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