Wednesday, June 29, 2011

Thoughts at the End of a Long Day

Yep, it's been a long day. Full of emotional highs and lows.

And I'm really pleased that Andy beat Feliciano at Wimbledon.

I am. Really I am.

Although... if Feliciano had done his trick with the 5 loaves and 2 fish he might have convinced Andy that he should win...

Restoring Humour

Right, after this morning's post and yesterday's even more depressing one urgent action is required to restore Mrs T to her normal good humour!

Plan; 

1. Drink large cup of strong black coffee as opposed to usual decaff.  TICK

2. Scoff packet of yummy nuts. TICK.

3. Inspect pictures of Felciano Lopez ready for play-off against Andy Murray.


Hmm. Not bad. Not bad at all. 10/10.  I little long in the hair department but acceptably attractive. Looks a bit like Jesus though - which kinda worries me with the thoughts I'm having...

Hmm..bit worrying that bloke behind Feliciano has also given him a 10 though. Although I guess it's whatever ticks your box these days....

Anyway, that's a TICK

4. Ring Mrs D, friend and tennis partner, for mutual therapeutic whinge about the NHS, sore toes, tonsillitis, schools and anything else that comes to mind. TICK

5. Check what time Feliciano Andy comes on centre court. Hmm... after Federer. I wonder how much gold lame Roger will be wearing today? TICK

6. Write a blog.  Always good therapy - even when the complaints come in. TICK.

7. Check time - 12 50. Ten minutes before the Gold Lame Man arrives on centre court...just time to make lunch and another strong coffee....

And that is how we restore humour to Mrs T. And I didn't even mention chocolate..although come to think of it....

Let the Voices of Reason Speak

Cripes, I feel mad lately. Monday was such a beautiful, sunny day. In the morning I'd sat down at my computer and was finalising a piece of flash fiction to submit for The Bridport Prize, Young Sam had even come into my study and asked me for help on a photography competition he wanted to enter and all was well -I was in a really positive frame of mind. Then I get than darn call from school (see yesterday's post) and everything goes pear shaped.

Then this morning the stray cat I was feeding hasn't turn up. Yesterday, he arrived with a nasty injury to his head. I tried to get him into a basket but failed so I went to the Vets and asked for antibiotics which I could feed him so he didn't get an infection;

 "Oh, we can't give antibiotics without seeing the cat. Maybe you could get the RSCPA vet to look at him?"

 I reply;

 "Seriously, you think the RSCPA are going to hang around at my house all day on the off chance he'll appear?"

I walk away empty-handed.

What is wrong with these people? It's the same with schools, doctors, almost any government department. These people are all afraid to work outside the box, to fly in the face of political correctness and the tick box mentality. The majority are too afraid to do what they know is morally right and many, I suspect, enjoy being Little Hitlers, glorifying in their role of administrative masters of the universe.

I seriously hope that if ever I work in a position of authority again I will have the courage to do what's right, to follow my heart, to the listen to the voice within that says "This is not right and I must act, whatever the consequences."

It was only a cat I know.

Tuesday, June 28, 2011

When Anger Reigns

I do not like anger. I do not like it in other people and I do not like it in myself.

But it's nearly 3 am, I haven't slept and I am still angry. Very angry. I am burning with rage at the phone call I received from school yesterday lunchtime about one of my boy's education.

Over the last 15 years, since my eldest started school, I have had to contend with a number of school issues that have frustrated, appalled and angered me. I have watched on the sidelines as the state school system has slowly deteriorated into a politically correct, mediocre, babysitting establishment which is breeding a generation of illiterate children. Government statistics which say our children are all little geniuses with bucketfuls of A stars are a complete distortion of the truth.  And I don't  know anyone who doesn't think that is the case - including many teachers I know - some of  whom will quietly confirm  the rumour that pass marks are being set lower to give the appearance of greater success is not a fallacy. It is, in fact, very much true.

In the last two years or so I let my finger slip of the pulse of my sons' education. It started the day my mother died - I couldn't keep up with marking the extra Maths and English papers I made my boys do, the constant cajoling them to do their work, the extra pressure it was for all us.  I was fed up with chasing things up at school and the continual nagging. I still took the teachers to task at open evenings for their failure to mark spellings and punctuation - and sometimes even to mark the books at all. But I was fundamentally tired of fighting for a decent education for my boys and supplementing it to the cost of £200 a month - money we could ill afford when both younger boys had serious prospects as tennis players. So I accepted everything was fine, I made myself believe the teachers when they said all was well - even though when I looked at their books I knew it was a lie.

I accepted mediocrity - even though I knew it was wrong to do so. And I failed my children. For now mediocrity has become below par mediocrity. Now the school says;

Oh, I'm sorry Mrs Turley it suddenly appears your son is not doing so well as we thought. We can't tick our end of year mediocrity box. We need to do something. So we've decided to ring you and tell you we are sending some extra work home for your son. Hopefully, if you pull your finger out Mrs Turley we might be able to tick our box again next year. We'll give him some extra lessons just to encourage you but well I wouldn't rely on us - after all we've pretty much fucked it up so far haven't we? Never mind though, Mrs Turley- there's plenty of other children like your son. He won't be the only one!

So the government tells us all is well and the teachers say what they're told to say. But I have eyes that see and ears that listen - I do not need government statistics or class teachers to tell me what the state of education is in this country. I already know it. It is not good. It is not good at all.

So now I must pay the penalty for not keeping up the fight, for foolishly accepting all that meaningless drivel they told me at parents' evenings. I must pay with my time and my money. I will not allow my brightest child to succumb to the sickness that lies within our failing education system. He will not become one of the illiterate masses.

Tomorrow I shall make appointment to see the Deputy Head and the Head of English and the battle will begin again.

This time it's war.

Monday, June 20, 2011

Mrs J Turley, Fashionista Extraordinaire (The Wonders of Sheep's Wool II)

That's it! I've finally discovered how I can become a fashion tycoon, the new Vivien Westwood of jewellery design and guru of ludicrously overpriced fashion. In a matter of weeks, I, Mrs Turley Housewife Extraordinaire, will become a Fashionista Extraordinaire and multi-millionaire businesswoman. People will be paying me huge amounts of cash to design ridiculously overpriced jewellery and accessories which I will then flog to poor unsuspecting fools! (Readers of Okay and Hello probably.)

Oh hurrah, hurrah, hurrah! My salvation from the kitchen sink has come at last!

So last week (after I'd been admiring my extensive gem collection for several days) I was alleviating the boredom of doing my daily tasks by chuckling to myself about my friends' interest in knitted jewellery and sheep's baubles.

Anyway, so there I was in the utility room, when suddenly it struck me - how I could be rich overnight by designing my own range of jewellery with my own new revolutionary products - made not from sheep's wool... or goat skin.... or leather

but...

tumble drier fluff.

Which, folks, has remarkably similar properties to sheep's wool, costs absolutely nothing to produce (as it is a by product of my tumble drying) and has the added bonus of being able to be shaped anyway you wish into stylish, desirable jewellery. (So long as you don't wear it in the rain.)

I am on to a winner!

Okay, so let's look at the raw material;


See how similar it is to sheep's wool? I think I will start with a range of jewellery but quickly move onto jumpers and cardigans. I may even get a Royal Warrant! Hmm... Designer to Her Majesty...sounds perfect...

Right, let's see how I got on and see my first effort. Here's some stylish earrings;


As you can see, it took me simply ages to style the fluff into that modern abstract design. But I think it works - what do you think?

Now let's have a look at my second attempt - following the fashion for "big" jewellery, I thought I'd go for something really eye-catching and striking....


I think this one is particularly successful. I can see hoards of people wanting to snatch this up!  Also, I'm thinking that if I add a bit of gold paint spray it would make the perfect gift for a gentleman to give the special woman in his life at Christmas.

And finally readers my piece de resistance;



This is my favourite - in keeping with the "organic" feel of my range I've added some chilli flavoured pasta- I think the contrasting colours really work.

Now, if you would like to purchase these lovely items just let me know - alternatively you might want to hang on and take a look at my contemporary hat range coming later this week!

Wednesday, June 15, 2011

The Wonders of Sheep

I am still reeling in shock.

Last Friday night was Book Club night. (You may remember my ladies of The Book Club who I talked about here and here.)

Why am I in shock? Because Mrs S, the sole supporter amongst us of the local Women's Institute, invited us all to the next meeting which was to be an enlightening talk on the subject of...

Knitted Jewellery.

Yes, you did read that right. Knitted jewellery. K-n-i-t-t-e-d jewellery. I must admit when Mrs S first mentioned it I thought she'd forgotten to take her medication and was hallucinating again. Either that or I'd had one sip too many of the champers we were having to celebrate Mrs Midwife's big 5-0. However, Mrs S was completely serious. Hmm.. the things they get up to at the WI. What next? After the success of Calendar Girls, maybe it'll be Knitted and Naked in Knightsbridge?

So a talk on knitted jewellery? Now that's got to be a fascinating subject. Earrings made out of sheep's wool sculptured like rams horns, bracelets made of twisted woolly threads, furry pom pom necklaces. Simply stylish. I must have some. In about 40 years. When I'm dead.

Okay, okay I admit it. I do prefer to wear gold, silver, platinum, diamonds, rubies, sapphires and other delicious, yummy gems. And on occasions, when I'm feeling really, really cheap and slutty, I have even be known to wear costume jewellery. (Not often as you can imagine as I'm so posh.) But sheep's wool? Hmm..I'm not so keen on sheep's wool. It just doesn't quite have that shiny (or expensive) feel to it.....

Or so I thought!

Yes, so to the Book Club's surprise after Mrs S extended her invitation to this interesting talk (I use the word "interesting" because Mrs S is one of my best friends and I must be gracious) Mrs P (Housewife Extraordinaire in training) suddenly proclaimed that she had actually been to a workshop where they'd made jewellery from sheep's wool.

Naturally, I nearly fell off my chair...

Now at this juncture remember folks that the good Mrs P is my friend who rears sheep so I know whilst you're tempted to criticise - please remember farming is tough and she has to find uses for her sheep other than lamb chops.

Anyway, Mrs P starts to regale us with the intricacies of her jewellery workshop and rushes off to find her own efforts. At this point I lost interest and engaged myself in the study of my champers. Soon, however, Mrs P returns with a box containing her samples. (By which time I am now fully engaged with my champers and talking with Mrs M who has also lost the will to live.)  Mrs P begins pulling out her stuff and starts to explain... at which point I suddenly noticed the shiny, glittery square things in her hands....

I am overawed!  I am gobsmacked! The shiny beads are passed round and when they reach me I am turning them over and over in my hands wondering how on earth Mrs P has made these beautiful chunky green square beads with golden flecks. Has the wool been compressed with liquid metal? Does it contain gold or does sheep's wool have wondrous magical properties? Has it been compressed at high temperatures or low temperatures?

 How the hell has she made these beautiful objects?

And, even more importantly, will Mrs P need any help at shearing time?

I look up from these beautiful beads and stare at Mrs P in sheer amazement and say;

"You made these from sheep's wool?"

Mrs P looks at me and says;

"Jane, those are buttons."

She then pulls out the sheep's jewellery.

Which I confirm folks, whilst a noble endeavour on the good Mrs P's part, is compeletely hideous.

I'm sticking with diamonds and lamb chops. There's a reason they say diamonds are a girl's best friend -and that's because sheep's wool isn't an acceptable alternative. So says me.

Sunday, June 12, 2011

Sunday Madness

Ohhhhh I got a tag! Okay, so I practically had to beg for it from Martin. But in the end I got it!

By the way Ladies, have you noticed that whenever you want something badly from your man you always have to beg for it?

Except for sex, of course, which if you want it really, really bad your man is usually drunk and incapable. (Although it might not stop them from trying - which is why I suggest keeping a teddy bear on your bed - as a drunken man can't tell the difference between a bear and a woman so long as it feels warm and hairy.)

That's my excuse for not shaving my legs and I'm sticking to it.

Anyway, what else is there to do when it's raining but a tag? It's Sunday and my whole day - two cricket matches and a tennis tournament has been rained off and I am desperate, and I mean desperate, to avoid the ironing pile which has been making eyes at me all day. I keep hoping Mr T will cave in and iron his own shirts but as yet they are still there on the the sofa where he dumped them yesterday - as opposed to where I like to keep them - in the utility room tucked away behind a locked door and some discreetly placed barbed wire....

So a tag! Hurrah! I'll pass on on the rules etc later but lets get down to business and get silly!

1) If you could be any historical or current character who would you be?

Mr Burns. He's the mean, nasty nuclear power plant owner in The Simpsons. I just love him - he is so cruel and mean and gets away with it. I want to be mean and get away with it too! Although I never do as I am one of those people who has a conscience. (Explains why I'm not a billionaire tycoon I suppose.) Anyway, I want to stop being nice and be mean instead! For example here's how I'd like to change things;

a)  When the charity collector rattles his bin under my nose outside the supermarket I usually say (scraping together all my loose change) "That's all I've got. What a tough job you have - rather you than me!" However, what I'm actually thinking is "I've just spent £120, I've only got 50p left in my purse which I need later for the car park. I wonder if he'll accept a button off my coat or a kick in the shins?"

b) When I see that person parking at the bottom of my drive AGAIN, I make myself a coffee and look forlornly out the window wondering whether it'll cost me yet another £350 to repair their car -which is what it cost me last time someone repeatedly parked there. Also, I wonder whether they ever, ever, even for one tiny moment, wonder if it might be inconvenient for me to reverse down my driveway with their car parked in my way....

What I really, really want to do is reverse my car down the driveway as fast as humanly possible, totally obliterating their car and then completely deny I had anything to do with it. Well either that, or stick a note on their car with some very precise wording.

c) I like Jennifer Aniston but I want to send her hate mail. Self explanatory really.

2) Name an interesting fact about yourself.

Hmm. Difficult - as this blog is full of stuff about me already. Talk about an ego trip -  my life documented for the future embarrassment of my children. Still, the Young Masters won't be able to tell the judge I've lost my mind if they need access to my cash when I'm old - I'll just direct the judge to my blog and say it's vengeance and he'll know what they're after. So an interesting fact? How about- I can make a simple answer in to one big long essay with out even trying? Oh wait a minute you already knew that. I know - something fresh and up to the minute - I have just started competing at tennis! Unfortunately, I am classed as a "veteran" which sort of ruins the effect when I tell people. And, even more unfortunately, most of the other veterans are even older then me.

Life's a pisser sometimes.

3) If you could go back in time and change one thing, what would you change?

Hmm.... I always thought that pink pillar box hat Jackie Kennedy was wearing when the president got shot was really awful. I'd change that.

Hmm...you know... if Jackie had worn one like Princess Beatrice's it might have put the assassin off. History could have been changed forever...

4) What character traits annoy you?

Greed. (Unless it's mine.) Also, people who pick their noses in public. Ugh. Gross. Also, people who pick their noses AND break wind in public. There's a time and a place for such things and it's not near me. I am quintessentially English which means if you pick your nose you do it behind closed doors and if you break wind you blame the dog.

5) Name one thing that you would change in yourself.

Oh blast, I hate self analysis. Gimme a break. Yuck, yuck, yuck. I like being shallow - it's so much more fun as opposed to sitting with your legs crossed in a room of scented candles and wondering whether you've got bi-polar disorder. Let's leave that to the celebs shall we? How about naming one thing I wouldn't change about myself. That's much more positive!

Okay, one thing I wouldn't change about myself is my bottom.

Although...I might get someone else to change it. Preferably a plastic surgeon... but I'll settle for an enthusiast with a syringe.

6) What do you consider your biggest achievement?

Staying alive. I am gobsmacked no one has tried to kill me yet. I'm never going to the US though as I think the FBI are on to me for hacking Arnie's emails....

Right the rules of this tag are:

Rule 1 - No Tag-Backs (You can't tag me back unless you're really desperate - in which I'll do it for a small fee)

Rule 2 - You must tag a further 8 bloggers (Or however many you want to says Mrs T making up her own rules as she goes...)

Rule 3 - You must answer the questions (Or least distract from giving any creditable answers....)

Rule 4 - You must have a link back to the people who tagged you (Excellent. I need some blog love - my bi polar is kicking in...)

So I'm specifically tagging Marie from Nourish cos she needs to do some writing and she makes me laugh - and then anyone else who wants to join in the fun!

To Keep or not to Keep?

Oh no, I've done it again! I opened my big mouth about Cheryl Cole's purple trousers - forgetting I'd actually ordered something purple myself. As it happens, I like the colour purple very much so when I was surfing trusty old Marks and Spencers for something suitably staid (socks, braces that kind of thing) for Mr T for the forthcoming Father's Day I accidentally (cough, cough) clicked on the women's section and came across a purple jumpsuit, ideal ( or so  I thought) for lounging around in on a hot day. (Not that we get many of those in the UK but I like to look on the bright side.)



So yesterday the jumpsuit arrived and I thought it was FAB. Yes, I loved it. It's a lovely colour, a good fit and has a touch of the exotic. Yes, yes, I know it's more suitable for a holiday in the Caribbean but I can dream can't I? Anyway, I can always dip my feet in the kids' old paddling pool in the back garden - there's nothing like a top notch paddling session to keep the spirits up. I must remember to get my rubber duck out - Daffy hasn't had an outing for quite a while. He can play with my jugs and spatulas. Hours of simple fun - beats the hell out of ironing.

Anyway, delighted with my new purchase, I sashayed into the lounge to model it for Mr T thinking I looked the bee's knees. He looks up, face suddenly aghast, and says

"I think you should send that back."

Poor Mrs T is deflated! So I say (pompously)

" I will ask Master Jacob - he has good taste!"

So I go upstairs and call Master Jacob;

"Jacob, what do you think of my new outfit?"

Jacob pops his head round the corner of his room and then comes out looking very serious;

"Is anyone else going to see it?"

"Well I suppose so..."

Now Mrs T is even more deflated. However, at that very moment Master Benedict emerges from his room, takes a good look and shoots off back to his bedroom. Then, as I'm discussing the pros and cons of my jumpsuit with Master Jacob, ( I like it - he can barely control his vomiting) Master Benedict emerges from his room again with a large piece of paper on which he has written;

6/10

Hmm. Poor, poor Mrs T.  She has been cruelly and viciously deflated by the males in her family! What is she to do?  Shall she keep her purple jumpsuit or return it? What say you Readers? Are the male Turleys correct that Mrs T has made a ghastly purchase or should I ignore them and stash it in the back of the wardrobe to wear when no one else is within several miles? Oh the dilemmas, the dilemmas of being a badly dressed Housewife Extraordinaire.....

Ps - I bought Mr T something trendy - they were sold out of paisley ties.

Thursday, June 9, 2011

Princess Cheryl's Auction!

Brilliant.

I've just heard that Cheryl Cole is auctioning off her X Factor clothes. I missed out on Princess Beatrice's hat but I feel I'm in with a good chance with Cheryl's purple trousers.

Right, let's see how much change I've got in my purse...

10 pence

That should do it.

Okay, okay...it's for charity. I can hear you saying what a skinflint I am so I'm prepared to be generous and raise the stakes.

15 pence.

That's it; take it or leave it, Cheryl. I'm only prepared to pay so much for a new floor cloth.

Sunday, June 5, 2011

Princess Cheryl

ARgggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

If I hear one more thing about Cheryl Cole and the X factor I will not be responsible for my actions. I've given poor Tom Cruise, Ashton Kutcher and Martin Amis some stick here on my blog but Simon Cowell is coming dangerously close to being my arch nemesis of all time if  he doesn't hurry up and spontaneously combust.

Look, there's only one reason Cheryl got kicked off X Factor and I don't think it had anything to do with her accent. It was that stupid outfit she wore to the auditions - purple trousers that were too long,  an orange frilly top, a pale blue belt and hair like she'd just seen Simon Cowell making out with his wallet. I don't mean to be rude to poor Cheryl, who normally dresses quite fetchingly, but frankly, even I look better in my jim jams after a night cleaning up the kid's vomit. So if you get a second chance Cheryl dress like a classy lady and not like something that's been eaten up and regurgitated from Vivien Westwood's discount rail.

I have nothing more to say on this tedious matter except this:





There - that's added a touch of class.

Saturday, June 4, 2011

The Price Tag of Life

I am not someone quick to anger. But very occasionally I do get cross, especially when I read quotes from people who pour scorn on being a stay at home mother.Yesterday, I read this article at The Daily Telegraph featuring novelist Joanna Trollope who suggests that stay at home mothers produce callous children. Here's what she says;

"I remember when my daughters were at boarding school and there was a girl at the school, and they were always telling me that she had this wonderful mother who was always at home, making home-made bread and willing to drop everything to play rounders....It was their big tease to me that she was this perfect mother...And recently I met this girl, now grown up, and there was this callousness about her. This idyll she had grown up in had detached her from society...My own belief, having worked absolutely all my life, is that it's healthy to work. It's extremely good for all our senses. So I would think that as a general rule - and I'm a novelist, not a psychotherapist, so I may be entirely wrong - but to be a working woman gives you a sense of balance in a great many areas of human relationships."

I am disappointed in Joanna. For someone who spends her life writing about families and relationships she clearly has some very judgemental opinions about what is the correct way to bring up children. And to suggest that stay at home mothers do not have an understanding about human relationships is, frankly, a preposterous statement.

Why do some people value stay at home mothers so little? As I get older, I am inclined to believe it is because many people view success (in whatever way you look at it) as being defined by how much money you earn. Everything seems to have a price tag these days. Sometimes even love.

Is that a preposterous statement? I don't think so.

Thursday, June 2, 2011

Big Mouth, Big Toe

It will not come as a shock to you folks that I am always getting into trouble. Well I've done it again - only this time it doesn't involve my car.
It involves my big toe.

Earlier today, I decided that whilst the boys were in the nets playing cricket and having a little instruction, I would have a bash too. Now, many years ago I used to play cricket (emphasis on the "many") and whilst I've hit a few tennis balls with the kids at cricket when they were younger I haven't done much with a hard ball in about... 25 years.

Probably not a good idea then to stick on pads and a helmet and have a bat. But hey, I wouldn't be me if I wasn't an idiot most of the time!

Yep, so I faced a few balls, struck a few and was beginning to move into "power play" mode (which for those of you not familiar with cricket terminology roughly translates as "swing wildly and hope for the best") when the cricket coach - fast bowler, ex county, club opening bowler  (Am I laying it on thick enough here?) comes charging in. It was a real beauty, swinging into me at about 90mph...at which point I thought...

I shall hit that for six over mid-on!

(Yes, I am delusional. Just bear with me.)

Yes... well... (cough, cough. ) Obviously, I completely missed the darn ball and it hit my big toe.

Hard.

Anyway, I carried on for a while and then when I came off (dignity not intact) I pulled off my trainer and saw this:


And just for once it was nothing to do with putting red pants in with my white wash.

Here's what it looks like a few hours later:


Ohhhh.... look at those little porkie sausages! Terrific war wound though. I am going to get some serious mileage out of this - especially when I tell folks how the ball ricocheted off my foot and knocked me out - resulting in my being airlifted to the local hospital to receive open toe surgery. (Unfortunately they could do nothing about my brain which, unsurprisingly, had already received irreparable damage.)

I love a good story.

Anyway, I now have a public apology to make. Poor Cricket Coach was very apologetic but being in one of my jovial moods, as I normally am, I later texted him and told him my toe had fallen off. I'm not sure he understood my humour... Anyway the fact that big toe hurts is my own stupid fault!

Hmm...I think tomorrow I'll text him and tell him I ate my toe with some beans and a nice Chianti.

I wonder if he'll believe me?

Hee, hee, hee...

Irreverent Chat

Wow! Yesterday, via the news, I came upon this site - a website where readers can vote upon the sexiness of our MPs. Boy, did I have some fun!

Now currently riding high at position no 13 is Joseph Johnson. Here he is;


Well yes, a pleasant looking fellow. Not sure if he's my cup of tea though. Anyway, remember that old saying "Look at the mother before you marry the daughter" - well I think the same applies to men - only perhaps it should be "Look at the older brother before you marry his younger sibling" So let's take a look at Joseph's older brother, Boris. Yes, that IS that mad fruitcake Boris, Lord Mayor of London.


Hmm. Me thinks that if the lovely Joseph hasn't hooked up yet he'd better do it fast because when Boris's Alzheimer's sets in poor Joesph hasn't a hope in hell.

Here's some other interesting points..

The first Liberal Democrat MP doesn't come in until position no 65.  I'm wondering why that is...could it be that folks don't know which side of the fence they're sitting on?

Gordon Brown comes in at position 239. Seriously. No, I couldn't believe it either. There's either a lot of people out there with eyesight problems or us Brits have actually got a sense of humour.

David Cameron is presently coming in at position 164 (the double chin is holding him back) whilst deputy PM and Lib Dem leader is trailing slightly behind in position 174.  No surprise there - although I'm inclined to think there's some dirty play going on as it's an awful picture of Nick Clegg, who everyone knows is a real hit with the ladies.

Glenda Jackson (Yes, the actress, turned politician) is coming in at 619 which is in the bottom few. Now let's face it Glenda's got a real personality so that's pretty shocking. I'm wondering if folks are worried about her taking on too many acting roles? Although, if that's your cup of tea.....hey, it could be interesting...

Anyway, I had some fun looking at our MPs. I think most of them are pretty scary though. It's probably better to have sex with a blow up doll. At least if there's any hot air around it won't be a lot of political gibberish.

Alternatively, if you live in Wales, save yourself the cash and just go for a walk in the countryside.

Ps - I hereby issue a disclaimer. This blog does not belong to the real Jane Turley. Jane Turley is a pseudoynym for Barbara Cartland who may or or may not be dead although rumours have recently be circulating that she is living in the UK wearing a prosthetic nose and posing as a housewife of extraordinary talent.

Ho hum.