Wednesday, April 30, 2014

Pork Chops and Promiscuity: A Tale of Lesbian Lust

Judith was a lesbian. Only she didn't have short hair and she didn't wear wooden beads. Neither did she have a girlfriend with a moustache and legs like a Russian shot-putter. In fact, Judith didn't have a girlfriend at all; she preferred the anonymity of one-night stands with girls picked up in gay bars and communal changing rooms. Judith particularly liked the changing rooms at the exclusive gym she attended where all the tanned PR girls hung-out, stripped to the waist, chatting nonsensically about their executive boyfriends and the latest skincare products. Whilst the nubile objects of Judith’s affection compared the benefits of the latest three-for-the-price-of-two offers in Boots with make-up bags gifted with a purchase of two face creams in Debenhams, Judith would happily eye-up their scantily covered buttocks.

        Judith’s own choice of underwear was hipsters, as they flattered her slender hips but, as a voyeur, she preferred thongs. Often she would imagine ripping them off with her teeth and, after rampant sex, flossing with them in the same way she might do after enjoying a particularly good pork chop. Not that Judith should eat pork because it was against her religion. Well, her father’s religion. Anyway, it didn't really matter about Judith’s fondness for pork chops anymore as her father had disowned her when she’d told him that she was “coming out” and that she’d rather die than spend another evening, at his behest, with his best friend’s son who had a PhD in engineering. That last dismal night with Englebert had resulted in a massive showdown - the culmination of years of Judith’s self-hate for being her father’s lackey. The acne-covered Englebert would have tested even the most stalwart socialite but, since Judith found nothing remotely interesting about the internal workings of office photocopiers, and had no knowledge of the functionalities of dynamic equilibrium, the evening had held even less interest than her great aunt’s funeral. And Aunt Florrie had been a hundred and six when she died and only two people under the age of ninety, excluding Judith and her parents, had turned up. So it had been exceptionally dull. 

        Of course, there were good things and bad things about not having your father’s love. Or his money. In fact, Judith’s life had been somewhat difficult for six months when, without the comfort of her father’s allowance, Judith had been forced to wait tables, in addition to her office job, to pay her bills. Although Judith enjoyed prying on her customers’ conversations and flirting with city workers in order to elicit a big tip, it had been an enormous relief when her father was run over by the no 33 bus. In his statement, the driver had declared he hadn't seen Mr Freud crossing the road; a fact which Judith thought highly unlikely as her father weighed twenty stone and had been walking his Great Dane, Hildegard. However, it also seemed unlikely that the bus driver was an assassin and Judith wasn't one to complain about minor details. So, even though poor Hildegard had also perished, Judith was finally relinquished from her father’s influence and took comfort in the knowledge that Hildegard’s retinas were used to restore the sight of a Chihuahua from Golders Green.

        Unlike Judith, her mother had been distraught at the news of the tragic accident. Indeed she’d been distraught until the day Solomon’s will revealed that there was more than enough money for mother and daughter to live in luxury for the rest of their lives. Judith and her mother celebrated with champagne and pork medallions on a bed of exotic rice.  Nevertheless, Judith’s mother was a good woman and kept her joy well hidden, wearing black for six whole weeks and impressing all the neighbours with her solemnity. Until she met the new head butcher at Waitrose and was spotted barbecuing spare ribs and drinking sherry on the Sabbath.

        So, it was shortly after her father’s death, and her mother’s exodus to Spain on a prolonged tour of the vineyards, that Judith found herself at a crossroads in life. Having temporarily handed over the management of her father’s pawnbroking business to Jerri Scholar, her father’s deputy, Judith continued with her office job whilst pondering her single status and the future of Solomon’s Gold Mines. Judith didn’t trust Jerri Scholar because his name was, in fact, Gerry Schulberg and Judith had a deep-seated mistrust of people who changed their names for fashionable reasons. After all, this was the twenty-first century and none but the most bigoted was the least concerned by the fact that she was an (ex) Jewess with a penchant for young girls and pork chops. Not that Judith broadcasted her sexuality but, when she’d had fleeting affairs with younger women dissatisfied with their boyfriends, none of them seemed that bothered by either her sexuality or their own changing sexual preferences. Modern life was one big new adventure which, at times, young adults and teenagers seemed to consume faster than wholly appropriate - even to Judith, who was still only thirty-one.

        However, Judith was not about to knock the society which, more or less, had accepted her ways. Particularly as she had recently discovered that, if she chose carefully, she could also solicit the attentions of older married women wishing to spice up their flagging sex lives and whose husbands thought female one-on-one titillating rather than grounds for divorce. As it turned out, Judith liked mature women as much as she liked younger women. Although younger women had the benefit of the freshness and enthusiasm of youth, the experience and determination of older women to obtain at least one more orgasm before they died impressed Judith, and more than made up for any sagging buttocks. Judith’s only exception to this mantra was women who had sagging buttocks, breasts which touched their knees, and who also participated in aqua-aerobics. Having witnessed the carcass of an elderly aqua-aerobics swimmer hauled inelegantly from the pool one day, Judith had decided aqua-aerobics was a precursor to sudden death. The image of the bulging body, complete with yellow rubber cap and frilled costume, would remain imprinted on her memory forever.

        So it was one day at work, whilst Judith was contemplating her future and refilling the photocopier (about which she now had more knowledge of its internal workings than what she felt wholly comfortable with) that the unexpected and yet, perhaps also the inevitable, happened. Out of her employer’s office came a vision of loveliness so great that Judith’s heart fluttered with the stirrings of lust and, very possibly, love. Judith had been beginning to wonder if love and marriage was something that happened only to heterosexuals. She had almost entirely resigned herself to a life of physically satisfying but emotionally barren intercourse when Shelley, eighteen-and-a-half with big brown eyes and hair from a L’Oreal advert, tripped gaily into the open-plan office with the aptly named Mr Hands following close behind, his palms hovering over her curvaceous derrière.

        So the delightful Shelley joined the team at Handy Hands’ Stationery Suppliers and became the object of both Judith and Mr Hands’ desire. Unlike the salacious Mr Hands who could barely stop himself salivating over Shelley, Judith found herself adopting traits that she had previously thought more particular to love-struck heteros: gazing into space, doodling hearts on her notebooks and maintaining a safe distance from her love interest in case of embarrassing rejection. As the weeks went by, Judith found it increasingly awkward when Shelley would pull up a chair, her soft breasts pouring over the top of her cheap low-cut tops, and ask Judith to demonstrate the finer details of Excel spreadsheets. Unfortunately, Judith would often imagine herself sucking Shelley’s sweet pink nipples and was unable to concentrate on the job in hand which, for the purposes of demonstrating Excel, was rather a hindrance.

        So with love in her heart and confusion in her logic, Judith stayed on at Handy Hand’s Stationery Suppliers despite the fact that she was sure Jerri/Gerry was on the fiddle. Profits at Solomon’s Gold Mines were down and Jerri’s excuses about the gold price crashing, whilst seemingly plausible, didn't tally with her examination of the spreadsheets. She supposed that Jerri thought that because she’d only worked in a small office and had never been ruthlessly ambitious he didn't think her capable of spotting any irregularities. However, the fact was that Judith had inherited more of her father’s aptitude for numbers than her mother’s aptitude for the consumption of Spanish Cava.

        The unhealthy situation came to a head one day when Judith, stomach aching and with a splitting headache caused by her unrequited love, was not at her best. Feeling particularly irritated that she’d run out of staples just as she was about to affix her final spreadsheet of the day, she dutifully headed down to the stationery cupboard, deluxe stapler in hand, to replenish her supplies before packing up and returning to her flat to spend the evening leaving woeful messages on Facebook. Judith was in two minds about Facebook as occasionally her exes would leave encouraging comments about her now undesired single status but, for the most part, Judith was besieged with a stream of photographs of lattes or cream cakes. These visual feasts only served to make her more depressed as, although Judith didn't have a weight problem, she didn't need to be reminded that some women could eat anything they wanted and still not have to work-out. So, feeling somewhat peeved about her situation in life, Judith refilled her stapler and pocketed the remainder of the packet. She was returning down the corridor, wondering if the news about her stapler being refilled would be sufficiently interesting to post on Facebook, when a loud squeal reverberated from the broom cupboard. Judith realised the squeal was that of a woman in distress and, more importantly, a woman whose high-pitched girly squeal was instantly recognisable as that of her beloved Shelley.

        With her adrenaline running high, Judith threw open the door to the broom cupboard aghast at the thought of Shelley clinging to a top shelf, the portable steps having fallen away. But what Judith found was not Shelley holding on for dear life and about to fall into her arms but the poor girl wedged up against a stack of disinfectant, cleaning cloth in hand, wearing an expression of sheer terror. In front of the terrified Shelley, with his head buried in her breasts and a hand up her skirt, was Mr Hands grunting and moaning like a sow in labour.

        As Judith absorbed the ghastly scene, her gaze locked with Shelley’s pleading eyes.  “Help me,” mouthed Shelley as Mr Hands’ fingers encroached inside her knickers. Shelley’s pitiful appeal pierced Judith’s heart and reservations, and with explosive fury Judith marched into the broom cupboard, grabbed Mr Hands’ testicles as if she was going to bite into a massive pork chop and stapled them with all her might. Mr Hands screamed. And screamed. And with a final scream of ear-piercing stupendousness, Mr Hands collapsed to the floor writhing in agony, tears flooding down his beetroot face.

        “You bastard,” said Judith and, as she was never one to do anything by halves, bent down and stapled his testicles, not once, but twice more to be absolutely certain Mr Hands would never, ever, touch her dear Shelley again.

        On completing her rescue mission, Judith held out her hand to the trembling Shelley and the two of them retreated to the office, cleared their desks, deleted all the electronic spreadsheets, shredded the paper ones, and sojourned to the Chinese restaurant for a dinner of sweet and sour pork balls accompanied by Spanish Cava. It was over a second helping of the pork balls that Judith, her emotions still running high and slightly intoxicated by the wine, declared her undying love to Shelley.

        Not knowing what to expect, Judith held her breath at the possibility that pork balls might be thrown in her face. So it was a huge relief and surprise for Judith, even bigger than when her father had been mowed down by the no 33, when the almost inconceivable happened: Shelley declared her undying love in return. It transpired that Shelley had loved Judith since the day she’d joined Handy Hands' Stationery Suppliers and the only reason why Shelley hadn't declared her love was that she had no idea that Judith was also a lesbian. In her innocence, Shelley had been led to believe that most lesbians had moustaches and legs like a Russian shot-putter and that Judith, who had neither a moustache nor unwholesome legs, could therefore not be a lesbian. As for herself, Shelley believed she was a misfortunate rare exception to the lesbian rule and, lacking interest in hairy ladies with muscular thighs, she would be doomed to a life without love.

        So perhaps it goes without saying that Judith and Shelley got married and lived happily ever after. But in this case, not before Judith had first fired Jerri/Gerry for embezzlement and discovered her father’s payments for a lease to a flat registered to a woman who, coincidentally, shared the same surname as the bus driver who had run over her father and poor Hildegard. On balance, Judith decided her mother didn't need to know this information as it was pointless spoiling her new-found happiness. As Judith deleted the evidence she surmised that, even though she was still in the learning phase of life, she’d already discovered that all over the world people were screwing each other and it didn't really matter what race, religion or sexuality you were. Neither did it matter whether you were fat or thin or beautiful or ugly. Or even if you did aqua-aerobics. All that mattered was that you got to share a little love. 

Never underestimate a woman. Or the power of her stapler.

Pork Chops and Promiscuity is taken from my short story collection A Modern Life now available on Amazon.

Tuesday, April 29, 2014

Coming Up Next: Pork Chops and Promiscuity : A Tale of Lesbian Lust

Tomorrow, I'm posting the opening story from my short story collection A Modern Life. This is for you readers who haven't yet gone over to check out my masterpiece of English literature on Amazon. (Ho hum) At the moment, I have three-five star and one-three star review. And none of them are written by relatives! In fact I don't think any of my relatives have even bought it. I'm not sure what that means - maybe they think they are in it? Mr T is paranoid that he is  - to which I have to keep telling him:

"It's a work of fiction. F. I. C. T. I. O.N. You are not in it."

To be honest, I think the first story called Pork Chops and Promiscuity about a Jewish lesbian with a fetish for pork chops and young women (or indeed any woman) is a fairly good give-away to Mr T that he is not starring in it.

Not unless there's something about him that I don't know. Hmm...that's a worrying thought.

Bizarrely, I got nearly 1300 hits from Israel on my blog last week. I'm not sure what that means. However, I think in the interests of personal safety I am going to reiterate the following statement:

"It's a work of fiction. F. I. C. T. I. O. N."

In the meantime, I have boarded up the windows and booby-trapped the trash can.

Now seriously, folks. Mrs T may be politically incorrect at times and fairly blunt about saying what she feels (especially about writers) but it is all in the name of fun. I'm a warm, loving person and I would never say anything mean about anyone. All the stuff I've ever written about depressed writers, French cooking and German fashion is all said in the spirit of goodwill and international "fun" relations. I don't mean a word of it!

Now in addition to the little treat tomorrow, in a few days, I shall be revealing the front cover to The Changing Room which, even if say so myself, is an absolute corker. In the meantime, anyone who buys A Modern Life and takes a few mins to review it with some appreciative non-impartial words (You don't have to go overboard on the praise just something simple like "This is a work of genius. It should win the ManBooker" will do) will go into a draw for a free signed paperback and an e-book of The Changing Room which in about twenty years will either be worth an absolute fortune or you'll be able to light your fire with it. So what have you got  to lose? And by the way those of you who already have bought and reviewed (and I know there's a couple of you) are automatically included in this draw. Oh - I might also include some fab gifts with the paperback and ebook - or whatever they have on offer at the 99p shop.

Right, that's enough of this marketing drivel for today. Several of my friends keep telling me to do more about it. You know: network more, tweet more, blog more, grab grannies in the street and solicit reviews with promises of free jars of pickled beetroot, flash my knickers at passing builders. All that "sell, sell, sell" kind of stuff. I'm working up to it. Slowly. Very slowly. However, rest assured, dear readers, you can be safe in the knowledge I will not be writing a self-help guide for writers. I might write a self-help advice guide for housewives though. I shall call it the The Very Best of The Witty Ways of a Wayward Wife. Okay, so I'd better start looking through my seven years of posts for some advice...

Okay, done that. I think I'll scrub that idea and write a self-help guide for politicians.

Oh yeah. I like that idea. A lot.

Free jars of pickled beetroot for all purchasers of A Modern Life*

*Disclaimer - Mrs Jane Turley, Housewife Extraordinare, has been known to lie.

Saturday, April 26, 2014

One of my worst experiences. Ever

Yesterday, I had one of the worst experiences of my life. Late at night, I went out into the garden to secure the chicken hutch and was stopped in my tracks by a truly revolting noise. I'm not going to describe it as I don't want to upset you, dear readers. However, what I will say is - as a wife and mother of three boys, I have heard some pretty gruesome noises including:

1. High-octane exploding bowels.  This was after about a month of constipation when I doubled-dosed one of the young masters on constipation-relief medicine. The memory of this sound and the picturesque splattering adorning the bath (the toilet was too small to accommodate the outpourings) will stay with me forever.

2. Severe nauseating and overpowering flatulence.  After the consumption of burnt beef curry by someone who is not me and not my children. (Work it out.)

3. The screams of childbirth. These were not my own which would have been preferable. After having spent 24 hours in labour, I was wheeled to the maternity ward, exhausted and with assets resembling an imploded jam roly poly, I did NOT enjoy listening to the screams of the woman in the labour ward below who had either:

 a) given birth to triplets

 b) an alien

 c) finally worked out that sex leads to a life-time of misery.

So these were all pretty horrific sounds.

However, they do not compare to the sound that accompanies the discovery that one of your chickens has died and is being eaten by the garden hedgehog.

I will never feel the same about Mr Hedgehog again.

Hands up who likes chicken.

Saturday, April 12, 2014

I must be more disciplined!

Oh God, things are spiralling out of control in my study again. How do I be more disciplined?

How, dear readers, how?

It's not that my mess really bothers me as I've an ability to "zone-out" from it which I'm putting down to my creative mind. Mr T, however, puts it down to some other aspects of my character. (None of which are repeatable on this blog.)  Nevertheless, despite Mr T's slur upon my character, I am a good wife and I can't help being worried about the effect it is is having on him. Lately, every time he comes into my study (which fortunately is not often) he has started gagging. In fact, the last time he ventured forth when he started to gag I immediately ran to help the boys check the insurance certificate.

But, it's true, I could do with being a lot more disciplined. I would be far more productive as a writer if I could be more organised. Other writers are knocking out self-help manuals and novels at the rate of about three a year - at the moment the only manual I could write is "How Not to Write a Self-Help Manual" - which would just contain a blank page.

So below is a picture of my desk as it is this morning. I am not showing you the rest of the room. I leave that to your imagination because, believe me, it is utter chaos. I should also point out that I removed the excess cups (of which there are usually at least 6-8) last night. I'm not sure how many there was but, in addition to the ones on my desk, there was a whole row on the window sill and I ran out of room on the top drawer of the dishwasher and had to use the bottom one as well.


Okay, I need some advice on how to organise myself. Anybody care to offer or shall I just check myself into the looney bin now?

There's probably not a lot I can say about this except - "Oh shit"

Friday, April 11, 2014

Breaking News On The London Book Fair

There were no literary agents under thirty-five without waistcoats at The London Book Fair.

There were no publishers under thirty-five without waistcoats and glasses at The London Book Fair.

There was a very dishy science-fiction writer (closer to forty though) without a waistcoat and glasses with whom I had a very nice chat. (Which luckily didn't involve any techno-babble about space ships and fantasy worlds - otherwise I would have shot him.)

However, stupidly, I forgot to get his name.

So Mr T is safe again. No doubt he is counting his blessings.

Okay, I am just joking about the waistcoats. Literary agents don't always wear them. Just some of the time. It's called style.


Two people without waistcoats. Amazing. Look at that title above where it says London Book Fair. It reads "Books opening the mind. Doors opening the future."
I'm pretty sure my book A Modern Life has opened a few minds - but probably closed a few doors. Hum.

Wednesday, April 9, 2014

School Holidays 2 and the London Book Fair

Mrs T:   Master Jacob, would you please unload the dishwasher and tidy the kitchen whilst I'm out?

Master Jacob:   What is this? Nazis Germany?

Where have I gone wrong, readers? Where?

On another matter entirely, I have a ticket to go to the London Book Fair and if I feel it's safe to leave the Young Masters with an unstacked dishwasher I may leave them to their own devices. I may not have a home to come back to but it may be a risk worth taking.

Now I have decided that, if I get off my sorry arse, and go to the Book Fair later today I shall keep my eye out for:

1) A healthy young male (heterosexual) literary agent, preferably under 35, with a sense of humour. It would also be an advantage if he did not wear a chequered waistcoat.

Okay that's not going to happen.

2) A healthy young male (heterosexual) publisher, preferably under 35, with a sense of humour who does not wear a chequered waistcoat and glasses.

Hmm...even more unlikely.

3) A healthy young male (heterosexual) author, preferably under 35, with a sense of humour, who does not wear a waistcoat, glasses and who does not write science fiction. *ucking chance.

Okay, I think I need to look for something more obtainable.

I know - I'll look for one of those stands where you get a free chocolate-chip cookie with the useless glossy magazine giveaway. Oh and the restroom.

The ultimate dilemma for any male literary agent. Which waistcoat?

Tuesday, April 8, 2014

The School Holidays

There are some pretty diabolical things about the school holidays. However, there is one good thing and this next sentence sums it up:

I am going back to bed.

Bliss. Wake me up in a couple of hours.

Saturday, April 5, 2014

Morgan Freeman and Liam Neeson give directions.

You have to watch the video below right to the very end, especially if you're a film buff like me. It's one of the funniest things I've seen for ages! Thanks to author, Karen Wyld, for pointing me in the right direction. I have a lot of trouble with sat navs myself - although this doesn't involve Morgan Freeman talking to me, only me talking to myself. Sad, I know.

Thursday, April 3, 2014

Farewell My Young Apprentice!

Sadly, yesterday, I had to say goodbye to my young apprentice. Early readers of this blog will recall my adventures with him and will, no doubt, also be traumatised by this sad, sad news. As you would expect, I waved goodbye, tears running down my face, as my young apprentice made his way down the driveway. As he disappeared, I was choked with emotion, knowing I would never see him again.

I know you readers will share with me my overwhelming sadness, so I've decided to share with you my last keepsake photo of dear Luke Warmwater.

The picture is fuzzy because my vision was so blurred from crying I couldn't focus properly.

Yes, so there you have it. Luke Warmwater has finally passed to the great force in the sky. He has been replaced by a more more advanced model which I am calling The Emperor. I am a tad nervous about sitting on The Emperor as he spins at 1600mph which could be a little...vigorous. However, The Emperor also holds 9kg of washing, as opposed to LukeWarmwater's paltry 7kg, which to my mind makes him a force to be reckoned with.

The Emperor. He's big. He's mean. He likes things dirty.
 He's my kinda guy.

Tuesday, April 1, 2014

Is Amazon the new Big Brother?

Forget the NSA, forget MI5, the people really watching you are the men behind the desks at Amazon.

I swear to God Amazon knows everything about me and, since I've ordered shoes and clothes through them, those grey suits also know my foot and dress size and could probably even make a guess at the size of my botty.

They've also got a huge list of everything I've ever purchased, an even bigger list of anything I've ever looked at and, worryingly, a record of all the books on my Kindle.

Which may or may not be embarrassing.

*Whistles nonchalantly*

Now, as if this scrutiny isn't enough, I've noticed that lately Amazon has been sending me suggestions for items to purchase which don't have a lot of relation to what I've been looking for.

What's that about?

I've been thinking about it and come to the conclusion that it's almost as if someone at Amazon is deliberately trying to provoke poor Mrs T into one of her full-scale rants.

For example, if you remember, a few weeks ago there was the incident of the artist's Banksy's tablemats which got me really riled. Then, on Saturday, there was another suggestion which seemed even more perverse - a suggestion to buy tickets to a  Barry Manilow concert.

Barry Manilow ?

I say again 

Barry Manilow ?

Milton Keynes
Tickets to Barry Manilow UK Tour
Barry Manilow
Wembley Arena, London (more locations)
View this deal
Savings 33%
Another great deal from Amazon Local
Barry Manilow. Looking - like Barry Manilow. Well somebody has to.

Just how old do those jokers at Amazon think I am? Ninety?

Do they think I am deaf and blind?

Now I know some folks expect people over forty to be sitting in armchairs making whimsical comments about Paul McCartney or humming a funeral march but some of us actually listen to popular music. Or - to use a more hip-hop trendy term - "pop" music. In fact I am so "with it" and "in the groove" I even have striped pyjamas like Robin Thicke. In fact, I'd go so far as to say Robin was copying my style wearing that striped suit at the Grammys.

I suppose what I'm trying to say in a roundabout way is:

I would rather coat myself in nail varnish and set myself alight than go to a Barry Manilow concert.

Anyway I thought the Barry Manilow incident was bad enough until yesterday morning I got this email:

Milton Keynes
Get the Amazon Local App
Online Grammar Course
Redeem Online
View this deal
Savings 81%
Another great deal from Amazon Local

Now I know someone at Amazon really is taking the mickey.

It's April Fool's Day Today Soooooo.....

I thought why not just post a piccy of myself!

This photo has not been photo-shopped. However, I cunningly instructed the boys not to get my stomach
 or legs into the shot: a woman's got to have some pride. Admittedly, I don't have that much pride (bearing in mind I've just eaten one piece of flapjack and two chocolate chip cookies.) 

My Nominees for the US and UK Elections and Other Waffle

It's the early hours of the morning, and I have had a large gin... Late-night alcohol is always a good recipe for writing gibberish. And...