I am currently on my lunch break which I am having to interrupt to report on the obscene matter of middle-aged white British men wearing shorts in the vicinity of my workplace. It is 14 degrees here at present. The weather is mild and is partially cloudy. There is not a heatwave going on and yet I am seeing numerous men wearing shorts. If this isn’t bad enough, it is made worse by the fact the shorts are on average one size too small. I am sick to the stomach, Readers. Sick, sick, sick, sick, sick!  How is a woman meant to concentrate on her work when she is forced to watch this unwholesome parade of hairy white legs and bulbous paunches. So my advice is to British men who wear shorts is –  unless you have a physique like Rafael Nadal keep your legs covered up or don’t expect

I am a couple of posts behind with the A to Z so I’m going to do a couple of quick posts to play catch-up. So, I am in a melancholic mood tonight so finding my usual spark of creativity is not easy. If I were to write down how I feel it would be explosive. But probably not in a good way. And so I must bide my time and wait for the moment when I can draw upon my emotions and use them to better my creative writing. That’s what writers do and that’s what I did in the more poignant moments in The Changing Room.  At the moment, I am still in grief. Grief for my past and grief what might have been. My days and nights are full of responsibilities and worries for my children and for our future. My emotions flicker from sadness to incandescent rage and everything

There was a lonely hunchback called Quasimodo Who some thought was a homeless hobo But he lived in a church Where he observed life from a perch Until one day he slipped off and died But the ghost of Quasimodo did rise And from the bell tower he still spied On lovers and embraces And friends of all races And at night in the dark he cried I’ll always be ugly he wailed His face full of pain and paled But then a circle of light descended And Quasimodo ascended To a place where only the soul was graded To me you are beautiful said Jesus Your heart is full of passion and kindness So he took Quasimodo’s hand And led him to a land Where love was the only rule Now Quasimodo lives in peace And his tears have ceased Everyday he wakes with joy To the sound of a celestial choir

*Warning* Do not read this blog if you’re a plumber, married to a plumber, related to a plumber in any way or, possibly, if you once had an affair with a plumber. If, on the other hand, you have ever been overcharged by a plumber this article will probably appeal to you. * * * * * A while ago, I was in a very cynical mood. I was stomping around my house having just returned from the school run (which is so unfair at my age) and in the midst of a hot flush when a business card fell through my letterbox. It read: Traditional English Plumbing at Traditional English Prices Immediately my hot flush took on rocket propulsion proportions. Steam burst forth from ears like an exploding piston as I recalled, in detail, the numerous times I’d been screwed (financially) by plumbers and tradesmen. You see, in my

So I was challenged to write a post about Otters by writer John Doppler. He likes them. And I like them. But writing a post about them which is more than saying “John likes them” and “I like them” is pretty hard. I suppose I could write about their habitat. But that would be a bit intellectual for this blog. And would require research. And I’m not sure if there’s any articles about otters over at The Daily Mail. I know I could make another attempt at poetry… There once was an otter called Reg Who had an artificial leg Don’t ask me how Or raise a brow Just accept that this story is true Okay. I don’t think the poetry angle is going to work. I’ll just try another second verse to be sure… One day Reg went for a swim On a lake that was full to the

Now before you folks start getting rowdy with me for choosing a pretty ghastly subject, I just wanted to say that this topic was suggested by a work colleague as the obvious follow-up to yesterday’s M is for Mechanophilia blog. Okay so let’s get on with it….and I’ll get straight to the point. Necrophiliacs are the kind of nutters who make the Kardashian family look sane. And that’s saying something as, by normal standards, the Kardashians with their narcissistic fetishes for photographing their false inflated giant-sized bottoms and boobs are completely and utterly bonkers.  So I’ve thought long and hard about the people who participate in this kind of weird stuff and I’ve come up with this thought: Nuke ’em. Alternatively, put them all in a room with Kim Kardashian and stick a pin in her arse. He who dares, wins.

I’ve worked in retail, on and off, for most of my life and it is a very culturally diverse profession. This is because at the bottom rung it is very lowly paid and often has ridiculous working hours. In addition, often the only skills that are needed are a smiling face and the ability to work hard and pick up new skills. Consequently, it’s a trade that is open to a lot of people – either on the shop floor or behind it. Recently, I’ve been working with a Russian, a Chinese, an Algerian, a naturalised British man originally from Hong Kong, another one on a visa from Hong Kong, a naturalised UK Indian whose parents still live in India, a half-Japanese naturalised British man, a Moroccan, a half Austrian and half Brazialian……and so on. There are a few more nationalities but I can’t remember where they’re from and, in

So this post is going to stray from my normal gibberish and a be glimpse inside my life. The alternative was writing about jelly which is far too wobbly and reminds me of my arse. So it’s a no go area.  So if you’ve read my A for Anno Domini post you’ll know that recently my life has completely changed. I thought in two years time, when my youngest son went to university, I’d go back to part-time work and pursue my writing career which although wasn’t earning any significant amounts was on an upward trajectory – one of London’s top agents had considered the full manuscript for The Changing Room and I’d had two top publicists interested in it too even though I decided when the agent eventually declined my novel to self-publish. In other words -by choosing self-publishing – I decided to put my money where my mouth is believing The Changing

So this going to be one of my intellectual posts. (Ho hum.) Let’s talk about iambic pentameter. Now to refresh your minds, since I’m sure many of you might have forgotten what iambic pentameter is from your school days (I can’t remember anything prior to 1990 so if you’re older than me there’s a good chance you can’t even remember your name) I shall refresh your memory with an explanation taken straight from a dictionary rather than using my own explanation because my own garbled definition would probably make you wonder if I have any brain cells left. So, accordingly, this is the explanation from the Oxford Dictionary: A line of verse with five metrical feet, each consisting of one short (or unstressed) syllable followed by one long (or stressed) syllable. Yep, makes no sense to me either. Thirty years ago I think it did. Although, frankly, at school, I

Tonight, I am going to relate to you one of the worst experiences of my life which happened about three years ago. It was very late at night and I was out in the garden securing the chicken hutch when I was stopped in my tracks by a truly revolting noise. I’m not going to even try and describe it as it was so abhorrent it will make you throw up. However, what I will say is – as a mother of three sons – 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 my sons on constipation-relief medicine. The memory of this sound and the high-impact 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