“Good Morning, Douglas. I see you’re up to your neck in it.” “I didn’t hear you sneaking up on me,” said Douglas, tossing a shovelful of soil out of the grave and grinning as he saw Sister Lillian weaving her way through the headstones towards him. “I doubt if I pretended I was the Lord Jesus rising from the dead that you’d be shocked,” replied Sister Lillian, reaching the edge of the new grave and looking down at Douglas’ handiwork. “I don’t know how you do this job without getting the heebie jeebies.” Douglas took a breather and admired Sister Lillian’s shapely legs which were uncommonly good for a woman of sixty-three. “There’s nothing that’ll scare me,” boasted Douglas, propping his spade up against a muddy embankment. “I’ve seen just about everything. Besides, I’ve the lovely Sister Lily to bring me refreshments. What more could a man want?” “Indeed,” laughed

I will shortly be recounting yet another embarrassing tale of ineptitude about my attempt to get in and out of a multi-storey car park yesterday. However, before I do so as I know some of you have become familiar with my three young sons over the six years I’ve been blogging I am delighted to report/bragg that Young Master Sam has achieved a first class degree in Philosophy. I have touched upon my own experiences with philosophy a number of times in this blog, especially in the post Judgement Day, Philosophy and the Meaning of the Word “Chair.”  Fortunately, I think Young Sam’s experiences at university may have proved more beneficial than mine. But what a proud mum I am today! I am congratulating myself for teaching him the subtle art of bullshitting and, of course, suffering his underpants for 21 years. I am also pleased to report that I

Sting, sing a song Keep it simple Keep it long Don’t worry if it’s not good enough For anyone else to hear Just Sting, sing a song Sting, sing a song, Keep it boring Keep it angst ridden Don’t worry if it does or doesn’t rhyme Cos no one but you really cares Just Sting, sing a song Sting, sing a song, Keep it monotonous Keep it montone Don’t worry if it drives me mad Cos I’m on anti-depressants Just Sting, sing a song Sting, sing a song Make it a hit Even though it’s *hit Don’t worry if they find me dead I’ll be happy if you’re Number One Just Sting, sing a song Sting, sing a song Keep it repeating Till the world combusts Don’t worry about nuclear war Your song will do the same trick Just Sting, sing a song Sting, sing a song Keep it repeating

I am on the edge of a cricket pitch. I am spending a lot of time of the edge of cricket pitches lately. Thus, I decided I would take my laptop with me today and scribe some moving tribute to Michael Douglas who I am assuming will soon be found with a machete buried in his head. However with usual incompetence I have forgotten both my mouse AND my glasses. To me this like being a chef without a spoon or a politician without an expenses form, or in the case of Michael Douglas probably without a life. Very soon. So I end this post now by simply saying: God Bless you, Michael. It was a good life till you opened your gob (on all accounts.) That’s it. It’s taken about an hour to do this without typos. I’ve had enough I’m heading to the bar.

I have over the course of this blog had a few car parking moments or “incidents”. I have creatively redesigned the door of a grey Nissan Micra, remoulded the door a green Vauxhall Vectra and transformed the door of a blue Nissan Micra into a conceptual piece of modern art. I don’t feel the need to report on the moving “incidents” as they are not in the remit of this post. However, there was also some creative redesigning involved. Although none involved any (permanent) injury. Of course, there was also the “incident” before Christmas when I lost my car in a multi-storey car park for an entire hour and had to engage the services of the security guard to help me locate it. I wrote that “incident” into my novel. Embarrassing moments like that are just too good to waste. Anyway, this morning I had another car parking moment. I

Language can be a bit of a problem. Speech can be a bit of a problem. If you’re an Irish Jew with a speech impediment it might be a bit of a problem. (Although the good news is that you will get a job on the BBC.) What I’m trying to say is: sometimes language and accents can be a barrier to good communication. To which I offer up this following true story: Earlier today, The Good Mr T and Young Master Benedict are travelling by car to a cricket match. Mr T takes a call from a work colleague on his speaker phone. They conduct a conversation. Master Ben is, as they say, “all ears”. The conversation ends. Master Ben: Dad? Mr T: Yes? Master Ben: Is Ian…a retard? Because he can’t talk properly. Mr T: He’s Scottish. Next year the Scots vote on whether to stay in the Union. My

I have been debating whether or not to join Twitter on and off for several years. But yesterday I came as close to it as I have ever done. In fact, if I’d had my phone to hand I probably would have joined up. The reason for this? I felt the urgent need to communicate to England cricketer, Graeme Swann, and tell him to stop gobbing on the pitch and picking his nose. UGH. Look, women like cricket too. In fact, I used to play cricket. Badly. ( You may remember the consequences of a recent attempt to rekindle this interest here.) But even though I am a sporty type of gal and two of my sons are really sporty I categorically do not want to see constant close-ups of gobbing on the pitch. Nor do I want to see close-ups of nose picking, drilling out ear wax and adjusting

I am sick to death of reading articles by depressed writers or writers pretending to be depressed. It’s so depressing I’m actually thinking about killing myself. Okay, maybe not: I like living too much. Living is interesting. You know – wine, sex, that kind of stuff. However, I am seriously beginning to wonder if some of these arty types are faking these depressions because they are everywhere. I mean everywhere. For example, I am minding my own business, humming and happily “researching” and I click on what looks like a jolly looking writer’s website which might have lots of useful tips and I find… I was depressed for years. My writing suffered: I couldn’t find my pen, my computer crashed and even my printer cartridges imploded. I became an alcoholic and addicted to chewing the ends of biros, smoking pot and watching Friends. I read Martin Amis. Finally, when I trapped my head in my

Yesterday, I was reading an article over at Novel Spaces about personality types: going by the replies of other writers I worked out I was probably not your typical writer and I am definitely not a “Judging” personality type. (Unless we’re talking politics where I am happy to offer my judgements, especially ones that include the words “Labour,””Farcical” and “Over my dead body.”) The author of the article, Julie Luek, describes the judging personality as thus: Judging (J)—Enjoy a planned, organized lifestyle. High amounts of loose ends and unplanned interruptions will disrupt a judger’s sense of calm. They’re great with checklists and love the sense of completion of getting a task crossed off. Deadlines and a clean, organized workspace are comforting. This statement brought back to my mind the topic of my desk which has cropped up on this blog several times before. In my post I am a Fraud! I admitted to trying to hide the