Showing posts from April, 2017

Y is for Yellow Belly

I just read my post from yesterday. And I've decided alcohol obviously enables me to get the creative juices flowing as when I started that post I had absolutely no idea what I was going to write.

Sadly, I don't think green tea with lemon has the same effect on me. *Looks forlornly at cup by side*

So only Y and Z to go on the A to Z! I didn't actually think I'd make it through the month so I guess somewhere I still must have a bit of stamina left.

Hmm. I still have no idea to what to write about so I'll just keep going until my brain fires up.

Oh yes. I'll write about an experience I had today at work. So I shall call this post Y for Yellow Belly which in the UK is a colloquial expression for cowardice.

Yep, so today I met a young lady, aged around 30, who was out shopping with her mother. I sold her a £1600 pair of diamond earrings to cheer herself up as she had just been dumped by text.

Now I concluded that because of her age, the amount of money she spent, a…

X is for people I'd like to x-ray.

Firstly, let's get something out of the way. When I developed my hiatus hernia a couple of years ago I effectively gave up alcohol. However, in order to face a huge mound of ironing earlier this evening that seems to have the capability to reproduce, I have decided to indulge.
Therefore, as I write this post I am verging on the tipsy. By the time I finish it, I could be pressing my keyboard from underneath my desk. Luckily, I have plenty of fat to absorb the alcohol but any minute now I expect my lips to do a Mick Jagger. Luckily, alcohol doesn't appear to affect other parts of my body (except my brain) otherwise my arse might turn into some hideous monstrosity like the one which is attached to Kim Kardashian's arse.
You know whenever I see a picture of Kim Kardashian's butt I imagine that scene from Alien where the Alien bursts forth John Hurt's stomach. I keep seeing it over and over in my mind - Kimmy lying on the beach when her butt suddenly explodes and this s…

W is for Why and Writing

When my children were small "why" was a word which cropped all the time at the beginning of sentences. "Why" would often proceed moments of amusement and laughter when I was forced to explain all sorts of weird and wonderful topics.

When I was a teenager, and I wondered how the world worked and was searching for those answers I often ask myself "why" questions. More often than not, I couldn't come up with answers about religion or existence or even about algebra but, eventually, I developed my own thoughts on life and accepted this life for what it is. I learnt that when it comes to philosophy, you don't always have to have the answer but sometimes contemplating issues give you a better perspective and appreciation of life.

Now, as I move through middle-age towards inevitable death, I wonder "Why" my life is turning out as it is.

I have some answers to some of my questions and for others, I don't. Those unanswered questions are diffi…

V is for Vanity

So I am running behind on the A to Z again. Unfortunately, due to the complicated life I lead at the moment, I simply having no energy most days to write. I know some writers seem to thrive on stress and trauma but that's not me - my best work is when I'm relaxed and happy and when I can let my mind roam free.

So V is for Vanity. I was really going to let rip on this subject as I find the increasing emphasis on looks and body image, particularly in the media, very unwholesome and perhaps very damaging to many young men and women who aspire to look like photoshopped celebs. But of course, vanity is not always just about looks and when it is wrapped up in narcissism it can have so many more destructive traits.

So where I work at the moment, I see many women (mainly young but also older women too) absolutely caked in make-up and teetering around in high heels which in a few years will have their feet covered in bunions and deformed. I find it rather sad, that when these young wom…

U is for Ode to a British Urn

You still unused large pot of cream You unwanted gift of Christmas 1988 A dusty reminder, who can express Why I haven't cleaned my cupboards Full of bottle ring stains and cobwebs Of dead spiders and perfumes that stink In bathrooms or in the kitchen What crap in inside all of these bottles? What ancient spice? What congealed mascara? What putrid hand cream? What decomposed biscuit? 
I've heard some bathrooms are sweet, but those unclean Are gross, I should know, I have one Not to the obvious inspection, but on a closer look There's a huge pile of shit In cupboards, drawers and even in shoe boxes Because I stuff bottles, jars and tins everywhere Bold cleaning is definitely not for me I'd rather read a book, or take a run All you pots and tins, just sit there for a few years more Until I die and some other fucker gets to throw you out


Well, that got rid of U in a few minutes. I suspect Keats is turning in his grave right now. Oh well.

 What next..."V".  …

T is for Tradition

Tonight I am going to write about traditions or one British tradition in particular - the "stiff upper lip". Now if you don't know how the "stiff upper lip"tradition came about then let me explain:

When we are babies English tradition has it that we are left in our prams on promenades, piers or in our back gardens for a dose of good old sea air. (Apparently, it's good for the lungs and builds up a cast iron constitution.) Roughly, this tradition translates to 12 hours a day in the freezing cold with only a rubber teat for company and a flock of seagulls pooping on your pram. Indeed, I remember only too well those days spent looking forlornly out of my Silver Cross pram worrying if the seagulls were going to shit on me and yearning for my mother's breast.

(Okay, maybe a little dramatic licence there as I can't actually remember anything - I was practically mummified.)

Now this childhood induction into the great British "stiff upper lip" tra…

S is for Shorts and Sex

I am currently on my lunch break which I am having to interrupt to report on the obscene matter of middle-aged white British men wearing shorts in the vicinity of my workplace.

It is 14 degrees here at present. The weather is mild and is partially cloudy. There is not a heatwave going on and yet I am seeing numerous men wearing shorts. If this isn't bad enough, it is made worse by the fact the shorts are on average one size too small. I am sick to the stomach, Readers. Sick, sick, sick, sick, sick!  How is a woman meant to concentrate on her work when she is forced to watch this unwholesome parade of hairy white legs and bulbous paunches.

So my advice is to British men who wear shorts is -  unless you have a physique like Rafael Nadal keep your legs covered up or don't expect you wife to be accomodatiing unless she is visually impaired.

R is for Responsibility and Rage

I am a couple of posts behind with the A to Z so I'm going to do a couple of quick posts to play catch-up.

So, I am in a melancholic mood tonight so finding my usual spark of creativity is not easy. If I were to write down how I feel it would be explosive. But probably not in a good way. And so I must bide my time and wait for the moment when I can draw upon my emotions and use them to better my creative writing. That's what writers do and that's what I did in the more poignant moments in The Changing Room. 

At the moment, I am still in grief. Grief for my past and grief what might have been. My days and nights are full of responsibilities and worries for my children and for our future. My emotions flicker from sadness to incandescent rage and everything else in-between. 

On the plus side, I finally have control of the TV remote.


Q is for Quasimodo

There was a lonely hunchback called Quasimodo
Who some thought was a homeless hobo
But he lived in a church
Where he observed life from a perch
Until one day he slipped off and died

But the ghost of Quasimodo did rise
And from the bell tower he still spied
On lovers and embraces
And friends of all races
And at night in the dark he cried

I'll always be ugly he wailed
His face full of pain and paled
But then a circle of light descended
And Quasimodo ascended
To a place where only the soul was graded

To me you are beautiful said Jesus
Your heart is full of passion and kindness
So he took Quasimodo's hand
And led him to a land
Where love was the only rule

Now Quasimodo lives in peace
And his tears have ceased
Everyday he wakes with joy
To the sound of a celestial choir boy
And his smile lights up the world beneath

P is for The Problem with Plumbers

*Warning* Do not read this blog if you’re a plumber, married to a plumber, related to a plumber in any way or, possibly, if you once had an affair with a plumber. If, on the other hand, you have ever been overcharged by a plumber this article will probably appeal to you.

* * * * *
A while ago, I was in a very cynical mood. I was stomping around my house having just returned from the school run (which is so unfair at my age) and in the midst of a hot flush when a business card fell through my letterbox. It read:

Traditional English Plumbing at Traditional English Prices
Immediately my hot flush took on rocket propulsion proportions. Steam burst forth from ears like an exploding piston as I recalled, in detail, the numerous times I’d been screwed (financially) by plumbers and tradesmen. You see, in my experience, “Traditional English Plumbing Prices” are calculated in a somewhat dubious manner. Let’s examine the components of a potential invoice in more detail:

The Call Out Fee: This is …

O is for Otters and Onesies

So I was challenged to write a post about Otters by writer John Doppler. He likes them. And I like them. But writing a post about them which is more than saying "John likes them" and "I like them" is pretty hard.

I suppose I could write about their habitat.

But that would be a bit intellectual for this blog. And would require research. And I'm not sure if there's any articles about otters over at The Daily Mail.

I know I could make another attempt at poetry...

There once was an otter called Reg
Who had an artificial leg
Don't ask me how
Or raise a brow
Just accept that this story is true

Okay. I don't think the poetry angle is going to work. I'll just try another second verse to be sure...

One day Reg went for a swim
On a lake that was full to the brim
He hit his leg on a log
It fell off and blinded a frog
And the river police towed him away

Nope, the poetry thing is really not working. No one's going to appreciate a poem about an otter with an artifi…

N is for Necrophilia

Now before you folks start getting rowdy with me for choosing a pretty ghastly subject, I just wanted to say that this topic was suggested by a work colleague as the obvious follow-up to yesterday's M is for Mechanophilia blog.

Okay so let's get on with it....and I'll get straight to the point.
Necrophiliacs are the kind of nutters who make the Kardashian family look sane. And that's saying something as, by normal standards, the Kardashians with their narcissistic fetishes for photographing their false inflated giant-sized bottoms and boobs are completely and utterly bonkers. 
So I've thought long and hard about the people who participate in this kind of weird stuff and I've come up with this thought:

Nuke 'em.

Alternatively, put them all in a room with Kim Kardashian and stick a pin in her arse.

M is for Mechanophilia

Yep, I wasn't entirely sure what "Mechanophilia" meant either until a few days ago, during a restless night, I popped over to The Daily Mail for my regular dose of dubious news reporting and read this article.

Now if you can't be bothered to read the article. I'll sum it up:

It was about a man who was recently prosecuted for trying to have sex with a Suzuki motorbike. Yes, men don't just do it with sheep. They also do it with bikes, cars and probably the No 43 bus from Paddington to Tottenham Court Road.

I also have it on very good authority from a friend who is a consultant radiologist they do it with a number of other interesting objects. To which I say:

Never buy a second-hand vacuum cleaner.

Anyway,  back to the article at The Daily Mail. Now I imagine when I first read this article I probably reacted something like this:

Then very quickly I felt like this:

Then I went into one of my writer's fantasies and wondered what would happen if the offender en…

L is for Luck

Do you believe in luck?

I'm not sure. Maybe we make our own luck? In the writing world, I often hear writers say that the harder you work the more luck you create. I kinda agree with that statement as when you work hard you invariably create more chances for success or "luck" to come your way. If you sit still and wait for it, rarely does it come your way.
However, then there's just plain spooky luck or, in my case, bad luck which isn't attached to any work ethic.
For example, this true recent story of something that happened to me...
I had finished an evening shift before Christmas and left for home in my car. It was very dark and the visibility was getting poorer due to a fog descending over the countryside. About half my journey is on a fast 60mph road and about half is cross-country. So I'm driving along the 60mph zone at a relatively slow pace due to the descending fog when suddenly cars coming in the opposite direction start flashing me. I am confused f…

K is for Kindness and Kindergarten

I've worked in retail, on and off, for most of my life and it is a very culturally diverse profession. This is because at the bottom rung it is very lowly paid and often has ridiculous working hours. In addition, often the only skills that are needed are a smiling face and the ability to work hard and pick up new skills. Consequently, it's a trade that is open to a lot of people - either on the shop floor or behind it.

Recently, I've been working with a Russian, a Chinese, an Algerian, a naturalised British man originally from Hong Kong, another one on a visa from Hong Kong, a naturalised UK Indian whose parents still live in India, a half-Japanese naturalised British man, a Moroccan, a half Austrian and half Brazialian......and so on. There are a few more nationalities but I can't remember where they're from and, in all honesty, I'm not really bothered. Now, as you can imagine, with such an eclectic range of colleagues there's quite a range of religious an…

J is for Jewellery, Jacob and Jinxes

So this post is going to stray from my normal gibberish and a be glimpse inside my life.

The alternative was writing about jelly which is far too wobbly and reminds me of my arse. So it's a no go area. 
So if you've read my A for Anno Domini post you'll know that recently my life has completely changed. I thought in two years time, when my youngest son went to university, I'd go back to part-time work and pursue my writing career which although wasn't earning any significant amounts was on an upward trajectory - one of London's top agents had considered the full manuscript for The Changing Room and I'd had two top publicists interested in it too even though I decided when the agent eventually declined my novel to self-publish. In other words -by choosing self-publishing - I decided to put my money where my mouth is believing The Changing Room filled a gap in the market for women's fiction - contemporary humorous fiction for middle-aged women but which a…

I is for Iambic Pentameter

So this going to be one of my intellectual posts. (Ho hum.)

Let's talk about iambic pentameter.

Now to refresh your minds, since I'm sure many of you might have forgotten what iambic pentameter is from your school days (I can't remember anything prior to 1990 so if you're older than me there's a good chance you can't even remember your name) I shall refresh your memory with an explanation taken straight from a dictionary rather than using my own explanation because my own garbled definition would probably make you wonder if I have any brain cells left.

So, accordingly, this is the explanation from the Oxford Dictionary:

A line of verse with five metrical feet, each consisting of one short (or unstressed) syllable followed by one long (or stressed) syllable.

Yep, makes no sense to me either. Thirty years ago I think it did. Although, frankly, at school, I was a bit of blagger back then too and had an uncanny ability to sound like I knew what I was talking about wh…

H is for A Horrid And Heinous "H" Story

Tonight, I am going to relate to you one of the worst experiences of my life which happened about three years ago. It was very late at night and I was out in the garden securing the chicken hutch when I was stopped in my tracks by a truly revolting noise. I'm not going to even try and describe it as it was so abhorrent it will make you throw up. However, what I will say is - as a mother of three sons - I have heard some pretty gruesome noises including:

1. High-octane exploding bowels.  This wasafter about a month of constipation when I doubled-dosed one of my sons on constipation-relief medicine. The memory of this sound and the high-impact 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 p…

G is for Glasses

Tihs posst waaaaaaas going tto be aboooutttt "gulags  "  so i loook bra iny as I''m worrird peopke mifgt thimk I'm stipid/

Bit i can@T  finnd  my asses.


('m hopping I wil l fiiiid theeeeeM by tomotoe/


Leavvvvvw ideas for H pleass/

F is for Fantasies

This is going to be one of my rare intimate posts. This is a post where you discover something about me and I get to, hopefully, discover something about you! So don't forget to leave me one of your fantasies in the comments.

Okay so here are my top twenty fantasies:
1. I win the ManBooker prize.
2.I win the Nobel prize for literature.
3. I win the Nobel Prize for literature and the ManBooker prize in the same year - for different books. (I've always been ambitious.)
4. I bump into Tom Cruise at Harrods and say "Oh I am so sorry.... Oh you look familiar....Now don't tell me.... you're... your'e... Justin Bieber."
5. Our Prime Minister, Mrs May, invites me to be the Minister for Literature. I decline because I am too busy on the international book circuit talking about my Nobel prize for literature and my ManBooker Prize. (Awarded in the same year.)
6. I go onto the Daily Mail Website and the headline reads:
Kim Kardashian's arse explodes. Large crater …

E is for Eggplant, European Union and Equestrian

So I've had a couple of suggestions from my writer friend Derrick LoRusso for today's E post. He recommended I write about the words "equestrian" or the "European Union."

Which are both better suggestions than the only word I've come up today which is "eggplant."

I have no idea why "eggplant" keeps popping into my head. Now, no offense to my lovely American friends but calling a vegetable an eggplant which looks nothing like an egg is completely nuts. When I imagine an eggplant instead of looking like this:

It looks like this:

And when I imagine a European Union eggplant it looks like this:

As for "equestrian," Derrick told me I should write about it because us Brits are obsessed with horse riding, polo and fox hunting etc etc. However, I am going to have to come clean and admit that the only horses I am interested in are the ones I might pull in the sweepstake at work and win at a 100-1 on the Grand National. I know nothin…

D is for...Divorce.

The only word beginning with D that has been cropping in my mind all day in order to write about tonight is "Divorce"- even though I'd already decided I wasn't going to write about it. So I'd been putting off writing all day hoping some other word would come into my mind, so a few minutes ago as it's almost the UK 12pm deadline I decided to go to one of those random word generators for some much needed inspiration. I put in a request for ten words beginning with D...and the second word that came up was... divorce.


The first word was directory.

Anybody want me to write about "directory" ? I doubt it. Maybe some weird techy geek with a telephone directory fetish but that's about it.

Okay, so I'm going to write about divorce as that kind of spooky stuff is fate's way of telling me its okay to let loose.

But I now only have ...12 minutes before the deadline! Crap. I better make this quick.

So this is what I know about divorce:


C is for Cream Crackered.

I was contemplating a few words over the course of the day for tonight's post including castration, conception and carol singers but it's already 10.30pm, I've done three hours of housework, two hours of commuting and a nine-hour working day so my brain is fried. I finally got home at 9.30pm, cooked tea for my youngest son and will be leaving the house at 11pm to pick up another from a nearby town so I think I'm just going to go for "cream crackered" instead.

If you've not heard of the expression"Cream crackered" it is a slang phrase here in the UK which means "knackered"- or to put it politely - very, very tired. Cockney rhyming slang is particularly prevalent in the East End of London although some expressions like Cream crackered have filtered into wider usage. Essentially, Cockney rhyming slang is a group of phrases used by Cockneys as expressions instead of using the correct word. 
Cockney rhyming slang is pretty simple to underts…

B is for Brighton Cock

To fully appreciate this post it is best to read my A is for Anno Domini post. (Scroll down.)

Julie knew, before she had been in Brighton three hours, that he meant to corrupt her. With his smooth fingers, and manicured nails, his manner charming and sophisticated, anyone could tell he didn't belong -  belong to the early summer sun, the cool Whitsun wind off the sea, the normal crowd of dental hygienists who worked in Sunny Smiles Dental Practice. They came in by the front door every five minutes, swaying down Queen's Road after closing, teetering on their high heels. But he was different - for a start he was a man in a female-dominated role and, secondly, for a man of his obvious attractions, he'd slipped discreetly through the side door whereas other handsome men of his demeanor might come through the main entrance reveling in the attention of female admirers. Julie's pulse began to race a little as he took a seat not far from where she'd been sipping a vodka ob…

A is for Anno Domini

So it's the beginning of the A to Z challenge. It's going to be a challenging month for me as due to my usual lack of diligence I have not prepared anything. This will probably be exacerbated by the fact that this particular month I also intend to petition for divorce which is the reason for the change to my blog title from The Witty Ways of a Wayward Wife to The Witty Ways of a Wayward Woman and from Housewife Extraordinaire to Creative Extraordinaire. However, I'm not set on "Creative Extraordinaire" so if any you have any zany ideas feel free to fire away. In fact, my original blog title was the result of a competition I had on my blog after I discovered my original title Jane Turley, Diary of a Mad Housewife was being used by a woman to rant about her husband.


All things considered, we'd better not go down that avenue. Let's just say I am slightly more sympathetic to that blog writer than I was at the time! Even though some might consider me a…