Wednesday, September 10, 2008
It's nearly Christmas...
Well, no... actually it isn’t. But Master Benedict who is 7 years old clearly thinks it is because yesterday I discovered a letter to Santa in his room;
Dear Farmer Christmas
May I have a big telly for Sky please and a chicken.
Hmmm. Perhaps I should get him a hearing test?
However, the use of the word “farmer” maybe something to do with his obsession with chickens lately. In fact, he’s been counting out the pennies in his wallet because he wants to buy a chicken. Not a dead one obviously, a real live one. (Personally, the only chickens I like are the ones that come with stuffing.) Now Master Benedict tells me that we could have one for only £30 (Seems a bit pricey to me when I can get a roasted one for a fiver) and that he would collect its little eggs daily and we could have lots of scrambled eggs on toast which is one of his favourite meals. Kinda cute, but just not practical at all.
Why? Well, firstly, even though we live in the countryside the garden is not that big and secondly, and most importantly, NOTHING lives in our back garden. Yeah, that’s because Master Jacob and Master Benedict are out there with the masses of footballs, tennis balls, rugby balls splattering the living daylights out there of anything that is anywhere near a shade of green.(And cripes... you should see what they do to woodlice and worms. Ever tried to explode woodlice with a magnifying glass? Hmm... maybe that’s just an old English tradition…) Anyway, I’ve given up planting summer bedding plants because after nurturing them for months as soon as they bloom I find their heads firmly implanted on the garden fence and it kinda makes me MAAAAAD. So, I’m just going to have wait till they’ve all flown the nest… yep, it could be a long, long time before I get out that wicker basket and pick blooms and make flower arrangements…
Hmm… that sounds worryingly like I’m one of the Women’s Institute. Well, I’m not. Not yet anyway. I don’t want to bring down the average membership age to under 60 do I? That would be sacrilege. And I’m far too young to being wearing polyester trousers and plastic beads. Although sometimes those beads really do it for me…… oh um…must stop there….before I get onto tank tops…..
Anyway, Master Benedict obviously had second thoughts because on the reverse of his letter I found an expanded version which read;
May I have a big telly for Sky. Please please also a rabbit please please. All the other things can be your chouse. Please please please please please, please please.
Huh, what does he think? That grovelling with adults works?? ?????
Dear Mr T,
Please, please, please, please, please, please,please, please, please,please, please, please, please,please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please can I have a teeny weany, itsy bitsy holiday in the Caribbean??
Hmm….I think I know the answer to that one. Ah well.
Well just to change the subject… Hormones. Yikes, these are baaaaddd thing for us women. Mine have been racing around my body the last few days, churning me up and making me feel like a sack of mouldy potatoes. How do I know that? Well, I wrote a poem didn’t I?? That’s gotta mean depression hasn’t it?! Cripes, any moment now I might even take up yoga, start sticking incense sticks in my potatoes and start worshipping muesli…
Anyway to relieve the tension Mrs B (that’s ford focus mum) and I agreed to go swimming together. Mrs B is late and I am early. There is only one other lady in the pool. Lovely, Mrs T thinks. Sheer bliss… and not even a sign of a shark or a barracuda. Heaven.
So I climb in and just as I’m ready to spread my arms out and merge into the blue depths, the other lady starts talking to me and wading over to the dividing rope between the speed lane (where I am) and over 45’s lane. (Sorry Mrs B!). And talking to me…and talking to me … and talking to me. For nearly 15 minutes she talks as I’m posed to plunge… in that time I’ve heard about every ailment, operation and illness she’s ever had, about her recent holiday and how she negotiated a special price on her membership.
Yeah, and I’m thinking I know just why she got a special price... as the word “Nutter” keeps going over and over in my mind. Believe me if you’ve worked in retail like I have, you’ll do ANYTHING to get rid of a nutter even giving them a discount. However, you must not be too friendly as then they just keep coming back and then you'll want to take a gun to your head.
Personally, my technique to avoid this situation was to say;
“I’m so sorry to break the conversation. My colleague over there would love to be of assistance.(Whichever one was annoying me most at the time.) I’m on my lunch break now and I must dash to a hairdresser’s appointment. I’m having it cut short as these nits are so hard to get rid off….”
Worked a treat every time.
Anyway, the woman is back onto her ailments again;
“Oh and I can’t make here till 11 am as I have to take it easy and I’ve had diarrhoea this morning (Mortified look on Mrs T’s face) but don’t worry… I’ve taken my Imodium…..”
NO, NO, NO. Mrs T’s brain is in information overload. Shit, I think. Yep, shit, literally, could be in the pool. This is not good for Mrs T’s depression. Mrs T does not fancy a mouthful of...well you know…shit. (Aplologies for language folks...)
“….And where do you live…?”
Mrs T plunges deeply under water……
When I surface half way down the pool I’m doing my best impression of an supreme athlete (pretty hard, but nevertheless vital in the circumstances) and within a couple of lengths the lady, realising Mrs T is now immune to conversation, takes her leave. Mrs B arrives and I recount the story and Mrs B says she has seen the said lady idling in the Jacuzzi.
About 40mins later and our swim completed we decide we will go the Jacuzzi to swap school horror stories. But alas, when we get there the Jacuzzi has been drained and the attendant is scrubbing it clean.
Mrs T and Mrs B look at each other with horror….
“Do you think this is a scheduled clean or perhaps…….?????” Says Mrs T, gagging back vomit at the very thought…..
“I don’t know,” quips Mrs B, “we may never get to the bottom of it!”
Indeed not. And Mrs T never wants to get to the bottom of it.
Onto other matters. (Yes, I’m rambling today.) For a while Mrs A, (Yeah – The Cynical One) and I have been battling it out over Mr Pierce Brosnan’s worthiness as World Number 1 Superstud. Mr Brosnan, in my opinion, has everything a gal could want; looks, charm, suaveness, humour and a bulging wallet. He also sports a tuxedo pretty well. Too well, if you know what I mean. In fact last time I watched the Thomas Crown Affair I became so short of breath I had to be admitted to hospital. They soon discharged me though when rifling my handbag for identification they discovered my Pierce Brosnan 007 “doll,” my mobile with 200 text messages addressed to Mr Bond, Universal Exports and a spare pair of knickers. Now Mrs A thinks the delectable Mr Brosnan is past it, a has been, and all washed up and she prefers a younger man like the lovely David Tennant. Shame, shame upon her! No one compares to Mr Brosnan and I might add a little experience can go a long, long way. (Cough, cough.) However, I do agree with Mrs A that Mr Brosnan has erred by doing that the L’Oreal Advert. Have you seen it? Well here it is;
Well, I agree that the advert is a little on cheesy side. Well, very cheesy actually. Even perhaps rather like a ripe Stilton. Now one has to be a realist; they probably paid Pierce a whole heap of cash to do it and who are we to say he should turn it down. For all we know the lovely Pierce may be a secret philanthropist and donated it all the cash to charity. Anyway, there’s no doubt they could have done a far better advert – it’s just a little too smooth isn’t it? So smooth it’s just not believable really. Which is a pity because up until now I’ve always believed everything he did was absolutely genuine. I mean he has saved the world so many times I was in total awe….have I been taken in? Have I been fooled by the size of his gun? I hope not….
Now Mrs A, who is always trying to stir me up into vicious diatribes, has challenged me to write an alternative L’Oreal advert for Pierce. Oh by the way Mrs A has instructed me that the script must include a jar of the offending face cream L’Oreal Vita Lift for Men and a Stannah Stair lift. (The implication being obviously that Pierce is too old.) Let me assure you that Mrs A is a cruel, cruel woman and I just want to point out that she is considerably older than me and she will be requiring a Stannah stair lift long before I do. I will still be skipping gaily around while Mrs A is hobbling along with her walking stick and her anti wrinkle cream in her pocket....
Anyway, here’s an alternative script….
Pierce walks centre stage sporting a Tuxedo and packing a big bulge…underneath his arm…..He looks straight into the camera…
“The name’s Brosnan. Pierce Brosnan. I’m a one stop sex machine and I don’t need a Stannah stair lift because I’m supremely fit and A1 in between the sheets."
(Pierce presses detonation device connected to nearby Stannah stair lift causing it to violently explode)
" Ladies, if you buy your husband L’Oreal Vita Face Lift you can pretend he is me and I guarantee you will have the best night of your life.”
As a result of this advert sales of L’Oreal Vita Face Life soar dramatically overnight causing a global face cream shortage. Women march in protest outside L’Oreal Headquarters and beat each other senseless over the last remaining pots. The final pot on earth is sold on Ebay for a phenomenal £1,000,000. The purchaser is an unknown woman living in The Home Counties. She just pips Joan Collins, Elizabeth Taylor and Ivana Trump at the post because they were so old they couldn’t press the button quick enough to up their stakes. Unfortunately, The Unknown Woman’s bid is later rejected as her money is discovered to be from a Monopoly Set. The last pot of face cream goes to Ivana Trump instead who unfortunately confuses it with her hair gel and has to live her remaining life knowing that she will never, ever get to make wild passionate love to Pierce Brosnan…..
Well there you go Mrs A. Pretty bad eh? But you know those hormones……
Copyright Jane Turley 2008
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That jacuzzi is ALWAYS closed for cleaning...Hmmmm...ReplyDelete
My boys are desperate to keep chickens as well. What are they teaching them in these schools? It's not going to happen for reasons identical to those you state.
Thing is Mrs T, your numerical age and your biological age are not the same at all, and I have done the test and find I am actually 34. So I won't be looking for a way to get the Stannah round the dogleg in the grand staircase any time soon. (Can they do ones that go round corners?)
I think your ad is much better. Gets to the point nice and quickly and delivers same message as the actual one, but doesnt concern itself with subtlety or suggestion. Either way the upshot is that certain women will buy their husbands VitaLift in the hope they will turn into Pierce. (I shall make no remarks about pigs and lipstick.) Apparently D Tennant is negotiatiating a feature film of Dr Who, so he'll probably be doing the L'Oreal ads soon anyway. Who needs guns when there is a sonic screwdriver about?
Did I mention I've got tickets for Hamlet? Did I?
Hmm..that is worrying. Maybe Mrs Nutter has more gastro problems than I would care to mention....ReplyDelete
Yippy-Do Mrs A! If you are 34, I must be 29?? O Hurrah! My spirits are lifting already. (The alcohol is also taking effect.)
That is worrying suggestion about Mr Tennant. Perhaps he could be persuaded to model Calvin Kleins instead? I feel sure they would sell like hot cakes...
Well I do like a man with a gun but sonic screwdrivers... I hear they're magic Mrs A... They can do wonderful things for women...OOOOOOo Ahhhhhhhh the very thought....
Yes, you did mention you had tickets for Hamlet. How much grovelling to I need to do to get one???
This blog is full of life-changing revelations. Are you absolutely sure this L'Oreal Vita Lift for Men tonic has to be rubbed into the skin? Every day for years, I've been swallowing two teaspoons after breakfast and wondering why my wrinkles were getting worse, rather than better. Now, I know: as things get tighter inside, the outside is getting baggier by contrast.ReplyDelete
This might also explain the constipation and why, although I might look younger on the inside, Pierce has grown to look younger on the outside. There was a time he looked so much older than me.
As for your friend in the pool (I know she may not be your friend, but you're certainly her friend and will be every time she sees you walking down the street, sitting in a cafe or pulling on your bathing hat) --- as for your friend in the pool, just slip her a teaspoon or two of L'Oreal Vita Lift for Men and the spa will never need to be cleaned after she's been in it again.
AH HA! So that explains your appearance PB! And I just thought you'd stood too close to the barbecue...ReplyDelete
Well I shall have to recommend it to Mrs Nutter when I see her next. Somehow I feel sure that we will meet again... in fact it is very possible she is stalking me at this moment (Mrs T looks cautiously around) but PB not only do I have a jar of L'oreal Vita face Lift to protect me from sudden outbursts...I also have my flame thrower...
L'Oreal Vita Lift goes on the FACE???? Not the...well...you know, it is cheaper then viagra, so when I didnt get any real "firm" results, I just figured it was the cheaper younger brother of viagra, and therefore was rubbish. Just finding that out alone has made me empty my stomach in to the local jacuzzi.ReplyDelete
Tell me...where do you live again? I think we may have passed in the corridoor. I was the one with a pale face and holding my stomach with an embarrased look. Sorry ladies...truly I am.
You did this post just for me and Bette Middler???ReplyDelete
Chickens?? (yeh, they ARE good!)
You are a gift, and a genius.
I thoroughly enjoyed your fun, warm, and loving post, Mrs. T. Master Benedict's requests are adorable. I can imagine him having a living Chicken as a pet. Loving the little thing until one dark day, he becomes bored with it or it starts driving everyone crazy with its cock-a-doodle-do noises and the like.ReplyDelete
Moments later, "WHACK!" Off goes the chicken's head, feathers, and voila! Mrs. T has prepared a scrumptious chicken dish for the Turley family. Talk about value in a chicken! I hear they are excellent for target practice too - but that's a little too dangerous for a seven-year old. Or worse, placing a gun in the hands of Mrs. T can be a little scary as she repeatedly shoots the dead bird over and over as she vents her frustration and laughs with glee. No, not a good idea. Don't buy the chicken!
Fortunately, I've never had any horror stories with any nutters or anything that shouldn't be in a swimming pool. I am not traumatized yet so I shall remain confident in swimming wherever I please.
Too funnny...mine are already making Christmas lists AND thinking about birthday's in January/February/March of NEXT year! Umm...Oh-Kaaay...LOL Chickens huh?! Mine are just fascinated with horses which I obviously living in the suburbs can not have...Enjoyed Pierce B...although he ruined his sex appeal for me with that ad!!ReplyDelete
A whaaaaaaaaa? a chicken? Has Sy been talking to your son? It must have been Sy that put that in his head.ReplyDelete
Have you started with hot flashes? I think mine have kicked in...and, my moods are moving in another direction than my mind...which leads my mouth to 'head South' *sigh*
You cannot be serious! I read the C-word (Christmas), and nearly stopped right there. In a panic, I have now bought the first present, taken it back to the shop and exchanged it for something else. (It is now safely squirrelled away and will probably be found again in March ...) Please, in future, precede all mentions of the C-word with a Health and Safety warning, at least until December. Thanks!ReplyDelete
On a different note, what a great Christmas list and what a well-balanced child you must have. There's a bit of technology there and a bit of an aspiration towards nature, animals, self-reliance etc etc. Having said that, I wouldn't want a pet chicken either. Way to go, Mrs T!
I would suggest for your needs you try Ralgex instead; I guarantee you will get a hot result!
Welcome Mr Speedy,
Hmm.. I just love your praise!Is that how you sweet talked Bette Midler into running that chicken business with you? Or did you just tickle her with feathers you sly Old Bird???
Please check the use of your word "Scrumptious" in this context... such a word is blasphemous in Mrs T's cooking vocabulary....
However, the shooting bit does sound quite appealing... and I've found that one doesn't have to be too accurate with a twelve bore.
Oh dear, I think I gave away a secret away there...
Now I seem to remember Mewie you are but 28 years old; just a youngster compared to the older, more mature and experienced Mrs T...
Please feel free to drop round the pool whenever you like....I don't think Mrs B will object either...
What is it with kids?? I had such simple expectations as a child.. you know, like a doll.. (Action Man obviously) Now it always has to be something weird or expensive...
Mind you the year before last Master Jacob asked me for curtains for his bedroom.. I kinda felt guilty as he only had blinds...
Master Sy is responsible for a lot of lunacy but even I can't blame him for my son's requests. I've no idea where he got the idea from although the fact that I asked Mr T for a pig had something to do with it. (I've always fancied curing my own bacon.)
Luckily, the only hot flushes I've had so far are the ones when I've gone out with my skirt tucked in my tights. Although last year I kept waking up at night dripping in sweat..thinking "This is it, this is it, this is where my boobs droop faster than Elizabeth Taylor's chin.... " and then I remembered it was August and we still had the summer quilt on....
Good Morning Mrs B,ReplyDelete
Yes the dreaded "C" word is fast approaching! Doing the shopping is bad enough but also I'm sick of dressing up as Santa and getting stuck down that ruddy chimney every year...
Huh.. equal oppportunities.
You reckon Master B is well balanced eh??? Let me remind you of something vital you may have forgotten...
He is my son.