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...
Saturday 27 November 2010
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.
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.
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.
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