The often dubious, politically incorrect and mainly humorous musings of Ms Jane Turley, (Ex) Housewife Extraordinaire.
Oh God. I have bad news, dear readers. I have an ear infection. I know, I know, it’s not exactly global apocalyptic news. But it’s catastrophic news for me. I shall now have to wear one of the *ucking awful rubber caps in the pool this week. How gross is that? Oh God. No. Please. No. Picture courtesy of Amazon where they also sell a number of other more discreet swimming caps.
So I am in the final stages of preparing my novel The Changing Room for publication, and I will be announcing a release date very soon. In the meantime, here’s a taster of what’s in store with the first public airing of the cover by the very talented, Gracie Klumpp.
Judith was a lesbian. Only she didn’t have short hair and she didn’t wear wooden beads. Neither did she have a girlfriend with a moustache and legs like a Russian shot-putter. In fact, Judith didn’t have a girlfriend at all; she preferred the anonymity of one-night stands with girls picked up in gay bars and communal changing rooms. Judith particularly liked the changing rooms at the exclusive gym she attended where all the tanned PR girls hung-out, stripped to the waist, chatting nonsensically about their executive boyfriends and the latest skincare products. Whilst the nubile objects of Judith’s affection compared the benefits of the latest three-for-the-price-of-two offers in Boots with make-up bags gifted with a purchase of two face creams in Debenhams, Judith would happily eye-up their scantily covered buttocks. Judith’s own choice of underwear was hipsters, as they flattered her slender hips but, as a voyeur, she preferred thongs.
Tomorrow, I’m posting the opening story from my short story collection A Modern Life. This is for you readers who haven’t yet gone over to check out my masterpiece of English literature on Amazon. (Ho hum) At the moment, I have three-five star and one-three star review. And none of them are written by relatives! In fact I don’t think any of my relatives have even bought it. I’m not sure what that means – maybe they think they are in it? Mr T is paranoid that he is – to which I have to keep telling him: “It’s a work of fiction. F. I. C. T. I. O.N. You are not in it.” To be honest, I think the first story called Pork Chops and Promiscuity about a Jewish lesbian with a fetish for pork chops and young women (or indeed any woman) is a fairly good give-away to Mr
Yesterday, I had one of the worst experiences of my life. Late at night, I went out into the garden to secure the chicken hutch and was stopped in my tracks by a truly revolting noise. I’m not going to describe it as I don’t want to upset you, dear readers. However, what I will say is – as a wife and mother of three boys, I have heard some pretty gruesome noises including: 1. High-octane exploding bowels. This was after about a month of constipation when I doubled-dosed one of the young masters on constipation-relief medicine. The memory of this sound and the picturesque splattering adorning the bath (the toilet was too small to accommodate the outpourings) will stay with me forever. 2. Severe nauseating and overpowering flatulence. After the consumption of burnt beef curry by someone who is not me and not my children. (Work it out.) 3. The screams of
Oh God, things are spiralling out of control in my study again. How do I be more disciplined? How, dear readers, how? It’s not that my mess really bothers me as I’ve an ability to “zone-out” from it which I’m putting down to my creative mind. Mr T, however, puts it down to some other aspects of my character. (None of which are repeatable on this blog.) Nevertheless, despite Mr T’s slur upon my character, I am a good wife and I can’t help being worried about the effect it is is having on him. Lately, every time he comes into my study (which fortunately is not often) he has started gagging. In fact, the last time he ventured forth when he started to gag I immediately ran to help the boys check the insurance certificate. But, it’s true, I could do with being a lot more disciplined. I would
There were no literary agents under thirty-five without waistcoats at The London Book Fair. There were no publishers under thirty-five without waistcoats and glasses at The London Book Fair. There was a very dishy science-fiction writer (closer to forty though) without a waistcoat and glasses with whom I had a very nice chat. (Which luckily didn’t involve any techno-babble about space ships and fantasy worlds – otherwise I would have shot him.) However, stupidly, I forgot to get his name. So Mr T is safe again. No doubt he is counting his blessings. Okay, I am just joking about the waistcoats. Literary agents don’t always wear them. Just some of the time. It’s called style. Apparently. Two people without waistcoats. Amazing. Look at that title above where it says London Book Fair. It reads “Books opening the mind. Doors opening the future.” I’m pretty sure my book A Modern Life has
Mrs T: Master Jacob, would you please unload the dishwasher and tidy the kitchen whilst I’m out? Master Jacob: What is this? Nazis Germany? Where have I gone wrong, readers? Where? On another matter entirely, I have a ticket to go to the London Book Fair and if I feel it’s safe to leave the Young Masters with an unstacked dishwasher I may leave them to their own devices. I may not have a home to come back to but it may be a risk worth taking. Now I have decided that, if I get off my sorry arse, and go to the Book Fair later today I shall keep my eye out for: 1) A healthy young male (heterosexual) literary agent, preferably under 35, with a sense of humour. It would also be an advantage if he did not wear a chequered waistcoat. Okay that’s not going to happen.
There are some pretty diabolical things about the school holidays. However, there is one good thing and this next sentence sums it up: I am going back to bed. Bliss. Wake me up in a couple of hours.
You have to watch the video below right to the very end, especially if you’re a film buff like me. It’s one of the funniest things I’ve seen for ages! Thanks to author, Karen Wyld, for pointing me in the right direction. I have a lot of trouble with sat navs myself – although this doesn’t involve Morgan Freeman talking to me, only me talking to myself. Sad, I know.
Sadly, yesterday, I had to say goodbye to my young apprentice. Early readers of this blog will recall my adventures with him and will, no doubt, also be traumatised by this sad, sad news. As you would expect, I waved goodbye, tears running down my face, as my young apprentice made his way down the driveway. As he disappeared, I was choked with emotion, knowing I would never see him again. I know you readers will share with me my overwhelming sadness, so I’ve decided to share with you my last keepsake photo of dear Luke Warmwater. The picture is fuzzy because my vision was so blurred from crying I couldn’t focus properly. Yes, so there you have it. Luke Warmwater has finally passed to the great force in the sky. He has been replaced by a more more advanced model which I am calling The Emperor. I am a
Forget the NSA, forget MI5, the people really watching you are the men behind the desks at Amazon. I swear to God Amazon knows everything about me and, since I’ve ordered shoes and clothes through them, those grey suits also know my foot and dress size and could probably even make a guess at the size of my botty. They’ve also got a huge list of everything I’ve ever purchased, an even bigger list of anything I’ve ever looked at and, worryingly, a record of all the books on my Kindle. Which may or may not be embarrassing. *Whistles nonchalantly* Now, as if this scrutiny isn’t enough, I’ve noticed that lately Amazon has been sending me suggestions for items to purchase which don’t have a lot of relation to what I’ve been looking for. What’s that about? I’ve been thinking about it and come to the conclusion that it’s almost
