Wednesday, 29 December 2010

Charlie's Missionary Impossible

Rodger got very excited on Boxing Day. He had decided to stuff the turkey curry and feed it to the birds instead. He was outside my abode merrily tossing the parson’s nose across the lawn when a seagull dive bombed and nearly missed the elderly bread throwing neighbour.

‘To compete with the parson’s nose’ she mumbled into her day old crust, ‘is a mission impossible.’

And it was if a blow torch lit up in my lover’s bald spot.

‘I have a novel in me’ he shouted up at my boudoir window.

‘Well don’t sit down,’ came a voice from the washing green.

Ignoring the voice from the washing green, my Rodger carried on shouting. ‘Missionary Impossible a Sci Fi for the dyslexics.

Now the only impossible missionary I know takes an afternoon on pints followed by an evening on whisky ...thank god my Rodger doesn’t not drink.

Rodger raced up the stairs and as he lunged for the chandler he shouted, ‘a heroine called Sheila, a whip and a midget called Woody, what you think my little sugar lump?’ (He only ever mentions my sugar lumps in a totally state of creativity).
And as I watched my little love pot swing his torso with more gusto than a chimp on speed I began to ponder.

How many times do you look at you mobile after first date, worst still after the first lumber (Shag for those not Scottish), worst still when they both happened at the same night? Not the sort of question you would expect from a pensioner, especially one who is being entertained by myself at the Rest & be Thankful Nursing Home.

Still she seemed more that enthusiastic when my Rodger pulled out his Zills during the performance. In fact she grabbed them and with remarkable timing started belting out Auld Lang Syne on them. Rabbie Burns would have been fair impressed.
Well she and the other followers at the R & B T will no longer be privileged to hear Rodger’s Zills. He has taken to the shed; yes by the washing green and can be heard muttering to himself - ‘no Sheila not the whip’ , ‘Woody! Woody! the Starship’s out of diesel’.

And as for my chandelier, it suspends silently on my bedroom ceiling barely managing more than a tilt when the bin men's lorry drives by.

Sunday, 19 December 2010

The Lady is not for waxing

You'll have noticed a new award has appeared on my blog site. Which Sheryl would describe as the ‘TITS’!
So as she was the last blogger I have decided to let you in on seven secrets about our Sheryl - 7 things only her belly dancing teacher would know!
She has a laugh like no other (an undisguised blessing)
Her timing is incomprehensible
Her diction betrays her origin; she is Australian and it shows; tomato sauce on everything
She once refused to eat octopus on TV
She has had her hand in more than one ewe and has even lambed one
She hates Country and Western music and is not too keen on The Beetles either
She sings along to Abba when no one is around
She once had a crush on her dentist - personally I think it was just the smell of rubber but then I am an erotic cynic

So this is me back after my guess blog decided to spill the beans on being single...She may as well have put a notices on her door.
No men; no sex; this lady is not for waxing!!
Well for a women who chooses to drink in The Argyll and O’leary’s Oyster Bar this is understandable. Pickings are grim.
Take the Argyll it is about as posh as peanuts on a paper plate. It’s the sort of place that has Iron bru (Scotland favourite orange coloured bubbly) on tap, karaoke on Friday night followed Bobby Bingo and his Wing Nuts (never stayed for that). Their idea of a buffet is a plate of cold chipolatas, some cheese and onion dip and a packet of whatsits with Shifty singing ‘My Way’ in background.
O’Leary’s Oyster bar ‘does’ Karaoke too. The difference is the Karaoke machine is a CD player from Tescos’ with a selection of ten songs written on the back of a beer mat. It’s run by Lumpy the postman and Mary a woman who dresses from Tesco and is not afraid to show it.
Chubby the butcher has a thing for me ... it all started when I was in her shop. I was standing there pondering the wisdom of beef olives when in walks Imogene – Imogene calls herself a calligrapher although why someone wants to advertise the fact that they write like monk is beyond me –
Imogene orders 4 links and some potted tongue then makes some remark about mutton: lamb and padded bar while looking at me!
Me with a padded bra; my Rodger would be livered;
Well I told Imogene where to shove her quill and Chubby was impressed. How do I know? Cause I got any extra link with my mince and a wee mention in the local paper about my exploits with the elderly folks and their rhythms.
Every week Chubby writes a small column in the ‘oot and aboot’ section.
She sees herself as a woman of wit and intelligence, whose talents stretched far beyond the realms of butchering.
Not that her butchering skills aren’t known; I mean her ability to sculpt meat into the tenderest of portions is the talk of the WRI. She has more customers than the Coop on Christmas Eve selling almost out of date B.O.G Offs...And her loins are spoken about in hushed tones..
Hector who owns the butcher shop says his sales have doubled and he is more than happy to indulge in Chubbie’s fantasy of being Lochgilphead’s answer to Oscar Wild.
‘For a lesbian built like a brick shithouse,’ she sure can sculpt a sentence he says. Rumor has it she can roll a rissole - construct a sentence and bone a joint all at the same time. What a woman.
I wonder if she waxes?

Saturday, 27 November 2010

Single is the tits

Single is the tits
By Sheryl
Nefertiti being pressed for time has asked me to be her ‘guess blog’.
Asked is probably not the right word as Nef has a way of putting things that makes NO not an option.
According to her being single means I have time on my hands... My mum has the same idea. SHE recons ‘time on my hands’ is her passport to a 24 hour personnel assistant.
‘You can’t feel sorry for yourself if your arm is up a drain pipe,’ she says.
Feeling sorry for myself? Why would I feel sorry for myself? ...Being single is right up there with a good fish supper.
The only ring in the bath is my own- so no need to clean? And I can make a box of chocolates last as long as I want to; who’s going to know if it only took me a rerun of ‘Corrie’ (Coronation Street) to scoff the lot, even the hard ones ?
I am telling you single is the tits!’ Mum hates the words tits...Ironic really, as she swears like a butcher with tourettes attacking a sirloin on Christmas Eve.
My mum is the sort of mum best left at home. Any where public to her is an opportunity to point out eligible men in a voice that can be heard over a pneumatic drill. She’s the sort of person who thinks encouragement is listing you faults in order of preference.
‘Sheryl’ she says ‘You will never pull in a bra like that’; (Mum’s answer to everything is a good bra. Well that and a non stick pan.) ‘You couldn’t pull a cracker - even if a wrestler was attached to the other end.’
Well, the last thing I’d be doing with a wrestler is pulling crackers. And I told my mother so. We were in The Stables at the time; a pleasant cafe that can (according to Nefertiti) make Nescafe almost bearable.
When Martin left me for the ‘body that defied gravity’ I was as gutted a roll mop. But not now, I get out as much as possible - once I’ve put mum to bed.
I’ve been on a few dates, met a one eyed darts player from Cork. He had a great trick for putting his opponents of their aim. I met an army bloke at MacDonald’s whose idea of wit was to talk about his weapons of mass destruction.
Then there was the guy from the fish and chip shop whose idea of a ‘come on’ was to arrange two Scotch eggs and a battered sausage suggestively across my chips. I was impressed until I saw his pickled eggs. They were floating on the top of the jar like dead fish, a man with stale pickled eggs is a man best avoided no matter how artistic he can be with batter.
And of course there’s Shifty... he’s the barman at The Argyll; he is every woman’s dream barman. He’ll remember your drink; remember you favourite song and late at night when you’re feeling lonely, his toothless grin will stop you doing anything foolish.
Yes being single can be a happening state of affairs baring in mind that to cook for yourself is advised as is keeping your mother locked up; until you find another man that is...

Thursday, 11 November 2010

Belated Halloween

Halloween came and went for me and my Rodger. Thanks to an unfortunate incident with a dog costume and a female impersonator my Rodger is very Halloween phobic. The mere mention of apple bobbing and his cravat takes a turn for the worst.

Last week, I was merrily teaching gothic tilts to my flock of three (keeping with the Halloween theme) when ‘our’ Margret, as they like to call her, decided to have a rant.

‘There is nothing more Halloween that a demented mother silently mouthing obscenities at an unyielding turnip while knocking up yet another costume with egg boxes and crepe paper!’

I tried to console her with my Rodger phobia of Halloween – trick or treating can fair put a droop on his chandelier swinging.
‘One knock knock joke’ I joked ‘and he is as limp as a dunked rich tea biscuit.’
I almost got a smile from Margaret when Sheryl (a practical woman with the thighs to prove it) chips in. ‘What about a pumpkins?’

According to Margate pumpkins are for wimp’s and a turnip is far more traditional in Scotland. The caretaker who has taken to ‘popping’ in now and then on the pretext of checking the heating system also agreed but then he has a thing for women with rigid hair styles …. ‘Chipping away at the granite of life’ is apparently what gets him up in the morning.

Margret continued she was on a rant and nothing much was going to stop her not even Sting whose tunes are as tantric and his reputation in bed. He dose go on a bit, sometimes one just prefers a quick radio 1 pop tune especially in the morning. A few fast beats and you done and ready for a coffee.

‘And where is hubby while I am doing all this Halloween malarkey?’ says Margaret. ‘Glued to Come Dancing; drooling over Felicity Kendal abilities to do the splits. He looks at me for a moment and then do know what he said, “Do I still do yoga?”’

Margaret was livid. She was standing in the middle of the dance floor with a look that took 35 years of marriage to perfect. I almost felt sorry for her husband.

‘I was standing there with a turnip in one hand and my paring knife in the other. And do you know the only thing keeping that git safe was his dad in the corner muttering on about the “good life”.’

‘We all have our fantasies’ said a brave new comer from the back.

Margaret stoically took no notice as her tilts took on a new dimension more befitting a garbage collector than a dancer.
‘Fantasy?’ she said ‘This morning I fantasized about choking my hubby with my ‘yoga legs’ did I tell him? No? I got up; chucked the turnip in the bin, ripped the egg boxes in to pieces and then toasted my efforts with a coffee.

Monday, 8 November 2010

Gratitudes from afar

Nefertiti has asked me to blog her next post she was so over whelmed at being called funny that she has been gobsmacked for days. 'Me funny? Darling that is the last thing on my mind and let me tell you it is the last thing on my Rodger’s mind - especially when he is swinging it large from his chandelier.

But still she is grateful for any attention, her audience would fit into a Subway Shop and that’s with her buying, 12 inches of course, Nefertiti does not stint. One look at her leopard print outfit will tell you that.

She has transformed belly dancing for me. She says it works miracles down below or her Flower of Scotland as she likes to put it. I am not sure if Rodger would agree but ever since I saw her perform at the Old Folks Christmas dinner. I knew I was in the presence of something indescribable, a woman beyond words.
She jumped out of over size Christmas pudding, stripped off her seven veils and pulled out Turkish delights from a variety of crevices. The crowd was speechless.
She put the women off their plum pudding.
Jock on spoon completely lost his timing.
And one of the old boys pulled his hip out trying to keep up with her Flower of Scotland!
But still let it be said that Nefertiti is proud of her award and will continue to blog to her followers. She has, after all, a lot to say and her own way of saying it.

Wednesday, 27 October 2010

Belly Dancing for the old and not so Infirmed

Rodger says that my hips aren’t for the faint hearted so to prove him wrong I decided to put on a wee show at the old folk’s home down the road aptly name - The Rest and be thankful.
I decided to give them a real treat and appeared in my leopard skin strictly no eating beforehand outfit. It has put a lot of women of their cream horns I can tell you.
My entrance caused quite a stir; even the TV was switched off; much to the annoyance of Archie an elderly man with poor fitting dentures.
‘Here I was watching that!’ He said as his false teeth clattered an applause. ‘
‘You got a dancer’ said the carer in a manner befitting Stalin.
Archie declined her offer of ’heading upstairs’ with a ‘you can stickit up your jumper ’ approach. The insult was like a skid on diesel, the carer didn’t even flinch.
So I told him a joke in my best Scottish accent and soon he was begging for some dancing. He said he had never heard a Scottish accent like it before except at the ‘local nut farm’ as he so politically incorrectly put it. Still at 99 years of age I figure you can be as politically incorrect as your false teeth allow you.
You see I am a natural mimic and my southern bell accent has been the pinnacle of many performances. Archie tried to hide his admiration ‘well I’ve no time for any of your pinnacles’ he said ‘I’m wantin my cup of tea.’
At the mention of tea a few of the others woke up and started to sift rebelliously behind their simmer frames ‘tea someone mention tea?’
But it was not long before I had them spell bound again with my sequined leopard skin bra and matching tea tray balancing on my head. ‘Short bread any one’ I said
And do you know not one person answered.

Wednesday, 13 October 2010


Charlie says he has had a life changing experiences.
The other night he heard strange noises coming from his neighbour’s home.
Apparently the noises where coming from Maggie Stewart’s bedroom, a woman way past her sell by date with an impressive selection of tranquilisers.
Charlie says he walked into to the bedroom to find Maggie displaying bits of her wrinkled body which were best covered up and a terrified looking young man with one leg out of the window.
Apparently Maggie woke up to find the young man helping himself to her ordainments. ‘Any port in a storm’, she yelled and flashed her wares. Maggie’s a woman who’d never turned down an opportunity.
Charlie raced to the window. And before Maggie had the change to yell ‘In the nuts,’ the two men rolling about on the floor. According to Maggie it was better than East Ender’s. Then the young man broke free and with a ‘ya fud’ along with many other incomprehensible words headed for the door.
Charlie follows, tripped and cascaded down the stairs (to quote Maggie) like an avalanche of potatoes.
Charlie says his life flashed before his eyes! He says there was bugger all to see except a couple of spicy quiches and a moment by the bike shed. He said his life was like an advert in the middle of a very boring film.
Maggie Stewart still maintains she would have shown the young man a thing or two.
Not exactly on a par with the enlightenment of the Buddha or apple defining moment of gravity; but for a man who has turned passivity into an art form. I would say a potato has hit him in more than one right place. Apparently he is now dressing up as a woman called Pussie; for the panto. There first dress rehearsal was in front of the youth club from Govan; now that takes balls.

Tuesday, 5 October 2010


I have just started belly dancing classes. To be honest, it was the only class left with a free space and since moving in with my mum three months ago I have been desperate for a night out.
‘Belly dancing’ says my mum. ‘Do you really want to show off your stomach?’
‘Mavis says it not about stomachs,’ I explained. ‘It’s about the music.’
Mavis sporting her new aqua blue highlights said more than that, she said it was just what I needed and after one class I’d be hooked.
Mavis is a no frills sort of a woman whose idea of treating herself is a packet of fags and a half down at the Argyll and her idea of music is anything on radio 2. But since taking up belly dancing Mavis is a new woman, she wears amazing jewellery, walks like a princess and plays Hossam Ramsey on full pelt while heading into Tescos, she’s even talking of going to Egypt!
The class is held in the back room of the Argyll, a pub more known for it’s Karaoke than anything else. Shifty, the barman is opened minded in a Mid Argyll take the mic sort of way. He’s sort of guy who thinks culture is anything written in French and Gaelic is what the French cook mushrooms in, he wouldn’t know art if it jumped up and ripped his nails out one by one. But he seemed fairly impressed when I walked in clutching Mavis’s coin belt and ordered an orange juice and soda.
The last time he saw me, I was clutching a large whisky and singing ‘Island in the stream’; trying to convince myself that losing Martin was the best thing that had ever happened to me.
Martin is my ex and he along with a calligrapher half my size is the reason for me now living with a mother who thinks her wheelchair is a racing car and her daughter is a live in home help. She’s even got me cleaning for Mr Rugby the ole boy next door.
The teacher or mentor as he likes to call himself is a young Greek called Adonis. He wears tight cycling shorts with a black sequin scarf tied in a large knot over his groin; his pelvis action boarders on scary.
‘Belly dancing is a gift from one free spirit to another’, he said. ‘Let the drums unleash the woman in you’.
I watched a class of woman unleash more than the woman in them, woman I had known for years. They looked nothing like the dancers I remembered seeing in a James Bond film and nothing like the women I see in the Coop and I had trouble keeping up. I haven’t moved my hips like that since the good old days when Martin was on the scene and into Salsa.
‘Learn to paint the music with your bodies,’ said Adonis rippling his torso to ‘Hobbik Feyya Haram.’. ‘Find the dancer within.’
Adonis showed me (among other things) how to shimmy and said I should ‘do it’ in front of mirror.
‘The last time I did something in front of the mirror’ I said, ‘was in the salsa days with Martin. It required low lighting, a sense of humour and a small bum.’ The whole class laughed, even Adonis and I have been shimmy ever since.
I shimmy in the shower, vacuuming the house; even standing over a fry pan and for a while I forget that I am cleaning.
Mum says the house sounds like an Indian restaurant.
‘Sheryl’ she says, ‘Even if you do have to show your stomach keep going, that drum beat is definitely the best thing to happen to you since that tosser, Martin left and you never know you might even loss a little weight.’
The funny thing is when I shimmy losing weight is the last thing on my mind.

Nefertiti replies
Adonis is gone; apparently he was caught in the Argyll Hotel handing out his ‘free gifts’ to a client. It was probably the only time Adonis was caught performing pelvis tilts with no Lycra....
Come to my class honey I’ve seen you dance and you are an inspiration for ordinary looking women. And don’t worry about your size, with the right costume you could, carry it off.

Sunday, 2 May 2010

Nefertiti's Cordon- Bleu

Nefertiti’s La-Cordon-bleu
Rodger says I should ‘do’ the festival to up my profile as a performer
As if my profile needs upping- I have a following- they maybe silent but they are loyal- I mean 3 is a very artistic number
It’s all about quality y not quantity – that’s what I tell him
Rodger doesn’t agree he says I’d rather it more often and a little bland then an annual cordon bleu event.
Sometime I wonder a man in corduroy is not all it cracked up to be. Especial when he insists on wearing them up high - around his waist. There are something’s only Simon Cowel can get away with and an excess packaging around the ‘rest & be thankful’ to my mind is a bit misleading.
La - Cordon bleu rules
Sizzling Nef

Saturday, 20 March 2010

Nefertiti’s bonfire 10.10.2009
According to Shifty, bonfire night in Lochgilphead is the tits, mind you Shifty says everything the tits after a few.
He says being in the Lantern Parade is an honour and I should be honoured. But Shifty does have a warped sense of wit.
This year the theme is Celtic wars and guesses who’s been asked to be Scotland answer to Boudica?
I get to sit on a horse and scream like a banshee.
My class is going to be so impressed, all two of them. Sheryl says once Lochgilphead has seen me ride a horse there will be no stopping us- every women with a pulsating pelvis will want to join.

Nefertiti ‘s pinnacle - Boudica 01.11.2009
It was a horse but not as we know it, I pictured a large white stallion decorated like a Celtic Christmas tree. What I got was a Paper Mache statue of an old hack with a few tea lights wheeled about on top of a hospital trolley-( my faith in the NHS has never been the same since that little slip up they had with testosterone years ago).
The horse was so wide that I had to sit in a yoga position to stay on it. Thanks goodness I have a flexible pelvis – (my Rodger would definitely agree).
It was so high I had a perfect view of the pipe major’s bald patch who was leading the Lochgilphead pipe band.
They ; being the organiser- (anyone in an orange jacket and clip board) insisted on a beard, apparently Boudica had one – I refused, Nefertiti does not do facial hair on any terms. What is the point of going to all that bother of a flexible pelvis and the like if I have facial hair? I eventually relented on the face paint. Little did I realise that I would end up with a face like a constipated brave heart warrior, where any facial expression resulted in me looking like a set of piles stood between me and the relief of said constipation.
So I am perched on this paper Mache horse like a pregnant woman on a bed pan with a 6 foot spear in one hand obeying whatever wind passed and my other hand clutching the impotent reign attached to the horse. The pipe is playing a flower of Scotland – at the front in a desperate attempt to drown out the salsa drums playing at my rear (everything is so hot hot hot with them).
When one of the boys begins to oil the wheels with vigour rarely seen in a student, “you think that wise?” says one of the orange jacket brigade “that trolley’s no brakes”.
Before I had a chance to shout I’m off we were off! Heading for that infamous hill at the top of the main street with a ‘braw view ‘ of the loch and it’s (at least a month’s rubbish) scattered about . No attention is worth this I thought with a ‘questioning help me look’ at my Rodger in crowd. He, reading my expression as something completely different gestured something about prunes. And I realised I was complete on my own.
The wind picked up speed sending my spear plus flag into a frenzy, ‘I getting off ‘I shouted in my best banshee voice. But apart for a ‘your a fanny’ response which I chose to ignore with as much dignity as constipated looking warrior could achieve, no one heard and no one recognise me – So much for the class being impressed; apparently they were in the pub enjoying Shifty’s Happy hour!
Happy hour! Mine was later on that night with ice pack on my flower Scotland and Rodger by my side feeding me prunes ‘You’re Boudica ‘he said ‘was the pinnacle’.
‘Bless his cotton G’string!’

Nefertiti x

Sunday, 7 March 2010

the retreat December 2009

Rodger says I am all stressed out for Christmas, he says I should relax otherwise my Pandora magnificence in the panto will not be up to her usual.

So he booked me into a retreat- a dance retreat, next week I will be getting touch with the goddess within and the mother earth out with.

Salutations to the sun


The retreat was not a great experience.

It was contact dance- no music- just rolling around on the floor with old men and hairy lesbians. Not that I have anything against old men or lesbians, some of my best customers are old and I never comment on their hair. The amount of hair on ones body is all subject to taste, it's just that I don't like a mouthful of it, especially unaccompanied by music.

The couple in charge where into all things "tantric" and were not afraid to show it. They along with a rather attractive Polish man spent their spare time rolling about on the floor like teenagers on Viagra- in the pursuit of the perfect massage. I am telling you it was enough to put you off your camomile.

They suggested we get in touch with our inner animal and make as much noise as possible. We were all given the "freedom" to choose what ever animal we felt was lurking in the corners of one inner child. Cat seemed to be the most popular - something to do with stroking and rubbing.

An elderly gent (who was known to carried his teeth about in a box in his pocket) decided that he was a gorilla - looking for a mate. He stood up, beat his chest and started to growl. It was only after his second coughing fit that the "gorilla" decided that there were probably more advantages to being a cat, and that a good stroke was probably the best he could hope for, even with his teeth in!

That afternoon I tried to leave but was stopped at the gate.
"Don't be afraid of what you feel," they said "this is you chance to heal what is within you just have to be with it!"

Two days later I still had no idea what I was supposed to "be with" but I knew where I didn't want to be- at that retreat - it was cleaning day and the last thing I felt like doing was polish the toilet of said gorilla /cats.

Oh and by the way everyone had a frigging cold!

Since then I have been in bed with a cold dreaming about toothless lesbians and hairy men with toenails even a bird of prey would be ashamed of- not even Rodger's balsamic vinegar rubs make me feel better.

For now, the sun can shove it's salutations