It was a water pipe like no other; a water pipe so large it took a camel and 2 monks to carry it!
So Rodger said.
But Rodger’s a bit ‘random’ at the moment; if he not talking about his ‘Sc Fi for the dyslexic novel’ he’s talking about his latest creation - his tomatoes that defy winter. Although with the co op nearby selling ‘buy one get one free’ and ‘last chance before it off offers’; why we need to grow our own is beyond me.
Rodger claims they are ‘organic’.
But as I says to my little ‘cup cake ’day old teabags do not improve one’s greens, nor is burying one’s condoms in a compost heap I mean what good is a bio degradable condom? ....
Even the slugs turn up their nose at our compost.
I just think Rodger fancies a green house (shed with a Velux) ; he spends his time smoking his water pipes there while pondering Sheila and her whip. And now Shifty has joined him; a barman who thinks karaoke is class! Shifty claims that a water pipe stimulates his intellectual prowess, soya implants for the menopausal is his latest idea. Talk about bringing something to the table!
So you can understand me not getting excited about the suggested night out. Water pipes at the ABC . The world largest water pipe or hookah making an entrance with the Celticus oh maximus pipe band, don’t get me wrong, to see a man master the art of blowing is quite an impressive thing but is it worth a 2 hour journey in the car with Shifty driving – a man in touch with the woman inside?
‘I am ‘feng-chewing’ my bedroom’ he says while negotiating a roundabout in fifth ... Apparently decluttering you smalls along with having a well hung wardrobe is what it is all about when it comes to attracting a male of the Elton John variety... As I marvelled at the cars abilities to judder and over take at the same time Shifty continue on with his ‘all things Eastern theme’.
‘It’s all to do with freeing up the life force’ he says, stamping on the clutch, ‘allowing things to flow’.
The only thing I need to get a free flowing life force is a few prunes...
I didn’t say that to Shifty though, the car’s juddering had turned it an epileptic fit and the said vehicle we were overtaking was playing his horn like a bugle.
Celticus oh maximus was ok if you into underage brave hearts with an aging (if that is possible) Rolling Stones band. They played music of the ‘we have funked up the bagpipe’ variety and hipped it up even more with a dance group called Random as !! .
Now if Shifty has discovered the woman inside these dancers had taken the woman inside and thrust her onto the audience like a filleted herring. They were doing that street dance which unless you’re American of the dark skinned persuasion looks as gay as Liberace in panto. The fact they were dressed out a track suit from Primart didn’t make any difference. Their face said it all, ‘love the woman in my pelvis darling’; ‘ I fill your bag pips to the brim hot buns’ or ‘I am mad as hell but nothing a little butter wouldn’t cure!’ . It was a painful thing to watch as painful as watching an Ole Rudgy attempt to chat up his cleaner while balancing on a Zimmer with his dentures vainly trying to bungee jumping from his gums.
But when the hookah was brought (on pantomime camel) onto the stage I just about chocked on my Bacardi.
To suck or not to suck that is the question,’ shouts a voice from the audience. (I presume they meant on a Hooka) and I had had enough.
I headed for the chippy!
I am sorry but I as an esteemed belly dancing mentor I cannot stand by and watch the abuse of an Arabic pleasure tool. I’d rather drown my lips in salt and vinegar – my hips, darling can take it!
Still Shifty enjoyed it, mind you, he was under the influence of enough Dolly Parton cocktails to make swanking ( a walk only to be seen in Glasgow ) in Ugg boots not only possible but in time with the Celticus oh maximus . A feat that even I could not attempt but then darling Ugg boots are so not Nefertiti...I am more a straps with slight discomfort woman.
I am sorry but no more instalment of the Sheila and her whip variety this week. Rodger printed his latest instalment out on organic wheat free paper; which turns out to be far more biodegrade than his condoms...oh well at least the slugs hit the big time!
Wednesday, 26 January 2011
Saturday, 15 January 2011
In my job an entrance is everything
According to my Rodger the 'Scott Fitzgerald' of Ardrishaig an entrance is only as good as one's exit; and my exits according to him, needs a little work.
‘Work’ I said ‘on my exit?’
‘Yes.’ he said. ‘Your exits lack a certain sincerity, they smack of hesitantancy; unbecoming of a woman of your statue.’
‘There is nothing wrong with my statues ‘I shouted from the kitchen, 'they are as perky as Posh Spices OVERIES!.’ I was making a cappuccino at the time and for the first time ever I felt like doing something to his froth apart from sprinkling cinnamon on it..
You should leave with you fanny shouting 'maximus oh screwius’ he adds. At the time he was sitting perched over his laptop like a small gremlin watching Nigel Lawson whipping cream for her French cones.
My Rodger has taken to speaking like how he thinks an intellectual American would. The fact that he sounds like a dyslexic Latin student who refers to 'fanny' like someone out of dubbed porn film completely passes him by and is a habit that often gets him into trouble.
'Rodger' I says 'telling a woman to shift her fanny when she picking her weekly veg from the coop is bound to lead to more than a clash of trolleys'. But does he listen (sigh!) My Rodger is as deaf as my chandler is still...all he can think about is his novel.
So here is my Rodger’s novel extract for you to peruse at you leisure; tell me what you think; is my Rodger sooo talented as a writer that he can use fanny at will?
Missionary Impossible
(A novel after my heart sigh!)
A thought provoking epilogue
by himself
With secret handshakes the Paramours greet each other…they live for the night when they can fanny around in the dark and women on the whole are more amicable.
CHAPTER ONE
(1950)
On a hot afternoon, while huddled behind a hedge, Legless caught a glimpse of a woman in an apron. He watched as she bent over a basket of washing and was overcome. Surprised at his lust, he decided to take action; an action which had not been spoken about for centuries in his world.
Thirty seconds later he slipped away…
The woman felt something peculiar, a small flutter but nothing too drastic; nothing a little Epsom’s salts wouldn’t cure. Nine months later a Paramour was born…
That year the sales of Epsom’s salts soared as women all over the world while bending over their washing felt something peculiar …
****
(Jimmie’s Arabic Tea Shop)
(Just now)
Two Paramours sat crossed legged on a raised floor passing a water pipe from one to the other. Just in front off them were two women, one consoling the other. Madge’s heart was broken and Yvonne, a young woman with spirit, was doing her best to mend it and getting nowhere.
‘It’s the same every year you always fall for the lead in the panto,’ said Yvonne.
Madge let out a sigh. ‘He’s so hot in those legging. Oh Yvonne, he’s the dog’s bullocks.’
Hamish the largest and hairiest of the two Paramours inhaled the strawberry tobacco, flared his nostrils and blew a smoke ring; it floated across to Madge and dissolved onto her jumper. Hamish caught her eye. Madge blinked, smiled and then looked away, unaware of what had just happened, unaware that later on that night she would return to the teashop and discover a pleasure never experienced before and the male lead in leggings would not even be a memory.
Mustard watched with a seen it all expression. ‘We have important things to discuss,’ he said.
‘Aye,’ muttered Hamish with his eye still on Madge.
‘It’s no ordinary meeting tonight.’ Mustard continued. ‘There’s a speaker.’
‘Hmmm.’
‘Rebel, from the south, they say he’s big in the Midlands.’
‘BIG; in the Midland?’ Hamish sniggered; any mention of size had most young Paramours sniggering.
‘He says he met the great Legless himself!’
‘Aye right and I’m a Jehovah’s witness’
****
(On Planet Hy-man)
Maxim pulled out the remote and pressed stop. The screen flickered, crackled then slowly folded into a box. The committee sighed, watching Mustard and Hamish smoke a water pipe was not their idea of fun.
‘Thank god that’s over,’ muttered one member.
Maxim heard but chose to ignore.
‘I told you he would turn up’ said Maxim ‘but did anyone listen?’ Maxim paused for effect. ‘If this gets out, then the proverbial will really hit the fan.’ He waited for a response with his best steely stare. When none came he continued. ‘There is only one thing for it’.
The members exchanged looks.
‘We must scan this planet earth and attempt some sort of control; we shall send down the best we have.’ He waited with his best dramatic stance. ‘We need the best…and the most discreet,’ (still no response) ‘we need… ’
‘She that is the pain in the butt…’ someone finally muttered.
‘She of the Iron Gusett!’
Some of the committee began to chuckle. Maxim sucked in his breath.
‘You know what to do’ he barked at a footman. The footman stretched, stifled a yawn and wandered out the door.
‘Sir is this really necessary?’ said Offal one of the more important porters.
‘I mean earth is so not now!’ piped a young voice from the back.
‘Look’ snapped Maxim ‘This Rebel is trouble he has the curiosity of a cat, the body odour of a camel and…’
‘And the eyesight off a mole,’ said the young voice from the back.
The committee continued to chuckle. Maxim sighed and looked out off the window. Some days he wondered if it was it all worth it.
‘He is half human. What’s there to worry bout!’
‘But LEGLESS isn’t’ snapped Maxim.
The committee fell silent. To mention Legless at a conference was like an actor mentioning Macbeth back stage.
‘Work’ I said ‘on my exit?’
‘Yes.’ he said. ‘Your exits lack a certain sincerity, they smack of hesitantancy; unbecoming of a woman of your statue.’
‘There is nothing wrong with my statues ‘I shouted from the kitchen, 'they are as perky as Posh Spices OVERIES!.’ I was making a cappuccino at the time and for the first time ever I felt like doing something to his froth apart from sprinkling cinnamon on it..
You should leave with you fanny shouting 'maximus oh screwius’ he adds. At the time he was sitting perched over his laptop like a small gremlin watching Nigel Lawson whipping cream for her French cones.
My Rodger has taken to speaking like how he thinks an intellectual American would. The fact that he sounds like a dyslexic Latin student who refers to 'fanny' like someone out of dubbed porn film completely passes him by and is a habit that often gets him into trouble.
'Rodger' I says 'telling a woman to shift her fanny when she picking her weekly veg from the coop is bound to lead to more than a clash of trolleys'. But does he listen (sigh!) My Rodger is as deaf as my chandler is still...all he can think about is his novel.
So here is my Rodger’s novel extract for you to peruse at you leisure; tell me what you think; is my Rodger sooo talented as a writer that he can use fanny at will?
Missionary Impossible
(A novel after my heart sigh!)
A thought provoking epilogue
by himself
With secret handshakes the Paramours greet each other…they live for the night when they can fanny around in the dark and women on the whole are more amicable.
CHAPTER ONE
(1950)
On a hot afternoon, while huddled behind a hedge, Legless caught a glimpse of a woman in an apron. He watched as she bent over a basket of washing and was overcome. Surprised at his lust, he decided to take action; an action which had not been spoken about for centuries in his world.
Thirty seconds later he slipped away…
The woman felt something peculiar, a small flutter but nothing too drastic; nothing a little Epsom’s salts wouldn’t cure. Nine months later a Paramour was born…
That year the sales of Epsom’s salts soared as women all over the world while bending over their washing felt something peculiar …
****
(Jimmie’s Arabic Tea Shop)
(Just now)
Two Paramours sat crossed legged on a raised floor passing a water pipe from one to the other. Just in front off them were two women, one consoling the other. Madge’s heart was broken and Yvonne, a young woman with spirit, was doing her best to mend it and getting nowhere.
‘It’s the same every year you always fall for the lead in the panto,’ said Yvonne.
Madge let out a sigh. ‘He’s so hot in those legging. Oh Yvonne, he’s the dog’s bullocks.’
Hamish the largest and hairiest of the two Paramours inhaled the strawberry tobacco, flared his nostrils and blew a smoke ring; it floated across to Madge and dissolved onto her jumper. Hamish caught her eye. Madge blinked, smiled and then looked away, unaware of what had just happened, unaware that later on that night she would return to the teashop and discover a pleasure never experienced before and the male lead in leggings would not even be a memory.
Mustard watched with a seen it all expression. ‘We have important things to discuss,’ he said.
‘Aye,’ muttered Hamish with his eye still on Madge.
‘It’s no ordinary meeting tonight.’ Mustard continued. ‘There’s a speaker.’
‘Hmmm.’
‘Rebel, from the south, they say he’s big in the Midlands.’
‘BIG; in the Midland?’ Hamish sniggered; any mention of size had most young Paramours sniggering.
‘He says he met the great Legless himself!’
‘Aye right and I’m a Jehovah’s witness’
****
(On Planet Hy-man)
Maxim pulled out the remote and pressed stop. The screen flickered, crackled then slowly folded into a box. The committee sighed, watching Mustard and Hamish smoke a water pipe was not their idea of fun.
‘Thank god that’s over,’ muttered one member.
Maxim heard but chose to ignore.
‘I told you he would turn up’ said Maxim ‘but did anyone listen?’ Maxim paused for effect. ‘If this gets out, then the proverbial will really hit the fan.’ He waited for a response with his best steely stare. When none came he continued. ‘There is only one thing for it’.
The members exchanged looks.
‘We must scan this planet earth and attempt some sort of control; we shall send down the best we have.’ He waited with his best dramatic stance. ‘We need the best…and the most discreet,’ (still no response) ‘we need… ’
‘She that is the pain in the butt…’ someone finally muttered.
‘She of the Iron Gusett!’
Some of the committee began to chuckle. Maxim sucked in his breath.
‘You know what to do’ he barked at a footman. The footman stretched, stifled a yawn and wandered out the door.
‘Sir is this really necessary?’ said Offal one of the more important porters.
‘I mean earth is so not now!’ piped a young voice from the back.
‘Look’ snapped Maxim ‘This Rebel is trouble he has the curiosity of a cat, the body odour of a camel and…’
‘And the eyesight off a mole,’ said the young voice from the back.
The committee continued to chuckle. Maxim sighed and looked out off the window. Some days he wondered if it was it all worth it.
‘He is half human. What’s there to worry bout!’
‘But LEGLESS isn’t’ snapped Maxim.
The committee fell silent. To mention Legless at a conference was like an actor mentioning Macbeth back stage.
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.
‘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.
xxxx
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?
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.
xxxx
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...
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.
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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