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Showing posts from February, 2015

The Right to Rant

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Now I don't want to blow my own trumpet but I am no ordinary writer. This means a number of things but probably not what you are thinking I think it means. What it means is:

One: I have absolutely no desire to talk about writing on my blog unless it's in my usual disparaging way because, let's face it, some writers are so up their own backsides they probably haven't seen daylight for twenty years and I'd rather not get caught up in those long debates about commas, adjectives or self-publishing v trad publishing. If I feel the need to vent I can go onto another writer's blog or, alternatively. I can make up a pseudonym and comment on culture articles over at The Guardian.

Two: Having thought about the terms "author" and "writer", I think it is stretching it to call myself either. I prefer "entertainer." This means I may yet subject you all to a video of me pole dancing in a Hawaiian skirt whilst reciting Ode to a Grecian Pasta Dish.

Bad Parenting and The Beginning of a New Journey

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Last night, Mr T, the boys and I were all watching Expendables 3 when we got to this scene:




When new recruit, Luna, finished kicking ass this was the conversation:

Master Jacob; She's just like Mum

Mr T: Yep, that's just what your mother was like when I met her.

Huh? I am not tall, blonde or leggy. I don't even do karate!

Later there was a scene where Antonio Banderas, as another new crazed Expendable recruit, says something to the effect of "I just like killing people". Master Jacob piped up again;

Oh that's just like Mum too.

What? I've never even hurt a fly!

Well maybe a couple. But nobody, nobody, touches my chocolate without my permission.

Okay, so there might possibly have been a few wasps as well. But they deserved it.

And there might have been a few of those slugs that keep invading my kitchen. But that was really my salt pot. It fell over by its own accord.

And I had absolutely nothing to do with the dead rat in the compost bin. My conscience is c…