Monster Images

I made the mistake a while ago of syncing the boys ipads with my computer using the icloud.

So, for anyone not familiar with Apple products, this means instead of plugging in the ipads to my computer to transfer songs, films and pictures it does it automatically. I've no idea how but it's genius. It also means I get to keep an eye on what the boys are doing in a Big Brother type of way.

Or maybe that's a Big Mother type of way.

*Looks at thighs*

Yeah, okay. It's a Big Mother type of way.

Now initially, I turned on the icloud because I was fed up of updating all our gadgets with our shared music which is stored on itunes. The Big Mother aspect only dawned on me when I started to get notifications of new photographs arriving on my computer.

These photographs were kinda shocking. (It's not what you're thinking.)

You know, I thought my Master Jacob was a handsome fella until he sent me this:

 I warned Master Jacob plenty of times about not eating his vegs and now look what's happened.

But not to out-done by his brother, Master Benedict sent me these:

Master Ben is thinking of giving up tennis and taking up Rugby Union.

 Master Ben is now available for hire in any forthcoming Disney releases

 Master Ben was hoping this picture would inspire feelings of maternal affection. It didn't work.

 Now this is actually what Master Ben looks like:

Now don't be fooled, readers. He may look innocent but he isn't. That is the expression he normally wears when he's about to deliver one of his infamous one-liners. At the moment, they tend to start with the word "Mother...."

"Mother, do you know this a 30 mph zone?"

"Mother, there is a car parked behind us."

"Mother, where are my school trousers, shirt, socks...."

"Mother, this toast is burnt."

"Mother, have you seen The Omen?"

Patience, Impatience and a Mission Statement

Now, I am sure you folks out there know how patient we Brits are about standing in queues. I'm not sure where all this patience originates from because personally I'd like to club some of the people standing in front of me in the supermarket queue. You know the ones - you've been standing in the queue for twenty minutes and the person in front of you announces they've forgotten something and heads off to the meat counter and doesn't return for ten minutes. Meanwhile, you're still standing in the queue watching the hands of your watch tick away like an unexploded bomb knowing that you've got pack, pay and repack the groceries into your car and drive across town pick up your kids in less than ten minutes.

Then, of course, when the customer finally returns from their sojourn they forlornly announce that the turkey mince they wanted for their cat wasn't supplied in a small enough quantities.

It is at this point that you grip the stick of French bread your holding so tight it starts to crumble as you imagine clubbing the customer with it before strangling them with a string of sausages.

Hmm...I wonder if they need a new script writer for CSI?

 Episode 24: The Serial Sausage Killer.

Works for me.

I think I need to write more murderous fiction. I need to let out all my pent-up frustrations with supermarkets.

And quite a few other things. My weighing scales for starters. Those things are jinxed. I have to keep buying new ones as there is no way I weigh that much. There's a lot of faulty manufacturing going on out there in the world of bathroom scales and someone needs to sort it out.

Episode 25: The Revenge of Womanhood

Yeah, so murderous writing could be good therapy for me. Instead of verging on my usual mania, I'd probably end up really chilled-out, performing yoga and floating votive candles in the bath. I might even start wearing crochet multi-coloured jumpers.

By the way, do people really float candles in the bath? Or is that just in the movies? Maybe it's what incredibly rich people who live in LA do - I suppose they're the only ones who can afford the plastic surgery if they accidentally set their pubic hair alight.

So anyway, I expect you've all heard the phrase "patience is a virtue."

Some phrases just annoy the hell out of you. "Patience is a virtue" is one of them. I mean, having patience is plain boring isn't it? You know what I am talking about -you're stuck in a traffic jam on the motorway and whilst you exchange empathetic grimaces with the driver in the next lane and glance at your watch trying not to look too concerned, what you really want to do is leap out off your car, march to the front of the queue and rant and rave (and possibly kill) whoever is holding up the traffic.

Except no one will be there, of course. They'll be just a load of cones which seem to have no purpose whatsoever. They'll just be rows and rows of cones which have descended on the motorway like a fleet of Daleks, determined to screw up your life for all eternity.

Episode 26: The Cone Exterminator.

Anyway, what I am getting around to saying is that I think I am getting less patient as I get older. I have feeling this is not how it is meant to be. Aren't people meant to become more patient and wiser as they age? Aren't I supposed to sit patiently for hours, chewing tobacco like one of those Indian Chieftains, before dispensing some profound statement like "Man who is impatient will get speeding fine," or "Woman who makes haste will catch her heel in pavement."

Now unfortunately, having patience is something a writer needs lots of. It takes a long time and a lot of self motivation to write a full-length novel. However, the amount of patience required to write a book is nothing compared to the amount of patience a writer must have when dealing with literary agents.

You see, literary agents are the key to a traditional publishing contract. You can't get anywhere without one unless you hit the seriously big time as a self-published author like E L James did with Fifty Shades or Hugh Howey did will Wool.

Now imagine being stuck on the traffic lights on AMBER for four whole months. Every now and then you rev your engine and think any minute now I'm gonna GO and then just for a moment you think it flicks to green but before you can put the car into gear it flicks back to orange and then finally onto red.

STOP!

Yep, so that's Mrs T's story. A leading UK agent had my full manuscript for four months before finally rejecting it. Some pretty good stuff was said and some other agents have said some pretty good stuff too like "funny," "engaging" and "well written."

Hey, don't blame for getting some good stuff in amongst the rejections. Do you want poor Mrs T to become depressed? A gal's gotta keep her ego up somehow.

So anyway, as yet, no one wants to take a chance on a comedy novel that isn't a romance or by some big cheese author.

What the hell more do they want? I mean isn't "funny", "engaging", "well-written" and "entertaining on all levels" good enough?

Do these agents want my blood spread over their desks or what?

Maybe they want my super seductive 48-year old body as well? Is that it? Maybe I should dress up in a low cut dress and sing "Hello, Mr Agent" all gooey like Marilyn Monroe did for JFK?

What? What? What is they want? 

(Apart from a sure-fire bestseller written by a celebrity obviously.)

Now I could work my way through all the UK agents but I can't be bothered my engine has burnt out with all the revving.

So I've come to the conclusion, you can't always wait for things to happen, you have to make them happen. After all, I could get run-over tomorrow and The Changing Room would never see the light of day and I have worked too hard to get to this stage to let it die with me and the bus.

So I have ordered my ISBN numbers and I now anticipate A Modern Life will be published later this month when the ISBN numbers arrive in my inbox.  A Modern Life will also contain the opening chapter of  The Changing Room which, if you haven't worked it out by now, is a rip-roaring roller-coaster of a comedy. The first chapter will give you a good flavour - but you'll have to pay to read the telephone sex chapters. But they're good. Worth every penny of the extortionate amount I'm going to charge.

Okay, it not going to be that expensive. Just a fair price.

Anyway get ready, folks, Mrs T is finally going into the unknown. Accordingly, I've put together a mission statement. It goes like this:

Publishing: the final frontier. These are the ramblings of the Housewife Extraordinaire. Her seven-year mission: to explore strange new words, to seek out new characters and new genres, to boldly go where no writer has gone before.

Obviously, I spent a lot of time thinking about that mission statement.

Well - at least thirty seconds.

Anyway, you know what that kind of mission statement and ambition does to a woman like me? It does this: 

A German Football Challenge or Deutsche Ein Fuss Herausforderung

Now before I get started on this post properly, I need to say that I know the two "ss" of "Fuss" in my title should be one of squiggly things that looks Kim Kardashian's boobs from the side view. However, I've no idea how to get a squiggly boob thing and life is too short to worry about it. So before any of you language teachers (that's you Susann Fruendt) make any formal complaint I'm lodging my excuses now. Okay?

Right, so the background to this post is that I stupidly said to my writer's group that if anyone spotted a typo in my last post I would write a blog post of their choice. Now, I had already self-flagellated as a result of spotting two typos in the first line so I didn't think it could get any worse. I was wrong. Because language teacher and writer Susann Fruendt spotted a typo in the TITLE. Then, to top it all, the proof reader for my short story collection, the lovely Eve, came on line and spotted another THREE typos in the text.

Now, if I was dyslexic, my mistakes would be acceptable and I know all you wonderful readers out there wouldn't mind the occasional Mrs T balls-up. After all, you don't come here for grammar lessons just mindless drivel from a slightly disturbed woman. Am I right? However, too many typos is just unacceptable and makes look me look like an complete dimwit and, anyway, I'm not dyslexic - I'm normal. Well, apart from the small amount of my brain I found seeping out of my ear the other day.

So anyway, as a result of this challenge I now have to write a post about the German football team without mentioning The War. (That's the Second World War. Obviously.) But, being the clever sticks I am, I thought maybe I could write about German football and the First World War.

 Hurrah!

Then I thought maybe that would be cheating and Susann would be over here like a shot kicking me up the arse. So, just for Susann I am not going mention The War at all in this post about The War  the German football team.

Boo.

So the German football team. Great. Lots of stuff instantly springs to mind.

Dah, de da, da, da, da, da, da, da hums da da  *hangs out washing* da da da da da da *on the Siegfried line* da de dee da

Did you know that, apparently, the German football team lost the 1966 World Cup? That was a real fight battle contest. Of course, I didn't actually watch it, as I was still in my nappies, but I do remember hearing my father cry out, "By God, we've won!" My mother didn't watch it though as she was in the kitchen with my siblings and I attempting to make frankfurters to mark the special occasion. We Brits like to do those things - celebrate other cultures by sampling their food and drink.

I believe London Mayor, Boris Johnson, has spent a lot of time sampling German food and drink.

A German football supporter. At the 1966 World Cup.

So German football. It's great. And I love all those German footballers' names. Like Van der Fock. Or is that the Dutch? I don't know. They all sound and look the same to me: they all have two legs and wear shorts that are unacceptably long. Except for in the 1970s when the shorts were unacceptably short. I mean - they were so short when the footballers fell to the ground clutching their groins you knew it was because their shorts were too tight and not because they'd been kneed in the nuts.

A German footballer at the 1966 World Cup discovers a frankfurter on his seat.

So anyway, I gather the German football team are pretty good. They might even have won a couple of things. Well so I hear on the football grapevine. Yeah, that's right - me and Becks (that's David Beckham - him and me are pretty close) went out on the town and Becks confided in me about the Germans being pretty hot with their balls and that he was thinking about taking up an offer to manage the German football team. Apparently, they've offered him a whole year's supply of frankfurters and the opportunity to cut the ribbon on the new Aldi Store in Berlin.

"You British you think you are so funny. But you are just crazy!"

Anyway, Becks was thinking it over. He was keen but unfortunately Vicky wasn't. She was concerned about German fashion and it being a little too...formal. But it's a great opportunity for Becks so he asked me to try and persuade Vicky. So I texted her with this message:

Hi Vicky, Don't worry about German fashion. Berlin is really close to Paris. You could be there in a few hours. No one will stop you. It'll be easy.

Vicky texted back with this message:

You're right Mrs T. As ever! I could go by train. I've heard German trains are really efficient and always run on time.

So I texted back:

Great news, Vicky! Becks will be pleased. And you're right - the trains are fast in Germany. I ordered a whole crate of frankfurters and they arrived in no time at all. The only delay was at the Channel.

So there you go, breaking news from Mrs T - Becks is on his way to Berlin and Vicky is on her way to Paris and all because of German football. Who says we British don't love other cultures?

In fact, we Brits love almost of all of Europe. There's actually a sign on the Dover Cliffs which reads "Free Welfare, Tea and Scones."

Of course, it could all change if UKIP (that's the UK Independence Party) get elected at the next General Election. They'll be no more frankfurters and Stollen imported from Germany and no more crotchless knickers from France. We Brits will be on our own again.

How sad is that?

A German footballer supporter at his day job.
"I  'ave a secret weapon and I am not afraid to use it on you, Mrs T."

Yet another rant from Mrs T involving a letter to the English Cricket Board

Have you heard the tragic news, readers?

Kevin Pietersen has not been selected for the next English cricket tour. His career with England is over.

Okay, a quick explanation for my American friends: Kevin Pietersen is to English cricket what Michael Phelps is to USA swimming. Only Kevin doesn't pee on the pitch like Michael pees in the pool and Kevin has a bigger mouth.

Right, so Kevin has not been selected to play for England. I am disgusted, mortified, shocked, sickened, etc etc etc at this decision. Now I'm not even going to mention Kevin's vital statistics (rumour has it they're pretty darn good - even the ones with his bat) but, in addition to his stats, Kevin is "hot". I mean seriously "hot" and we ladies, who must suffer hours of watching international test cricket, need something decent to look at every now and then. And, believe me, the only thing that stops me from hanging myself whilst watching another England defeat is the thought of a close-up of Kevin.

Anyway, I'm drafting a letter to the English Cricket Board to register my dissatisfaction. It goes something like this:

Dear Miserable Old Farts,

WE WANT KEVIN PIETERSEN

WE WANT KEVIN PIETERSEN

WE WANT KEVIN PIETERSEN

WE WANT KEVIN PIETERSEN

WE WANT KEVIN PIETERSEN

WE WANT KEVIN PIETERSEN

Yours sincerely,

Mrs Jane Turley, Housewife Extraordinare.

Ps Please remember how boring Boycott was. Do you really want to be responsible for mass suicide?

Right, if any of you ladies or gents out there feel I've forgotten to mention anything important in my letter, please let me know so I can make amendments.

Kevin Pietersen in his shades. Cool. Did Boycott ever look that cool? I can't say I noticed - I was usually in a deep coma.
 (Picture courtesy of Wikipedia, fair use)

What shall we talk about? The weather or vaginas?

I was going to write a post about the awful weather in the UK at the moment but then I read this article in The Daily Mail and decided it was way more interesting and deserving of some serious analysis.

So to sum up the article there's a woman called Kim Anami who, supposedly, can lift a 12kg kettle ball with her vagina.

I can lift a HB pencil with mine. Which is handy because if I ever have my hands amputated I will still be able to sign my name.

Now I don't want to cast doubt on the strength of this woman's vagina but whenever I read stuff like that two words cross my mind. They are "mentally" and "unstable."

Now I regularly lift an 8kg kettle ball (with my hands) as part of my on-going fitness drive and whilst this has resulted in many things (a broken window, a dead cat and facial disfigurement) it has not resulted in the desire to shove a hook up my assets and start hauling it around the house.

Anyway, I wish Kim a lot of luck. If she doesn't turn herself inside out and get mistaken for a Lady Gaga dress she can always hire herself out as a tow truck. With the current UK weather she should get a lot of work.

This lady attempted to lift a 12kg kettleball. Now she gets strange looks every time she's goes shopping. The only bonus of her current disposition is that it's far easier to have a pee in a public lavatory.

The Need to Express

Relax. This is not a post about breastfeeding.

No, today I am going talk about the need to express oneself artistically - which is a pompous way of saying you like to fart around wearing a silly hat and want everyone to admire you for it. 

Needless to say, I have always worn lots of hats.

Anyway, this subject came up for discussion in my writers group where my fellow writer, Susann Fruendt posed the following question;

I noticed that many of you have mentioned a real NEED to write; that it keeps you from going insane; that you feel restless/unhappy/incomplete/add other adjective of your choice if you don't find the time to write. So my question is: Do you think that this necessary to be a good writer? Do all of you feel that to be writing is your calling? Does this consuming passion make you a better author?

So if any of you thespians out there want to leave an answer for Susann then please do. You can also find her poignant short story on Amazon here.

In my answer to Susann (you knew this post was going to be about me didn't you?)  I related how I have always felt the need to create and express and that writing is but one of the forms of expression I've attempted ("attempt" being the operative word.) Indeed, I have tried my hand at various forms of  "the arts" including acting, singing, art and music - but not dancing (except in my kitchen - which if you've seen my legs you'll know why I stay behind the safety of my sink.) 

Obviously, I'm hoping I'm better at writing than the other arts. Basically, I was useless at singing, my attempts at playing the clarinet, recorder and guitar were met with looks of abject horror and my art was abject horror itself. If you can picture artwork which is cross between the style of Edward Munch/ Tracy Emin and Damon Hirst's more ghoulish pieces then you'll be on the right lines. Now to be fair, if I'd carried on producing artwork like that, I'd probably have made an absolute fortune. However, on the downside, I might have developed bi-polar by the age of twenty four. I would have had no self-worth at all; painting a picture of myself naked and screaming whilst lying on a messy bed next to a sheep's corpse wouldn't haven't been good for my sanity. 

But, by God, it would have been good for my subsequent literary reputation. Imagine the headlines:

Bi-polar author who slept with dead sheep before taking overdose nominated for ManBooker Prize.

Author who slit wrists with sheep shears scores hit with The History of Sheep in Art

Munch impressionist wrote horror trilogy before throwing herself of towerblock; The Screaming Sheep, The Sheep Murderer and The Last Lamb storm to the top of the bestseller charts.

Now to go back to Susann's question - unlike a lot of writers I don't feel restless or unhappy or the need wallow in the works of Sylvia Plath and Ernest Hemingway whilst taking intermittent sojurns to the bathroom cabinet. That said, I do feel kind of happier/content when I'm writing. It's as if expressing myself satisfies my need to express and entertain. I like entertaining. Just not if it requires cooking as any part of it.

Oh God, I've just googled "writers who have committed suicide" and found this. That is way more writers than I expected. Boy, there's some seriously screwed up writers out there. Now trust me, any of you self-published authors out there - your unedited manuscripts with numerous typos are not worth killing yourself over because unless you're a traditional published author who's been short-listed for a major prize or your publisher has demanded a third draft of your autobiography because there's not enough sex and debauchery in it, no one will care -you do not have to kill yourself. Those typos are not worth worrying about. Seriously. However, if you are at all concerned check out A Post for Depressed Writers: Ten Reasons to be Happy and Other Random Jolly Thoughts. It may cheer you up - or it may not.

In fact, don't read it if you're depressed, it may give you ideas. Sorry. I have a habit of putting my foot in it.

Now I don't want to create an image of myself as a completely happy-go-lucky, cocaine-snorting thespian with a penchant for pulling funny faces and wearing false noses. So it's fair to say I have at times in my life I've felt "down" too. It's only natural. Indeed the time when I realised I didn't need butt implants to have a fashionable butt like Kim Kardashian was a sad day. It was also a very sad day when I realised I wasn't go to grow taller than Tom Cruise. However, being an optimistic person I was able to pull myself out of my depressions by imagining Kim Kardshian's butt exploding on take-off from LAX airport and Tom Cruise asking me on a date because I was the only woman in Hollywood who he didn't have to put his heels on for. 

Of course, when I was a teenager I had a melancholic phase too just like many other teenagers which, again, is completely normal. After all, those teenage spots can really spoil a first date when they explode at an untimely moment. And that can really, really get you down. It happened to me once - it was just like that scene in There's Something About Mary when Ben Stiller gets semen on his ear. I told my date my zit pus was Alberto VO5 hair gel. I'm not proud of it, readers, but I did what had to be done.

You know, I have no idea where this post is going now. I've lost my train of thought. It was the image of Ben Stiller's semen that did it. Yuck.

               Ugh. I say again, ugh. I haven't felt the same about Ben Stiller since. Or hair gel.

Anyway, just for Susann, here's is a picture of some of my woodcarvings from my "artistic" period. These were carved during my teenage "I don't who I am but dead things are fascinating" years. We all have them - it's just most successful artists don't grow out if it or, if they're very lucky, they become fascinated by their genitals instead. Fortunately, I moved out of my "artistic" phase some time ago. Now I'm in my "I want to be a writer" phase. Hopefully, I'll have more success with writing than with my art. Blimey, I hope so. Otherwise Mr T may reinstate those chains.

Woodcarvings from my ghoulish period. Is it any wonder I'm mad? The centrepiece was for an exam but unfortunately the jaw of the skull didn't turn out quite as well as I'd hoped. I used to say this was because of time constraints as I had to find the time to do it in between classes. However, the truth is I just ******* it up with the chisel. Oh well. The skull and snake normally resides in the loft, the skull I use as a bookend and the head I put on a windowsill to scare off intruders. However, I find just opening the door in my PJs usually works pretty good.

Ps My short story collection is coming very soon. Apologies to anyone waiting. There is a reason which I will explain at a later date. 

Ten Reasons Why I Love Americans

1. Over 100, 000 Americans have just signed a petition to have Justin Beiber kicked out of the US. That action deserves a round of applause. True, there's been the odd occasion I've thought Americans were all bonkers (Eat Pray Love, election of George Bush Jnr, Kindegarten Cop) now I know they're not. Hurrah.

2 Lots of Americans wear really big hats and I like hats. I especially like those ten-gallon hats cowboys wear. I also like the hat Huggy Bear wears in Starksy and Hutch. Cool.

3. I like Americans' style. Even though Americans blow each other's heads off with guns they still manage to justify their gun policy on the grounds of personal safety. In England we call that irony. In the US they call it logic. As I said, I like their style.

4. Americans spell words wrongly. I've got used to it. In fact, I find it rather cute. It reminds me of when I was at school at the teacher would look at me fondly and say "Well done, Jane. That was a really good attempt."

I was 5 years old at the time.

5. Lots of Americans read my blog for which I am truly grateful. I'm sure they are picking up lots of tips on how to behave when they come to the UK . We love Americans over here. And, if they can wear a ten gallon hat and a (plastic) pistol around their waists, we'll love them a whole lot more. Alternatively, some Americans might want to experience what it is like being English and get into some role playing by eating cucumber sandwiches and talking posh like Mrs T. For this  they will need to wear a bonnet and pantaloons to get "in the mood".

I will meet them at the airport. With the customs officials.

6. The American and English nations have a lot in common.  For example, we both have "Tea Parties." To be truthful, I think our English tea parties are a lot more fun as these involve our obligatory cucumber sandwiches, sponge cake and in-depth discussions of Winnie the Pooh. As far as I can see American tea parties just consists of a whole bunch of fruitcakes.

7. Walt Disney was American and I love Disney movies. This could change of course but, luckily, I haven't yet seen Miley Cyrus in Hannah Montana - The Movie.

8. Seth MacFarlane is American. If I was single I'd probably want to marry him as he makes me laugh so much. The only trouble is I think I am actually more attracted to his dog. It's the woof that does it.

9. Americans voted in Ronald and Nancy Reagan as their President and First Lady which took some balls as, generally speaking, most film actors don't know what reality is. Admittedly, most Americans probably didn't know that Ronald told Shirley Maclaine that he was directed to go into politics by an alien who had stopped him on his way to a Hollywood party - but, nevertheless, I still say it was a courageous decision. I am currently trying to persuade Posh and Becks to go into politics. Who wouldn't want to see Becks giving a speech outside no 10?

"Ummm. We've scored a bit of a home goal with this...un..ah.... immigration policy......... Anyone want to play footie?"

I hope he's wears his Calvin Klein underpants.

10. Americans can be very forgiving, generous and kind. I know this from my writer's group which has a lot of Americans in it. They are quite tolerant of my sense of humour really. I'm not sure why - maybe it's something to do with the fact that they I think I'm related to Mrs Thatcher and they all secretly fancied her. What d'you reckon?

From subversive to submissive

I'm having a hell of a morning, folks. Full of disappointment. Now this is not because Master Jacob has forgotten his PE kit AGAIN and I've had to drive into town to drop it off - because three days in a row would have resulted in a major depression as I would have known for sure that my son was incapable of remembering anything but his first name. So all's good - just two days in a row and he's even managed to catch the bus every day this week. Yippee.

The truth is I'm depressed because I've received an email from Amazon trying to sell me a matching set of placements and coasters. Now this is depressing because, frankly, I'm not looking like a very dynamic person if all they can try and seduce me with is placemats and coasters. How about sending me an email for a super-charged vibrator or a sit-on lawn mower? Or maybe a helicopter flight or a massive chainsaw?  Cos you know, I like to consider myself still relatively lively for 48 years old. There's still some life in ol' Mrs T yet. I'm not sitting in front of my fire with my feet ensconced in a foot warmer, wrapped in a waffle dressing gown and studying the Sunday supplements for bargain hearing aids.

Not just yet anyway.

So, if getting an email trying to entice me to buy placemats and coasters wasn't bad enough - the pictures on the placemats they wanted me to buy was even more of a kick in the teeth.

It was artwork by the once subversive street artist Banksy.

Who is now selling his art for use on placemats and coasters. Gez. Talk about being commercial and conventional. I mean one has to assume Banksy knew what was going to happen to it - or at least have a very good idea.

Ah well, I suppose age makes people lose their ideals. Still selling out for placemats is sinking pretty low.

As for me? At the moment, I'm still after a ******* huge chainsaw but I guess my time will come too. Those bed socks get more appealing every winter.

Everyone can have fun with a chainsaw. Even a business geek. I want to see if this one is going to try and cut his hair.

Interrupting the deafening silence

Yes, I know I've have not been around much of late. However, today I had to break the silence to report a crime so heinous by one of the Young Masters that it can not go unreported. When they return home from school today I will be wearing my Spanish Inquisition frock and my kitchen tools will be laid out for ready for use. I will find out whether it is Master Benedict or Master Jacob who is the perpetrator of this unforgivable crime.

And what crime is this I hear you ask?

Well, dear readers, this morning I opened my email account and found a record of an unexpected purchase from itunes.

One of the my boys has downloaded Let Me Go by Gary Barlow.



GRR. I thought I was doing a good job with their music education. I shall have to review my methods.

A (quick) Christmas Quiz

In case you've been wondering where I've been and where is my promised short story collection, here's a short picture quiz which should enable you to deduce the answer.

My laptop, featuring a picture of my forthcoming short story collection.

A cup of green tea and lemon. (This mug was a gift from a friend  who, I think, was trying to give me a subtle message. Jokingly, of course.)

Speaks for itself really.

Yep, so there you have it; I drowned my laptop. In true Mrs T form, I manage to completely wreck it. However, as I try to look on the bright side of things, you might be interested to know that I can now personally vouch for cleaning properties of green tea and lemon. You may be even more interested to know that a range of previously unknown obscenities will be published in the English dictionary next year.

Anyway, to add to the hellish inconvenience of not being able to continue work on my stories, I couldn't do my Christmas shopping on the internet. Gross. I actually had to brave the shopping malls. This is a truly horrifying experience for me, especially as I seem to have one of those faces where people seem to want to stop and talk to me. Thus I was duly inflicted with several bizarre conversations about plastic jugs and tomato ketchup by strange people who for some reason thought I'd be interested in such things. Personally, I blame John Lewis for attracting too many menopausal women. Next time I go Christmas shopping in a mall, I am going to put lipstick on my eyes and eye-shadow on my lips thereby identifying me as a nutter who should be avoided at all costs. Hopefully, I will be able to do my Christmas shopping in peace then.

So anyhow I finally got my repaired laptop back on the 23rd December and since then have had too many family commitments to log on. So here I am at last to wish you all a Merry Christmas and a happy and healthy 2014. I will be back shortly with news on my now delayed short story collection and, hopefully, an update on progress with my novel submissions. In the meantime, thank you all for reading The Witty Ways of a Wayward Wife.

See you soon!

A Thanksgiving Day Letter to Seth MacFarlane

Mrs Turley

The Towers

London 

England

Seth MacFarlane

The Studios

Hollywood 

USA

Dear Seth

You have broken my heart. You have ruined Thanksgiving Day for your fellow countrymen. You have put the world in mourning.

How could you kill off Brian in Family Guy? How could you? I loved Brian as if he were my own dog. The fact I don't have a dog is irrelevant, but if I had a dog he would be just like Brian. We would have frolicked on my bed blowing raspberries, watching porn  the Disney channel and laughing about Americanisms. What fun Brian and I would have had! But now we can't. Because Brian is dead. 

As you can tell, even though I'm English, I was very fond of Brian. As your typical English person, I am also very pro animal rights (except when it comes to foxes and badgers) so I am outraged by your cruel and needless act upon an affectionate and loveable dog. It is an act of violence which must be addressed.

Accordingly, I have emailed Her Majesty and suggested she incarcerates you as soon as possible. Thus, the good gentlemen of the SAS will soon be arriving at your doorstep. And it's no good asking your special forces for help because your government would only send Sylvester Stallone or Arnold Schwarzenegger and ( I know this may come as a shock to you) but they're only actors. You can't really win any wars employing actors to do the work for you. And I know you think you've got an army - but have you looked in the Lego tin under your bed lately? I think you'll find it's empty.

Anyway, when the SAS have returned with you, I (as Her Majesty's chief torturer and executioner) will haul your sorry ass to The Tower and strap you to the rack. As I turn the screws, I will force you to mimic Brian, delighting in your every vowel, until your voice is hoarse and you are weeping for forgiveness. At which point, I will ignore your pathetic cries and throw you into the dungeons to contemplate your vicious act and spending the rest of your life as the most hated man on the planet. There will be nobody to listen to your jokes or bolster your ego. There will be nobody to love you. Thus, in your resulting madness, you will be forced to draw pictures of Brian on the walls in your own excrement. 

I know this seems harsh, Mr MacFarlane, but what you have done is a crime that deserves the ultimate punishment. The only way to save your soul (and intimate torture) is to save Brian. I don't care how you do it. Just do it. I'm even prepared to believe he wakes up from some surreal cartoonish dream. So do it - or risk my wrath.

Yours affectionately,

Mrs T.

Brian is dead. It's a sad, sad world. Picture courtesy of Wikipedia (Fair use.)

An appeal on behalf of mothers to the makers of Doctor Who

Dear Producers,

Are you out of your minds? Are you seriously going to have that old guy, Peter Capaldi, as the new Doctor Who? I've only just got used to the idea of Matt Smith as the Doctor and that's because he looks like a bloke in his thirties now and not like he's fresh out of nappies.

And particularly ugly nappies, if I might say so.

Look, I know most of the Doctors weren't exactly youngsters but that was before merchandising really took off. Have you any idea what it's like to wake in the night to a screaming child, run into their bedroom and find them pointing at a plastic figurine of Matt Smith bathed in moonlight? No? Well, let me tell you it's not great. But now you've gone and got Capaldi I expect the screaming to intensify. I shall probably have to hire a therapist soon.

I'd like to put forward the case for a handsome thirty/forty something Dr Who. Here's my arguments:

1. Just because Dr Who is quirky and plays with his screwdriver a lot he doesn't have to look quirky too. He could just act. That's what actors do. Well, some of them. I'm not sure about Harrison Ford but, to be fair, he does look good in leggings.

2. I'm fed up of nightmares. Looking at Capaldi bathed in moonlight would like be looking at the living dead as opposed to just looking at something out of Nightmare on Elm Street.


3. Mums like to watch TV programmes with their kids; it's a bonding experience. However, when we do this, ideally, we would like to admire an attractive man in his prime. And, if he can act quirky without looking a complete twat and dressing like Sherlock Holmes, all the better. Think David Tennant and you'll be on the right lines again. What's more, if you get an actor who looks like Hugh Jackman your merchandise royalties will triple overnight.

Now, I don't want to appear ageist, so I just like to say there are some other fine older actors who could have played The Doctor and who I'd have been happy to watch. I'm sure they would all have provided their own individual "take" on the role too. Here's a few suggestions:

I know Pierce is 60 now and old enough to be my grandfather father but he's still lush.
I emailed Pierce and asked him if he'd consider it. He sent me the above picture in return - just look at the sheer delight on his face at the thought of being The Doctor. Just imagine how much revenue the BBC would make out of Pierce figurines. I'd be happy to buy one. They could even make blow-up Pierce dolls. Again, I 'd be happy to buy one (or more) of those.

Yeah , I know Clint is even older then Pierce at 83 but I bet he could still use that sonic screw driver better than anyone else. Even if he had to perform in a wheelchair I'd be happy to be his assistant and push all his buttons for him. Who wouldn't love to see Doctor Clint shoot the crap out of a dalek? I know I would.

Chuck Norris as The Doctor. You can bet your life he'd have more than one sonic screwdriver. He'd have a whole arsenal. Brill.

But who'd be my favourite aged doctor? It's someone who I think would be just perfect. Someone who would bring kick-ass law and order to the universe in his own very individual style.

Steven Seagal. A karate-kicking, gun toting, no bull-shitting, explosive Doctor. Absolutely perfect. No one's gonna mess with this Doctor. Least of all me - which is why I say - Steven, you look great in pink. You blow me away.XXX

All the best,

Mrs T.

Ps -Pictures all courtesy of Wikipedia, creative common license. (With a little hindrance from Mrs T.)

I am the Anti-Writer

When I first started my blog, I used to write the occasional post giving new dictionary definitions for common words. Back then my life revolved around domesticity and children so they were words like washing machine (a square shaped inanimate object used for the cleaning of clothes which holds no interest for men despite having a round door which opens and closes without foreplay). These days, although I don't write much about writing here, I do occasionally mix with writers online and I certainly read a lot about writing and the arts in general. This has lead me to put together a new set of dictionary definitions appropriate to the moment. Here we go:

Artist: someone who talks about himself a lot, is likely to be mentally unstable and draws pictures of himself as the Elephant man. Artists are usually harmless but are usually into self-harm.

Painter: someone who knows the difference between Magnolia, Cream and Apple-White and knows how to install a dado rail.

Motivational Speaker: someone who believes he is Jesus but also has a book to sell.

Publicist: someone who has an Apple Mac and wants everyone else to know about it.

Agent: someone who sits on a fence trying to avoid a nasty wooden spike.

Serial Writer: someone, who as a child, read a lot comics.

Young Adult Writer: someone who wanted to be an artist but failed their art exams.

Psychologist: someone who laughs at other people and aspires to be a motivational speaker.

Women's Fiction Writer: someone who purports never to wear anything but pyjamas.

Crime Writer: someone who used to work in forensics before their eyesight deteriorated.

Thriller Writer: someone who admires Michael Jackson, reads Dan Brown for inspiration and occcasionally sticks his fingers in a plug socket.

Adult Fiction Writer: someone who still plays behind the bike sheds.

Traditional Publisher: someone who is standing on the edge of a tall precipice feeling slightly giddy.

Self-Publisher: someone who owns more than one set of trilogies.

Amazon:  a particularly moist forest from where books originate. Contrary to popular belief, the Amazon is not decreasing but expanding. This is due to excessive moisture requirements of some of its chief occupants.

A Best-Selling Author: someone who has hit the number one spot in the Kindle charts in the Caribbean dystopian fiction genre.

Manic Depressive: someone who hasn't yet hit the top of the Kindle chart in Caribbean dystopian fiction genre.

Bi-Polar Depressive: someone who has hit the top of New York Times best-selling author list but still doesn't need an accountant.

A comedian: someone who is not Russell Brand and knows what a punchline is.

A humorist: someone who knows the truth and isn't afraid to get lambasted for saying it.

"All you need to become a successful author is this bunch of carrots. They are free with my book which is $9.99 on Kindle, $11.99 in paperback or you can buy it from me today with a personalized inscription for just $10.99. It also comes in Braille for just $25.00.

Trouble in the School Changing Rooms

Yes, there has been trouble in the school changing rooms this week. Young Master Jacob has twice had money stolen from a zipped pocket in his trousers, resulting in him not being able to buy his lunch.

Obviously, I am not pleased about this, especially as I have experienced first hand the trouble one can have with school bullies. (  I recounted one "fight" episode in my blog post Kenny & Dolly & The Adventurous Tales of Mrs T .)

So, naturally,  I was discussing strategies with Master Jacob prior to school this morning. As I was doing so, Master Benedict returned from the bathroom where his teeth had undergone the rare experienced of being cleaned.

"Why don't you just box him?" says Master Ben. (I should point out Master Jacob has a suspicion he knows who the culprit is.)

Now the same thought had crossed my mind as it is a tad silly to mess with Master Jacob who is 6ft 2in, plays several sports to a high level and recently has been learning how to box. However, being a reasonable woman, I mumbled something about violence not being a good thing blah, blah, blah, appeasement blah, blah, blah and turning the other cheek blah, blah, blah.

Master Benedict, however, thought differently and launched into imaginary fight with accompanying commentary which included the words "kick", "butt", "testicles" and looked rather like the fight scene in the film, Ted. Eventually, having thrown himself all around the lounge, Master Benedict grabbed his imaginary assailant, dragged him down the hallway by the scruff of his neck and dropped him in front of the imaginary PE teacher.

The net result was of this was that Master Jacob and I laughed so much he missed his school bus. Now, I did think about lecturing Master Ben about the inappropriate use of violence but then I remembered my own adventures....

In conclusion all I can say is: I am grateful Master Jacob is a sensible and placid young man. Master Benedict, however, is more like me - which means I am expecting his days at upper school to be more "colourful" than Master Jacob's.

 I will be taking out insurance.

I am on Twitter!

Yes, I've finally caved in and signed up with Twitter. Now that my manuscript is out the big wide world accruing rejections, I thought I'd better join up with Twitter in case some big hot-shot literary agent pops in and thinks I'm not taking this writing business seriously. So I decided it was time for Twitter- cos let's face it at my age offering sex for publication is not really a viable option. Apart from the fact that lots of literary agents appear to be women and I'm not a lesbian, I don't think white, size eighteen thermal knickers would go down too well on the casting couch. So it has to be Twitter.

So here I am: https://twitter.com/turleytalks

Now unfortunately, all the combinations of my blog title Witty Ways, Wayward Wife, Witty Wife etc etc as well as MY name were already taken. Pah!  So in the end I just had to settle for @turleytalks for my twitter handle.  I quite like it though and one thing's for sure I do actually do a lot of talking. I just hope I don't get sued. Fortunately, I've some wealthy relatives but I'm not sure if they'd cough up if I got sued for calling David Cameron a jackass.

Actually, I'd never call David a jackass; it's not his fault he went to Eton.

I could call Piers Morgan a jackass though. That's just true. You can't be sued for the truth surely?

Anyone with knowledge of libel laws please get in contact asap. Thanks.

A quick poem about my driving skills

Nissans are blue

Vauxhalls are green

I’ve hit them both

Which wasn’t forseen

Kias are trouble

But Nissans are worse

They sneak up on you

When you try to reverse

I’ve hit so many cars

The public are wary

And my husband's so cross

He looks rather scary

The police are on the lookout

For a woman on their list

Who looks like a loony

And drives like she’s pissed.

I’m hiding in the bathroom

Until the cops disappear

It wouldn’t be too bad

But the sewerage pipe’s sheared.

Where cars are concerned

I haven't had much luck

I'd probably be okay though

If I had a big truck

An extract from White Lies, from my forthcoming short story collection.

William Baxter crosses the floor, his sharp steps echoing in the marble foyer. The security guard looks up and touches his cap and Baxter gives him a cursory nod of recognition. Baxter always acknowledges security even though most of them indulge the rumour that he murdered his mother. Baxter knows that when you have a reputation as a man who pulls off impossible deals and bankrupts other business malicious gossip is always rife. He’s learnt to live with rumours, sometimes they even make him laugh, but most of the time Baxter just shrugs them off as inconsequential gossip. As for the rumour he murdered his mother – it’s one he quite enjoys.

            Baxter ignores the fanciful stares of two secretaries returning from lunch and hurries towards the exit, securing the buttons on his cashmere coat with one hand and stealing a glimpse at his Rolex on the other. Time is of the essence. He pushes the revolving doors with an impatient thrust, exposing his crisp white shirt cuffs and gold cufflinks. A limousine pulls up outside, light ricocheting off its polished silver fender. Baxter has fifteen minutes to travel the four blocks to Saviour Investments. He’s decided to make them an offer they can’t refuse. It’s a more generous proposition than he’d normally make but, since he made a killing on the stock exchange this morning, he’s feeling almost philanthropic. The driver opens the car door and Baxter quickens his pace once more when a sudden impact throws him off-balance and sends him staggering backwards.

            “For fuck’s sake!” curses Baxter, straightening up and preparing to give his assailant a lashing of abuse. But there’s no suited employee to take the brunt of his anger, only a dishevelled young woman lying on the sidewalk.

            “Mr Baxter,” says his driver. “Let me deal with it…”

            “No, no. It’s fine. I’ll see to it,” says Baxter, waving his driver away.

Baxter inspects the woman, making a quick appraisal of her worn heels, tired skirt and saggy jumper. He’s distracted from the spilled contents of her handbag by her skirt which has ridden up exposing the smooth creamy flesh of her legs splayed wide on the dirty concrete. The desire for academic victory over Saviour seems less urgent as Baxter feels the stirrings of unexpected lust.

            “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you,” says the woman. 

Tearing his eyes away from the naked skin and hints of flimsy underwear, Baxter notices the dark glasses askew on a youthful face with a surge of disappointment. He distrusts people, particularly women, who wear sunglasses especially when it’s dull and overcast. He wonders what the woman may be hiding: puffy eyes from a sleepless night, a bout of tears or something else? He remembers his mother’s cutting asides dispensed from behind her designer glasses, a cigarette poised at her lips. Defence or attack? He’s never quite sure.

            As Baxter surveys the scene, he spots an unmistakable object on the sidewalk and admonishes himself for not being more observant. His fastidious nature means he normally notices even the smallest details including the unintentional vocal nuances and facial grimaces which, in the boardroom, have put him one step ahead of the pack. But today he has been too preoccupied with thoughts of subjugation as, not only did he not see the woman, but he did not see her white cane.

            “Hello…hello?” says the woman, her voice wavering.

Words stick in Baxter’s throat for a moment as the woman briefly tilts her head to one side before turning to scrabble around for the missing cane and the scattered contents of her bag.

            “I was in a hurry and didn’t see you either,” says Baxter, kneeling on the floor. At the same time as Baxter regrets the dirt on his pants, he’s aware of an emotion he has not felt for a long time. So long, he is not even sure it still existed.   

            “I thought you’d left,” says the woman, turning back towards him.

            “No…I was winded,” replies Baxter. He picks up her bag, reaches for her hand and guides it so she can drop her collection of possessions back inside the bag.  “I’m fine now. Are you?”

            “Yes. I was just disorientated for a moment,” says the woman.

Baxter likes the fact she hasn’t demonized him or referenced her blindness. He picks up the remaining articles and deposits them alongside the others, a fleeting glimmer of curiosity passing over his face as he absorbs the information they reveal:

            Mary Anne Whitmore.

            Baxter picks up the cane, places it in Mary Anne’s hand and holds her by the other.

            “Let me help you up. Ready now? One, two, three!”

Baxter pulls Mary Anne to her feet.  He doesn’t release her hand but studies her as she steadies herself; she’s taller than he expected and with decent heels she’d meet his gaze at eye level. Her hair is thick and long but in need of a stylist and, whilst she’s not obviously beautiful, she has features that accentuated by the right makeup would make other women jealous and other men licentious.

            “Thank you,” says Mary Anne, pulling her hand out of his grasp.

            “I should make up for my clumsiness,” says Baxter with deliberation. “Do you like Italian?”

 “No need,” replies Mary Anne. “It was an accident.”

            “I won’t take no for an answer,” says Baxter. “Please accept my offer by way of an apology. If you prefer, we could make it French or Thai.”

            “I have an appointment.”

            “Whatever it is, I’m sure it can wait,” says Baxter.

            “No…it can’t,” says Mary Anne and turns away, her cane leading the way.

            Baxter watches Mary Anne feel her way down the sidewalk. He’s intrigued by her stubbornness and her blindness but his fleeting compassion dissolves as she merges with the crowd. As she disappears completely, he wipes the dust from his clothes and realizes he’s aroused by idea that she can’t see him for who he really is.

                                                                           *****

Comments welcome. Good, bad, indifferent I want to know, so I get this story bang on!

Lattes, Mottos and Coffee Shops

Question: what's a motto?

Alrighty, let's first establish that a "motto" is not a new type of fancy coffee. Because if someone asked me would I like a motto I'd probably reply; "No, I'd prefer a latte, thank you."

You know, coffee shops confuse the hell out of me with all the different types of coffee and flavourings.They're popping up everywhere. We even have a barista bar at one the fancier tennis clubs we go to now which is revolutionary; I'm used to taking my own flask of coffee or paying fifty pence for coffee that's indistinguishable from liquid detergent. Anyway, at that particular barista bar, if I now ask for a coffee they look at me as if I've spoken a foreign language and I have to qualify my request:

"Yes, a coffee. A normal one: coffee, water. In a cup. Hopefully, delivered in less time it takes to watch an episode of Downton Abbey."

Question: Do you need a degree to be a barista?

Those barista bars look incredibly complicated though with all their knobs, pipes and steam shooting out everywhere, don't they? In fact, I'm sure barista bars were designed using the prototype of George Stephenson's steam engine the Locomotion - which took about two and half hours to travel from Liverpool to Manchester in 1830. That's about the average time it takes to get a cup of coffee in Costas. When there's no queue. If there's a queue - basically you're *ucked.

So where was I? Ah yes. Mottos. Well, mottos are not coffees they're statements used to express a principle, goal, or ideal or they're an expression adopted as a guide to one's behaviour. James Bond had a family motto. It was "Orbit non sufficit" or "The world is not enough". Here's a few other mottos:

My motto is: more good times - Jack Nicholson.

No surprises it was Jack who said that. Although, if it had been Michael Douglas I wouldn't have been too shocked either.

Attempt the impossible in order to improve your work - Bette Davis.

I keep attempting to stack my saucepans correctly in an attempt to improve my housework. Unfortunately, I keep failing. Again - no surprises.

My motto is: Live every day to the fullest - in moderation - Lindsay Lohan. 

The fullest being in her pockets - the moderation being when she's not wearing her overcoat.

My motto in life is: 'If you think it, you can do it' and if we all apply that thought we can end hunger the world over - Dionne Warwick.

You know, I keep thinking about having sex with Daniel Craig but as yet I haven't done it. My motto: don't ever listen to celebs. They talk crap.

If you are not bored by life, and your primary motto is enthusiasm and if you like your friends, family around you, it all translates into your designs. That's what keeps the creativity alive - Christian Louboutin.

So that's how Christian designs shoes. Deep meaningful stuff.  God knows what Vivenne Westwood's motto would be. Maybe something like: "I look at shooting stars, the moon and pretty rainbows whilst I sniff Mr Muscle and the next thing I know I've produced a work of creative genius." (Don't quote me on that, readers.)

My motto is to go wild on the accessories - the belts, the hair clips, the jewellery - Heidi Klum

Oh. Dear. God. There's not a lot going on "upstairs" with dear Heidi is there? Still, she looks pretty. I suppose one can't have everything. Maybe she should have a day out with Lindsey. They could go shopping together.

Question: what the hell was this post about?

Answer: I have a new motto:

If I don't like the way you park I'm going to drive into your car

Long term readers of this blog may know that I have had a few "incidents" in the past with my car. If you're wondering why I've come up with a motto now - you probably won't have to think too hard to work out why.

Do not park at the bottom of my driveway. In fact, do not park in my road at all. And, if you could avoid a radius of about twenty miles, that would be really helpful.

Ps - I don't like to end my posts on a negative note so here's some good news: that speed camera didn't get me the other day. Phew.