twenty mile drive to town to buy a new one. The girl in the collection centre couldn't find the vacuum cleaner which meant we had to wait for forty minutes. (She did give us a voucher for free cake and coffee which lessened the pain a little). The new cleaner was missing a vital part (the hose) and we had to return to town to complain and get a replacement vacuum cleaner...you get the gist?

The latest example of this was last week when my new super fab waterfall tap on my super fab bath broke. I hadn't done anything to it; it just wobbled and broke all by itself. It was Hubby who noticed it was vibrating as I vacuumed in the room next door.

'No probs,' said the sexy, oops sorry, I mean amenable developer who nipped around to see if everything was okay at last. 'Problems are for solving ,' he continued and flashed me a heart-stopping smile. I grinned back like a love struck teenager while Hubby just ignored me.

'I'll send the plumber around today.'

Jake the mega cool plumber turned up twenty minutes later. We've seen a lot of Jake and he is almost like family now he has been here so often. Actually, all the workmen are like members of the family. I know all about them now after all the visits they keep making to repair things. Jake is the coolest of the men. He manages to look trendy and model like even when he is under a U-bend.

Hubby accompanied Jake upstairs and manly muttering was heard. I pranced about downstairs trying to work out what I should be doing to look busy. I could clean (again) Jake returned and announced he needed to turn off all the water. Good, no cleaning then.

With Hubby supervising him (!) Jake got on. There was much clattering and banging and another strange noise. Just what exactly was that sound? I looked around the kitchen. i searched in the utility room I finally traced it to its source. Oh brilliant!

'Jake!' I yelled.

'Yep,' came the muffled reply.

'The waterfall feature that attracted me to the tap you are fixing appears to have transferred and now water is cascading down my living room walls and all over the floor and furniture!'

'Sorry Mrs W. I had to let it out. It should stop soon. Don't worry when it all dries up the painter will come and repaint the ceiling,' he yelled back as I frantically mopped up large puddles of water and watched while a mini Niagara Falls drenched my newly decorated walls and floor.

Today, the painter is repainting the ceiling and walls. What can I say?

Next time on Facing 50 with Humour ...'How we got BT to get us back on line. A story that involves subterfuge and crime-not to be missed!

By the way for those who couldn't get a copy of the feature in Woman's Own magazine, here is a picture of it. I don't know if you can read it. If not and you want a better copy just email me or mention it below and I'll get one to you.

Oh baby love, my baby love...

2012-01-20T16:09:00.002Z

Itwas half past seven on Saturday morning and there was, for once no sound ofbanging, sawing or drilling. The weekend brought peace and quiet. I stretchedand yawned. Hubby was still fast asleep – a rare event. He is always awake atfive but the evening before we had stayed up later than usual and havingconsumed a couple of glasses of wine he had spent a good part of the nightawake.

Helooked content – another rarity – so I eased myself out of bed and went to thefar bathroom to run a bath. I poured in my best bath oil and eased myself backamong the bubbles to luxuriate, which was when the mobile phone in the nextroom rang.

Iignored it. After all, who would be phoning at that time on a Saturday morning?It had to be a wrong number. Finally Enrique Iglesias stopped telling me ‘Ilike it’ and I sighed contentedly as I stretched out in the bubbles againinhaling the perfume of geraniums.

Enriquesang out again. The flipping thing would wake Hubby so I leapt out of the bath,bubbles dripping onto the floor and charged into the office to get the phone.

‘MorningMum,’

‘What’sthe matter? Why are you phoning at this time of the morning? You don’t normallyget up until midday at the weekend?’ I said ungraciously.

‘Ijust wanted to see how you both were?’ replied the hurt tone. ’I haven’t seenyou for a while and I wondered how work was going on the house. I was concernedthat you were maybe both getting too stressed about it all.’

Iapologised. Maybe my dear son was finally growing up and was starting to thinkabout us both a little more.

‘Anyway,I thought I’d come and visit you and cheer you both up,’ he continued.

‘Ohthat would be lovely,’ I perked up. It’s always nice to see Son. He’s quite acharacter and tells stories that make us roar with laughter. (Must get thatfrom his mother.) When would you like to come around?

Therewas a hesitation. ‘Well, I am not far away now. I could drop in, in about twominutes.’ I went to the bedroom and looked outside. Sure enough, there was Sonparked on the driveway.

‘Okay,I’ll let you in,’ I said and went to let out my lovely warm bath water. Hubbyhad also emerged from the bed, hair tousled and looking cross.

‘Visitor,’I explained. ‘Son. He’s come to see how we are,’ I continued.

‘Hemust want something,’ he snorted and went to get dressed grumbling aboutchildren as he went.

Sonwasn’t alone. He had brought Girlfriend.

‘MorningMum,’ Son boomed and hugged me in a tight bear hug embrace that took all thewind out of me. ‘Oh soz, you aren’t up yet. Did we wake you? You are always upearly normally,’ he said in a rush before I could reply.

‘Morning’,breezed Girlfriend as she took off her shoes. ‘You look well.’

Igrabbed my dressing gown tightly around me and excused myself as I rushed offto get dressed. I passed a growling Hubby on the stairs.

‘Whatdoes he want? Has he come to borrow some money?’

‘No,’I said protectively. ‘He’s just come to say hello because he was concernedabout us.’

Hubbyhuffed in disbelief.

Dressedand with hair sort of brushed I returned to join them in the kitchen where Sonand Girlfriend were sharing a can of coca cola and regaling Hubby about anincident at work. Hubby was laughing so Son was obviously working his magic.Girlfriend was sitting pink-faced on a stool.

‘Helloagain Mum. Sorry we got you up. So, tell us all about the workmen.’

Hubbylaunched into a trade about workmen in general and then took them both off tosee what had been done. By the time they had returned he was in a good mood.They reassembled in the kitchen. Hubby was, by now relaxed and so was I until Icaught a look that passed between the two of them and an almost discernible nodfrom Girlfriend. Oh-oh he had come around for an ulterior motive. Hubby wasright and they had come to borrow money.

Songave a small cough. I recognise that sign. He always coughs like that when hewants to tell us something and knows we are going to go ballistic about it. Thelast time I heard it was when he tried to explain how he had run up a £200phone bill.

Ilooked Girlfriend in the eyes with that wise old mother look that we have as ifto say ‘Well? What is it?’ She went pinker still.

‘Areyou going to tell them?’ She asked Son who was still trying to keep his fatherentertained with a funny joke.

‘Yes,in a minute,’ he tried to say in a half whisper which was ridiculous given wecould all hear it.

‘Weare so excited about our news,’ she said to me.

Myheart sank. What would make a pink faced girlfriend excited and yet make Sonworry about telling us?

‘Icouldn’t wait to tell you but he said I had to wait for the right time.’

Myheart sank further and I checked to see if Hubby had picked up on theconversation yet. No, Son had managed to get him to guffaw at a joke which waswhen he decided to tell us the news.

Hecoughed nervously again and Girlfriend gave him her hand to hold. This was it.

‘We,er, we have some news for you,’ began Son clinging onto Girlfriend’s hand fordear life. She looked up adoringly at him. ‘We have known for a while,’ he saidgazing fondly at Girlfriend witha soppy look on his face. ‘But well, we didn’twant to tell you until we were absolutely sure it was going to happen.’

Ohno! She was pregnant. Grandma, Grandmother, Granny...what would it call me? Iam not ready to wheel a child about again in a pram when its parents are atwork. I have only just got rid of one I don’t want to be babysitting again.

‘Iknow we are quite young but we have wanted to do this for a long time. Weweren’t sure at first if we would be accepted and we had to be vetted strictly...’My brain went fuzzy...’we are just about to collect two dogs from the Rescuecentre. I know it’s a bit mad to have two but they are sisters. They can’t beseparated and we fell in love with them the moment we saw them. Here is aphotograph of them,’ and he produced his phone showing two beautiful blackLabrador Cross dogs sitting obediently waiting for a treat.

Hubbylooked agog. I leapt up relieved and hugged them both.

‘Theyare lovely. Aren’t they lovely?’ I urged Hubby. Hubby’s mouth opened and shut.

‘Ifyou get stuck while you’re at work we’ll come round and walk them,’ I continued,burbling away like a mad woman.

‘That’sbrilliant Mum. We hoped you’d say that because we need you to come and lookafter them on Friday when we go out to a work’s event. They are ever so goodand you’ll love them.’

Itis forecast for rain on Friday and I have just been out to buy some wellingtonboots to take the new arrivals out over the fields. Of course, I had to get anew coat too – one that keeps out the wind and rain...and a pair of gloves andof course a hat but it is worth it and so much cheaper than buying a new pramand baby stuff!

If I had a hammer...

2012-01-18T09:21:00.003Z

2012continues to speed ahead leaving me in a complete fog. Workmen are stillscattered about our house and garden tramping about in mud. They arrivepromptly at seven each morning and leave at four when it gets dark. We seem to spendall our time cleaning up after them and wondering just when all the work willget finished.

Hubbyis completely lost. Not only can he not hide behind his computer examining hisshare prices for hours on end or salivating over the latest Mercedes Benz car buthe can’t get his manly tools sorted out and his garage in order because it hasnot been finished. He is completely at sea without his ‘things’. He can’t finda screwdriver to put up a picture or a screw to fix a table. He can’t even washhis car because men are constantly digging or sawing or drilling tiles and dustis everywhere. He hates it. His essential items are all tucked away in variousboxes in a half finished garage surrounded by large sheets of plaster board andburied under mounds of workmen equipment.

So,what does a frustrated Hubby do when his life is in turmoil? Why, he insists onspending every waking minute with his beloved wife ensuring she has no chanceto write or indeed even sit down. It is worse than living with a five-year-oldchild.

Herequires constant amusement and like a five-year-old who has had his toys takenaway he has become fractious and bored. Dear Hubby needs to be entertained fromthe moment he wakes up (at five) until he goes to bed (at ten). Yes indeed, Hubbyseems to have decided that nine o’clock is no longer a suitable bedtime whichrather thwarts me as I used to bank on him disappearing to bed early so I couldwatch ‘Desperate Housewives’ or get some blog posts written.

Hubbyis actually wearing me out. Goodness knows where he gets his energy from. He isnot just like a five-year-old, but a hyperactive one at that. His attentionspan is about three minutes long at the moment. In an effort to keep himoccupied I agreed to go walking with him last week. He marched me up and downthe huge hills that surround the house so much so that my hips still ache. Hecan’t sit still. He keeps finding things for me to do and I haven’t sat down inthe daytime for six weeks.

Toadd to the frustration, periodically I’ll catch him doing something I havealready done. In the absence of his man tools he has turned to using mine. Hecan’t leave them alone. I washed all the floors only to see him marching aboutwith a bucket and my brand new mop an hour after I had finished washing them. Icleaned the windows only to discover him rubbing them over again later the sameday. It is infuriating. The final straw came when I caught him lugging thevacuum cleaner up the stairs with a determined look on his face.

‘Idid all the vacuuming less than half an hour ago. Didn’t you hear me?’

‘Oh,well, it won’t hurt to do it again. I think you missed some.’

Acouple of days ago he decided to move all the furniture around. It weighs atonne. He moved chairs and sideboards and tables into various positions andkept asking me if I preferred them there. Of course, he ended up puttingeverything back exactly where it was initially.

Theday before yesterday after sighing and staring out of the window at his garagethat is not yet finished and his little workshop that is still awaiting benchesand cupboards to store all his precious tools he decided to sort out his filingcabinet which is full of old pieces of paper that really should be shredded.

Thefiling cabinet is housed in a large cupboardunder the stairs. You can just about stand up in it and for a couple of hours Iheard nothing from him which was initially disconcerting but eventually meant Icould try and catch up on some writing. He was safely locked away and calm wasalmost restored to the house. That is calm with the exception of all theworkmen banging and sawing things just outside.

Aftera couple of hours I thought I would rescue him from his mission and made him a coffee.He had been ensconced much longer than I anticipated. I went in search of himand eased the door of his cupboard open. Hubby was there alright, completelysurrounded by mounds of paper and hunched over in concentration.

‘Coffee?’I offered cheerfully.

‘Mmmm,’said Hubby ignoring me.

‘I’vebrought you a coffee...and a biscuit.’

Thatgot his attention. He drew himself up and then let out a yelp of pain. I jumpedin surprise. The look of surprise was nothing compared to look of pain onHubby’s face. His back was in spasms. He couldn’t get up.

Finally,after much cajoling, we got him out of the cupboard and accompanied by majoryelping we got him laid out flat. Having been bent over for so long, combinedundoubtedly with the excesses of moving furniture all over the house, the poorman has managed to slip a disc.

Hubbyis now confined to staying in bed or standing up snarling in pain. He is nolonger an overactive child but a full time patient in need of constant care. Ireally hope we get the work finished soon and get on-line too. This year isturning out to be quite a tough one. The moral of this tale ladies, is nevertake a man’s tools away from him. Make sure he always has something he can playwith.

Nexttime find out what ‘exciting’ news Son and Girlfriend came round to give usthis weekend and why I have to buy a new outfit thanks to it! At this rate I'll be glad to get to the end of 2012.

High on a hill...Part 2

2012-01-10T16:57:00.000Z

2012hasn't exactly started the way I had rather hoped. As those of you who are myfriends on Facebook andTwitter know I am a lost soul. I have no phone line orinternet facility. My new house seems to be in the only area in the UK whereyou can't get a mobile signal or fetch up the internet on your snazzy iPhone. Adongle won't work either even when held out of the skylight which is where Iwould like to hang those responsible at BT for my situation. I won't bore youall with the wretched saga as it would fill a book but suffice to say thatuntil BT decide they are willing to spend some money and put in necessary cablethat was actually requested seven months ago I shall remain without internet.

Ihave recently developed a strange form of Tourettes and now every time I pass aBT OpenReach van I launch into a torrent of abuse, so I really need to get thesituation resolved before I get banged up for actually physically attacking aBT employee!

Anyway,today I have driven several miles and plonked myself down in a cafe where thekind proprietor has let me use their internet. What, no Starbucks Facing 50?No, I am afraid this time I have moved to the middle of nowhere in search ofrural peace and boy have we got that - acres of it. I am miles from a town withwifi but there are lots of fields with sheep and a huge reservoir with geeseand all sorts of wildfowl so at least I can listen to the foxes barking atnight and barn owls hooting instead of lorries driving over potholes.

Backto my last post and enough of the complaining. When I last wrote I was in theprocess of moving. A major magazine had sent a photographer to photograph mebut needed 100 copies of Mini Skirts and Laughter Lines to pose with. I had torustle up a hundred copies in 24 hours and yes, after bombarding everyone Iknew with emails my publishers raced to my rescue and sent five boxes of bookson a special delivery van. they arrived at 7am the next morning...well, four ofthe boxes did. one had got lost and the sweet girl who humped the heavy boxesup the drive for me set off to find the lost box before the photographerarrived.

Aboutfive minutes before the photographer pulled up she turned up triumphantly withthe remaining box which she had intercepted as it headed off to Newcastle. Ihugged her and gave her a copy for her mother - ninety-nine books should do thetrick.

Thephotographer was fabulous. I hate my photo being taken and always feelself-conscious but by the time he had finished chatting to me I wasn't evenaware he had been clicking away. I leant on books, balanced on books, sat onbooks (yes, I was a little worried about that), posed with books and finallythe photographer took one close up of me without the books. I bet you all think'I know what she is going to say now-the magazine used that photograph anddidn't bother with the book photographs'. That could well be the case but Idon't know and tomorrow will be the day that I discover which picture theyused.

So, if you live in the UK or can get a copy of 'Woman's Own' dated 16thJanuary which comes out on the 10th January then you will find out. In themeantime, the wonderful photographer sent me a couple of pictures to use on mywebsite and I have been sworn to secrecy about them until the release of thearticle so hopefully I have managed to attach a copy with this post of hisfavourite. Not only was he a super photographer but he said I had great legs sowhat more could I want?

Asfor Hubby, well, he lost the plot towards the end of moving. It all got toomuch for him. He had been told to throw out some of the contents of hiswardrobe and needless to say he only managed about five items. He became quitemorose and then I made him clear out his precious shed. There was no way hiscollection of ancient screws, dried out paint tins, worn out mowers and rubbishwould fit into the new place, so a giant skip was ordered.

I sent him outsideto start the big clear out and gave him half an hour to get his head round itall before I joined him and supervised the actual throwing out. I gave himenough time to realise I meant business, dragged on my boots and headed down tothe shed. No sign of Hubby at all. In fact there was no sign of anything havingbeen removed from the shed. It was still stuffed full of bits of wood, toolsand things we had had for years, but no longer needed in the house. They hadfound their way to the shed. I gazed around in frustration. I would have toempty it myself. Then I heard a 'whoohoo!'. I looked around and saw Hubby bouncingup and down on an old mattress he had found in the back of the shed and whichhe had thrown in the skip.

Ileft him to his fun. The shed could wait a little longer. Moving house alwaystakes it toll.

I amnot sure when I will next be able to post but if you all cross your fingers andhope maybe BT will decide to pay for a cable and I will be back in the 21stCentury with you.

Failingthat, I may have to consider moving again -this time to somewhere where thereis a cable and phone lines!

High on a hill stood a lonely...

2012-01-09T17:29:00.002Z

High on a hill stood a lonely Facing 50 but now she has a dongle that actually works and after three weeks of frustration she will be back posting in the next couple of days ;)
Just thought I would share my happy news with you all. By the way belated happy new year to all my friends and sorry I haven't been able to email you or be in touch.

'Flash,bang, wallop...'

2011-12-16T21:30:00.000Z

Last week was one of those weeks when you can't catch your breath and in spite of only grabbing two hours sleep a night there are not enough hours in the day.
It started last Sunday when I spent all day cleaning out my office. I have accumulated 25 years of papers, paper clips, rulers, erasers and pens (I am now convinced that if you leave two pens in a drawer they will breed - the two I put there 20 years ago have had several generations of offspring and I found myself throwing out pen after pen, after pen).
I threw out everything I won't need, stripped the walls of their inspirational photographs and cleaned the tops. Hubby was on paper shredding duty. He diligently shredded for two days - no, I am not exaggerating. In the end he burnt out the motor on the shredder and had to resort to tearing it with his hands.
The office was empty. One less room to worry about. Everything that was going to the new house was carefully packed into large cardboard boxes.
Monday, I had to go to the dentist. Big Berthe has gone back to Poland to train for the shot put event for next year's Olympic Games so I have a lovely new dentist. It's just as well because I had to have a new crown. Being a very caring dentist she gave me enough anaesthetic to knock out a horse and my mouth went instantly numb. My tongue hung out to one side and I drooled rather fetchingly. The offending tooth was drilled and poked and prepared for the crown and I felt absolutely nothing.
'Rinse, please,' said the assistant. I took a large gulp of pink liquid which dribbled all down my face.
'Still a bit numb?' she asked.
'Mwamph whamp mmph,' I replied which meant 'Yes, a little.'
I headed off to the bank, my mouth drooping so I had a very lopsided grin. The phone rang.
'Mwah mmmph,' I said
'Is that Carol?'
'Mwah.'
'It's Abigail. I have some very exciting news.'
Abigail has been working on the PR for my book for me the last few weeks.
'XXXXXX magazine are sending a photographer to your house. They are featuring you in next edition of XXXXXX.'
'Ooooh mwahphhh?' I asked
'Tomorrow. They want to photograph you working in your office.'
'Wmahh'
'Yes, they want to show the readers where you work.'
I tried to explain that the office was bare and everything was tucked away in large cardboard boxes. Abigail didn't understand. She wanted me to send her a photo of the office so the magazine could decide which lighting to use.
I hurried back home. Hubby found me unpacking all the boxes like a mad woman. I explained and he helped me unpack. We got out all the photographs. Hubby hammered them back onto the wall. I laid out all my computer stuff and set up the desk as I use it normally. Hubby found the best angle and took a photograph which we sent to Abigail.
The next day I had to go up to the new house. We were outside in a biting wind with the builders trying to work out where to put the garage when the phone rang. It was Abigail.
'Did you get the photo?' I asked.
'No, I am still waiting for it,' she replied.
I started to explain that I had already sent it but simultaneously my mind was telling me that I had, in fact sent it to the wrong email address. In my haste to get it to her, I had sent it to a .co.uk address instead of a .com address.
'Oh crikey!'
I left Hubby to deal with the workmen and raced back home to send the photo to the correct address.
I was back on a windy site when Abigail next phoned.
'Did you get the photo this time?'
'Yes, thanks. I sent it to the magazine. Bad news. They have decided they don't want to shoot in the office. It is too small.'
'Too small? I live in a normal house not a giant office block. What did they expect?'
Good news,' continued Abigail, oblivious to my sledgehammer wit. 'They want you to pose in their studio leaning casually against copies of your book.'
'Yes, okay. How many do they need?' I asked thinking about the four I had in stock.
'They need at least one hundred,' replied Abigail. 'You can get a hundred copies of your books by Thursday, can't you?' She was met with awed silence.' You could drive around all the local shops and buy up the stock they have,' she helpfully suggested, rather forgetting that I live at least thirty miles away from a town that has a bookshop. 'Or, you could ask your friends and relatives who have a copy to loan it back to you.' I thought about all of you in the States who have copies and my mother who is in Cyprus - there was no way I'd get a hundred copies by Thursday.
Did I get a hundred copies? And just what was it that Hubby was up to yesterday? All I can say is that had I managed to video it and uploaded it to YouTube it would have gone viral.You will have to wait to find out what happened next and unfortunately that won't be for a few days as I now have to wait for British Telecom to connect me to the internet at my new house.
Stay tuned and I shall be back with more very soon....

'Christmas Time, Mistletoe and Wine...'

2011-12-11T17:44:00.000Z

Ah, Christmas! The season of good will to all men and women unless you are, of course, my husband. As you all know he loathes this time of the year. The shops which put up Christmas trees in August and radio stations that play Christmas music from late October fuel his dislike of Christmas.

Last year, you may recall, we were going to go away and hide from Christmas. We had no food, no decorations, no presents and no Christmas tree. We didn't mind because we were going to hide in rural France and drink red wine beside a log burner.
Well, nature intervened and snow was dumped in huge quantities, all over the airport the day we should have left, leaving our flight, along with all others, cancelled and us stranded at home. However, Son and Girlfriend came to the rescue and we all had a jolly time playing on their Wii machine and eating all their chocolates.

This year Hubby turned into a Grinch even earlier than usual round about August 20th when the local store stuck its first Christmas tree up.
'Grumble, grumble, wretched Christmas...not celebrating...moan, moan...grumble...grumble..' said Mr Cheerful. I know better than to argue, so Christmas was not discussed any further.
Last week, we went to the opening of a new store in town. Several mince pies and mulled wine were on offer and Hubby succumbed to both...in large quantities. I dragged myself away from the electrical department to find him gazing at a large wooden Santa which tilted rather cleverly as if Santa was flying in the air. The heads on the reindeer tilted too. Hubby was fascinated by it.
'I think we may get it. It'll look nice and Christmassy,' he said.

I stood in complete amazement - my mouth open in complete disbelief. It stayed open as one of the assistants gave him a small package he had purchased. It was a set of small glass ornaments, each in the shape of a Christmas stocking or tiny Christmas present, that hung around the stem of a glass as an identifier. They are for when you are at a party so you know which glass is yours.
'Oh, thank you,' said Hubby politely as he took them from the assistant.
I glowed inside, more from that fuzzy feeling you sometimes get when someone surprises you, rather than the mulled wine I had quaffed.
Later that evening Hubby was sitting hogging the remote control in front of the television, zapping through all the channels at high speed avoiding the Christmas Adverts and snarling as he jumped from one channel to the next with barely time to take in what was being shown.
'That was very thoughtful of you to buy those sweet Christmas adornments,' I told him, partly to distract him and partly to praise him for his change of heart. He had transformed from his usual 'Bah Humbug' person he pretended to be each and every year.
'Yes, I suppose it was. I must have had a moment of madness.We don't really need them. I always know which glass is yours anyway,' he continued.
'Is that because I leave lipstick marks on it?'
'No,' he replied, finally alighting upon a dull documentary about the demise of The Royal Bank Of Scotland. He sat back contentedly to watch. 'Yours is always the one that needs refilling!'

A very warm welcome to my small gathering today. Please make yourself at home and feel free to mingle with all the other guests. It is so nice to have you all here.
Drop into the Chat room (top right of this blog) and enjoy a gossip or a catch up with friends. You may even bump into me there.
Nip into the 'Have yourself a Merry Little Christmas' room and play some festive games.
Check out the dreadful Christmas Cracker jokes which you will find under 'It's a Cracker!'
Test your knowledge of Christmas Songs at our Quiz and don't forget the 'Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree...' tab for a sing-song.
There is a little fancy dress mayhem in Who's That Lady?
And you must not forget to visit our special guest by clicking on the tab called 'Santa Claus is coming to town...' *There is a surprise waiting there for you.
I hope you enjoy the party. Please tell your friends to come along too...the more the merrier. Just don't put your glass down anywhere - I might think it is mine and drain it. Oh, I forgot-it's okay because I have marked mine with my new glass identifier. Hubby must have known it would be useful.

Enjoy yourself and let the preparations for the holiday begin...

'Santa Claus is coming to town...'

2011-12-05T07:27:00.001Z

The countdown to Carol's Christmas Cracker Party has begun.
Some of you have been asking me what a Christmas cracker joke is - well, it's a terrible pun or joke that you find written on a tiny piece of paper which falls into the gravy when you pull the cracker and is normally to do with Christmas. here are some examples. Ready? Pull...bang...ooh!':

Why did Santa quit smoking? Because it was bad for his elf.
What disease can you catch from putting up too many Christmas decorations? Tinsilitis.
What did the English teacher call Santa's helpers? Subordinate clauses
What do you call a blind reindeer? No eye deer
What do you get when you cross a lion with a snowman? Frostbite.
What's furry and minty? A polo bear.

Now I didn't say they were any good, did I? Which is why for years I have been writing my own offerings for a Christmas Box rather than putting up with the awful jokes you find in a cracker.

Each year I make a box for every person at the Christmas table and put in the following: A popper so you can make a proper bang and have streamers fall all over your neighbour and hopefully over the Christmas meal making it look particularly festive (This also has the benefit of disguising the fact that you burnt the sprouts and potatoes because you were too busy getting the festive wine down your neck). A small sparkler in the shape of a star (although I had to stop that after Son nearly set fire to the tablecloth. A few chocolates - reindeer shapes, Santa shapes, bell shapes and so on. A small thoughtful gift that is useful rather than the plastic offerings you get in a cracker. Last year Son had a keyring with a Ferrari at one end - no, on the small end, it was not a real Ferrari! A puzzle to keep guests occupied while you all wait for the pudding to cook because it takes hours and Hubby forgot to put it on until the last minute. Another puzzle or quiz questions to keep you all occupied while Hubby looks for the Brandy to pour over the pudding and set it alight. The next item is not a mini fire extinguisher...I can see where your thoughts are leading though. Funny jokes that are pertinent to the guests. A couple of years ago I did financial jokes for Hubby and music jokes for Son.

'How does Bob Marley like his do-nuts? Wi' jam in.' (okay - not my best effort, but we all laughed like mad. I suppose that could have been to do with the fact we had all drunk too much though.)

Some years I come up with mad ideas. One year I wrote out all the lyrics to popular Christmas Carols in French. Everyone had to chose a Carol and sing it in French, accompanied by the rest of us who had small plastic musical instruments to blow or play.

Anyway, I digress, ' a cracker' is also a term for a good looking female so with those two ideas in your mind send me your jokes and photos of yourselves in fancy dress for my party. I know there are plenty of crackers out there. As always, there will be prizes.

The deadline is Thursday 8th December. Spread the word and bring your friends. The party will be all next weekend -10th-11th December. So, come and celebrate the Festive season early with me.

The times, they are a changin'

2011-11-26T08:10:00.001Z

Ifeel very bad about neglecting you all recently. I have visited your blogs buthad little time to leave comments and now I feel it is time to make amends.What have you been up to Facing 50? Have you been so busy with your writing youhave no time for us? Of course not. As always there is a Facing 50 story as towhy I have been absent and this time it involves Hubby.

Regularreaders know that Hubby and I decided some time ago we would look for a newhouse. Hubby has scoured the internet for months, and I do mean months, on aregular basis, calling for me to look at a house he fancies every five seconds.I’ll be sitting on my blog attempting to type a post or read one of your blogs andI’ll hear him calling me...’What about this?’ he’ll yell. Well, I know I’mpretty good at lots of things but my x-ray vision isn’t what it used to be andI can’t see through four walls to see what he is yelling about. So, I have toleave whatever I am doing, walk to him and his computer where he will ignore mefor a full five minutes while he continues to scroll, very slowly because he isstill useless with a computer, through the details of a property he has foundand then stand for fifteen minutes while he reads the details out to me.

I am a speed reader. So I have read all the details, decided the property is notsuitable before he gets to the end of the second sentence, but out of politenessI let him carry on whilst simultaneously thinking about a hundred other thingsI should be doing. When he gets to the end of his monologue he’ll say. ‘Hmm, Idon’t think so,’ and I am duly dismissed until he yells again, usually aboutten minutes later.

Theprocess has been extremely painful and very slow. The houses we whittled downto view were wrong. The details would read well, the house would look perfect. Wewould check its location on Google map and make an appointment to view it, onlyto discover that the photos must have been taken years ago and the garden whichsported pretty roses in the front looks like a wilderness, and behind it the10.15 train to London is rattling past at speed shaking the house to its veryfoundations.

Hubbyhad a very strict list of things he wanted in this new house. Primarily it hadto have a small garden. He decided he is now getting too old to charge up anddown with the mower all day making neat stripes in our lawn. He has beenadamant that not only did he want a manageable garden but he wanted a large garage- two fundamental criteria.

Asalways he has proven to be very hard to please. We have traipsed round endlessproperties, both here in the UK and in France. Hubby has vetoed them all.

‘Thegarden is just right,’ I offered at one property where the picturesque cottagegarden was barely bigger than a postage stamp but had a wonderful terrace.

‘No,it is too large,’ he snapped back.

Wefound an adorable cottage in The Cotswolds which was discounted the second hediscovered there was only room for two wardrobes and he couldn’t fit in all hisclothes and shoes.

Westumbled across a period Georgian House in immaculate condition – no garage.

Inthe end I left him to it. We clearly were never going to find his ideal home.That was until a few weeks ago when we visited a property that had just comeonto the market. Positioned high on a small hill it had tremendous views.Judging by the glazed look that came across Hubby’s face I knew he liked it.

‘Ithas no garage.’

‘We’llbuild one...look at those views.’

‘Thebathrooms need changing and those two rooms need knocking into one because itis too small.’

‘Wecan change them, can’t we?’ he asked the developer who I must add at this pointis gorgeous. The developer nodded.

‘Thereare two and a half acres of land here,’ I said very slowly to let it sink in.

Hubbynodded sagely. ‘We’ll get someone in to do the garden.’

Icame up with all the usual reasons he shouldn’t like it. Clearly he did. To befair, I had also decided it was charming.

Ionly had one bullet left. I fired it.

‘Thereare no wardrobes and only space to build one small, and I mean small one.’

Hubbygazed wistfully at the view.

‘You’llhave to throw out some of my clothes.’

So,ladies and gentleman, there you have it. We are waiting for the house to becompleted and very shortly we will be moving. No doubt Hubby will be occupied ona daily basis staring at his view and I have 'Carte Blanche' to chuck out all hisclothes. No doubt that will make an entertaining post.

Weshould be moving in two weeks time and since I have to wait for British Telecomto put me in a line I’ll be off-line from the moment I move until they arrive.Given Christmas is coming and everyone will be on holiday for days I might beoff-line for a while so before I am, I’d like to invite you all to:

Carol’s ChristmasParty.

Comealong to this blog December 10^th and 11^th for a fun day.You will be able to chat to your blogging friends in The Chat Room.

FatherChristmas is making a special trip to be with us here so you can tell him whatyou’d like to find in your stocking (I of course will be asking for theproperty developer!). There will be Christmas surprises and competitions.

Firstly,the Christmas Cracker Joke contest – send me the worst Christmas Cracker joke youhave ever stumbled across to win a prize.

Secondly,the party theme will be Christmas so send me a photo of you in Christmas FancyDress to win a prize.

Emailme at cewyer@hotmail.co.uk and puteither Christmas Cracker or Fancy Dress as your subject heading. Now, go andinvite your friends too. Let’s have a great party- the last I'll hold in this house.

You need friends...

2011-11-23T16:04:00.001Z

I don't normally do this but our dear friend and funny blogger LG needs our help. Could you all click on the link below and vote for his funny caption -number 2 - to help him win this? Huge thanks.

http://www.usatoday.com/news/opinion/story/2011-10-02/cartoon-caption-contest/50636664/1?csp=fbopinion

Everybody's talking at me...'

2011-11-19T17:22:00.002Z

I am sorry but this is the shortest of posts today. I have put it here because so many people have asked if they could listen to my recent interview at BBC Radio Nottingham. So, here I am...British accent and all...

Author of new book, 'Mini Skirts and Laughter Lines' Carol Wyer stopped by for a chat (part 1)

Author of new book Mini Skirts and Laughter Lines' Carol Wyer stopped by for a chat (part 2)

'Don't Worry-Be Happy...'

2011-11-14T08:57:00.001Z

Following on from my last post I have nipped on-line midweek to tell you about the 'Big Radio Interview' last week.
It was my big moment. I was going to be live on the Mid-Morning Show with Stuart George. Surprisingly I was horribly nervous as I am much better with the written word than the spoken, unless of course, I have had several glasses of wine and then |I am hilarious (Well, I think I am hilarious!) I am prone to opening my mouth before my brain engages so I had to ensure I would not make any faux-pas. I knew we were going to be talking about NaNoWriMo and so I spent three days preparing all my answers. I wrote them all down neatly in my special 'writer's' book so I wouldn't get caught out with nerves and would come across as a confident author.
I refused Hubby's offer to drive me to the studio - I most certainly didn't want him to hear me. He always has advice to offer me. 'You should have said this...you should have not said that...'and that is only when he overhears me on the phone. No, I had persuaded him he should stay at home and not worry about the drive. So, Hubby dropped me off at the railway station and waved proudly as his almost famous wife pulled away and headed to Stoke-On-Trent. On the train I got out my book and went through all my possible answers. My PR people had reminded me to add a witty anecdote or two - check. Had I got all the facts about NaNoWriMo? Check - Wikipedia had done its bit. Had I covered all possible questions about NaNoWriMo? - check. Aha, they would not fool a wily old Facing50.
Prepared and uber-confident I breezed into the Radio Station. I was whisked into a dark room with Stuart George, a very friendly chap, who was playing a Salsa track while I stumbled about in the half light looking for my chair.
'Can you Salsa to this?' he asked looking directly at me as I attempted to retrieve my glasses from my giant handbag which contained life-saving and essential items such as spare tights, mints, tissues, a copy of my book, my notebook, a photo of Hubby, more tissues, three lipsticks, a bar of chocolate in case I got hungry, some old receipts, hand lotion, anti-bacteria gel - well, you never know what you might pick up from a train - and last, but not least, a mirror.
He surely hadn't got me mixed up with another guest and was going to ask about dancing? Flummoxed I did that fish impression. You know the one, where your mouth just opens and closes. 'Oh great!.Now the man is going to think I'm an imbecile,' I thought. He nodded, 'Oh, you can mambo too...well, don't do that. You've only just recovered from that twisted ankle.' He wasn't taking to me at all. He was having a conversation with the producer who was directly behind me in another room separated by a huge glass window. He was talking through his headset.
Relieved but now nervous, I sat in front of the giant red microphone and waited for my cue. The light opposite me glowed a strange red, the studio darkened some more and we were off...
'Well, today I have in front of me a woman who should inspire all of you who are participating in NaNoWriMo this month...'

Oh, goodness, that was me. I gulped and looked at my notes. My carefully prepared notes, which I couldn't see, even with my glasses, because it had become so dark. I was stuffed/snookered/done for. I'd have to add-lib. I did what any experienced author would do at an interview; I panicked. The more I panicked, the more I sounded like an idiot.
The interview turned out to be not about NaNoWriMo as I had diligently prepared for but about my book and what my family thought about it. I rambled. I burbled. I sounded like a demented gibbon as I tried to answer his questions. Towards the end he rather kindly said that I did not look my age and indeed what is the secret to looking good. By now I was in a complete fog. Instead of coming out with any number of sensible answers like 'I look after my skin, teeth and my health' or 'I have regular shots of botox' or 'Healthy living, lots of exercise and regular sex' or even 'Having lots of friends who keep you youthful' I had to say something bizarre. 'I laugh a lot.' I'm still cringing at that one.
I returned home, tail between my legs. Thank goodness it had taken place in Stoke and no one who knows me would have heard it. The signal doesn't reach my home area. Hubby was waiting in the car park, engine idling.
'I tuned in to listen to your interview,' he said as I leapt in. I was horrified. He is without doubt my biggest critic- worse even than my mother. He would certainly be mega-critical about it. I was doomed. I sank into the seat embarrassed beyond belief.
'How?'
'I logged onto the internet to listen,' he continued glowering at an Audi driver who had pulled out in front of us.
Hubby, who hates technology, loathes computers and still can't even send an email, had tracked me down. Oh the horror of it!
'I listened all the way through that item about the Olympic Flame...all the way through the phone in about the weather and the business news.'
'Olympic Flame?' They had been talking about breast feeding when I arrived.
'It was when they got onto the business news I realised I had pressed the wrong button,' he continued apologetically. 'I had pressed the 'last broadcast' button and not the 'listen live' button, so I missed it.' He looked dismayed. 'I'm sure it was great though,' he said. 'You'd have knocked them for six.'
I cannot begin to tell you how relieved I was. I spent the next three days ensuring he was not on the internet and couldn't track down the broadcast. It is only up for one more day so by the time you read this it will have disappeared into cyberspace - phew! I am recovered now and back to my usual self- just to prove it I have attached a little clip for you to listen to. It'll make you sing and will cheer up any dull day.
Please visit me again on the 17th when I shall have a very special post which you won't want to miss.

'I was lost in France...'

2011-11-11T15:05:00.001Z

As you know a couple of weeks ago I was fortunate enough to be swanning around the South Westof France on a book promotion tour. It meant chatting to journalists andeditors of newsletters and giving talks to various groups of enthusiasticex-pats who would also like to see their work in print.

Someof the talks were in village halls and others in the comfort of friendly homeswhere large groups gathered to ask questions about my book or about publishingand writing their own.

Oneof the last places I visited was in a quaint 12^th Century town nearwhere I was staying. I had been invited to speak at a Book club and Creative Writingevent, not at the local hall but in a rather large house in the town. I had been in touch with the organisers and had the address writtendown. I was to turn up, push open the front door which would be open, and letmyself in.

Iwas due to speak at 3pm. I badgered Hubby all morning to ensure I would bethere on time and had allowed ten minutes to find the street. Fairly confidentI knew where it was, we arrived early at 2.45pm. Hubby pulled up at theaddress; 19 Rue Cabernet Sauvignon. The house was set back from the road andhad large gates – large rusty gates, in front of which was parked an evenrustier 2CV in faded blue.

Hubbylooked at it.

‘Yousure this is the right place?’

‘Uhm,yes,’ I said not feeling quite as confident as I first had..

Imarched down to the end of the street to check the sign – yes, this was RueCabernet Sauvignon. I wandered up to the house and looked at the aged sign onthe gate - ‘19’.

‘Itmust be here,’ I said to Hubby. Hubby looked unconvinced. ‘If it is here thenthey are a bunch of unfriendly people,’ he declared.

Irattled the gate. It wouldn’t open. I called out. The front door remained shut.By now it was just past 3pm. I was contemplating climbing over the gates butHubby stopped me.

‘Lookat that car,’ he said. ‘It hasn’t moved in months, well, actually, it probablyhasn’t moved in decades. This is not the house. You have made a mistake.’

Flusteredand embarrassed I checked my email. It definitely said number 19 Rue CabernetSauvignon. I tried plan B. I phoned the organiser.

‘Hello,Is that Enid?’ I shouted into the phone when it was finally picked up.

‘No,this is Richard. Enid is out. She’ll be back later. Ring again after 5pm.’ Heput the phone down instantly. I had probably woken him from his afternoonsiesta.

Tough!I rang again.

‘Shewon’t be back until after 5,’ said Richard. ‘She’s gone to hear a talk by someauthor.’

‘Iknow,’ I replied. ‘I am that author.’

‘Well,you know where she is then, don’t you,’ commented the infuriating Richard.

‘No,I don’t. She’s given me the wrong address.’

‘Oh,they are at Sandra’s house,’ he said more affably.

Hewas about to ring off again.

‘Whereis Sandra’s house?’ I asked.

‘Letme see, where are you now?’

‘Outsidethe bank.’

‘Okay,right, let me see....turn to your left...do you see the cafe?’

‘Yes,’I said. Time was ticking by.

‘Theydo very nice pizzas in there.’

Istared at the phone. Was this man for real? No wonder Enid left him and wentoff to Book Clubs.

‘Lookbeyond the cafe and you’ll see the doctor’s surgery.’

‘Yes,’I answered as he paused lengthily.

‘Theyare very helpful in there. Never have to wait for an appointment. Much betterthan in the UK,’ he continued. I fumed silently and checked my watch. It wasnearly half past three. ‘Go past the doctor’s and you’ll see a house with agreen door. It used to be a hairdresser’s shop but it has been developed,’ hecontinued. At this rate I may as well go home. I was too late for the group.

‘Well,it’s there,’ he finished abruptly.

‘So,it is more or less opposite where I am standing?’

‘Yes,’he concluded.

Ithanked him and raced over to the house. Hubby waved goodbye. The door openedand I could hear annoyed voices above.

Iclonked up the stairs and apologetically said hello.

‘Atlast, breathed the hostess.’ We thought you had decided you were too importantto come and visit us.’

‘Sorry,but the organiser gave me the wrong address. I have been outside number 19.’

‘Ilive at 19,’ shouted a woman from the corner.

‘Thehouse with the gates and the 2CV?’ I asked.

‘Ohno, I don’t live in this town,’ replied the woman.

‘That’senough, Dotty,’ said the hostess. 'Settle down everyone.' She herded me to a seat in the middle of ahuge circle of chairs.

Faces stared at me hostilely. I had made them wait afull forty minutes and they were mutinous. Theyneeded charm, and quickly. I stood up and did my ice-breaking party piece whichgoes like this...

‘Helloeveryone!' Pause to smile enigmatically ...nope, that didn’t work. ‘The last time I gave aspeech it was to a very large crowd and as I leant forward to speak I gottremendous feedback from the microphone which deafened everyone in the audience.I was so nervous I forgot my name. Not much chance of that today though,because it is here written in front of me' (pause while I hold up a copy of mybook. That should get a laugh. If it doesn’t, phase two usually does...) Continuespeech. 'So, hello everyone...my name is....' look confused...look at book...lookrelieved and say ‘Mini Skirts’ – hey presto, laugh guaranteed.

Thistime it didn’t work. The crowd stared at me without so much as a grimace. I felt like a comedienne who had just been booed off. Wow,this was going to be hard.

Undeterred, I launched into the whole, ‘how it came about’ thing and was chatting about howfacing 50 can be traumatic when I heard a loud snore. It was followed byanother. I know I can blabber away but I’ve never managed to send anyone tosleep yet.

‘Well,this is a first,’ I said and paused so everyone could hear the snoring. ‘I appearto have bored someone to sleep.’ Someone giggled. Another chuckled, and as theylooked around the room to find the culprit the tension lifted instantly.

The guilty party was soon discovered. The hostess’s large black Labrador had managed tosneak into the room in all the kerfuffle of me arriving and hidden behind thesettee where he was enjoying a nice snooze.

Thewhole event picked up after that and the audience warmed considerably. Thus, myadvice to all of you who are launching new books, and I shall be showcasing onein a few days, take a dog with you to help you out.

I wish I had had one when Idid my radio interview last week....but that, as they say, is another story.

'Thanks for the memory...'

2011-11-05T10:54:00.000Z

I was in France last week where the trees are resplendent with their hues of yellow, copper browns and deep reds. Even more colourful are the phenomenal chrysanthemums that are to be found outside every florist you pass or at every market you visit. The colours range from majestic magenta through to passionate pinks and glorious goldens. They are truly breathtaking.

I learned about the significance of these flowers many years ago through a genuine gaff.

As regular readers know I lived in France for quite a few years and my best friend Solange became my mentor in all things French. When I first met Solange, she, like many traditional French women lived with her husband, Didier, children and her mother-in-law, Marthe. They all co-existed in one enormous house which had been in the family for years. Her mother-in-law was an absolute tyrant. She ruled the house with a rod of iron and her son obeyed her every wish or command.

Solange couldn't stand the old bat. And, she really was an old bat. She used every trick in the book to ensure that she enjoyed a very comfortable existence and was waited upon by Solange and of course the gullible Didier. She had her morning coffee brought up to her claiming she was too old and frail to come downstairs for it. She had a small bell by her bedside that she rang to get Solange's attention. Didier insisted that they all looked after his dear Maman, after all, she was elderly and needed her precious son and family to help her now.

Marthe, of course was not old and frail. Yes, she was elderly but she enjoyed robust enough health. After a morning lounging about in bed ringing her little bell for Solange to fetch her a glass of water or a magazine to read, she would descend in time for lunch. Lunch was a regular family affair. The grandchildren and Didier, like many, would return home for lunch which started at 12.15 promptly. Lunch which, incidentally, Solange always prepared. Marthe would chomp her way through all the freshly purchased bread and delicious casserole that had been cooked. She would enjoy a glass of red wine with her meal and some cheese to follow.

She would laugh heartily at the children's tales about what they had done at school. Then, just before everyone went back to work or school she would claim to be very tired and remind everyone that she should have maybe not exerted herself too much, after all the doctor had said she maybe would not have much longer in this world.

'Ah, iz Maman not being very brave?' Didier would say to Solange. 'She 'as struggled to join us for zee lunch when she is so weak. She told me she had to make much effort today,' Didier would whisper to Solange on occasion. Solange would fume quietly but did not contradict Marthe. ' After all, one day zee old boot will, 'ow you say? One day she will actually croak!' she confessed to me.

Marthe became quite a hypochondriac and was always claiming to have this pain or that ache. She refused to even change the bedding saying it was too much for her.

'You are younger than me. You should look after me now,' she would tell Solange. 'Still, if it is too much trouble I shall ask Didier to 'elp me and explain 'ow you could not do it because you were too busy.'

Marthe kept up the pretence and pulled the wool well and truly over Didier's eyes. As far as his mother was concerned, no one was braver than her. He demanded that Solange look after her like a true daughter.

On November 1st, the first year I moved to France I was invited to supper at their house. It was quite an honour as they did not invite many people to their home. I knew it was important to create the right impression and so I spent a long time buying the right bottle of red wine for Didier. I chose some scented candles for Solange which I knew she had admired in a shop window, as chocolates would be a taboo for her. But what could I get Marthe? Driving past a florist's shop I saw the most gorgeous pots of chrysanthemums. I chose a large pot containing the most wonderful cinnamon coloured plant. The florist wrapped it beautifully in autumn coloured paper and asked if I would like a card made out to the recipient. What a good idea! I had a card made out for Mme Marthe Renard which was slipped into a pretty envelope which matched the plant exactly.

That night I bowled up to the mansion on the hill. I crunched through the gravel up to the front door where I was greeted by an effusive Didier who gave me the traditional three kisses; one to the left cheek, one to the right cheek and back to the left cheek. Then he uttered an 'Ooh la, la! ' of delight when I handed him his bottle of wine. Judging by the sucking in of his breath and the way he raced off to open his bottle, I had chosen well. Solange appeared, immaculately dressed, as always.

'I 'av only just finished in zee kitchen. Zee old witch 'as been very difficult today. I would like to make a voodoo doll of 'er and shove big pins in it!' she whispered.

'Solange,' shrieked an imperious voice. 'Shut zee door. I do not want my cold to get worse.'

Solange grabbed me by the hand and rushed me into the house to meet the dreaded Marthe. In front of the log burner sat a large, rosy faced woman. She looked the picture of health.

'Excuse me, I am not very well. Zee doctor says it is a miracle I am here at all,' she said and took a slurp of her sherry.

I greeted her in French and handed over my present for her. Her rosy complexion paled. Her hand shook a little. She opened the card and the colour completely drained from her face. She grabbed her glass of sherry and drained it.

Solange smirked.

'Is everything okay?' I asked as Solange whisked me away to the kitchen.

'Yes, my clever leetle Eenglish friend.'

'But your mother...the plant…the card?'

'Ah yes, I had better explain to you the significance of zis flower. You see, today is the first of November.'

'Yes, I know, and?'

'In France, we celebrate le Toussaint - All Souls Day. We go to visit our dead relatives in the graveyards and we remember them.' Solange paused for effect. By now I was even more confused.

'We remember zem by putting flowers on their graves; chrysanthemum flowers to be exact.' She chuckled. 'My mother-in-law was surprised to get such a flower and even more surprised to get such a pretty card which says 'In Memory of Mme Marthe Renard'.

'Like a rubber ball I'll come bouncin' back to you...'

2011-10-29T08:52:00.000+01:00

I know I often write about Hubby and may give the impression that he is a miserable old soul...well he is...but he is also a very generous miserable old soul. Come Christmas or Birthdays he huffs and puffs and complains like mad but he always buys me something nice and I totally appreciate his efforts.

That is, I normally appreciate his efforts, but last October, for some crazy reason he came home with a jumper for me. He looked extremely pleased with himself as he had not only got me an original present when it wasn’t even my birthday, but he had purchased it at a bargain price from a charity shop.

‘How sweet! How thoughtful!’ I hear you cry, deciding that Hubby is in fact a wonderful man and I am an ungrateful moaner (hmm, you could be right about that). Well, yes, the sentiment was lovely and definitely appreciated which was why I wore the itching, woolly bright red and black sweater out the next day. It was somewhat large for me and made me scratch like billy-oh as I am allergic to wool. It had a high polo neck and of all things a large giraffe on the front. It was outrageous to say the least. All that was missing was a pair of garish woollen pompoms hanging down the front like a bizarre pair of strippers’ tassels.

‘That looks nice,’ said Hubby. ‘It’s bright and cheerful.’

‘It’s certainly cheerful,’ I concurred gazing at my bright red face in the mirror and examined the wheals which were now coming up in protest against the wool. I managed to wear it all morning but by lunchtime I had to take it off. I itched terribly and my face was going blotchy.

‘It must be nice and warm,’ said Hubby. ‘Your face has a nice glow,’ he announced and went outside to check the tyre pressures on the car.

The jumper has been in the wardrobe ever since and Hubby seems to have forgotten all about it. He has not mentioned it to me once since I last wore it. Last week, as part of my ‘let’s declutter our lives campaign’ I was clearing out my wardrobe and pulled the jumper out again. I tried it on but sneezed violently, as not only is it hairy and scratchy, but it now is dusty and I am even more allergic to it. I yanked it on over my head and stared at the cheery giraffe on the front. I really looked a fright in it. It is still too big for me. I stuffed it into a carrier bag and took it to another charity shop in town.

Another campaign this year has been called 'let's go out more t=rather than stay in watching television'. We finally arranged to go out with some old friends who we haven’t seen for a very long time. We were to meet up last night at one of the smartest pubs in the area. As usual, I ‘pratted about’ for ages trying to work out what to wear. You can’t go dressed too smartly or you’ll stand out and you can’t just turn up in casual jeans – too scruffy. I finally settled on black trousers and a blouse - you can't go wrong with black! Hubby was worse than me. In fact it would have been a good idea if he could have started trying on clothes last month. He had every item he owns pulled out and laid on the bed.

Time ticked by and we ran late, as is always the case. Eventually, Hubby appeared dressed in his usual dashing attire – that man certainly knows how to dress, and we steamed off to meet up with our friends. We’ve known them for years and years. We all used to go away together on holiday and weekends when we were younger. We used to go out regularly but then life got in the way, and for them grandchildren arrived and so on. So, we were quite excited to see them again. It had been over a year since we’d last all met up.

We parked the car and entered the thronging pub. It was exceptionally full. There was a huge crowd around the bar area and eventually in the distance we could make out Steve waving at us.

‘Over there,’ yelled Hubby into my ear as it was pretty noisy and we squeezed past the hoards of wine-drinking yuppie sorts. Steve had grabbed a couple of seats around the table at the back of the room. His wife, Mary was sat down at the table. My eyes alighted on her and I gulped.

‘Wow, what a super jumper,’ said Hubby as he grabbed her around the waist and gave her a kiss. ‘Facing50 has got one just the same. I bought it for her,’ he announced proudly. ‘Good thing she isn’t wearing it tonight. You’d have looked like twins!’

Mary opened her mouth. I knew what she was going to say. I shook my head madly at her behind Hubby’s back. ‘Yes, I picked it up at a char....’ She saw me frantically waving at her, slicing my hand across my throat and shaking my head. Fortunately, Steve handed Hubby a pint of lager and started to discuss share prices which instantly distracted him.

‘Phew, that was close,’ I said to Mary and explained the situation.

Well, can you really see me
wearing this?

Anyway, we had a lovely evening and we’ll be seeing Steve and Mary again in a couple of weeks. You might all like to know that the giraffe jumper has boomeranged back into my wardrobe. Mary insisted I took it back as Hubby was obviously proud he had bought it. I paid her for it of course and now next time I decide to dispose of the ‘homing jumper’ I may take it on a very, very long drive and leave it outside the door of a charity shop hidden in a bag, in a town I've never visited before where I know no one.

'Be young, be foolish, be happy...'

2011-10-23T07:41:00.000+01:00

Somedays I think my mother is not ageing but has discovered some magic elixir andis rapidly headed towards her twenties again.

Forseveral weeks she has been in Cyprus. Normally, she phones on a Sunday to tellme what she has been up to – which party she’s been to, who’s house she hasbeen invited to and so on. This trip I have heard nothing from her. Not awhisper.

Somewhatconcerned about her, yet secure in the knowledge that had anything actuallyhappened to her, I would have heard about it from one of her many friends bynow, I have left endless text messages and tried to contact her to no avail.

Twoweeks ago I became sufficiently curious as to what she was up to that I actuallyasked Son if he had heard from her.

‘Oh,yeah,’ he mumbled in a shifty sort of way. ‘She’s fine. You know her. Busy andall that.’

Yes,I do know what my mother is like and I know my son and now both are being alittle more than cagey about the affair. Not for the first time either. I neverdid find out what happened when they all holidayed together earlier in theyear.

Ihad the same feeling you get when your offspring won’t tell you about his orher day at school or who they hung out with. Only in this case it is clearly mymother who is being evasive. Eureka! I would ask Girlfriend, She’s bound toknow.

‘Yes,I got a text recently from her,’ she paused to extract her slim line pink mobilefrom her equally slim hip pocket and scroll through the texts. ‘Here it is, fromlast Monday.’ She scanned the message. Snapped the phone cover shut and said.’She’s fine. Don’t worry. She’s having a great time,’ and scurried off to hidebehind Son before I quizzed her further.

Thecrafty old lady was definitely up to something. No one was telling me though.Hurrumph! I did what any grown up daughter would do. I sulked.

LastSunday at three o’clock the phone rang. It could only be one person. Finally,after six weeks of silence my mother was contacting me. I raced to the phone. Thetelephone handset wouldn’t work. (Groan, yet something else that has broken.) Ipressed the intercom button on the base unit on the floor and heard an echoingvoice shouting ‘Hello?’

Myhead wedged between the sideboard and the cupboard I yelled into the phone.

‘Atlast, are you okay? Where are you? What have you been doing?’ Oh goodness Isounded like a nagging mother chastising a child.

‘Hello!I’m fine. Having a great time and sorting out your next book for you.’

‘Whatdo you mean sorting it out?’My head was now squashed in place as I leanedforward to hear what my mother had to say.

‘Idecided I wanted to be more like the mother in your book. She seems so much funand so I have been getting up to mischief so you can use it in your sequel.’

She’salready like the mother in my book. How much more mischief can she possibly getup to? She hasn’t found a toy boy has she?

‘Whathave you been up to then?; I asked warily.

‘I’vebeen getting myself out and about a little,’ she hesitated and continued in arush. ‘ And I’ve got a job here, well, sort of job!’

‘Job?’I spluttered as my head stuck in one position. She’s 77 years old what on earthhas she been doing?

‘I’veactually been helping out in a club, behind the bar, serving drinks andchatting to customers,’ she continued in a rushed garble. ‘It’s great fun. Ionly do a few hours on an evening now and then, not for pay though, but I getlots of tips and everyone keeps buying me drinks. I’ll tell you all about itwhen I get back.’

‘Nextweek?’ She was due back on Wednesday.

‘No,I’m staying now until the end of November. They like me here so much they wantme to manage the place while they take a short vacation. I get on well with thestaff and they want someone to keep an eye on them all. I’ve got a really goodidea for the character in your next book. I’m going to test it out next month,she said changing the subject rapidly.

‘Goon,’ I said sounding like a school mistress.

‘Iwas reading in the newspapers the other about a lady from the North of the UK whowas a hundred years old. She was asked by her family what she would like forher special birthday. She didn’t want a cake. She didn’t want an orchestrahired who could play all her favourite music. She pooh-poohed all their ideasand then asked if she could have anything she wanted. They agreed that shecould have whatever she wanted, within reason. She chose a stripper.

I thoughtI might like to have a go at that, so next month there’s a sort of ‘Full Monty’act here at the club. I’ve booked the front row for myself and my friends and Ihave a bottle of baby oil which I may use on them! If I like it enough I mightget one myself for my next birthday. Do you think you might like to add that inyour next book?'

Myhead popped out of its fixed position in surprise.

For Mum and
those of you
who missed Chip Butty
at my party!

Whatcan you say? It seems that my next book is going to be full of madcap schemesand exploits that are helping to keep my mother youthful and full of fun. Iwonder if I could get Hubby interested in being more Todd like for the nextbook?

'It takes two...'

2011-10-19T14:37:00.002+01:00

A brief but very important announcement.

Today, I am being interviewed by a highly prestigious and respected person.

It promises to be very amusing. Click HERE and join in the fun.

'Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker's man...'

2011-10-15T13:07:00.000+01:00

Youknow when a light bulb finally blows in your house, it is usually followedalmost immediately by all your other light bulbs leaving you in completedarkness for a night? Well, everything we own seems to be simultaneouslyblowing up or breaking.

Returningfrom our last trip we discovered that the DVD recorder would no longer work. Itcouldn't receive any TV stations or indeed record from them. I was gutted as I record all my Desperate Housewives shows or Dexter and watch them when Hubby is asleep.

Hubby marched itto the repair shop having tried his usual repair technique of swearing at itand then thumping it to no avail. The repair man informed Hubby that the tunerwas broken and it would be very expensive to repair. He tried to sell Hubby anew machine which is always a mistake because Hubby reacts badly to that sortof pressure and the DVD recorder was brought back home.

'Wecan still watch our DVDs,' he hurrumphed. 'There's nothing but repeats on tellyanyway,' he complained. 'I'm not wasting hard earned money on replacingsomething that still functions.' - So we'll be watching our personal collection of DVDsfrom now on, purchased for Hubby's enjoyment which means 'Fawlty Towers' and 'Dallas' DVDs for a long time yet.

Ateleven o'clock that night we got a call from Son. His car had broken down againand he was stranded fifteen miles away. I had to go and fetch him as Hubby wasasleep.

Thisis the third time his car has broken down. It was repaired by the local garageand has been off the road for weeks. The first time the car was off the roadfor two weeks and we had to drive Son to and from work. it was like having himback at home again when we used to chauffeur him around all the time.

Thegarage fixed the problem and Hubby had a huge bill to pay for Son who couldn'tpossibly afford to get his beloved car mended. Then, several days later the carbroke down again. It broke down at five thirty in the morning while Son wastaking Girlfriend to work. The garage repaired it again for free this time butgetting it towed to the garage cost us a fortune.

Igave Hubby the good news in the morning. He groaned then got cross. This timehe was going to get it towed to a dealership and get it fixed properly. Hechuntered and grumbled and attempted to find a tow truck. I went to collect Sonand take him to work.

Thecar went off to the specialists. Hubby was satisfied that the problem would beresolved. Later that day he got a call from the dealership servicedepartment. They had isolated the problem...words like ECU unit, engine harness and corrosion were bandied around. Hubby's face went grey.

'Howmuch?' I heard him say. 'Are you sure?'

Inbrief the car was in a bad way. Coolant had leaked into the wiring and ratherthan bore you all to death I'll just say that to repair it would cost much morethan the car was actually worth.

Hubby stormed off to the dealership where wehung around waiting for a mechanic who could explain the problem. The mechanicwho had been working on the car had gone off to Manchester to collect a partfor another client and everyone was busy. We waited and waited. Hubby fumedsome more.

Eventually a stressed chap emerged wiping hishands on a rag. Hubby pounced on him. They then went into a huddle in front ofSon’s car. I stayed inside in the warm showroom and sent messages to Facebook.I could see Hubby waving his arms around and the mechanic now had a mirror outand half of the engine seemed to be being pulled out. They did some synchronizedstaring into the engine and head shaking.

An hour later I had answered all my emails,played an addictive game involving bricks and read several blogs. My phone batterywas now running low. I looked outside. Hubby and his new best mechanic friendwere putting the car back together and then Hubby shook the man’s hand. He emergedlooking pink faced and enthusiastic. It’s amazing how looking into a car enginecan enthuse some men.

He’d struck a deal with the mechanic and thecar was to be repaired in stages. I don’t understand how because my eyes glazeover once you start talking about wire components and corrosion. Hubby however, is confident that he can get the car repaired for a fraction of the price by startingwith replacing a component that they think is faulty and then progressing tothe more expensive stuff if, or more likely when, the car breaks down again.

‘No need to throw money at it if we can do itmore cheaply,’ he said wisely, waving at his new car buddy. ‘No point inreplacing something that still works.’

Thefollowing morning I decided to treat Hubby to a cake-banana and fudge. I gotall the ingredients ready and Hubby got excited about the whole process. Asregular readers know, he adores cakes and I limit his consumption. Last time Imade him a nice healthy carrot cake so he felt somewhat cheated. Banana andfudge seemed much more appealing.

Havingensured that I was actually going to bake it for him and not change it to a nut and wholemeal cake he toodled off to check theroof tiles which have all slipped down again. I plopped the relevant ingredientsinto my mixer, turned it on and recoiled in horror as it emitted a loud bangand thick smoke unfurled from it.

Hubbyreturned twenty minutes later wrinkling his nose in dismay, anxious that I hadburnt his cake. I explained that it wasn’t his cake but the motor that hadburnt out. I reassured him that as I still had the mixing bowl I could make hima cake by hand. He looked at the mixer in dismay and attempted to take it topieces. Eventually, he consigned it to the bin then went out to see a man abouta chimney pot cover – don’t even ask about that.

Hubby's new toy

Cake bakedI went on the internet. Much later I heard a kerfuffle in the kitchen and foundHubby unpacking a large cardboard box. In it was a brand new cake mixer.

‘Ithought you might like to try out some new cake recipes and you can’t do thatif you don’t have a proper mixer,’ he said.

Obviously,some things are definitely worth replacing. I shall remind him of that when Sonnext phones in the middle of the night because he is stranded.

Fat bottomed girls, you make the rockin' world go round...'

2011-10-07T10:18:00.003+01:00

Youknow the type of woman who weighs about seven stone, looks like a super modeland yet will sit opposite you in a restaurant and pinch a millimetre of skinbetween finger and thumb, plaintively complaining that she is 'too fat' to eatthe lettuce leaf in front of her!? Well, I have the opposite problem. Not onlydo I thoroughly enjoy eating I am constantly under the impression that I lookslim and svelte when in fact my trouser zips tell a different story as theybreak under the strain of my ever increasing waistline.

I amnot huge, but it is fair to say I have fairly wide hips and am no longer a size10 (UK size) even though I insist on buying clothes that are a size or twosmaller than they should be. I blame it on the manufacturer after all, I shouldbe able to squeeze into a size 12 at least!

Anyway,Hubby doesn't help matters. He is the first to point out that I need to 'getsome of that fat off!' and regular readers know that Mr Toujours Slim has triedon many occasions to help me lose weight. The problem lies in the fact that Idon't care if I am a few pounds over weight. I used to worry about it and now Idon't. I prefer to be healthy rather than starving hungry and always catchingcolds due to not eating properly.

Hubbyhas a point though. I am not skinny by any stretch of the imagination. A fewmonths ago this was really brought to my attention on a flight we took. Asalways Hubby took the window seat and I plonked down in the middle seat. When Isay plonked down, I mean, squeezed myself tightly into the seat. I could hardlyfit my hips in and had to bounce to shove myself into the seat. It was tight.It was really tight. Boy, was I uncomfortable. I was wedged in and afraid tosay anything to Hubby who barely filled his place. He had room to fit inanother person his size.

Tomake matters worse, a rather corpulent gentleman sat in the aisle seat on theother side of me. He too didn't fill the seat as much as me. Hubby was right. Ireally needed to get rid of some excess weight. Hubby stared at me as I refusedthe sandwich being offered to me by the air stewardess and his mouth quiteclearly dropped open when I also refused any wine.

'Youokay?' he asked shoving my sandwich into his mouth having wolfed down his own.

'Yes,fine thanks. Just don't want to put on any more weight.'

Helooked at me and nodded in agreement. 'Yes, very sensible. You could do withgeting some of that fat off,' he concluded as he licked crumbs from hisfingers.

Ispent the entire journey wondering if I would be bruised from the trip as myhip bones squashed into armrests of the chair.

Itwas only when it was time to disembark that I had to confess to Hubby that Icouldn't get up. I was stuck fast in position and couldn't stand up. Iwhispered my predicament to him. He looked at me, realised that I was indeedwedged tightly into my chair. He grabbed hold of me under the arm and hauled meout then stared intently at the chair.

'Iknow,' I said miserably. 'I need to get some of that fat off.'

Hegrinned wickedly at me. 'Well, maybe you could do with losing a little weightbut look again at that seat.'

Ichecked it and then realised what he meant. The arms had been put on the wrongway round so anyone, even a lettuce eating supermodel would have foundthemselves wedged in it. Somehow this had escaped the notice of the flightcrew. Feeling somewhat happier I disembarked with Hubby.

'Shouldn'twe tell them about the seat?' I asked.

'No,'replied Hubby. 'It might help someone else to try and lose weight. Now, I thinkwe need to take you on a nice long walk so you fit into that seat again on thereturn journey!'

Anyway,this week we went to the furniture store to buy a new kitchen set. Now that Sonis no longer at home breaking evrything we possess we are going to treatourselves to some new things and our kitchen table and chairs have sufferedover the years. They are ready for the great table graveyard in the sky.

Thefurniture store was empty-probably a sign of the recession. Tables and chairsand all sorts of goods were on sale at bargain prices. Hubby and I chargedabout like a couple of kids, sitting on all the comfy sofas, jumping on thebeds, and finally we discovered the tables and chairs. Wow, these were verystylish and modern. More bistro than country kitchen. One set was had a whitetable and stylish bright pink plastic chairs.

'Oooh!'I squealed letting my inner Barbie Doll out. Hubby played along and gamely satin the chairs.

'ShallI pour?' he asked pretending to serve me a cup of tea.

Thenext set had high chairs in leather. I slipped down those, my trousers making asort of farting noise as I slid. That gave us both the giggles. Luckily therewas a complete absence of sales staff. Probably it was their lunch break. Wefound a nice plastic set of chairs with polka dots on. I stood sneering at thembut Hubby plopped down in the nearest one.

'Careful,they don't look terribly sturdy to me,' I commented. he rocked backwards andforwards on it.

'It'sfine. in fact it's quite comfortable. Try one.'

'Nothanks, I don't want those in our kitchen. They are too retro.'

Hubbywasn't listening. He was tilting his chair backwards and screwing his headaround to see what else there was to try. That's when there was a tremendouscracking noise and he fell on the ground as the chair gave way. Shakinghis head in disbelief he got up unhurt. 'Load of Italian rubbish!' he huffed.

'Maybeit's you,' I offered. 'Maybe you ate too many croissants last week in Franceand you need to get some of that fat off!' I added triumphantly.

Helaughed. 'Only one way to get it off,' he added. 'Let's see if we can run outof the store and away before anyone notices we are here or anything is broken.'And he belted off faster than a greyhound out of a trap.

'The Lion Sleeps Tonight...'

2011-10-01T10:55:00.002+01:00

Refreshedafter two lovely weeksaway, I sat down straight away to write an amusing post about the last two weeksand discovered – zippo – nothing, nada, niente, nichts. Hubby has not doneone single thing for me to write about and apart from having to hang out in afield of sheep or a henhouse to read your blogs, life has been so quiet I haveabsolutely no funny stories for you!

Thisneeds to be rectified immediately or you'll all stop reading. I'll have to stoptaking Hubby away to places where he is ‘as good as gold’.
It's only been inrecent years that I have taken him away to small 'gites' or rental properties.We used to go on more traditional holidays. I would book a suitable hotel and then organizethe whole shebang rather than trug down to a travel agent and jump on a planefull of tourists headed to Ibiza.
Hubby has a particular loathing for most hotels.He despises noise. He loathes quarrelsome children and stroppyadults. Most of all he detests people coming in late at night, banging doorsshut and marching around their room in what appear to be hob-nailed boots,while he is trying to get some sleep.

Igave up taking him to those destinations after a rather unfortunate episode inMallorca. I'd found what seemed like a nice quiet hotel at one end of theisland, in the small resort of Puerto Pollensa. I checked up thoroughlybefore booking by using those tried and tested sites - ‘Tripadvisor’, brochuresetc. and discovered that the hotel was mostly frequented by old aged pensioners - allin all – an ideal destination for Hubby. What could be better than a nice quiethotel full of genteel folk who would all drink cocoa at eight o'clock and headoff to bed?

Iinformed Hubby that we were going to the picturesque part of Mallorca ratherthan the partying part where he could enjoy, sea, mountains and early nights. Finally,after much gentle persuasion he reluctantly agreed to accompany me and onesunny June day we boarded a heaving flight to Palma.

The hotelwas charming. It was slap bang beside the sea. Waves lapped gently against theshore in peaceful rhythmic motion and outside, little old men and ladies weresitting playing cards or having an afternoon pot of tea. Hubby graduallyrelaxed as I unpacked. We sat on the balcony and enjoyed the view and strolleddown for dinner at seven. The dining room was extremely crowded.

'Good,'said Hubby. 'At least everyone will eat early and clear off to bed.'

...Famouslast words. They were eating early because that night the hotel was putting ona flamenco evening followed by dancing. The ‘oldies’ clapped to the beat of theflamenco dancers and practiced their moves well into the night. Matters weremade worse however by the fact that the couple who were in the room next toours, and who were certainly not very aged, returned to their room in the earlyhours singing raucously. They then clonked about slamming drawers withthe television on full blast while Hubby sat bolt upright in bed fuming.

'Idon't know why others don't complain,' I mumbled from under the bedclothes.

'That'sbecause they are all old and deaf!' Snapped Hubby

Itried to placate him by saying the couple were on holiday and needed to enjoythemselves.

'I'mon holiday too. And, I need some rest,' he retorted, giving me a steely look.

Thefollowing night was even worse. The couple next door invited some noisy friendsto their room and sat outside on the balcony making a row until 4am. Hubbyasked them if they could 'turn it down a notch?' They told him to stop being astuffy old bore and made even more noise. Hubby seethed and threatened to leavethe next day.

All flights were fully booked, as were all other hotels.Mallorca was very popular. The hotel couldn't even move us to a different room in spite ofbeing understanding.

'They are regular clients,' they explainedwhen we complained. 'They are leaving the day after tomorrow though.'

Thatnight the couple crashed into their room at 2.30 am and put the television on againvery loudly. Hubby said nothing. I waited for him to start on yet anothertirade but he kept quiet...I was to find out why a couple of hours later.

At 5am when all was nice and quiet and I had finally dozed off, I awoke to seeHubby fiddling with the telephone.

'Whatare you doing?' I hissed.

'Shhh!'

Iheard a ringing. It was coming from next door. Hubby was phoning their room. Amuffled voice answered the phone on the seventeenth ring.

'Uuhmmmm!'It said.

'MorningJeff,' boomed Hubby. 'Hurry up! Tell Margo to get her knickers on!' said Hubbyin a passable fake Northern accent.

Therewas clearly confusion on the end of the line.

'Hurryup Jeff man,' yelled Hubby. 'The bus is here.'

'What bus?' mumbled the man from next door.

'THE bus, you know, the coach for the island trip,' boomed Hubby again. 'We're allwaiting for you.'

Therewas more incomprehension from the other end of the phone.

'Thatis you, isn't it Jeff? Oh 'ecky thump! Sorry, this isn't Jeff is it? I think I got the wrong room.Hope I didn’t disturb you.’

Heslammed down the phone looking satisfied. Ten minutes later he dialed the roomagain

‘Helloagain,’ he boomed. 'Thought I’d let you know Jeff is on his way. I just alsowanted to recommend the island trip though if you haven't thought about goingon it before. It’s very good. Have a nice day,' added Hubby loudly in hisnorthern voice and slammed down the phone.

We heardnext door get up and go to the bathroom. Hubby threw back the curtains andopened the veranda door very noisily. He took in a deep breath. He clatteredthe chairs on the balcony, slammed the veranda doors shut and turned on thetelevision loudly then went for a long shower whistling noisily.

Readynow for an early breakfast we left the room. Hubby slammed the door – twice.Just as we were about to go downstairs he noticed one of the housekeepingstaff. He nipped back in the direction of the room.

‘Whatwere you doing?’ I asked as he reappeared resembling the proverbial cat with abowl of cream.

‘Justturned next door’s ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign around on their door so it reads ‘PleaseClean my Room'. I also suggested to the housekeeping staff that I thought they’dgone out on the island trip earlier - just in case they fancied cleaning theirroom,’ he added innocently.

Youcan see why it's safer to hide him away in a 'gite' now, can't you? The problemis, that I have no writing material. So, I'll have to surprise him with a tripto a nice big hotel full of children and noisy families next time...or maybe Cancun during Spring Break!

'Oh what a night!...'

2011-09-17T12:05:00.002+01:00

Fishducky at last night's
party!

Whata night! I hope you all enjoyed the party as much as I did. It really was ablast and it was so fantastic to see you all there. I felt like it was a ‘real’party.

Likea true hostess I found myself immensely busy mingling and sorting out problemsso I sadly didn’t get to be there in the ‘chat room’ with you. I was dashingabout from Facebook to your blogs, back here, to town where I had a booksigning event running simultaneously, back here, Twitter etc.

Ireally enjoyed eavesdropping some of your conversations and reading suchgenerous words of praise. I actually found myself welling up at various pointsin the day though as I raced about visiting your sites and reading what you hadsaid.

Hatsoff to several of you who were here nearly all day; Fishducky and CrazinessAbounds are two who were more than entertaining. I really must thank Stephentoo who hung out here in my absence and was a great sub-host.

Well,as if all the comments here aren’t proof enough of what a fantastic bunch offriends I have here are a couple of statistics to emphasise that fact:

-The ‘Party Blog’ had 4,756 hits while it was active. I am not sure which roomwas the most popular but lots of you were in the chat room.

-MiniSkirts and Laughter Lines’ went rocketing into the Amazon Top 50 Women’s Fiction chart yesterday at some point when Iwasn’t checking it. I’m not sure how high it climbed but this morning when Igot up it was #50 having tumbled from a much higher position. You could have knockedme down with a feather! A heartfelt thank you to all of you who have bought it.

Allthat remains is for me to thank every single one of you. My words come fromdeep within and are accompanied by that soppy feeling that one rarely getsthese days when met with such strength of friendship and kindness. I am trulythe most fortunate of people to have met you all.

Ithas taken every waking hour and most of my sleeping hours to prepare this partyover the last few weeks so if you don’t mind I am taking a short breather fromthis blog until October1st. I have neglected you all and would now relish thechance to come and visit your blogs and catch up on your posts and also sayhello to those of you who stopped by yesterday.

TheWinners Page is ready and up – sadly,I had to remove one of the other pages to put it up. Could all winners email me as soon as possible so I can arrange to get their prizes to them please. I am leaving this partyevent up for the next week so you can still come by and click on various sitesand say hello. It is never too late to meet up with friends. You can still playthe games and laugh at the jokes.

Thank you all formaking it such huge success - I may even try a themed party for Christmas ifyou have enjoyed this one

'I'm coming out, I want the world to know...'

2011-09-15T22:57:00.001+01:00

Wonderful! You made it. Welcome to the 'Mini Skirts and Laughter Lines' launch party. Gosh, you do look nice. Come in! There is so much to do here today and so many new people to visit, competitions to enter and fun to be had, that I hope you have enough time to enjoy it all.
Of course, if you run out of time you can always come back later - the party will be going on all night all next day and into tomorrow night! I think I might need a holiday afterwards. I really am too old for all this partying even though my Mother says 'Pish! You are never too old'.

...But first let's have a glass of champagne and then I'll give you the tour of the house...There are quite a few rooms here. Just click on any of the highlighted room names on this page or on the names written in the tab bar below my blog header and you'll soon find your way about.
You may want to listen to some party music so help yourself to the jukebox selection on each page and choose whatever you feel like dancing to. Make sure you sing along too.
Behind each 'door' you'll find a group of party guests and surprises.

In the 'Lounge' or 'Living Room' as it is sometimes called, we have the Mini Skirts competition which is about to kick off (not literally, I hope). Watch out for the surly judges in there though. I don't trust their opinion so maybe you could help chose a winner for me. Leave your choice in the comments section please and three winners will be selected. Each will take away a bag of luxury make-up goodies to keep them looking beautiful and youthful, including a fantastic Clinique eye gel pen which helps erase laughter lines. It works! I know it does. I use it every morning.

Next to the 'Lounge' we have the 'Snug' which is a smaller lounge, where a host of comedians are telling short jokes. Go along and heckle if you fancy or indeed choose your favourite joke again by voting in the comments section. The winner will win a signed copy of my debut novel 'Mini Skirts and Laughter Lines' which is funnier than a barrel of monkeys - I never really understood that.

Over here is the 'Library'. If you find it is all getting a bit much for you, nip in here and read a few sample chapters from my book. It should make you chortle for a while.
Don't forget to collect a bottle of wine from the butler to take with you...

You may want to know what is behind the mysterious door marked '?' I can reveal to you that behind it is a very select panel of critics and reviewers - 'The aXe Factor Judges' who have been reading my book this last month. Today they will give their verdict on it. Will it be thumbs up? Or thumbs down?
I haven't read what they have said. I'm too scared to go in the room.
Would you go in for me and see what they thought of Mini Skirts and Laughter Lines? If you are one of the lovely folk who have already bought and read it, maybe you could add your own comment in the comments section. There is also an opportunity to win a prize in there, so don't miss out on that.

In 'The Kitchen' you will find a host of 'A' list celebrities - wonderful bloggers and friends - who have all helped to make this party go with a swing. You will also be able to read my interviews with one or two of them. And, if you click on the television button in the corner of the kitchen, you will be able to watch me in a video interview - yes, at last you will be able to see and hear the person behind this blog!

If you ever recover from the shock of seeing me, you need to stop off in the 'Dining Room' where there is a very select group of people - my Guests of Honour. One of them is about to give a little speech and if you click on his name you will be entered for a fantastic giveaway...you should definitely check it out.

    Watch out! You nearly fell over my mother and fishducky who are littering up the place again, singing raucous songs and holding a drinking contest.

Over here is the bathroom...no, nothing going on in there to my knowledge, although the character of Amanda in the book might have a different take on that!


If you fancy a bite to eat then nip outside to the 'Garden' where chef is cooking up a BBQ. There are some sumptuous hamburgers and salad.You will also find the ice cream man is waiting to serve you a delicious home-made ice-cream. He'll make up any flavours you fancy.

  ...No party would be complete without party games so click on the 'Playroom' to have a go at 'Pin the Tail on the Donkey', juggling or a game of darts with 'Son' who is lurking in there.

And last, but not least, this is the 'Conservatory'. This is the best place to be to watch the fireworks and the big launch a little later. Leave this one until last - you don't want to be waiting forever for the fireworks...the day/night is still young.

After the fireworks and the big launch of my book you will be able to see if you have won a prize in the grand draw. Have you kept your eRaffle ticket? A list of prizes will be up there and winning tickets will be pulled after the event so if you are tired after all the excesses of the party... another vol au vent?...another glass of fizz?...it might be an idea to check back again tomorrow.

This is a very social event so please make sure you leave comments - even if it is just a short 'hello'- wherever you go. It is just like an ordinary party and you have many opportunities to network, follow new blogs, add your own to be followed and just have fun. It is a huge social event. Have a chat with people in the chat room. Visit websites. Leave your name or site and we'll come and visit you. Follow whoever you want and 'wave' at a few new people.

So, if you don't mind, I'll leave to wander about and meet everyone. They are a very friendly bunch. Please sign the GUEST BOOK (i.e. leave a comment) especially if you are a visitor so I can visit you later.

Right! I'll catch up with you at the fireworks in the 'Conservatory' for the launch. Got to dash...more guests are arriving...help yourself to the buffet...and don't forget to put some music on.

'Choo, choo train, chugging down the tracks...'

2011-09-05T20:01:00.000+01:00

‘My leetle grey cells are working very ‘ard. Don’t turn around but I sink Madame Fifi La Belle ‘as just come into the luncheon carriage an iz’aving a secret assignation with Monsieur Le Docteur. I wonder what she ‘as done wiv ‘er ‘usband’

I glowered at Hubby. It was funny the first time he had adopted the accent but he had been playing at being Hercule Poirot for over an hour now and it was irritating me. It was my own fault. I should never have mentioned ‘Murder On The Orient Express’ as we boarded the train at Zurich.

He looked at me plaintively through the ‘Telegraph’ newspaper -Yes, he had torn out two eyeholes so he could look through his paper at the people in the carriage – and sighed. He put down the paper, obviously deciding that the game had gone on long enough and reached out for the last piece of Swiss chocolate. He had managed to get a whole handful from the flight attendant by looking at her through his long dark eyelashes when she was dolling them out on board the plane to Switzerland. He has one of those faces. He manages to look pleading and needy even though he is ruthless businessman. The attendant had taken one look at his puppy dog face as he stared longingly at the chocolate and tipped all the bars into his hand with a smile. He had just finished bar number six.

‘Well, how much longer is this journey going to take?’ He asked. We looked outside at the beautiful lake we were approaching. It was stunning, well; it would have been if it hadn’t been raining, hence Hubby was bored with looking at scenery through raindrops.

‘Another two hours.’

He groaned.

At that moment the far door opened and the ticket inspector announced his arrival

‘Les billets, s’il vous plait’

They are very strict on Swiss trains and I had had to fill in our special passes quite methodically before leaving the UK. They even had our passport numbers on them. If you travel without a ticket you would certainly face a hefty fine, if not worse. I looked at Hubby who was staring at rain which was running down the window,

‘Ticket Inspector.’ I said.

He looked blankly at me.

‘The tickets. You have them.’

He looked even more blankly at me.

‘Come on, don’t be an oaf. I took them out of my bag at the cafe when I was looking for the phone and asked you to take them because my bag was so full of junk and thy were getting crushed.’

He stared.

‘Come on! Get them out. You’ve got them.’

He looked me in the eye and said slowly, ‘No, I haven’t got them. You picked them up.’

Now, Hubby and I, like some others I know, often tease each other. The ‘I haven’t got the front door key’ game is one of Hubby’s favourites.

It started ages ago when I came hurtling out of the house behind him and shut the back door without checking to see if he had the key. It shut fast behind me.

‘Oh bother!’ I shrieked (actually, I didn’t say ‘bother’ but I do like to keep this blog clean) I haven’t got the key, have you?

‘Ha ha, you’re just pulling my leg and you really have the key,’ he replied.

‘No, I haven’t,’ I wailed.

I looked at his face and he looked as if he was about to laugh.

'You've got it, haven’t you?’

‘No, I haven’t. You’ve picked it up and you’re just teasing me.’

'No, really I am not. I haven’t got the flipping thing,’ I shouted in desperation.

‘Well, you’ll have to break in then, won’t you,’ he retorted, hands on hips.

‘I set myself up to break the kitchen window by putting my coat around my hand and armed with an old house brick which I found near the shed, I was about to break the window when he waved the keys at me playfully.

The game has been played many times over the years as we see who will cave in first, so understandably I thought Hubby was having me on as we sat on the train with the strict looking conductor headed in our direction.

‘This is no time to be playing silly games,’ I hissed.

Hubby looked affronted.

‘I am not playing games. You always have the travel documents and I didn’t hear you tell me to pick them up. I did have the large bag to carry you know,’ he snapped at me.

‘I was trying to carry your coat, the little bag and my handbag with all this stuff in it,’ I replied sulkily. ‘You are just joking, aren’t you?’ I asked one last time.

He shook his head and remained glowering at me sternly.

‘What are we going to do?’

‘You’re the linguist. You’ll have to explain to him,’ he said.

‘He’ll never believe me and we’ll get fined for sure. There’s even a big sign in English above your head that says we need to have a valid ticket.

Hubby continued to give me a huffy look. The conductor had almost reached us. I squirmed and looked one last time at Hubby. No, he wasn’t playing silly games with me. In fact he looked pretty annoyed. I cleared my throat. The conductor reached us.

‘Bonjour Madame. Les billets?’

‘Ah, bonjour Monsieur!’ I began and looked up at him intently so he would know I was telling the truth. But he wasn’t looking at me. He was looking at Hubby who had somehow managed to pull two tickets from under his newspaper and was innocently holding them out to the conductor who looked at them, nodded and thanked him.

‘Gotcha!’ said Hubby, peering through the two holes in his newspaper which he had once again picked up. ‘You need to use zee little grey cells some more, I think.’

'O The Camptown Ladies sing this song, dooda. dooda...'

2011-08-05T09:28:00.002+01:00

     You can usually tell when my mother is not is Cyprus. When she is back in the UK she rarely gets up to mischief and is often to be found in her flower-filled garden. She doesn’t go out and behaves pretty much like an elderly lady might.
     She potters out to the shops and terrorises a few people on the road as she drives in her erratic fashion, often parking as closely as possible to the next car, allowing herself and indeed the person next to her car no room at all to get in or out of the car door. She grabs her walking stick and heads off to the supermarket at a speed that equals her driving speed.
     I phoned her last weekend after my trip away for our weekly catch up chat. Normally, this is consists of what she has been reading, or watching on television or about her garden. I settled down to listen to her and tell her all about my trip. Imagine my surprise when the conversation went like this:
     ‘Hello Mum, how are you?’
     ‘Oh very well, thank you. Did you have a good trip?’
     ‘Yes, thank you. You would have loved it. (She adores history and would have thoroughly enjoyed   the palaces).’
     ‘Yes, I am sure I would. I wouldn’t have been able to go though because I went to the races.’
Pause while I check I have just heard properly.
     ‘Races?’
     ‘Yes, the ‘gee-gees’, the nags, the horses. Went to the races with a group of friends. Had a ball.....’
And so began her latest tale of fun and frolics.
     Last week a few of the local ladies in their seventies and eighties decided they would go to the racecourse. They booked a mini bus and got dressed up in appropriate Ladies’ Day attire, which meant hats, matching handbags and dresses. Betty and Ilsa turned up early in the morning to collect my mother.
     A fashion parade then ensued as they admired my mother in her hat and outfit and they all had a celebratory glass of wine before going on to collect Dotty. At Dotty’s they had another couple of glasses of wine and then went on to Maisy’s house. You are getting the idea now, aren’t you? There were twelve of them so by the time they had finally collected Rosemary and grabbed a bottle of wine from her kitchen for the remainder of the journey; the mini bus driver had his hands full with a bunch of cackling old dears.
     ‘He was a bit of alright too,’ said my mother, as she told me the tale. ‘Very muscular. Rosemary sat next to him and showed him a bit of leg when her skirt rode up as she clambered in,’ she guffawed. ‘A bit of leg and a lot of bloomers!’ she laughed.
     The ‘Girls’ arrived at the race course and stumbled out. They found their way to the nearest bar and set themselves up with sandwiches and wine.
     ‘The young girls just don’t know how to do it properly,’ commented my mother. ‘They don’t seem to eat at all. They don’t know how to enjoy themselves. They were dressed in flimsy dresses with enormous platform shoes and heels. They couldn’t walk properly and spent all the time complaining about their feet. They should have done the same as us. We took spare shoes!’
     Having consumed another bottle of wine, the dear old souls made their way to the bookies beside the racecourse. They organised themselves. Pooled their money and decided my mother would be the chief picker of horses as they were far too drunk to even read the names of the horses. She has a special ‘system’ that she has never revealed to me. Many years ago she used to pick horses from the newspaper with her father for races and I believe they had quite a lot of luck.
     They all agreed on her first choice Come On Eileen they placed their bet (a few pounds only, after all, they are all pensioners) and chatted up the businessmen nearby. Two of the men fetched them some folding deck chairs to sit on. Dotty attempted to take photographs of them to put in her album and label the her ‘toy boys’ but by all accounts she managed to chop off their heads in the photo. They then cheered and yelled at the horses as they started to run. There was a huge overhead screen showing the race and the wily bunch had managed to bag themselves ringside position beside the finish line.
     Betty and Isla did a merry Indian dance as their horse romped home in first place. They had won £10. The men who had got them folding chairs now volunteered to buy them champagne. They were on a roll now and by the fourth race as a group they had managed to ratchet up four wins of a few pounds each race but were on to win the tote (jackpot).
     The final race was the one that would decide all. Dotty wanted to chose Lucky Lady in the final race as they were all doing so well and were lucky ladies. Isla agreed and so my mother’s choice Get Out Of The Way was dismissed. They put their bets on. The businessmen had decided to choose the same horses as the women since they were clearly having luck. With bated breath they watched the last race on the screen. The commentary could clearly be heard as everyone watched eagerly, and went something like this (although I have changed the horses’ names to protect their identities! In truth, I just forgot their names):
     ‘...And they’re off...it’s Lucky Lady on the inside....followed by What a Day and Whose The Daddy...It’s Lucky Lady, Whose The Daddy and Bouncing Billy on the outside just ahead of What a Day.’ Approaching the first bend...Lucky Lady is still in the lead followed by Bouncing Billy and Get Out of My Way....round the bend...and it’s Lucky Lady followed by Get Out of My Way and Bouncing Billy now trailing in third place...down the straight and it’s Lucky Lady,...Get Out of My Way is edging forward and....Lucky Lady is clinging to her lead but Get Out Of My Way is advancing on the inside and it’s Lucky Lady pursued by Get Out Of My Way as they head towards the finish line and it’s.....Get Out Of My Way who takes the final race today and wins the prestigious Tatler Stakes.’
     The women groaned. The businessmen groaned. They went off to commiserate at the bar before finding their mini bus for the return journey. Finally, they made it back onto the bus although what Betty had done with her pink straw hat was a mystery until they saw one of the businessmen wearing it as he got into a taxi. They were still in hearty spirits though as they had had a great day.
     ‘What a shame,’ I said to my mother. If you had won the final race you would have been in for a big prize.’
     ‘Yes,’ she replied in a way that suggested she wasn’t at all upset.
    ‘You placed a bet on the side, didn’t you?’
     ‘Of course I did. I didn't fancy Lucky Lady's chances,’ the turf was 'good to firm'; much better for my choice. If only they had read The Racing Post they would have known.
     ‘So, what are you going to do with your winnings?’
     ‘I think I’ll put it towards next year’s trip. We’re going again. I think I’ll supply the wine this time. It should pay for a few nice bottles. I might even treat Betty to a new hat.’
She really does take the biscuit, doesn’t she?

Would you like to join in next month's on-line Mini Skirts and Laughter Lines party here at this blog? There will be prizes to win and lots of fun. If you would like to participate please leave me contact details below and I will send you a free -raffle ticket that could win you one of any prizes. Or email me at cewyer@hotmail.co.uk

'She's a model and she's looking good...'

2011-08-01T21:18:00.000+01:00

     Before I begin I really must thank both my mother and LG for doing such a fantastic job of looking after my blog last week. Huge thanks to those of you who attributed posts to me on the day – I was completely ‘blown away’ by them and all the good wishes and birthday messages left for me here and on various blogs.
     So the birthday celebrations have come to an end and all is almost back to normal in the ‘Facing 50 from the other side’ house. But what, I hear you cry, about your trip to Russia? Well, we were all wrong about Hubby – he didn’t get carted away and slammed in a jail for a practising his Russian which seemed to consist of Igor, Vladimir and Kalashnikov in a random order. He now knows that two beers are ‘dva pivo’ in Russian and mostly all he needed to do was keep quiet and look cross, so he was on a winner really.
     St Petersburg wasn’t his choice. He doesn’t like art, palaces, history or museums so he was very gracious in letting me choose it as my birthday destination. He did however decide that because it was quite an unusual choice of destination and one that might have huge photographic potential he would treat himself to a new camera before we went so he could take some super-dooper photos which I in turn could share with you all.
     Several weeks before the event, he spent days on camera sites on the internet checking out cameras methodically to ensure he would get the best one. As we all know, Hubby and technology do not get along so he had to get one that would take nice panoramic photos, had a good lens and good pixilation. He didn’t want anything too complicated.
     We spent six hours in camera shops talking to salespeople about the merits of SLR cameras, of the difference between a Panasonic and a Sony, of a whole bunch of things that went over my head and most certainly over Hubby’s. He hummed and ahhed. That is to say, he couldn’t decide which to buy.
     Finally, I made the decision for him. I chose one because it looked sleek and chic and smart. Hubby liked it. He took it home and sat with a very confused expression on his face for an entire evening as he attempted to work out how to use it. The evening stretched into the night. Five o’clock the next morning he got up and tried again to master the new gadget. Eventually he was happy; he could now take a photograph with it.
     He cleaned the lens and set it up comfortably in its new special case. He added extra foam so it wouldn’t get damaged. I packed the bags. He made sure it was set up on the right time and date. I cleaned the house. He read the on-line manual from cover to cover growling when he didn’t understand it. I washed the windows.
     All ready at last we set off on our adventure to St Petersburg. It wasn’t what we expected. It was like a cross between Paris and Budapest but bigger-much, much bigger. Paris on steroids. It was immense. Buildings towered over you. Palaces were, well, palatial. They were extraordinarily humongous. The streets were packed with traffic. The galleries and museums were stuffed with people. The river was like an ocean. It was just massive; and hot, very, very hot.
     Temperatures were supposed to be about 24 degrees centigrade that week according to the forecast. They were in their high 30s instead.
     The day after my birthday saw us at another enormous palace. The sun beat down on our heads and hoards of tourists shuffled about taking photos of fountains and gardens.
     Hubby was attempting to get a panoramic shot of a fountain but 978 Japanese people had just turned up and spoilt his shot. It was so hot. I stood and waited for him. It had been like this for the last three days. Hubby likes to get the perfect photo and will spend however long it takes to capture it. This usually means I stand for ages or go on a tour of somewhere because I can have covered a mile and got back before he has taken the photo.
     The Japanese carried on milling about. Hubby was grimacing and looking at his lens. He’d be ages yet. I stood under a tree and watched the world. At that moment grey bits appeared in my vision. It was like watching a reverse jigsaw puzzle- one where pieces are taken out, not put in. It was getting greyer. I suddenly realised, as the last piece was being removed, I was about to faint...
Blackness...
...I was in a warm bed at home. Someone was talking softly to me. It must be my mother. No, it couldn’t be her; she’d be coughing at me...
...I snapped back to life.
     I was surrounded by Japanese people who were nodding and looking at me anxiously.
     ‘You okay?’ asked one lady carrying an umbrella to keep the sun off her face.
     ‘Yes, thank you. Too much heat.’ I replied waving my hand like a fan in front of my face.
     I’d attracted a large crowd. They were all checking to see if I was alive. I even think one or two might have taken my photo. I assured them I was fine. They gradually moved off.
     I looked around for Hubby who was still where I had last seen him. He was checking his picture. He turned around and headed towards me oblivious to the minor drama that had taken place.
     ‘Got it,’ he said triumphantly. ‘I was lucky. I thought the Japanese people would never move out of the way but something caught their eye and they all scurried off.’
     He showed me his photo.
     ‘Like it?’
     ‘Yes, lovely,’ I replied. ‘It’ll be a nice memory of the day.’

If you would like to see some of the photographs from the trip then please click here. Hope you like them because they took some getting!

'You say tomaytoes and I say tomartoes...'

2011-07-26T13:56:00.000+01:00

Guess where we are - no, it's not London?

It's not so much 'tomaytoes' and 'tomartoes' where Facing 50 is currently hiding in a desperate hope that her birthday won't find her. It's more помидор {m}. I leave you to pronounce that however you want!

I have decided to share my birthday with you all and give us all a treat on the big day. That is if I have managed to master the hotel's cyrillic keyboard.

For the first time ever, I have invited another blogger onto my precious blog to write a post. I am very fortunate that he took time out of his incredibly bus schedule and flew over here to the UK to babysit my blog this week.

I could not have asked for a better blogger or more humorous, kind, friendly person to take over my slot here today. Ladies and gentleman....an exclusive here on Facing 50 with Humour...I give you... the one and only....utterly fabulous....wonderful....(have I bigged him up enough yet?....LG! ...Pause... while you all applaud like crazy.

Carol's impression of what LG looks like

LG (that's me; LG prefers to refer to himself in the third person but don't hate him for that...hate him for other reasons) is totally honoured to be Carol's guest blogger today. LG first discovered "Facing 50 With Humour" about 10 months ago or so, after which Carol graciously agreed to subject herself to an interview on LG's blog, creatively titled "The LG Report" (a highly-paid team of advertising geniuses came up with that name.) You can read Carol's charming interview by clicking HERE

LG, being an American, finds Carol's blogs particularly entertaining thanks to the humorous insights they afford into her life in England. The fascinating cultural differences are only magnified by her sparkling wit and keen insights. By the way, LG, being the good guest that he is, will attempt to adopt English spellings for words such as humourous/humorous and honoured/honored. As they say, "England and America, two countries divided by a common language."

LG after this interview?

One of the hallmarks of "The LG Report" is "The LG Report's Interview Series," in which LG peppers his interview subjects with mostly inane and childish questions in an attempt to get humourous responses out of them. With Carol, it worked in spades, she was terrific. So, adhering to the philosophy of "Go with your strengths," LG decided to conduct a series of very short interviews over on this side of the pond with some famous Brits, living and deceased. There is a 100% chance that LG will offend British readers of "Facing 50 With Humour" so, for that, he apologizes in advance. Please don't hit LG in the face with one of those notorious shaving cream pies that assassins use in England. Oooh, that's scary! American and other non-British readers: If you're not offended by what you're going to read below, you should be ashamed. And if you're not ashamed, then LG is offended. Follow that?

Without further adieu (or any adieu whatsoever, since LG has never really understood how the word "adieu" fits into that phrase), here we go:
[Oh, and the disclaimer: These are all totally imaginary and fictitious interviews; LG knows that England has strict libel laws and he doesn't want to see poor Carol hauled off to jail while he gives interviews to CNN well beyond the jurisdictional reach of Scotland Yard.]

~~~~~

[Former Mrs. Paul McCartney Heather Mills]

The LG Report: Ms. Mills, you started a very bitter divorce battle with a beloved Beatle, Mr. McCartney, but then, near the end, legal observers felt that you'd settled rather cheaply and quickly given what you could've gotten. Why?

Heather Mills: My attorney told me that I didn't have a leg to stand on.

~~~~~

[Former British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher]

The LG Report: Mrs. Thatcher, can you tell us any secrets the we didn't know while you were in office?

Margaret Thatcher: Yes, I'm a man.

~~~~~

[English Pop Singer Boy George]

The LG Report: Mr. George, can you tell us any secrets that we didn't know while you were still popular and not a washed-up has-been?

Boy George: Yes, I'm a man.

~~~~~

The LG Report: LG sees a pattern here. Let's move along...

[British Football (Psst: that's "soccer" to Americans) star David Beckham]

The LG Report: Mr. Beckham, you've been widely rumoured to have cheated repeatedly on your wife Victoria. Do you deny that?

David Beckham: I thought this interview was only about football you barmy Yank. I won't answer that question.

The LG Report: OK, then a football-related question: Have you ever cheated on your wife with another woman while watching football on TV? You know, like shagging in front of the telly?

David Beckham: Well, since we're now talking football I can answer. Yes, of course.

~~~~~

[Anne Boleyn, Queen of England from 1533 - 1536; second wife of King Henry VIII; she was beheaded by the King's men in May 1536 so that the King could marry Jane Seymour. No, not that one.]

The LG Report: Ms. Boleyn, it is said that you were executed on trumped up charges of adultery and incest just so that King Henry VIII could get you out of the way and marry Jane Seymour. What's your side of the story?

Anne Boleyn: [Silence. Technical difficulties here. Ms. Boleyn's publicist has informed us that since she has no head, she cannot speak to us. Sorry to lead you down this path. Let's move on....]

~~~~~

A new Harry Potter book?

[J.K. Rowling, wildly successful author of the Harry Potter series. You've probably heard of her work.]

The LG Report: Ms. Rowling, we're not sure if you're British or Scottish or Welsh or something else along those lines, we can't tell the difference anyway, but we do know that you qualify for this interview according to our loose standards. What's your next big project? You can tell us, nobody reads The LG Report guest blogging for Facing 50 With Humour anyway....

J.K. Rowling: Well, I've recently read a truly excellent book and would like to incorporate it into my existing oeuvre. I'm thinking of calling my next work something along the lines of "Harry Potter and the Mini Skirts with Laughter Lines at Hogwarts." Catchy, don't you think? Did you read Carol Wyer's great new book, "Mini Skirts and Laughter Lines?" (Carol: please make that title a live link to the ordering page; I'm not above throwing my hostess a blatant shout out!!!) I wish that I had written it.

The LG Report: Ms. Rowling, is Harry Potter gay? Nothing wrong with that, of course, we're just interested in knowing, as fans.

J.K. Rowling: No, actually I envision him as a cross between Margaret Thatcher and Boy George.

~~~~~

[International Pop Star Madonna]

The LG Report: Oh, wait, you're not really British, you merely moved to London and adopted a really phony and forced British accent years ago. Sorry, we're not going to interview you. Please take your traffic cone bra and get out of here. Actually, leave the bra, there's some construction on the street below and they may need it. Thank you.

~~~~~

[Heretofore Unidentified Guy With Really Bad Teeth]

The LG Report: So, sir, an English commoner we presume. A breath of fresh air. We needn't interview only celebrities. What part of England are you from?

Unidentified Man: I'm not, I'm actually from Detroit, Michigan in the United States. Everyone always mistakes me for a Brit for some reason.

The LG Report: Oh, sorry, our mistake. You are free to go.

~~~~~

[William Shakespeare, perhaps the greatest writer of all time]

The LG Report: Mr. Shakespeare, we're sorry to exhume your body for this interview but you look to be in pretty good shape. You haven't been composing any great new works, but you don't appear to have been decomposing either. So what's the greatest written work in the English language other than one of yours?

William Shakespeare: That's an easy one mate: "Mini Skirts and Laughter Lines" by Carol Wyer. Loved, loved, loved it. I wish that I had written it but, alas, to be or not to be, it just wasn't meant to be. I think I may have used that quote before somewhere....

The LG Report: Bill, don't you think that we're laying it on a little thick here in kissing up to Carol and her new book, as terrific as it is?

William Shakespeare: Nah, I'll bet you 100 quid that she runs this interview exactly as printed. And you know I'm really William Shakespeare if I'm using English slang like "quid."

The LG Report: Good point Bill. Thanks for going along with our interview today, you were the only one who we could dig up on short notice. We'll let you get back now, we know you're really busy, buried up to your neck, and have other things to do.

_____________________________________________________

From LG: Thanks once again to Carol for this wonderful opportunity to sit in at "Facing 50 With Humour," LG has enjoyed every minute of it and we hope that you have too (if not, no need to comment below, just get along to the next blog....) And happy birthday Carol (LG is not sure of the exact date); we hope that you enjoy your special day and have many, many more!

'The Sound of Silence...'

2011-07-23T05:59:00.001+01:00

By the time you read this I will have gone away. I am triggering it to post when I get to the airport. I hope it looks alright on the blog. As you know it is my birthday week and as part of the celebrations I have two surprises for you. One is now and the next is on Tuesday.

Please forgive me as I can’t answer comments until I get back but I shall certainly read them all and reply next weekend. And so, onto the first surprise....

   Well, here is another first for me. I have written this out and send it to her ladyship to type and post it on her blog. Who am I? I am the one person who knows her better than she knows herself. I am the one person who could tell you tales about her that would curl you up into a ball with laughter. Yes, I am Facing 50’s mother!
     I must say I was rather flattered to find I had such a fan club here. I shall take this opportunity to that all of you for your kind wishes and for not taking what is written about me too seriously. You must all think I am some sort of partying wino- of course I am not. But life is for living and when you get to my age there doesn’t seem much point in being goody two shoes all the time.
     My dear daughter phoned me a couple of weeks ago and asked for my help as part of her birthday celebrations. I am no writer but I agreed to assist - after all that what mother's are for. Given that she has skedaddled off to some far away country in a vain attempt to forget her birthday I agreed to look after the slot for and keep it warm. She has given me carte blanche to write about whatever takes my fancy, and given that she has written quite a lot about me, I am here to redress the balance.
So I have her permission to tell you all a story about Facing 50 or as we always knew here - Miss Chatterbox.
     She was always a verbose child. Normally, a mother eagerly awaits her child’s first words. I was no exception but it soon became clear that my lass was one of those chirpy chattery children. From a very early age she would rabbit on and on about nothing and everything. She would start chattering first thing in the morning and not stop all day long. It got to the point where I stopped listening to her as it was a constant stream of noise. We got used t the ‘white noise’ of her monologues and would tune her out. In fact she was so full of words and talk that it continued into then night.
     One night she went to a friend’s house for a sleepover. The mother went in at about midnight to check the girls were asleep. Facing about 7 then sat bolt upright in bed as she entered the room on tiptoes and said in a loud voice ...And teddy said...” then promptly went back to sleep. The mother was always curious to know what teddy had said.
     If we went out anywhere she would jabber away at complete strangers and tell them all about how to make scotch eggs or the difference between a tractor and a combine harvester. She would tell them all about her life, her family and what she thought about things. Even then she was quite the entertainer.
As she got older I thought she might become an actress, given as she was, to non-stop chatter. She had a severe case of verbal diarrhoea. When she decided to become a teacher I wasn’t too surprised. She would have more lines to speak as a teacher than as an actress.
   One day, when she was about Facing 22 and I, funnily enough, was Facing 50 myself, she came to my place of employment. There was a Christmas party being held there and Miss Chatterbox was invited too. She got into it rather quickly and soon charmed all my bosses and friends. I admit that socially she was rather good. She also had her glass topped up quite a few times and by the end of the afternoon she was somewhat worse for wear and talking even more than usual.
     We caught the train home. The compartment was stuffed full. I managed to sit at one end of the carriage and Miss Chatterbox wedged herself in next to a businessman with a newspaper. As I sat there and the train rumbled home I could hear Miss Chatterbox yacking away about the meaning of life and then she started telling her life story. I winced and pretended I didn’t know her. The entire carriage began to listen as she regaled tale after tale, some rather amusing but I had heard them before and was more concerned about my throbbing feet that had been in new high heel shoes all day which I had rather stupidly worn for the party.
     The train journeyed home. My feet screamed in pain as a new blister rubbed the side of my shoe. Miss Chatterbox was in full swing talking 19 to the dozen. She was holding court at the far end to a group of fascinated listeners. She was telling a story about how, when she had been working in Paris, one day waiting outside the metro a man approached her and asked in French of course, if she would ‘faire la pipe’. My lass, not speaking French that well in those days, thought for a moment and then said in passable French ‘Non, je ne fumes pas’ He wasn’t of course asking for a light for his pipe or indeed asking her if she smoked a pipe he was asking if she would perform an act of oral sex, having mistaken her for a hooker. The crowd laughed raucously. She was on a roll here too.
     I suddenly realised we were at our stop. I waved at her to get out. She just waved back and carried on chatting. I stood up to go and motioned for her to join me. She carried on obliviously. The whistle blew to announce the train’s departure. I shouted her name. She didn’t hear me. The train door shut and the train pulled out with Miss Chatterbox sitting inside still talking to her new friends.
     She has always had a propensity to speech and stroy-telling so I can understand how it has now manifested itself in blog form. I am so happy that she has all of you to chat to and thank you all. Be warned though. Once she starts she can’t stop.

...Don’t worry – she found her way home eventually. She stayed on the train until it reached the end of the line and came back again. No doubt she entertained another carriage.

'The Games People Play Part 2....'

2011-07-13T07:19:00.001+01:00

To continue with the story from Sunday's post....
As you may recall, we were spending time last week in a tiny village or hamlet in South West France. Like all hamlets, villages and towns, the plac seemed to be completely unoccupied until the great day of the Petanque competition.
     Everyone was gathered in front of the church situated at the very top of the hill in the sweet hamlet. A couple of small lengths of flattened gravel had been created overnight and a large crowd was beginning to swell under the tree that shaded the spot. This was the sacred Petanque square -although in truth it resembled more oblong than square.
     The British team had just emerged from their old jalopy of a car and were in high spirits. Hubby was called over to the team for a team talk and to discuss tactics. Stan was busy explaining about his precious boules which were his 'champion boules' given to him by his grandchildren. He cherished these balls and only used them once a year. He was, however willing to lend them to Hubby, who of course did not own a set. Hubby assured him that he would take great care of them.
     I sat on the ground with our stepdog, next to Mme Fou Fou la Folle's donkey, who by now had a nosebag and was happily distracted. Everyone from a fifty mile radius had gathered. This was a big day.
     Tactics discussed, the men took up position with the other teams to be read the rules by the local Mayor. He had decided that today was important enough for him to wear his uniform and medals. He was also on one of the teams. Hubby's team, consisting of Eric, Stan and Dick were listening with glazed expressions-obviously the pre-team livener was wearing off by now.
     Everyone huddled into groups. Boules were extracted from cases and polished methodically. Suddenly a loud rattling noise could be heard coming from afar and up the hill chugged a large orange rusty tractor. Hubby's team gave a collective groan. The opposition looked triumphant.
'Sneaky frogs,' whispered Stan. 'They've brought out Le Vieux Garrou from retirement.'
     The tractor and clanking trailer advanced slowly. The gnarled walnut coloured weather-beaten face of an old farmer hunched over the wheel, determination written all over his face, could finally be seen as he inched up the steep slope. He arrived in a smelly cloud of red diesel fumes and parked outside the Bakery. Fumes belched over the crowd gathered ther but they didn't mind because this was their hero; Old Garrou, regional Champion of Petanque, who lived in the farm in the valley, thus was a member of the hamlet. Even the donkey stopped eating and viewed him with awe. He patted a small dog on the head as he creaked his way down to the Petanque area. I half-expected people to chant 'Vivre Le Garrou'.
Stan was distraught. He explained all to Hubby.
     'Okay,this makes it harder. You really have to watch old Garrou. You just do what we say and we'll be okay. Well, I hope so because I had a bet with Albert and Bernard that the Brits would win the match this year.'
     The game began. Glasses of wine were poured for the participants. The first Frenchman stood up to the line and bent his knees dramatically. He raised himself and lowered himself in an effort to limber up, then threw the small cochinette into the gravel further down. The crowd applauded. The first boule was lifted in a limp wristed stance and flicked beautifully, to land neatly with appropriate thunk noise near the cochinette. The crowd applauded. And thus it continued. Tape measures were pulled out, much gum sucking went on and distances from the cochinette were measured with care. After a while I decided the donkey was much more interesting than the match. However, I was apparently the only one, as everyone else was glued to it, everyone apart from the step dog who had wisely gone to sleep.
     Eventually, having won their rounds, Hubby, Stan, Eric and Dick were through to the final match. Several bottles of Ricard and wine had been consumed by now and they were all rather excited at having made it this far. It was hot. Some of the crowd were chattering to each other by now. The chickens had found their way into someone vegetable patch and were helping themselves to some ripening tomatoes and peas. The cats had dozed off.
     The Brits were doing well. Sid threw a super shot, his bowl landing very close to the cochinette. The French team had a few words in a huddled group. Bernard threw next. He took a measured look at the situation and throwing high glanced a blow against Sid's boule which knocked it away from the cochinette which now lay to the left of the 'pitch'.
     Hubby was next to throw. He bent down and up again in fluid movements. Sid licked his lips. Hubby aimed for Bernard's boule so he could get closest to the cochinette and yes, he knocked it away making the cochinette move further to the left.
    Old Garrou cackled and came up to the line. He didn't need to practise. With one expert twist of the wrist he flung the boule high in the air. It propelled from his hand like a missile and with a tremendous 'clack' and whalloped into Hubby's boule which leapt into the air due to the force. Old Garrou's boule stopped dead, right next to the cochinette. Hubby's boule however, did not. It shot off the pitch.
     As I mentioned last time. The hamlet is right on the top of a hill with a 1:6 incline. Hubby's bouleerupted from the pitch and was propelled with velocity towards the hurch where it appeared to slow. It gradually came to a halt and teetered for a split second on the edge of the car park, slowly gaining in momentum again, then suddenly lurched forward down the gradient, gaining in speed down the slope.
     'My boule!' yelled Stan and started after it followed immediately by Eric and Dick and of course, Hubby. Like an old black and white Keystone Cop movie, the quartet ran down the slope chasing after Stan's precious boule. Back on the square the French watched bemused and applauded as Le Vieux Garrou and his team collected the cup for winning the '21ieme Concours de Petanque'.
     Happily, he sent one of his sons down in the tractor with the trailer to collect the team, who having finally caught up with the boule were hot and bothered. They were brought back up the hill where they were cordially invited to share in a post match feast which of course involved much red wine and I believe, a settling up of a debt.
     Hubby however, has declared that was his first and last Petanque match. It turned out to be far more effort than he intended. Also a valuable lesson has been learned - never take on the French at their national sport. Eric, Stan and Dick though have a cunning plan- they are challenging the French to a game of cricket next month. Thankfully, Hubby and I won't be there to participate.

'The Games People Play...'

2011-07-10T11:17:00.001+01:00

There is something always special and oldy-worldy about France. As you may know, we have been fortunate enough to spend a week, dog sitting, in a particularly pretty part of 'La Belle France'.
     The small hamlet or tiny village where we spent the week is situated smack bang in tranquil countryside. Fields of sunflowers surround the hamlet of stone shuttered houses which are perched high on a hill. This in turn is reached by a 1 in 6 incline in either direction. Great for walks and for improving leg and bottom tone we strode out each day with the dog. How we love France!
    What always surprises me is that no matter where you go or what time you travel in Southern France, every village or hamlet appears to be shut. Shutters are closed tight and there is no life to be seen or heard. Such was the case in the hamlet where we stayed. The only clue to the fact that there were any inhabitants in the twenty houses that were scattered about on the hill top were the abundance of pots of geraniums and periodically the aroma of cooking.
     Whatever time we went out, we saw no one. Even the small church was shut and the baker had a sign in her window indicating she was out on deliveries and should we require any bread, a return trip at about four o'clock, might find her there.
     Instantly relaxed we enjoyed the warm days of Summer. Nothing disturbed us but the sound of bird song, bees buzzing lazily and the occasional donkey braying in the distance. That was until the third morning when we awoke to the sound of the dog barking, alerting us to the presence of visitors.
     'Morning!' yelled an English voice through the railings. 'Hope we're not disturbing you,' continued the voice of someone from up North in the UK.
     We opened to gate to be greeted by two red-faced Ex pats who held a bottle of local red wine in their hands. Hubby looked at the wine in bewilderment.
     'Well, this is France and it's only three hours until lunch,' said the first by way of explanation. '
     'There's another reason for the wine,' continued the shorter of the two men. His accent smacked of Yorkshire. 'We need your help.'
     The wine opened and all of us sitting on the veranda, they explained the problem. The dog's owner has gone off on holiday forgetting completely that it was the annual petanque competition in the hamlet that week. It was for people residing in the hamlet only. He was an essential part of the team and without him the men knew they would be well and truly thrashed by the local French team who took great pride in their prowess at playing petanque. They had decided in their wisdom, that as we were temporarily living in the hamlet, then we qualified as residents. Thus, they hoped that Hubby would agree to act as substitute.
    For those of you unsure of the game of Petanque, it is similar to Boules, the national French sport. Groups of people, mostly men, spend hours perfecting the art of throwing or rolling metal balls in a game similar to our sport of Bowls. Medium sized shiny balls are rolled towards a small ball or as it is known in French; a cochinette. The person whose ball is closest to the cochinette wins. There is a lot of skill involved and a huge amount of pride. Petanque requires a particular way of throwing the balls however, rather than rolling, although after several glasses of red wine we were even more confused about the rules than before.
     Hubby reluctantly agreed to stand in and be the fourth British team member, after all, how difficult could it be to throw a ball at another ball? Delighted to have a full complement of Brits to enter the competition the men weaved out of the door and into an old Renault 5 which wheezed down the road in the direction of the nearest town -no doubt to celebrate at the local bar. I highly suspect that that hadn't been their first bottle of wine that morning.
     The big day dawned bright and sunny. Brightly coloured bunting had mysteriously appeared around the hamlet overnight and several dozen cats had gathered in the streets to no doubt watch the spectacle. They hung about on walls and steps watching through half open eyes. Large signs hung from the church announcing the '21ieme Concours de Petanque'. Still no one was visible. Painted shutters remained closed. The baker's shop had a sign up announcing she was shut due to the special 'Fete Petanque'.
     At 12 o'clock on the dot the church bells unusually, rang out, loud and long. Shutters magically flew open and aged French men and women appeared from nowhere making their way to the square where the competition was to be held. We knew they were French because they shook hands with all their friends or kissed them on each cheek several times, and as if that wasn't clue enough they all sported blue berets.
     Quite a crowd was forming. Wizened old men carrying small cases which obviously contained the precious boules scurried to the meeting place, a smell of aniseed filled the air. The cats seemed to club together silently. There were certainly more people here than the occupants of the twenty houses of the hamlet. Women were getting out long baguettes and laying out ham and cheese on tablecloths by the side of the road. Plastic bidons of red wine soon joined them. Then large bottles of Ricard. The women cackled into their aprons and brandished dried sausages animatedly as they chatted. Chickens began to gather in front of the church to join the melee having been let out of their yards. Mme Fou-Fou La Folle arrived on the back of her donkey carrying more baguettes like a bizarre Don Quixote. It was, in short, a sight to behold.
     The air was ripe with good humour. People who had probably lived in the same hamlet for decades were greeting each other as if they hadn't seen each other for months. Suddenly, there was a frisson of tension. Up the road trundled an aging car, horn honking, fumes belching from the exhaust. Les Anglais had arrived. The same men we had met earlier that week tumbled out of the Renault 5 having gone into town for a 'livener'and greeted the French with loud and hearty 'Bonjour's' and handshakes. The French grunted gruff replies but these men were no longer their friends and neighbours, oh no, these men were now, the opposition - the enemies
Please join me on Wednesday to find out just what happened at the '21st Concours de Petanque' that made Hubby swear he would never again play Boules with a Frenchman.
To be continued.....
P.S. My computer refuses to write in french with correct accents so apologies to all french speaking people.

'I am a passenger...'

2011-07-01T12:16:00.001+01:00

I’ve always loved travelling but I haven’t always liked the person who sits beside me for the duration of the trip.
I journeyed a lot by train in my youth and perfected the art in avoiding my travelling companions. It started after a particularly arduous journey from Scotland to the South of England when I was joined by a sweet old lady, who managed to gabble the entire journey, without taking a single breath. I might be wrong about the breath bit, but boy could she talk...for hours. I knew absolutely everything about her by the time we disembarked from the train, and I was utterly exhausted.

From that moment on, I always avoided eye contact with any passenger and wore headsets, admittedly they weren’t plugged into anything because I didn’t own a tape machine at that time, but I would nod my head as if listening to some modern pop song and hum occasionally as if singing along. It kept people around me quiet.

I perfected a range of tricks. One of these was the ‘foreign language speaking person’ trick. If you don’t want to get involved with someone who has the audacity to try and engage you in conversation you pretend to not understand.

‘No eeenglish, I am Roosky’ you say, stab yourself in the chest with your finger and look cross.

Mind you, you have to be careful that the person won’t suddenly launch into the said language because there aren’t many ways of extracting yourself from it. Maybe shake your head and say:

‘ No, no, I am RooskyLifWaynean’ and keep your fingers crossed that the person hasn’t done a crash course in Lithuanian too, or you are stuffed!

When Hubby and I go by plane, Hubby always has to have the window seat, which means I always end up sandwiched between him and whoever sits the other side of me. He never has to put up with a stranger. The last flight however, we found ourselves in opposite aisle seats, which meant we were both going to have strangers beside us. Hubby dropped down into his seat in a funk. He loves staring out of the window and that pleasure was to be denied him.

I gazed down the aisle and saw an elderly lady approaching. She perked up when she saw me. I had already met her in the toilets at the airport and knew all about her ailments, her grandchildren and her cat. Hubby looked rather gleeful as she was clearly making her way to my row. She stopped short beside me and looked at her boarding pass.

‘Oh dear, I am behind you. What a shame,’ she said. I flicked a look of relief in Hubby’s direction but his attention was drawn to the man struggling up the aisle with a wailing child. Another followed, screaming in annoyance, being dragged along by a perplexed and flustered mother. We both shrank into our seats with synchronised precision, grabbing hold of our copies of the in flight magazine which we stared at intensely. The father was looking at his boarding pass and making for us.

Hubby’s biggest fear is a screaming child. Last time we flew, we sat in front of a Chinese man who could not control his baby’s screeching. It was ear-piercing. The child’s mother wasn’t on board and the father spent the entire time saying ‘Dadadaddadadadddaaaddda’, until we didn’t know what was worse-the child or the father. It was positioned directly behind Hubby’s right ear and wailed like a banshee all flight until ten minutes before landing. Hubby tried to be moved but the flight was full. The air stewardess just looked at him with sorrow and gave him a couple of bottles of wine to numb the pain. He seethed all flight. I spent the whole flight with my fingers in my ears, wincing at the screeching and Hubby’s chuntering.

I digress. The family slowed as they approached our row.
’If they stop here, I’m getting off the flight,’ said Hubby out of the corner of his mouth.
I kept my head down and willed them to keep walking-they did- right to the very end of the plane. A long exhalation escaped Hubby.

A few minutes later and after some considerable shuffling, a red-faced couple bowled up, carrying several huge bags. They puffed and wheezed their way to me and nodded. They were my neighbours. I stood up to let them in and smiled weakly. They were Hungarian so at least I’d be spared chatty conversation. Hubby smirked because I had got the couple who spill out into your seat as well as their own. They and their bags just about crammed into the space. I’d be hanging out in the aisle all flight.

A seductive, long-legged beauty sashayed up the aisle. Hubby sat up keenly. I gave him a withering look and he grinned back. She walked by. Hubby deflated and shrank back to his proper height. The beauty was followed by a businessman- his new window seat neighbour- who sat down and promptly got out an entire office from his briefcase: laptop, phone, earphones, books and general clutter. He must have had an important deadline to meet.

Pleased because there were no further passengers boarding, and because he now had a free seat next to him, Hubby gave me the thumbs up. What a jammy devil! He grinned again as my neighbour knocked open my tray which hit me on the knees as he tried to pull out a bag and extract a large salami sandwich from it. The air stewardesses were banging shut the overhead lockers. Just as they shut the last one, a woman with bright orange hair rushed on board.

Heavy scent instantly wafted into the cabin. Dior? Channel? Yes both of those, and a few other strong scents too. Someone had been trying out the samples at the duty free shop. Or indeed, had marinated themselves in every scent available. As she approached, the cloying smell became overwhelming. She marched down the aisle, gazed at Hubby purposefully and asked him to put her bag in the overhead locker for her. Nose twitching, he assisted her and then sat back down and sneezed violently.

His reward for helping her? She spent two hours talking in an extremely loud voice about the sexual activities of her now ex-husband, and how she had caught him having sex on the washing machine with the au pair. Hubby sat open mouthed and embarrassed.

As Hubby and I spilled outside into the fresh air and inhaled a huge lungful of it to dispel the aroma of various perfumes, he suggested that maybe next time we could drive to our destination. He could be right.

'Celebrate good times, come on...'

2011-06-28T11:28:00.000+01:00

I know some of you will be disappointed because this was the final cover, but I counted up all the votes, including those on Facebook and emails, and this one won by three votes! Hubby was pleased he had picked the winner.
The reason for me posting today? Big news. My book is available to download from Smashwords if you click HERE. I'm not forcing it upon any of you so don't feel obliged to rush over and buy a copy, but there is 15% of the book free to read and the entire book only costs $3.99 .
It's available to download onto your computer or your Kindle etc. if you are one of those people who has a very generous husband (or wife!).
I would like to thank all of you for your support and one or two of you even have a mention in the acknowledgement section.
Don't forget if you enjoy it to review it there at the website.
I have my fingers crossed that the printed version will be out in a few weeks.
I am now writing the sequel - and my next post, of course.

'Jumping Jack Flash....'

2011-06-26T09:38:00.002+01:00

Three days after we returned from Budapest, Hubby was sitting looking morose in the lounge. He had the UK blues.

‘Summer!’ he huffed and stared out at the grey skies that seem to be the norm nowadays here.

At that moment the phone rang and an old friend from France requested my help. She needed me to come and bark at some French burocrats who were confusing her with jargon- filled letters about taking her to court over something she actually hadn’t done. Now, I’m not the worlds best at speaking French. I’m good, but there are better. However, when I speak, as long as I have prepared my grammar in my head and don’t make any major faux pas, French people nearly always think I’m French too. Why? Because, I have perfected the art of mimicry. It’s not what you know it’s how you say it. I shrug my shoulders and ‘pfft’ with them. I pout and say ‘ah ber wouay’ instead of oui. In short I don’t speak French like an English person does and that usually helps my cause, or in this case, hopefully my friend’s cause. She has lived in France for several years and can still only mange ‘Bonjour’ and has no French friends.

Hubby seized on this opportunity to join me and we extended the stay by a few days. I’d only be needed for a day and we would be able to enjoy the French hot bright summer instead of the UK woeful one.

Naturally, I took my beloved laptop. It weighs a tonne but hey, that wasn’t going to prevent me from taking it. Hubby glowered when he saw me struggling to shove it into my backpack.

‘You don’t need that,’ he grumbled.

‘I do, I have lots of important work to do on it.’

He stared at me knowing full well that important work actually meant blogging about him to you.

‘You can have a McFlurry while I check in at McDonalds,’ I offered.

Marginally appeased by that thought he let me take it.

Imagine my uncontrolled joy at discovering there was wifi in our rented accommodation! We rolled up to a sweet pigeonnier in deepest tranquil France where your neighbours had woolly coats and bleated or had feathers and crowed. It was Hubby’s idea of bliss and what makes Hubby happy makes me very happy. We unpacked and sat out to watch the sunset. Silence reigned. Hubby sighed contentedly. All was well.

I sorted out my friend’s problem. I waved my hands a lot and got into a very heated discussion with a French man who had an incredibly twirly moustache. I won’t bore you with the details but we emerged triumphant and celebrated with several bottles of wine. Hubby was at ‘home’. A cockerel was attacking the hire car with ferocity, pecking at it incessantly. Hubby was reading contentedly. He wasn’t even bothered by the cockerel.

'Stupid thing,' he commented.

The next day it was sweltering. Hubby hid under a tree and beamed at the cockerel that was by now trying to mount the hire car and pecking the roof.

'Daft bird. You think it'd have given up by now. Ah, a perfect summer,’ he declared and scurried inside for a cold drink. I logged on and started to blog about our trip.

‘Oh, do you have to do that now?’ Hubby said peevishly.

I shut it off. I’d do it later.

That evening it was so hot it was inevitable that a storm would brew. I know all about French storms rolling in from the Pyrenees. I have seen lightning emerge from a socket, even though all the electricity was off, and leap up the television cable blowing up the television spectacularly. One year, even though we unplugged everything and shut down the major fuse box we got hit during an electric storm. The fuse box melted. Fortunately, times have changed and this rented house had a very large lightning conductor outside to prevent such an occurrence.

Having watched an episode of Series Three ‘Dallas’ – now please don’t comment about that. Hubby is working his way through all the series - it’s keeping him occupied, so I’m happy – Hubby asked to check the share prices on the computer. I blamed watching too much JR Ewing.

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea. There’s a storm brewing and I heard thunder a while ago,’ I replied.

Hubby wasn’t having that. Some days I can't understand him. He hates computers with a passion yet insits on using them. He's always moaning about them yet bangs away on the keyboard complaining like he's being tormented. he's useless with them and this one is mine. I sulked.

‘Just hand it over. The storm is miles away and there’s a huge lightning conductor outside. Now give it to me. I need to know what the markets are doing.’

Grouchy, I gave it to him. How come he didn’t want me to bring it and now all of a sudden he needed it? I stared moodily out of the window listening to the storm rumbling away. I knew how it felt.

Painfully slow, Hubby huffed and puffed his way through the share prices and market data getting evermore demoralised as he realised his shares were struggling. I worked out how far away the storm was. After you see ligthning you count elephants and divide by three until you hear the thunder roll.

...Eleven elephants, twelve elephants...rumble. Four miles away. I continued to count in my head. ...One elephant, two elephants, three elephants, four elephants...rumble.

Hubby groaned as he looked at Blackrock Trust prices.

‘I think you should turn it off now,’ I said.

‘Why?’ he asked paying vague attention to me.

‘Elephants,’ I replied.

He looked up, completely bamboozled by what I had said.

‘Honestly, sometimes I wonder what goes on in that brain....’ He didn’t finish his sentence because the room lit up. Bang... flash... wallop... Crash!

I squeaked. Hubby jumped. The electricity went off.

‘Bugger! I don’t know what price Artemis is,’ he said crossly. He stuffed the laptop into the chair and lit a candle.

The electricity came back on. Toby Toshiba didn’t. His screen flashed ‘Windows unable to start up’ and weird writing whirred across it. I stared sadly at it.

‘Well,’ said Hubby. ‘Have you found out what price Artemis was?’

‘Nope, the computer has broken. I told you to turn it off.’

‘Stupid computers,’ he growled. ‘They’re useless. They are a complete ball ache...’ and off he went on a tirade about computers. He stomped outside to get over it and enjoy the sunshine which had returned.

‘Why is that cockerel fighting with our car bumper?’ he asked me as I came outside to join him.

‘He can see himself in the reflection of the paint and thinks it’s another cock.

‘Stupid old thing. Fancy getting worked up about that. You think he’d be more sensible and give up. He clearly isn't going to beat it,’ he replied and sat back to enjoy the warmth.

Toby Toshiba is going to the computer hospital tomorrow. I’m using Hubby’s laptop. I had to wait four hours to get on it because he was busy and ouwldn't let me on it. Doing what? I think you all know.

'Sweets for my sweet, sugar for my honey...'

2011-06-18T09:49:00.002+01:00

There can be nothing more appealing to a cake shop owner than seeing a fully grown man attacking a large piece of apple strudel with gusto and child-like awe. Then, eyes open with delight requesting a second piece; this time cherry strudel. Yes, Hubby was that man.

I usually take him on city breaks where there is a cafe culture and cake houses. It’s mandatory.

Hubby loves, cakes and ice creams and when he is on holiday I allow him to indulge, especially as we normally clock up several foot miles per day exploring the city.

Budapest was not only the most fabulous city I have been fortunate enough to visit but had some of the most exciting cake establishments we’ve visited. Being tourists who stay off the beaten track it wasn’t the recommended establishments that we visited, no, it was a small cafe down a side street selling home-made strudel that caught Hubby’s eyes. Given they also sold cold lager, it was a done deal and he propelled himself through the door with all the enthusiasm of a Labrador puppy chasing a bouncy ball.

Run by a husband and wife team, the owners spoke no English, so we initially had to communicate with signs. Point at pastry, point at mouth, rub tummy and look rather silly. Point at beer, make sign for large glass, smack lips together, and hold up two fingers for two beers. Nodding ensued and smiling, much smiling on his part.

Having wolfed down his strudel, rubbed his stomach in appreciation and held up his thumb in the universal thumbs up sign I spotted an Italian dish on the menu; a sort of flat bread pizza. ‘Italian?’ I queried to the smiling wife who turned up the radio un the shop so we could listen to the music. She nodded effusively and told me she was Italian. Well slam dunk! We were home and dry as I can speak a smattering of Italian. and before you could say gelato we were communicating and Hubby was being given a tour of the various strudels.

‘This one is cherry.’

Hubby began to drool.

‘This one is nut.’

Hubby's eyes widened with delight.

‘This one is special. It is made of what do you call it? The herb that makes cocaine? Before it is cocaine.’

I translated to Hubby who suddenly looked horrified at the thought of eating a cocaine strudel.

‘Hemp!’ I announced proudly. It’s made of hemp. It isn’t cocaine.’ I tried to explain but Hubby was salivating in front of a rather nice looking piece of apricot strudel which of course he had to go with his second lager.

Being creatures of habit we frequented the place daily so Hubby could get his regular fix of strudel. In a short space of time we became quite friendly with the owners who tried to get Hubby to sample the special strudel. Old 'Mr Stick in the Mud' was having none of it. ‘Cocaine’ strudel wasn’t his thing.

The third afternoon having passed every coffee house on a four mile circuit Hubby decided he wanted some strudel. A large party of elderly people were seated outside in fine spirits enjoying aperitifs and strudel. They were extremely lively and quite unlike any group of over 70s I have ever seen, unless you count my mothers’ friends and they are usually all drunk!

‘It’s my mother’s birthday,’ announced the owner proudly pointing out a sprightly 70 year old lady who was collecting the glasses to bring in. ‘She’s 88 today...’

Well, you could have knocked us down with a feather. She certainly gave no impression at all of her age.

Behind her was a man of similar age. At that moment a mobile phone rang. It was a dance tune. The man pulled out a chrome phone from his pocket and flipped it open with the dexterity of a 9 year old to take the call.

‘That’s my uncle,’ explained the owner. ‘He is a member of the chess club. They play every day and he is probably being called to a match. He plays cards too. He’s very alert still.’

The owner paused and looked admiringly at her relatives.’

‘He’s 97,’ she said as the old man pocketed his mobile,waved goodbye to his friends and picked up a medium sized plastic bag -a party bag for grown ups - from the table in which was some sort of container with party cake/strudel in it.

‘Gosh, I’m coming to live in Hungary if it keeps me that active and looking good at that age,’ I announced.

The owner smiled again. ‘It’s not just being in Hungary,’ she replied. ‘It’s the strudel. They eat it every day. The special strudel,’ she said emphasising the word special. That was what was in the container. He collects a piece every lunchtime from us.’

So, now you know the Hungarian secret of staying young. Needless to say, Hubby tried a slice after that news. He’s still waiting for the rejuvenating results but he did declare it to be ‘absolutely delicious!

I'm now winging my way To France where I hope to be able to post to you from Le French McDonalds. Vive les vacances...

So I want to be a paperback writer, paperback writer...

2011-06-09T21:34:00.000+01:00

Surprise! Yes, I'm online briefly to ask your valued opinion yet again. I have two possible covers for my forthcoming book. Which one do you prefer?

Let me know by commenting below. I'm off now - really I am. I'll be back next week. My bag is packed and the taxi is waiting. Thank you...don't forget to sing along with this song...

'We're all going on a summer holiday...'

2011-06-06T08:59:00.000+01:00

Not quite a summer holiday but I shall be away for ten days. I shan’t be languishing on a tropical island sipping Pina Coladas though, oh no, not Facing 50! Naturally, I shall divulge all when I return.

However, I hate leaving you all and so as a treat (hopefully) I am going to leave you with the first chapter of my precious book to read and enjoy. There is a catch though. The book is in a competition to an effort to be noticed and published, which means it needs reviews and good star ratings over the next two weeks. If you think you’d like to read it and are willing to help me out then please click on the link I’ve provided HERE. The details of my book will then come up. Click on ‘read sample chapters from this book’. You will then be able to read the chapter.

If you enjoy it would you please, please, pretty please, sign up and write a brief review of what you have read. (You will need to go back to the page before and click on ‘review these chapters’. You’ll only need to provide a name – your blogging name is great - an email and some fictitious birth date!
The review only needs to be 100 words or more. You can write whatever you like about it. It was funny. It was rubbish It made you laugh. Please feel free to criticise. I already have one scathing review and I only cried for five days. More importantly, you will have to mark my work out of 5 for several categories -5 being the best.
I cannot tell you how much I would appreciate your help.
And so, I must leave you for a while. I shall be able to read your blogs but unable to leave comments. I’ll still be there in the background. Bye bye my bloggy friends - I’ll bring you all back a stick of rock!

'Roll out those hazy, lazy, crazy days of summer...'

2011-06-03T15:47:00.000+01:00

After a month of wind, grey, more wind and more grey, we listened sceptically to the weather forecast a couple of days ago which promised warm days and sunshine. Having harrumphed loudly, Hubby went online to see if all the weather websites corroborated the forecaster’s promise that we would in fact have a few days of brightness. He announced that yes, we should have sunshine and warm temperatures from Thursday onwards, and went out to the shed to retrieve the garden furniture which has been in there so long it’s probably been eaten by mice.
     Thursday, I had a scheduled hair appointment for 12.10. Hubby insisted he came to town too.
     ‘I’ll be at least three hours. I need to get it coloured and cut,’ I said hoping he would be put off at the prospect of lurking around town for such a length of time.
     ‘It’s okay; I’ll wander about and get some shopping.’
     ‘It’s half term. The shops will be stuffed with those annoying things you don’t like, called children.’
He thought about that for a while but announced he was coming anyway. I found out why later when he emerged from the garage with a large empty wine box. In it were two large pieces of polystyrene.
     ‘What is that?’
     ‘A fridge,’ he replied looking pleased in that way husbands do when they have fixed something or invented something.
     ‘I want to buy some ice cream tomorrow to enjoy in the sunshine over the weekend. I like ice cream in summer and this will make sure it stays cold for the journey home, so it doesn’t melt.’
     'Why can’t you just buy ice cream from the local shop here in the village?’
     ‘Because, they don’t have the choice and Sainsbury’s have an offer on; buy one get one free.’
What can you say? It’s obviously something to do with the heat.
     Accompanied by Hubby and his fridge we went to town. We parted, agreeing that I would phone him fifteen minutes before I left the hairdressers, so he could buy the ice cream at the last minute and thus get it home still chilled.
     ‘Hello Mrs W,’ said Marcus cheerfully as I charged into the hairdresser. Marcus has abandoned the James Dean look he was sporting and adopted Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean now. He has a goatee, a large earring and was wearing a leather waistcoat over a t-shirt. Hair grips were attached to the top of the waistcoat spoiling the Johnny Depp look, but, as usual he looked stylish.
     ‘So, what are we doing today?’ he asked camply, holding up one of my wilted strands of greying hair and looking at me in the mirror.
     ‘I’m going to sit here, read magazines and drink green tea. You are going to transform me from an old frump into a younger model, as only you can,’ I replied. Marcus giggled.
     ‘Did you like the last lot of colour?’
You may recall last time I came out looking like a striped tiger with red, brown and blonde streaks in my hair.
     ‘Very nice indeed, until the red turned orange. I looked like I’d been left out in the rain and all the colours ran together.
Marcus laughed even more.
     ‘Oh,’ he said waving his hand in front of his face like a fan. ‘’Hilarious! I think I’d better keep you off red then this time. Lucinda, come here with that colour chart,’ he shouted to an exceedingly tall girl who should have been a model. She wore a t-shirt bearing the logo of the shop combined with a chunky necklace, tight shorts and wedged boots. Her hair was electric blue and she looked absolutely stunning.
     Together they poured over the chart, periodically looking at my mousy grey hair which lay flat and lifeless. Finally, Marcus flapped his hands again and announced they had sorted me out. He left me in the capable hands of Lucinda. He knows I trust him to choose the right colour.
     Suffice to say three hours dragged by. I gave up on the magazines because everyone in them was young, fashionable, beautiful and made me feel old. I drank two cups of tea and listened to the woman next to me telling her hairdresser all about her trip to Mexico. The child opposite was trying to stick hairgrips into the hairdryer socket until his mother noticed and told him off. Then all any of us could hear was wailing. I went onto Twitter on my phone. ‘What do mascara and men have in common? They both run at the first sign of emotion’ I tweeted. It was retweeted almost immediately by ‘Baldychaz’ making me feel better.
     I know you want to know what colour I am now. Have you ever had Werther’s Original sweets? Well, I am that colour – Marcus called it caramel. It resembles the colour of those shoes that Hubby gave away. I don’t know why he thought it was right for me. Apparently it’s very fashionable and summery. Luckily he didn't chose electric blue. Just before Marcus finished, the phone rang. Hubby wanted to know how long I’d be. He was waiting in Sainsbury’s. We agreed I’d go straight to the car park and meet him there. Marcus happily waited with various pots of glue and spray while I spoke to Hubby.
     ‘How sweet,’ he said. ‘A man who still loves ice cream.’ And rubbed wax into his hands enthusiastically ready to give my hair life and texture. He then paraded about with the mirror, oohing at my new hair colour.
     ‘Just right for summer,’ he said helping me out of the large black robe. ‘And, it shouldn’t run this time.’
     Hubby was by the car frantically trying to get the boxes of ice cream into the ‘fridge’. They wouldn’t fit. We emptied the boxes, putting the bars into the polystyrene parts. They only just fitted. Typically after a bargain, Hubby had overbought. We had to eat four that wouldn’t fit in.
     The journey home was going well until on the motorway, some thirty minutes away from home, speed restrictions were enforced and the ominous sign ‘Slow down queue ahead’ appeared. We dropped from 60mph to 50mph. At the next gantry we dropped to 40mph, then 30mph, then stopped in a lengthy line of traffic. We crawled for the next five miles. It would have been quicker to walk. It’s moments like that when I wish I had inbuilt earplugs. I had surround sound engine revving and Hubby’s continuous compaints about traffic in this country.
     Quite a bit later than we had hoped, we arrived home, Hubby grabbed the ‘fridge ‘ and dashed for the house as if it contained life saving equipment. The first six ice creams poured out of the container. He plopped them into a large bowl. Mercifully, the remaining ice creams had survived sufficiently well to freeze. We sat outside and ate a sloppy pile of ice cream mixture which should have been six fruit ice creams. By now I’d had enough of summer.
     Hubby went off to paint his box and write ‘fridge’ on it having decided that it was a success. After all, had we not got held up in traffic we would have got the ice creams home chilled.
     I went inside to put away the shopping and stare at my caramel head. Looking out of the window as I walked the length of the hall I saw Fred and Ethel outside their front garden. Obviously, they too had been infected by summer madness. Ethel was bouncing about on a large orange Space Hopper and I’m pretty certain Fred was oiling a pogo stick.
     I hope the cooler weather returns soon. The heat is clearly affecting some people.

You have to admit though - the song does get you singing! Bet you'll sing it all day now.

Greased lightning

2011-05-28T15:19:00.000+01:00

It used to be about speed – and I don’t mean the sort you take as a drug. When I was younger I drove everywhere at speed. I hugged corners and used the road. I enjoyed the thrill of driving. The roads here in the UK were quite good in those days for an exciting drive, before the advent of speed cameras and potholes. However, even then, nowhere was quite as exhilarating as the roads in France.
     You could really zoom down those well maintained lanes in rural France and I did. I would race about in my Golf Gti with the windows down, enjoying the delicious aromas of the French countryside. You never met anyone coming the other way and you could pretend you were at Le Mans.
     One person who delighted in driving at breakneck speed, even more than me, was Solange. Solange’s husband was the proud owner of an MG. It was his pride and joy. He kept it for special occasions. Solange also adored the MG, finding it very ‘cool’ and constantly pestered her husband to let her borrow it. He always refused, on the grounds that he knew what her driving was like, and he wasn’t sure his precious motor would be able to cope with her stamping on the brakes and walloping it up the gears in her aggressive fashion.
     A particularly bright day in July – child free, as they were all on camp- we decided to go to town for a shopping spree and a little lunch. Solange pleaded to use the MG and reluctantly, even knowing that she drove like a demon, her husband lent it to her. Goodness knows how she persuaded him to lend it to her, but knowing her wilful ways, I expect he wasn’t too upset by the sacrifice.
     A squeal of tires and a screech of brakes alerted me to her arrival. She parped the horn and I exited to find Solange dressed up very fashionably in a headscarf and wearing oversized sunglasses looking like Princess Grace of Monaco. She certainly suited the car.
     ‘Viens, ‘urry up. I want to see ‘ow ‘zis leetle car performs on zee motorway,’ she shouted.
No sooner had I got in than we off, tyres spinning on the gravel. There was no doubt about it; Solange should have been a racing driver.
     We sped off down the motorway towards Toulouse, charging past every car on the road, Solange giving the car the workout of its life. We stopped at the motorway station, not to freshen up, but to ensure that our ticket which we had collected at the toll gate, did not let on how fast we were going when we checked off the motorway.
     The day was delightful. We parked the car on the kerb beside a cafe where it attracted much attention, seeing as it wasn’t a Peugeot or a Renault. Solange and I sat opposite it in the sunshine, where Solange also attracted equal admiration. We really should have been in Nice. We had a thoroughly agreeable time. Finally, with the prospect of collecting our children from their day out we decided to return and headed home.
Solange drove like a demon, overtaking everything in sight. Old farmers in old vans sat open-mouthed as she hared by them. We were young. We were having fun. Just as we left the motorway and entered our ‘departement’ Solange finally managed to overtake a BMW which she had had in her sights for a few kilometres.
     ‘Haha! Vive zee MG!’ she shouted triumphantly, only to follow it with ‘Merde!’
A policeman stood with a radar gun pointed directly at the MG.
     ‘Merde, merde, merde!’ she said again and checked her lipstick in the rear view mirror.
     ‘Les Poulets,’ she explained. Our slang word for them in the UK is ‘pigs’ but in France policemen are referred to as chickens. No, I don’t understand why, but they are.
Further ahead was a lay-by in which was a police car. The radar holder had obviously alerted him to the MG’s speed and the policeman was waving for us to pull into the lay-by.
     ‘Say nussin’. You are French. Just smile and stick your boosoms out,’ hissed Solange and hitched her skirt up a few notches to reveal her long legs.
     She pulled in and wound down her window, pouting in a seductive fashion at the policeman.
     ‘Madame, do you know how fast you were going?’ he asked (obviously, in French).
     ‘Oh officer, I am so sorry. We were in such a hurry. Our maman is very sick and we were trying to get to zee ‘ospital. Zis is not my car I ‘av just borrowed it and it iz a leetle powerfool, no?’ She smiled engagingly. The policeman wasn’t won over.
     ‘Maybe your maman would like you to arrive alive, Mesdames. You are no good to her if you have an accident, no?’
     ‘Yes, we were a leetle foolish,’ continued Solange fluttering her lengthy eyelashes.’ But we were worried and zee roads, zey are not too busy.’ She looked dolefully at him. He coughed uncomfortably and put his hand out for her papers. Solange wiggled about, her skirt riding higher up her legs, pretending to look for the papers. The officer looked more uncomfortable but continued to wait for her paperwork.
     With much pouting, eyelash fluttering and lip trembling Solange handed over her licence. In France they take off points, unlike here, where we add points to a licence when you commit an offence. If Solange got a conviction for speeding she would be out of points and therefore banned. Didier would be furious.
     ‘Monsieur Gendarme,’ she asked politely. ‘I ‘av been a leetle naughty in my past but, well, you know?’ she pouted again and gave that ‘pfft’ noise that the French do. ‘I must not get into trouble again. My ‘usband will be so angry wiv me and my leetle children will not be able to go to school if I cannot drive zem.’
The policeman must have had a heart of stone. He was definitely going to give her a fine. He got out his pad and asked her to join him in the waiting vehicle to be issued with the ticket. She rolled her eyes at me and reached for her insurance documents.
     ‘I suppose, Monsieur, you will need to see zis.’
The officer cast a casual look at her insurance papers and then looked again. His eyes opened wide in amusement. He folded all the paperwork back up and handed it back to her with a smile playing on his lips.
     ‘Maybe Madame, you would like to have a warning this time. I hope your maman gets better soon. He saluted and waved us off.
     ‘What on earth was that all about?’ I asked as we chugged away carefully, Solange waving at the policeman who saluted again.
     ‘Insurance. It always pays to ‘av insurance,’ replied Solange.
     ‘I still don’t get it.’
     ‘Take a look at my insurance papers.’
     I opened up the papers to discover a photograph. It was a picture of our local mayor holding a feather duster in a frilly pinafore and wearing nothing else whatsoever except a smile.
     ‘No! How did you get this?’
     ‘Ah, I am big friends wiv ‘is wife. She gave it to me and said if ever I really needed to use it it would ‘elp. It makes zee poulets ‘appy to see zee boss ow you say? Off duty? See you must always ‘av zee insurance. Now let’s see ‘ow fast we can get ‘ome.’

Time for a sing-a-long. You must know this one. Try it out when you next drive somewhere.

Games without frontiers...

2011-05-25T14:35:00.001+01:00

I’ve been tagged by that naughty little minx Craziness Abounds. I tried to explain that I’m useless at tag and was always left in the playground while everyone ran around laughing as I fell over my feet, but she’d have none of it. So, here I am, at my age too, trying to join in. Be nice everyone and let me catch you. Before I carry on I must alert you to Craziness Abounds blog Crazy World which is, without doubt, worth several visits.
Now, Everyone tagged must answer the following questions so here goes...

Do you think you're hot?
Bwahh ha ha ha! Now you’ve got me choking with laughter. Hot – no way! Not even luke warm. Hee, hee. Chuckle chuckle. Guffaw. Wait until I tell Hubby – he’ll snort in a derisory manner and roll his eyes.
Upload a picture or wall paper that you are using at the moment.
Hmm, okay, but you need to know that this means a lot to me. It’s a picture of my dear husband taken from his best side. I’ll put it where I normally put my cartoon. Well you don't expect me to have anything serious on my computer, do you?
When was the last time you ate chicken?
Tomorrow. I shall make chicken with tomato and basil. (I think that’s what it says on the ready meal box!)Yes, I know that’s not a proper answer, but I’m old now and can’t remember when I last ate it. We don’t eat much meat so I think it was last month some time. Hubby didn’t know either. He said all my meals taste the same.
The song/songs you listened to recently.
Hubby subjected me to the entire ‘Best of Abba’ in the car on the way to town yesterday but I felt too ill to object. I have substituted the CD for the Wu Tang Clan which I borrowed from Son for a laugh so when he next puts the system on, he’ll be in for a shock.
What were you thinking while doing this?
Who is Hubby talking to on the phone? It rang just as I started typing. We have no friends, so it must be a salesman. Hope he doesn’t buy any double glazing.
Do you have any nicknames? What are they?
No. None! What a surprise. I'd have liked a nickname although fishducky a very funny lady, has started calling me BOTUK which is an honour. It's an acronym for Bombeck Of The United Kingdom - so go spread the word and watch out for fishducky - she'll make you roar with laughter. Write a blog fishducky you'll have legions of followers.
Tag eight blogger friends...
Pam at Empty Nest
Lazarus at The LG Report
Celia at Falling off a High Heeled Life
Thisisme at Southhamsdarling
Bouncin’ Barb at This and That (as I bounce thru’ life)
Poetess Wug at The Wugs Backyard Blogspot
On my Soapbox at On my Soapbox
Lavi at Relativity of a Corroded Mind

Who's listed as number one?
My twin - Pam from Empty Nest who I have known in blogging terms for ages and who is (it seems) just like me! It’s amazing how similar we are. I adore visiting her blog. She is effervescent, encouraging, generous spirited and funny - well, I did say she was like me! (Sheepishly grinning now at that remark because Pam is much nicer than me)
Say something about number five?
Barb is one of the most genuine people I know. She is someone I admire and love to visit. Supportive of her blogging friends and a great person. There is that enough? I could go on and on but don’t want her to get too embarrassed.
How did you get to know number three?
Celia was one of my very first followers back when I rambled even more than I do now. She always left me a comment even when I only had three followers I could count on her to say something about each post I wrote. We have become very good friends even though we are separated by many miles. She is an extraordinary woman who has had to turn her life around. If you haven’t ever visited her blog here is your opportunity. I promise you will not be disappointed.
How about number four?
My ‘little’ friend from Devon found me one day, or did I find her? See, I can't remember now. I do know that I now count her as one of my staunchest supporters. We converse regularly on Facebook too. Her blog is just beautiful and full of her life in Devon, a place I would seriously consider retiring to. Watch out –I might do it yet. – Eek!
Leave a message for number six?
Poetess Wug you clever old bean.
Your crochet's divine and the best I have seen.
Your garden is super, and boy is it green.
Yet, it’s for your poems that you are the queen.
Okay – she’s much better at it than me.
Leave a lovey- dovey message for number two?
Oh dear, sorry Lazarus, that's you. Oh well, we know a lot about each other now don't we after our interview? Lazarus you are an absolute star in the blogging world and I’m sure I speak for many women when I say we all love you. Huge apologies to your fiancée. Hope she doesn’t come after me with a carving knife now.
Do number seven and number eight have similarities?
Maybe the same colour eyes, or hair-can't be sure. Oh you mean blog-wise. Silly me!
No – no, I’ve checked again and no. They are both great bloggers. Does that count?
So over to all of you and thanks again to Craziness Abounds for inviting me to join in the game. Now, anyone for a skipathon? By the way - everyone mentioned above:
“TAG - YOU’RE IT!”