Thursday, 26 May 2011

Hubby's Hotties - I've been tagged

I have been preparing a post all about our electricity box this week. I have been planning it in my head as I go walking and just as I was about to write it up F50 came chattering and giggling like a kid (not the goat version) into my room and told me I’d been tagged! I thought that only happened to criminals. So, I now have to adhere to some rules and answer some questions.
I wouldn’t normally subscribe to this behaviour but since I was asked by a very nice lady from Devon, I have decided to play along – see F50, I’m not the spoilsport you make me out to be. Firstly, allow me to redirect you all to the mischief maker who has had the audacity to tag me. Thisisme at Southhamsdarling is a very nice lady indeed who always takes time to leave friendly comments on my blog posts. I especially appreciated it when I first began writing as it is quite daunting doing this when you’ve no idea what to write. Thisisme has a rather splendid blog that F50 has shown me. Her garden is exceptionally lovely and her clean patio puts ours to shame. Please go and visit this lady – if only to give her a telling off for making me do this especially as I have now caught F50’s horrible cold and feel quite weak.
Do you think you're hot?
Hot no - at the moment I’m freezing cold. I blame F50 and her lousy germs. No, I’m not hot but one of my son’s girlfriends called me ‘The Silver Fox’ a few years ago.
Upload a picture or wall paper that you are using at the moment.Are you kidding? I don’t know what upload means or how to do it. Facing 50 said she’ll sort it out, especially as it’s her fault I’m now ill.  So, that’s answered that then.

My wallpaper - I loved Concorde

When was the last time you ate chicken?
Don’t get me started on food. Everything I eat tastes of sandpaper. In fact sandpaper is probably more nutritious than F50’s cooking. I think we had chicken last month because she bought one when M&S had a ‘Dine in for £10’ offer. I remember it was sticky and tasteless but the lemon tart for dessert was very nice.
The song/songs you listened to recently.
Apparently, I listened to The Wu Pong Cling or Clang or something this morning thanks to a practical joke which wasn’t funny. (If you are reading this F50 don’t ever touch my Abba CD again?) Then I listened to a holy row by some more screaming banshees.
What were you thinking while doing this?
What the *#!? Is this pile of .....
Do you have any nicknames? What are they?
No. I suppose that wasn’t too difficult.
Tag eight blogger friends...
That is difficult as I don’t have any friends yet. I’ll choose eight people who have been kind to me, written comments, and encouraged me to write more. I hope that’s okay.

I wasn't blogged yesterday @ IWASNTBLOGGEDYESERDAY
Jane @ Rattlebox
Everyone else seems to already have been tagged so I’m sticking to six.
Who's listed as number one?
I wasn’t blogged yesterday. Funny and Australian what more could a man want?
Say something about number five?
Jane is a fellow Brit who lives fairly close to us in rural Shropshire. One should always support fellow Brits, so Jane, over to you my dear!
How did you get to know number three?
She left a nice comment for me on my first post and told F50 that she enjoyed visiting. I think anyone willing to spend time reading my posts deserves to be appreciated. Thank you Darlene.
How about number four?
Oh dash it! I’ve just discovered Belle was tagged too. Now what do I do?
Leave a message for number six?
Facing 50 would love to come and visit you. Please don’t give her too much wine when she does because she’ll talk rubbish. (More rubbish than normal!)
Leave a lovey- dovey message for number two?
Don’t be ridiculous. I’m a man. I don’t do lovey-dovey!
Right that’s it. ‘Tag everyone’ Now I’m going to write all about our electricity box because that is an entertaining story.

Wednesday, 25 May 2011

Wednesday Wit






Click on the funnies tab today to see what my mother has been cackling at every month...

Tuesday, 24 May 2011

Help, I need somebody. Help, not just anybody. Help, I need someone....Help!

Okay, today I am unveiling the blurb for my yet to be published book. I now need your valuable feedback. Please read the blurb and then comment on whether it is exciting enough to get you to buy the book or if it is lacking. I shan't mind if you criticise it at all, in fact sometimes criticism is better than praise. I have made myself go mad trying to rewrite it and now I need impartial opinions. The book is wrtten in a similar vein to my blogs so is largely humorous. All help will be more than gratefully received.

     Amanda Wilson can’t decide between murder, insanity and another glass of red wine. Facing the big five oh and all that it entails is problematic enough without having to deal with a man who makes Victor Meldrew look like Coco the Clown. What’s the point in minking your eyes, or crumbling up Horny Goats Weed into his afternoon cocoa, when your husband would much rather watch ‘Russia Today’ than admire you, strutting in front of the television wearing only thigh length boots and a thong? 
     Her son has managed to perform yet another magical disappearing act. Could he actually be buried under the mountain of festering washing which is strewn on his bedroom floor? He’ll certainly be buried somewhere when she next gets her hands on him after last night's shenanigans.
     Life is certainly 'drab' not 'fab' at the moment.  Isn't fifty supposed to be the new forty?Not for Amanda it seems. At least her mother knows how to enjoy herself. She’s partying her twilight years away in Cyprus. Queen of the Twister mat, she now has a toy boy in tow. However, who knows what the pearly-white toothed Adonis is really up to? 
     Everyone else seems to enjoy life to the maximum. Even the ancient next door neighbours know how to have fun. When they aren’t getting people blotto with their homemade wine, they spend weekends shooting off on their new motor bike, which they bought from his ‘PeaPad’.    
     Amanda blames desperation, hormones and Tiffany's coltish, blemish-free legs. She really shouldn’t have pressed that send button. The past always catches up with you sooner or later. Still, her colourful past is a welcome relief to her monochrome present; especially when it comes in the shape of provocative Todd Bradshaw, her first true love.
     Soon Mandy has a difficult decision to make; one that will require more than a few glasses of Chianti.

So, what do you think? Is it interesting enough or should I rewrite? Speak your mind please...help!

Monday, 23 May 2011

'The Jean Genie...'


I should really thank Hubby for ensuring that I can now actually get into my jeans. I should thank him and yet no, I’m cursing him.
     It all began over winter when Hubby discovered the joys of eating afternoon mince pies and I joined in. Nothing was nicer than cosying down in front of the log burner with a hot cocoa and a warm mince pie each afternoon as outside the snow fell. Well, enjoy it as I may, it wasn’t long before my waistline expanded, and by March I was still too large to fit into my trousers and jeans.
     I tried lying on my back and wiggling into them. No luck. I jumped up and down to get them on and succeeded, only to find the zip wouldn’t do up, or indeed would do up and would then break several hours later. I clearly needed to lose weight. I complained to Hubby and suggested I bought some new trousers. He looked horrified and said I could jolly well get back into my old ones.
     Mr Lean and Slim (in spite of eating chocolate and cake) assured me that walking was my only option. He took it upon himself to become my ‘bootcamp meister’ making sure that I was dragged out of bed when he got up (5am-6am) and taken outside for a good hike over the fields before breakfast. He then would saddle me up and take me out after breakfast and if I was very fortunate indeed he would take me out on my lead after lunch too.
     It wasn’t too bad last month because it was fairly warm for Spring and I started to feel the benefit of our regular walks. Coming back from our trip to Prague, Hubby was even more convinced about the benefits of walking and increased our routes by a few miles each day. I didn’t mind because at last I could get into my white jeans and almost do them up.
     Since our return though, it has become quite cold and horribly windy. If there’s one thing I loathe, it’s the wind. I absolutely despise it; but Hubby loves it and even finds it invigorating. Nothing would prevent his new obsession with walking. He continued to leap out of bed just as the birds are thinking about waking up, throw back the bedcovers to ensure I got up and hurtled for the door with rare enthusiasm.
     Last week as the wind whistled around my ears Hubby decided to take us even further than normal. About four miles away from the house, having crossed several fields, the skies darkened and the inevitable rain began to pour down. We got completely soaked. We tried to shelter under a tree but after half an hour of freezing even Hubby had to agree we should make our way home. Bedraggled and cold I complained.
‘You do want to get into your clothes don’t you?’ he asked.
I nodded miserably. I would rather have liposuction than this I thought as I towelled off my wet hair.
     In the afternoon he suggested a shorter walk. When I refused, he looked at my stomach and raised his eyebrows. I went along squelching through puddles. The next day it blew a gale. Hubby marched us off again on the newly discovered long walk; some seven miles of trekking. I was convinced we would be blown away as we struggled on against the ever strengthening winds. It was such an effort to walk against the wind that we actually got quite hot. Hubby battled on whistling. He was really enjoying himself.
     On our return, and after a warm shower, I put on a clean pair of jeans delighted that they slid on without any difficulty and did up. I proudly showed Hubby, who expressed relief that I didn’t need to go clothes shopping again. Later that day I felt ill. The feeling lasted all night and into the next day. I couldn’t eat any food. The pain turned into a bout of something nasty. The next day I could hardly stand up. All night I was awake with a streaming cold and a filthy headache. I felt rotten.
Hubby, who is convinced that you only have to say cold and he’ll get one, decided he didn’t want to be anywhere near me if I had a cold and took himself out for long walks without me. I was too ill to even make myself a cup of tea. He told me to stay out of any room he was in and made me sleep in the spare room on the couch. Quite honestly I was beyond caring. I dripped about in my office all day staring at the computer with unseeing eyes.
     Today, I feel better enough to write this post. I still have a rotten cold. My eyes are streaming and my stomach still hurts. Hubby is nowhere to be seen. He’s outside somewhere walking over the fields. There is, of course, a benefit to all of this. I haven’t been able to eat for four days now. Due to being ill I have lost more weight. My jeans and trousers hang slackly on me now. I might have to get them taken in. Or, maybe, when I feel better I should go to town and treat myself to a new pair. I’m sure Hubby won’t mind, after all, it is all thanks to his fitness regime! 

Saturday, 21 May 2011

Elementary my dear Watson...





I've finally discovered what was in the bag that my son took to his grandmother in Cyprus. The bag he almost forgot and whose contents he was reluctant to divulge.You'll never guess. I didn't. It is quite a surprise. So, if you want to know the secret of the plastic bag then you must click here to link to Facing 50 with humour where all will be revealed.

Wednesday, 18 May 2011

Wednesday Wit



Click on the 'funnies' tab above and check out some more vital signs

Monday, 16 May 2011

Hubby's Hotties - I should be so lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky...'

The machine whirred amidst a sea of canned applause. The voice called out.
     “The first ball, last drawn three weeks ago, number 16.”
I read the VCT report that came in the post earlier. Facing50 was watching the live draw.  The National Lottery, what a waste of money. £1 for a ticket and 1 chance in 14 million of winning the jackpot. Not my idea of a good investment.
     “The second ball, featured in the last two draws, number 29,”
I ignored the voice. It became a noise in the background. This VCT report was showing that I was due a dividend in June. Good, that would help pay for son’s car to be serviced. I looked up. Facing50 was sitting on the edge of her seat silently, mouth slightly ajar.
     “You okay?” I asked
She nodded, eyes shining brightly and waved her ticket at me.
     “We’ve won!”
     “Ha,ha, of course...” I started to say. Something stopped me.
     “We’ve won!” She said, more loudly.  “We’ve got all six numbers.”
     “How much is the jackpot tonight?” I choked
     “Three Million.”
Three million! Imagine the possibilities with three million pounds in the bank. I was just about to conjure up a special Designo Mercedes SLS when I woke up suddenly. I had been dreaming. Very strangely for me as I rarely dream.
     Facing50 says we all dream but I just can’t remember what I have been dreaming about. I’m pretty certain I don’t dream though. She does. When she finally conks out for ten minutes she manages to pack in full feature length dreams that would make Martin Scorsese jealous of their cinematic skills. (I had to Google a famous film producer for that last statement. I haven’t a clue who makes films!)
     I told F50 about it. She was very interested.
     “Which numbers did I play?”
     “I don’t know. There might have been a 16. I wasn’t paying attention. In the dream, you won not me, so you must have chosen the numbers.”
     “It must be a sign that we should get a ticket,” she decided.
     We never play the National Lottery as I truly believe it is a complete waste of money. I let F50 buy some Premium Bonds instead as you can at least get your stake money back on them. But, on closer inspection, I worked out that they yielded approximately 1% per annum, which technically means, by the time you factor in inflation, you may as well have a flutter on the Lottery. You’ll probably still lose your money. Ergo, if F50 thought my dream was some sort of prediction, then she could buy a ticket if it made her happy.
     The weekend drifted by and we both forgot about the Lottery draw. In fact, it was the next week when I asked her if the numbers had come up.
     “Crumbs, I forgot all about it. I’ll check on the internet.”
     Several minutes passed. I was busy sorting out a window frame that needed repainting. I despise painting with gloss paint but someone has to do it and I’m not letting Miss Astigmatism 2011 near it. There’d be paint all over the window frame. There was a clatter as she walked into the door.
     “We’ve won!” she shouted.
I nearly spilled the paint over my shoes.
     “What? Impossible!”
     “No, we’ve definitely won.”
     “How much?”
     “Let me see, we got three numbers, so that’s ten pounds.” She grinned.
I’ll have to put my SLS on hold for the moment but if I have any more dreams I’ll be sure to share them with you all.

Monday, 9 May 2011

Don't mess with my blue suede shoes...

     You might recall that I have been having a battle with Hubby over his wardrobe. He has far too many clothes left over from his working days that he will never wear again but that he cannot bear to give away.
     Following on from the great spring clean, and the peacock blue trouser episode, I tried once again to get him to dispose of one or two outfits.
     ‘It’ll make it much easier for you to choose something to wear,’ I explained, having waited an hour for him to get dressed for a shopping trip to town. He had eventually turned up in a smart pair of trousers and a striped jacket which I think he last wore to a wedding. He certainly turned heads, but I can’t help but feel the supermarket isn’t the right place for such attire.
     Hubby huffed and shrugged and glowered as only he can, in a semi helpless way. I left him to it. Two hours later I found him in front of a mountain of shoe boxes. He has more shoes than can be found in a large shoe shop. He had begrudgingly selected a pair that he felt he would no longer be able to wear. They were to go to the charity shop.
     I must say that I highly approved of his choice. There in front of me, pristine and shiny was a pair of ghastly tan shoes. ‘Tan’ doesn’t quite describe the colour of these shoes but to do so would involve a vulgar description involving the words ‘cat’, and ‘sick’. Goodness knows when or why he had bought them. Maybe they were fashionable in the seventies.
     He frowned and scratched his head.
     ‘I don’t want to get rid of them. I’ve never worn them.’ (I could see why he hadn’t worn them.) ‘I just can’t get them to match with any of my clothes so I suppose they’ll have to go. They are beautifully made though,’ he sighed.
     He was right. They were a beautifully made, pair of disgusting coloured shoes. Good thing they were going. I bundled them into a bag before he could change his mind, and the next day I dropped them off at the charity shop.  The lady looked in the box with a dismayed expression.
     ‘They’re expensive shoes,’ she said. ‘But, who would want that colour? I’ll put them up for five pounds and hope someone wants them. Maybe they’ll buy them for gardening.’
I had to agree. They really were not everyone’s cup of tea. Hopefully someone would be willing to shell out a few pounds though. It is for charity after all.
Later that day Hubby came into the kitchen looking even more glum than usual.
     ‘What’s the problem?’ I asked.
     ‘Found this,’ he said holding up a belt the same colour cat....I mean tan as the shoes.
     ‘Okay, I’ll take it to the shop tomorrow,’ I replied.  ‘At least you’ve cleared a couple of things out of your wardrobe.’
He nodded gloomily and like Eeyore plodded back to his room, head down, disheartened.
     The following day, he said he’d take the belt to the charity shop after he had been to the supermarket, as I had to go to the Post Office.  On my way back I passed the shop. The same lady from a couple of days ago was outside putting up a poster.
     ‘Hello,’ she said cheerfully. ‘I sold those shoes you brought in.’
     ‘What a surprise. My husband should be by soon with a matching belt maybe the person would like that too,’ I suggested.
     ‘Oh, I expect so. He didn’t hesitate when he saw them. He said they were very good quality and he thought they were very cheap at five pounds.’
I met Hubby later and told him that his shoes had gone to a good home. He looked at me sheepishly.
     ‘Well, once I found the belt. I thought I could probably match them up with a pair of greenish trousers I have.’
In the boot of the car I could see the boomerang tan coloured shoes.
     ‘Well, they are very good quality,’ said Hubby.

Friday, 6 May 2011

Hubby's Hotties-How to make Mr Grumpy turn into Mr Happy


     Facing50 is spitting feathers. Why? Because I’ve only written three posts and I’ve been given my first award - the Versatile Blogger Award.
     “Do you know how long it took me to get an award?” she said in disbelief.
     “No,” I replied innocently.
     I know exactly when she got her first award because she was as pleased as Punch, and told me all about it, several times, while I was trying to unblock the sink. Having now received my first award I can understand her euphoria and so I must thank Melynda from Craziness Abounds for bestowing this accolade upon me, a humble beginner who still doesn’t know how to cut and paste.
    There are various conditions attached to receiving it. Firstly I have to tell you 7 things about myself I asked Facing 50 what I should write; after all, you know nothing about me. Facing50 scoffed at that and said you all know quite a lot about me, and even some things I don’t know about myself so that didn’t help.
     I have come up with these few offerings which I hope you’ll accept. I am, however, quite an ordinary person.
-I like watching Fawlty Towers. I know all the episodes off pat. They are as pertinent to today’s situations as they were when they were first aired on television
-I prefer the countryside to towns. I am always in search for quiet and harmony. Difficult when you live with Facing50.
-I’m not a fan of sports. This makes me odd in the male world. When our son comes home and chats about the cricket or football, I have to nod and pretend I know what he is talking about.
-I am a chocoholic. I have to eat some chocolate every day. I have cut down recently but the craving gets me at some point in the day. I have a drawer full of chocolate which is mine alone. Luckily Facing50 doesn’t like chocolate much.
-I cannot abide incompetence. If a job is worth doing, it’s worth doing well. I wish someone would tell our local council that and repair the road outside our house.
-Weather fascinates me. I have several weather stations dotted about the house to check what is going to happen. I adore thunderstorms.  
- I can’t think of a number seven. Is this because I am modest or boring?
     Next I am to pass this award to bloggers and blogs I feel deserve it. You’ve caught me out there. It’s all I can do to post. Reading blogs is for Facing50. I’ve used up all my technological ability in typing this. F50 sometimes reads bits out for me or tells me what someone has said. I am therefore, with her help, giving my own award.  It is a unique award -made and drawn by Facing50.
     It is for all of you who are reading this, who have written such nice messages to me and have welcomed me with open arms into the blogging community. I would like you all to take the Hubby’s Hotties Award for Professional Bloggers – nothing can be more professional than giving encouragement to those who are blindly making their way in blogging world. Comments and feedback is as important as writing a post. Please take the award and display it proudly on your blogs. If Facing50 can show me how, I’ll come by and visit you. I wanted the award to display ‘I am a hottie’ but you know who said that would lower the tone.
     Thank you Melynda, and all of you. Facing 50 is now allowing me post on this page rather than in the background. Then, we’ll be able to save the posts and comments and more importantly, I get to be on the front page which, naturally, I deserve.
Please take this award - please. It took F50 all day to make it!

Thursday, 5 May 2011

Yo ho ho and a bottle of sherry...

Once again I have nipped away from here to guest post at another fab blog. This time I am to be found at The Life and Times of A.Nighbert – written by a wonderful young lady who, not only is part Italian, (are you sensing a theme here?) but who is also a teacher.

My post today is dedicated to her and all teachers...however, just what is the connection between pirates and teachers? Ah well, click HERE to find out.

Please take time to leave Alessandra a message and check out her blog too while you are there. Watch you don’t fall over the Irish Chihuahuas!

Wednesday, 4 May 2011

'What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.'

     Well, my dear son has returned from his sojourn with my party loving, chain-smoking mother in Cyprus. I’ve been driving myself nuts wondering what they’ve been up to.
     Just before Easter we collected Son and Girlfriend to take them to the airport. Son was in a complete tizzy as he’d forgotten to pack something vital to the trip. He raced off back inside and kept us waiting while he ferreted around for whatever it was. Hubby blasted the car horn.
‘Hurry up!’ he yelled.
Girlfriend sat waiting nervously in the back of the car.
‘Don’t worry I said. ‘You’ll enjoy it. My mother is rather good fun. I know you haven’t met her, but she’s quite a laugh.’
     Girlfriend wasn’t convinced. She’s heard lots of stories about my mother and her shenanigans. She also knows that Son is a handful when he’s been at the ‘watering hole’ i.e. the pub, so completely wasted with his Grandmother in tow, wasn’t something she relished. I don’t suppose I helped by asking:
‘You will text me won’t you? Just to let me know you’re all okay.’
Finally, Son appeared clutching something in a plastic bag.
‘Soz,’ he puffed. ‘I needed this for Grandma. I promised her I ‘d bring it.’
‘What is it?’
‘Oh, nothing you’d be interested in,’ he replied and gave Girlfriend a big squeeze. Don’t you just hate not knowing? I tried to look at the bag but he’d moved it out of sight. 
‘You’ll text me, won’t you?’ I asked Son later as they were about to go through to Departures.
‘Yeah, yeah, of course I will.’
     Son texted me three times in the first half hour of arrival, after which time he was no doubt far too sozzled to even remember his own name, let alone how to text. I heard no more. I sent a text to my mother. Same thing. Silence. I sent one to Girlfriend.
‘Hi! Weather lovely. Your Mum is so funny. She’s been telling us stories all about you. How’s weather at home. Hugs x’
Came the reply.
      Great - just what I feared.  My son and his girlfriend would now know all about my failings and misdemeanours when I was young and would never look at me the same way. Children should never learn what you were like as a child. It’s like showing photographs of your son or daughter as a baby, naked on the rug, to their future spouses. My mother has hundreds of tales of what I used to be like. My son will be either mortified or fall around thinking he has a complete nut case for a mother.
     No, don’t ask me what I was like. In fact, I should get my mother to blog the tales. You’d all laugh yourselves senseless. She particularly likes the story about how I went skiing with the school. She was worried I would hurt myself as I was a dreadfully clumsy child. I didn’t fall off my skis or break my arm snowboarding. I did, however, fall down the bus steps spectacularly as I disembarked from the bus at school, in front of all the waiting parents, and twisted my ankle so badly I couldn’t walk for weeks.
     I tried sending a couple more texts but they also got no reply. Girlfriend, my secret spy, has been no use either. She sent another a few days later.
‘Weather lovely and hot. Ate outside last night. Your Mum is lovely. Hugs x’
     They came home a few days ago. Girlfriend’s parents picked them up and took them home, so I didn’t see them. I sent a welcome home text to each of them. Son still hasn’t replied to his. I’ve been his mother long enough to know something is afoot. Girlfriend wrote:
‘Isn’t the weather nice here? Your Mum was brilliant. Hugs x’
     You know that saying ’what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas’? I have a feeling the same applies to Cyprus. ‘What happens in Limassol, stays in Limassol.’
     My mother is coming home for a few days next week. I’m going to phone her. Sooner or later I’m going to find out what transpired. Concerned? No.  Nosey? Yes. And when I find out I shall come and tell you.