come fly with me......

I never envisaged it would start like this.  My year of being brave……

The text was very short, only a few words; ‘it was a pleasure’ Oh really?.  It wasn’t feeling so pleasurable to me at this moment.  It felt wrong, very wrong, but was equally so very right.  How contradictory.  Story of my life.  So far.

‘R’ my ex had dropped me off at the airport, and I had thanked him by text.  Too painful to pick up the phone and actually speak.  I’d been acutely aware that I was leaving as ‘Mrs’ but would be returning as persona non grata……’Ms’   The ‘R’ had left my life not only in title.

So here I am now sitting in row 4, seat c, an aisle seat, due to my propensity to need a toilet with increased frequency when I’m either on a flight or fearful that one may not actually be in the vicinity!  I’m on a flight to ‘Shagalluf’ or Megamuff as I’ve heard it not so affectionately called, fairly recently.  My rationale in taking this flight to a place I’ve only ever properly been to once before (and have to say was rather unceremoniously thrown out of a bar, at aged 35 and for the most serious crime of laughing…. oh yes, that too is a crime in the oh so politically correct Magalluf) is that I am on the run…..

On the run from the dreaded ‘D’ word.  D I V O R C E

Finally after only a few short months, and at the insistence of  ‘R’, the absolute has become final and surprisingly for me under the past circumstances, simply cannot bear to be ’home’ for the finale.  So have cowardly made my escape for a few days of sunshine. Magalluf simply can’t wait the arrival of La Diva……

Okay, AKA Mrs Grumpy from Ampthill as I’m sure to become known over the next few years.

Having been to this quite lovely hotel only a couple of weeks previously, I knew what experience I was letting myself in for, and was quite happy to contemplate going alone for a few days.  Yes, I know I said I’d only been once before, but I did say once properly.  By that I meant for a period exceeding 72 hours in which there was some semblance of normality.   This is about how long I endured the flamboyant and erratic charms of Truly Unruly and Hairy Fairy in Magalluf 12 days previously.  73 hours would have pushed my endurance training to the limit….indeed, the musical interlude and dulcet tones of Max Bygraves blaring out on the journey home from the airport in the car, was almost welcome relief.  Well, until the happy pair joined in.  I am neither a pink toothbrush…nor blue toothbrush.  Thank God my toothbrush just buzz’s!

There are always ‘incidents’ whilst with the happy twosome, and in those 3 days they were going to pack as many in as possible.  It started even before we arrived at the airport for our imminent departure.

The pair of them had decided to have spray tans.  Now I must tell you that they have a combined age of circa 135, and they’re feisty, game, birds.  However, I wasn’t quite prepared for the sight that was presented to me.  The ‘dark tan’ option was chosen.  Suffice to say that on arrival at check in, with me in the middle, we could’ve passed as an Oreo cookie.  And that was whilst they were fully clothed!  On arrival at the hotel and subsequently undressed, I discovered that THIS time they had at least remembered to lift up their breasts whilst being sprayed……………

On the subject of the hotel, well, Truly had booked and paid for this little jaunt as a ‘treat’ for us. For this I’m very grateful to her, for her wonderful gesture.   A taxi had been booked from the airport to the hotel, only to find out it wasn’t actually a taxi at all, but a shuttle bus with 17,000 other holidaymakers to Megamuff for the weekend.  Along with ‘Rodders 2011’ stag party, in fluorescent yellow specially designed T shirts.  Del Boy was nowhere to be seen.  Probably at home counting his money from sale of said T shirts.   An executive decision is taken to take a ‘proper’ taxi, at extortionate cost of €34, because at this rate we’ll arrive at the hotel at 11am the following morning and miss both dinner and possibly breakfast…

The taxi took us on a beautiful journey, very scenic.  We didn’t require scenic, we wanted quick and cheap to Cala Vinas.  It cost €50 not the original €34! Bastard.   We troop down into hotel, rather peeved at being shafted, but took it on the chin.  Truly checks in, only to be told by surly Spanish receptionist that they don’t have a booking for us!  See steam appear from ears of Truly….. “but we need dinner, surely we’re not late for dinner?” she enquired rather forcefully.  “But madam, we have no reservation for you.  Can I see your ticket?”  Fumbling in her copious handbag, and mumbling incoherently under her breath, whilst Hairy and I are doubled over with laughter at the impending predicament, that’s actually not funny in reality, Truly finds what she’s after and hands surly Spanish woman the paper. ….

“Sorry madam, but you’re in the wrong hotel”

“What the f*@&k , are you sure?”

“Yes madam,  This is the Sentido Cala Vinas.  You need the Barceló Cala Vinas….it’s the other side of the bay”

“!!!!!!!!!”

We all looked at each other and then Hairy and I laughed raucously as we watched Truly’s voluptuous curves wiggle their way back out of the hotel in disgust!

We’re now in need of yet another taxi to take us to the other side of the bay!  And this was just the start of 72 hours of mayhem, room changes,  Truly mooning her ample arse to the whole audience assembled around the pool, and an incident at the airport on our return that’ll have the Spanish postal service bemused for many years……

And so, after the 3 witches of Eastwick episode, this private little jaunt, ALONE, was very much-needed.  Recuperating from several ailments, the last of which was a very painful and humiliating public display of shingles (developing nicely whilst on holiday with Truly & Hairy).  Not the nice conventional shingles, but an incredibly painful and awkward version….on my face.  Grotesquely affecting my right eye, cheek, scalp, ear and neck. I nicknamed myself Quasimodo for the duration.  I had the looks, and most certainly had the hump.  I was housebound for 10 days.  I’d read tales of permanent paralysis to the affected side of the face, and of course, with my previous medical history and now, paranoia and hypochondria, it was of course going to affect me in the most terrible way possible.  It didn’t.  Lesson no.1 – Do NOT GOOGLE ailments! (I’d have liked to upload a picture at this point, but you’d never revisit if I did….)

Prior to departure, I’d written on my hotel request that I was disabled, and as such required a room relatively close to amenities, and away from the ‘animation’ stage.  Having frequented this particular establishment only a couple of weeks before, I kind of knew where I’d like to have been….or should I say where I wouldn’t want to have been.  I thought I had all bases covered.  Oh how wrong can you be!

Room one.  Couldn’t possibly have been any further away from ‘amenities’ (restaurant/pool/bar) if they’d tried.  I think it might have actually had another postcode, and was almost certainly in the hotel next door.  I took a little look into the room, especially after it had taken me 15 minutes to walk there, and a little voice in my head was saying err…..NO.  Only this voice wasn’t so little, but loud and sarcastic, in a kind of “computer says no” kind of voice.  My computer was saying no, with a ctrl, alt & dlt!.  I now had to attempt the 15 minute walk of death back to face the wrath of the ice maidens at reception.

What is it with Spanish women?  Why do they have this superior look about them when dealing with anyone English.  Or maybe it’s just that I don’t understand any of the other languages that they’re also being condescending in?    Anyway…..

Arrived back at huge, impersonal reception desk and the look on Benita’s face, with the rising of one of her eyebrows said enough, before her lips moved ‘oh dear god, grumpy woman is back…lets’ make her day’.   I attempted to smile sweetly when she said “Is there problem?” I replied, “I’m sorry to say but yes.  Unfortunately it’s just too far for me to walk several times a day and you had actually been notified of my problem”  “oh signora, we have no notice of this”.   So I produced a perfect copy of my booking receipt on that wondrous invention, the iPhone, oh those fabulous people at Apple, I LOVE you!   Signora Benita doesn’t hold the same opinion though, I doubt.

I’m duly allocated a second room after much remonstrating from ‘Benita’ that the hotel is full and allocated.  Oh, this room “has a view” and it’s only slightly obscured by a wall, she excitedly tells me……. The first room had a ‘view’.  Directly over the children’s play area.  Okay, so it’s a view and it’s certainly not going to be busy in the evenings, but it’s not the kind of view I was expecting as a single, soon to be divorced, disabled female, holidaying alone for the first time.

Arriving at this second room I notice that the curtains are drawn.  It’s almost 5pm but I think its safe to draw them back.  I’m hardly going to be blinded by the dazzling beauty of the scenery (I’ve been here before!)  But I really wasn’t quite ready for what I saw.  Nothing.  Well nothing other than a sheer rock face!  I kid you not, a sheer rock face  within touching distance of my hand.  You couldn’t even tell what time of day it was as there was barely any daylight visibly coming into the room. Benita’s words were ringing around my head ‘slightly obscured by a wall’ !!!

If there was a competition for ‘the’ worst hotel view, I’m sure that barring a view over the bins of some seedy place in Bangkok, or overlooking a known alley of drug dealers in Vancouver,  this was really going to take some beating!  I decided to stay for the night, but I was a force to be reckoned with, and I reckoned that by morning my force was going to be about a force 9 gale.

Gale swept to reception (well limped quite pathetically, and in considerable pain) later that same evening, fuelled by morphine, diazepam and anger.  Any two of those are a dangerous combination, but the three are pretty lethal.  I ‘politely’ told them to move me in the morning or I’d unleash the hounds.  Whatever I said  had them quaking in their little booties, and in the morning had 2 Senors to attend to my whims and move me to my third and FINAL room….oh yesssssssssss.  With a rather lovely view of the beach, a little stream, and away from the bloody animation stage that raved till early hours of the morning, at last it look liked I might be able to enjoy my few days.  Oh I’m going to be that cantankerous old woman that wears purple……

I kidded myself that I’d eat healthily whilst on this little break.  The ‘new’ me.  So far I have already stashed 4 packets of Haribo squidgy sweets, a bottle of Grey Goose Vodka, and a bottle of Prosecco, and I’m only on day two.  Oh, and I forgot the Cadburys buttons that I got for half price on the flight on the way out .Yes they were the giant ones…in a giant pack too. I’m feeling ashamed as I write this.  Well, I simply had to didn’t I.  You just never know when you get that ‘munchie’ feeling for Chocolate in the early hours of the morning.  Bloody morphine keeps me awake.

It’s a very beautiful morning and I’m sat on the beach overlooking the beautiful bay of Cala Vinas, two of the most beautiful and perfect little tanned bodies, appear. Women by the way….selling their wares, fashion, not their bodies!.

I’m sure they did a roaring trade, but can’t help thinking that they’d probably have sold a lot more if they’d had some fat bird like me limping around with a stick, showing what these articles look like on REAL women.  One of the ‘Leather Ladies’ succumbed to their charms and spent a hefty €35 on a little dress that was little more than €15 in town….tut tut….

The Leather Ladies were a group of 4 very sweet, mature and very affluent ladies, who didn’t give a damn.  I think they holidayed in Verbier in winter, St Moritz in Summer, had weekends in Monaco and wintered in the Caribbean.  Their skin had seen a LOT of sun and not a lot of UVA protection.  There is no amount of moisturiser that their very deep purses could have bought that could have rescued the damage.  But they were happy in oblivion….and wrinkly leather clad bodies……

I should not have been so harsh about the prices Ms perfect bum was charging….  the strap on my swimming costume ‘pinged’ off as I was getting up to get a better view of a man in bright blue budgie smugglers (well, they’re entertainment!). Either it was a shoddy buy from a shop where I thought I’d had a bargain, or my bosoms are getting larger.  Probably more to do with the amount of warm pastries that I ate at breakfast today.

Tomorrow is actually ‘D’ Day (25^th May 2011).  The day of the dreaded finality. I’m planning to sit on my balcony when I have the email come through, and toast to life, and the future.  In reality I’ll be in pieces.  A funny twist of fate….be careful what you wish for……

My quest  had been to go in search of something. In a finding myself kind of way.  We’re not talking ‘Eat, Pray, Love here, my style is more Eat, Shop, Sleep!  I, however,  had neither the time, inclination nor money.  If I had, I’d have been off around the World in a heartbeat.  Although going it alone and having a gammy leg has proven to be more of a hindrance than I thought it would be.  Just the simple things…..

That evening I dared to venture alone into the abyss that is Magalluf.  I’d gone on the pretence of buying a bottle of Champagne with which to celebrate in ‘style’ on my balcony.  Alone.  In reality I’d gone to get away from all the loved up couples, and families with screaming kids at dinner.  I was the only one alone and all eyes looked at me….the freak who dared to venture out alone after hours of darkness.  Maybe I should consider getting a couple of my teeth sharpened?

I thought I’d covered most eventualities when I packed my suitcase.  In fact I almost applauded how for the first time in the history of my travels, I’d managed to pack almost a weeks worth of clothing into the allowance of a doll, with a postage stamp sized carry on suitcase.  This is okay if you’re a size 8 but when you have a fat arse, EVERYTHING is twice the size.

After a €5 taxi ride into the town, It became crystal clear that I was missing a vital item of clothing.  A pink sequin cowboy hat.  I’ve never owned one, never want to, and never intend to. But I looked like an alien had landed in the centre of Magalluf without one  (no I didn’t find one, steal one, or even try one on….just in case you were wondering!)  It seemed that almost every woman that is out  after the hour of 8pm has a hat of some sort donned onto her head, and a glass with an array of straws, umbrellas and plastic animals sticking out of them.  God knows what concoction has actually gone into the drink itself.  I dared to ask about one rather vile chocolate looking potion, and after being told the fourth ingredient, found myself zoning out and feeling quite sick at the mere thought.  The victim was already in happy oblivion and I wondered how her liver was bearing up to the onslaught of the innocent looking liquid?  Mind you, by the morning, my guess is that not too much of it would still actually be in her system, given her slurred speech and inability to stand still.  It wouldn’t have been quite so noticeable had there been music, but at 4.00am MrMusak had long gone to beddy byes….even here in Magalluf.  Yes, 4.00 am……That bottle of champagne took some hunting down….

Today is ‘D’ Day.  Tis tough and even though I’m in a beautiful location, the sun is shining, and I have a future.  I can’t help the tears. I never wanted this.  I never wanted a divorce and I feel crushed by it.  I don’t drink the champagne. I don’t feel like ‘celebrating’.

I think they’ve rumbled that someone has been eating all of the pastries at breakfast.  I’m not sure what they’ve put on them but if I don’t have a bad stomach later, I’m going to be VERY surprised.  The little light sprinkling of icing sugar appears like some kitchen hand has a grudge and has possibly decided to sprinkle washing powder over everything.  No kidding.  Everything you eat has this most peculiar taste.  A kind of cross between sherbet and washing powder.  My dib dabs never tasted like this!  I had to opt for a ‘proper’ breakfast.  Eggs and bacon.  Only the bacon was actually fried ham, so I was grumpy again.  I wonder if someone will nominate me for grumpy woman of the year?

On my return, I’d intended in hopping on the train from the airport, but ‘R’ had very kindly offered to collect me. Strange considering our new relationship status.  I wasn’t sure how I’d feel around him.  It was all very pleasant and amicable, ‘adult’. Reality really sunk in and hit me over the head with a hammer when I asked how he’d felt on ‘D’ day.   His emotionless reply left me cold and deeply saddened, after 13 years………”I felt nothing, it was just another day”

Onwards and upwards with knowledge, understanding and a smile…….

(And then there is Crete……..oh yes!)

Jane Fonda

Prancing around naked, and giving an obligatory little jiggle as I passed the mirror whilst taking my necklace off, I’d had no concept or sign as to what was about to happen as I heard the creak of the landing floorboards buckling, signalling footsteps approaching. Ordinarily I’d pass it off as ‘him’ our friendly uninvited mysterious houseguest, whom I affectionately nicknamed George (but not for any reason other than I like it) who had a penchant for late night visits across the landing, or inhabiting the small upstairs office, (the dimensions of this office made it more of a cupboard, but in Estate Agent speech, it was an office!) much to the distress of my daughters when they were living at home.

But these were real footsteps. Thunderous angry footsteps. The footsteps of someone who meant business…….

The door flung open and startled me in its ferocity. He stood there, face red with rage and his normally full lips, now somewhat visibly thinner with pent-up anger. “How long have you been having sex?” he bellowed at me “I beg your pardon?” was my retort, closely followed by “I have no idea what you’re talking about” and at that point, I genuinely didn’t.

My alleged crime was to have been caught ‘en flagrant’ on the sofa….OUR sofa, in OUR house, with another man. Yes, I hold my hands up in shame at this revelation. I am responsible and I was in what could be described as a romantic clinch with another man. But, what I wasn’t doing was ‘having sex’. It was little more than the inappropriate, indiscreet fumblings of two fully clothed teenagers (who should have known better). But my guilt and ultimate fate was indeed truly sealed as ‘we’ had been rumbled.

The benefit of hindsight is a wonderful thing, so it’s said, and without any shadow of a doubt was incredibly improper and wrong to have done such deeds at all, let alone whilst he was asleep in the same house.

I/we were set up, but I didn’t yet know it nor comprehend the enormity of the situation….or the impending avalanche that would ensue from a childish snowball……

However, my fate was duly sealed and so begin my 50^th year, alone. From anonymity to being brave.

Bravery........

Domestically Disabled

It’s 3:00 am I’m naked and I’m plotting.  This is not usually a good sign.  The ‘3:00am’ part of the information is the most worrying, because I constantly plot, and am often naked (aided usually by alcohol somewhere) but rarely carry out my missions.  The fact that it’s had me awake at such a god-awful hour is reason enough to be anxious.

It’s the bloody morphine again.  A necessary evil due to immense pain in my legs and now my arms.  A pain enhanced, especially after a ‘eureka’ moment at about 6pm last night.  I decided that I didn’t like the orientation of my bed, and that it would be far better, turned 90 degrees so that I was facing one of my windows.  Of course, the simplest thing would have been to use one of the 3 or 4 tape measures that I have to check that my large brass bed would indeed move into said new position before actually attempting the manoeuvre on my own, unaided.   I decided against a tape measure, because of course, the precision sight of my own eye/brain was going to be far more accurate than the markings on some mere metal measuring device.

After over an hour of painstakingly moving literally everything from my bedroom, with the exception of the bed frame and ceiling rose, I was, excitedly, ready to move my bed into its new place.

I spun it round on the floor, and it was, just too tight to go all the way around.  I then had the bright idea to stand it up on end.  I attempted this too.  The balls of the headboard almost landed in my loft at one point, when the momentum of the weight proved too much for little ol me, oh and I was in danger of breaking my nails….perish the thought!  Feeling frustrated that the bloody thing wouldn’t fit that way either, I put the frame back down, sat on it and looked at both the black marks now gracing my ceiling, and my options, which by now are rather slim….to nil!

Not to be outwitted, my first original manoeuvre I felt had a little more ‘give’ so thought I should try it again.  This time I decided in my wisdom, to lift the bed just over the skirting board.  This may give it the necessary extra room needed.   Upon hearing a loud crack, (one of the legs disappearing through my wall!)

Oops!!

I realised that my precision eye/brain coordination may actually not be as precise as it has been in the past, and that possibly, my ‘eureka’ moment, wasn’t as great as I thought it was, as I was now pondering replacing everything back into their original positions.

I called the long-suffering ‘R’….yes, my ex.  If anyone knew how to do it, he would.  He didn’t.  His advice was priceless “Maybe you should’ve used a tape measure?”  Oh how I larfed!

Smug......

The milks off. It didn’t smell like it, and it wasn’t a chunky pour, but it’s on the turn and my tongue is slightly smarting.  Don’t you just hate it when that happens.  Especially when you’ve already smothered your cereal with it and laced your first cup of tea of the morning.  I can’t even go to the garage for more supplies.  It’s 3.30am.  Yep, the curse of bloody insomnia hits again.  Wouldn’t mind but I took a sleeping tablet last night to ENSURE I had a good nights sleep as I’d been in so much pain.  My downfall was taking morphine at the same time.  It seems that my morphine capsules are very special ones…with some ingredient to act on your brain making you wake at the same time every day.  Fabulous.  Only  I’d rather a sensible time and NOT 3 f**cking 30 please….or any hour either side of that….within a couple of hours!

I’d just whipped up a bowl of scrumptious home made muesli. I might even share my recipe with you, coz I’m nice like that….oh yes, Delia, Nigella and I do have at least some things in common, as well as having saggy bits that jiggle on their own as you bend over to the lower drawers of the freezer.  Sorry Nigella, but though you’re exquisitely beautiful I refuse to believe that under those Spanx,  bits of you, like us normal women aren’t jiggling in happy oblivion with a life of their own.  Yes, Spanx...ALL the stars/celebrities wear them.  You have to be slightly deranged to want to your body pulled into a garment so tightly in what feels like a total body bandage, where you’re eventually only managing to breath through your arse!  Or maybe that was only me and my fat body was actually too small for the one I bought?  It wouldn’t be the first time.

Only this week I tried on a nice little ‘fitted’ denim jacket, with size label 16 on the hangar.  I attempted to slide one arm down the first sleeve, only to be met with as much resistance as if I was stuffing a marrow into a condom (don’t know why that should jump into my mind so damn early!). Despite the obvious knowledge that there was no earthly way my fat arm was going to fit into this pencil thin sheath of fabric, I still, even then continued to contort my left arm around my back and attempted to put this one in the other sleeve too!  I stood and looked at my contorted body in the mirror and audibly laughed out loud as I had to call the M&S attendant to prize my body free of the apparel.  It was so ridiculous tight I thought they may have had to cut it off.  She actually sniggered when asking me (whilst I was tending the pressure sores appearing on my delicate skin) if she could get me a larger size?  NO I don’t want a larger size, at this rate I’m going to need a size 30!  ”Perhaps not” she says sweetly, “you’ve tried on a size 10……”  ”are you sure?” I asked, “I don’t remember even seeing that number when I was growing up”……

So, back to Spanx!  Apparently you can visibly appear like you’ve lost one complete dress size.  Of course this concept would be great if the outfit you intend  to fit said fat slob of a body into is a kaftan, because the body bits that aren’t tightly secured are making bids to escape at every mm of light available.  Like stuffing a huge marshmallow into a string bag and then pulling the string bag just a little tighter…..because it tell you to do so on the instruction label!  I’ve now disposed of mine (Spanx, not string bag…I have a warped need for one of those!)  It would have made a great body for a guy on Guy Fawkes night, but I think you’ll have the fight with guy at the local tip for it…..God they’re a strange lot…..

Suck it in baby!

I’m not exactly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at the best of hours in the morning, but seemingly waking at roughly the same kind of time every day for the past few months now, and now with zopliclone sleeping tablets in the mix….I’m pretty lethal!  ( I’m a great ‘catch’ really you know….i’m really selling myself now!)

I’m pretty good about the early starts.  Once I’ve dragged my lifeless body bit by bit from my fabulous bed.  I make myself useful, I might wash up a bit. Despite there now being only me, I seem to make so much washing up that I’ve now taken to doing it in relays….or I hide it behind a cloth and wait until some poor soul takes pity on me and does it for me!  Alternatively, I sit and read, knit, crochet, knock up a few jars of jam…..bake bread & on a really good day might bake batch of cakes.  I’ve kept it quiet until now that I’m actually preparing myself for my WI inauguration now that I’m single.  I think I’d be a great asset to them, with many skills to bring to their tables….don’t you think?

I’m also a complete liar.

I tell myself I’m going to research my book (yes its still ongoing) but I don’t.  I throw a load of washing into the machine and am all excited.  The anticipation that my new all singing, dancing, tea making, dish washing, washing machine will deliver my newly clean washing in a state that I shall be able to iron gets me in a quiver….and THAT takes a feat I can tell you. But I lie again.  By now I’m on the 4th cup of tea and have finished not only the muesli, but a packet of fox’s Viennese biscuits. They’re very moorish when you’re watching your washing go round and round, reading a copy of ‘Red’ magazine or the latest Hello or Heat mag.  If I’ve pinched it from the doctor’s surgery that is…I couldn’t possibly been seen buying them!

I have every intention of ironing all said washing.  The dictionary definition of  ’Intent’ states; something you are resolved or determined to do.  I am neither, so I possibly never did have any intention of doing it, and what I really meant to write was that I’ll put it all in a basket, place it by the front door and pick up the phone and dial those lovely people at ‘pressed 4 time’.   They made me SO happy last time I had every intention of doing my ironing.  They also shocked me when they returned it.

It had been ironed beautifully.  Having just moved to ‘The Dolls House’, the basket had sat for so long and I couldn’t stand for long enough to tackle the very large and increasing pile; 4 large (king & superking) duvet covers, sheets, pillowcases plus 3 single complete sets.  Along with all the odd bits that sit at the bottom of your basket that you never get to do because they’re always too dry and creased.   They all came perfectly folded, wrapped in film, and the clothes hung on hangars and covered in plastic clothes covers.  Presentation was superb.  Cost to resume the smile on my face £104.50 !!! The smile was short lived.

I apparently had 23kg of washing and it’s charged per kg.  Not unreasonable, but should there be a next time….note to self, send the feather light bits!  Probable note to self should read ‘GET OFF FAT ARSE AND START IRONING’

On the plus side…My airing cupboard looks absolutely beautiful.  It’s a joy to me.

Aaah, the simple things in life eh….

Bliss....

Lie back and think of England......

How fortuitous that the forthcoming Royal Wedding of William & Kate is on a Friday…Casual Sex day!

‘Crown Jewels’ a condom company surely must’ve seen that coming?  I’m shocked that they haven’t sneaked that little picture and slogan along with their ‘Lie back and think of England’ tag line……

However, I have to applaud the company not only for their astuteness in cashing in on the multi million pound wheel of fortune in the thirst for Royal memorabilia which seems to be gaining momentum daily, but also for taking tacky tastelessness to a whole new level….beyond the gutter.

“Like a Royal Wedding, intercourse with a loved one is an unforgettable occasion”

“Like a Royal wedding, intercourse with a loved one is an unforgettable occasion” states the spiel on the ‘timeless souvenir heirloom collector’s box’, that looks more like a box with contents of a jigsaw puzzle than  containing three individually wrapped condoms…apparently a very regal purple to boot.   Oooh, and as an added extra enticement, the box also ‘includes a collectible portrait of the Royal Couple as they might appear on their wedding day – exclusively created for Crown Jewels’.  Woop de doo, my right Royal cup is overflowing with excitement.

The fact that I’m blogging about it actually peeves me, because it’s actually almost advertising them, but I’m incensed by it!  So incensed that, not content with having eaten half the remains of a Waitrose tiramisu dessert, 2 crème brulees and a whole packet of Cadburys buttons (oh yes, we’re talking GIANT buttons here…and large pack to add insult to injury) I am now firmly ensconced again on the sofa, this time with a bowl of ice cream to which I have also added just a couple of chocolate chips for added bite!  Well, I did skip breakfast…..or did I?  Damn, must be the manopause again……

These eating binges usually only happen on two occasions; when I’m stressed, and when I’m not!   And I’m stressing about this, which is ridiculous…I don’t even NEED condoms!

I’m certainly not with Lady Alice Hillingdon, Wife of 2nd Baron Hillingdon, whom allegedly said “I am happy now that George calls on my bedchamber less frequently than of old.  As it is, I now endure but two calls a week, and when I hear his steps outside my door I lie down on my bed, close my eyes, open my legs and think of England, but when I’ve laid down with someone using a condom, It was rather reassuring to know that we were both reasonably protected!

Promising a ‘Royal union of pleasure….Truly a King amongst Condoms’.  Joker in the pack would be more apt.  Correct me if I’m wrong, but REAL condoms protect against unwanted pregnancy and STD’s?  Well think again…..

Crown Jewels obviously don’t think YOURs are worth protecting….and you’ll certainly get an unforgettable occasion if you use these as you would expect their intended use to be.  Re their disclaimer  ‘Crown Jewels Royal Wedding Souvenir Condoms are a novelty condom not suitable for contraception or protection against STD’s’ !!!!!!!!!!!!

Oh and surprise surprise, nor are they ‘supplied to, or approved by, Prince William of Wales, Catherine Middleton or any member of the Royal Family’

So, with all this information available to you, I implore you to save the £5 for 3, or £13.30 for 9 (+p&p) and buy something useful.  After all, what on earth are you going to do with these? I can’t see them flying en mass, a la bunting style at the numerous street parties that have apparently been planned?  My alternative suggestions are ‘nothing’

Nothing....says what it does!

or  a ‘flying f*ck’ although, my personal favourite would be for you to all send me your £5 and in return I’ll send you some super-duper, fancy cling film (can’t guarantee it’d be purple) and an elastic band.  Oh and I could throw in some tacky plastic union jack bunting or windy windmill (take your pick …far more fun and much more useful than a purple penis sheath that might just wiggle at you, given a little encouragement!

Apparently there’s not even a purple ribbon in the box either…doesn’t everyone tie a purple ribbon around the base of their appendage? …..perhaps it’s a personal thing to me ….

I can’t wait their ‘coming soon’ condoms:

• Extra large Empire Condoms,
• Extra strong Churchill Condoms,
• Everyday English Cuppa Condoms,
• ‘Saville Row’ Bespoke Condoms

I’m quite intrigued at how the ‘Bespoke’ ones will work in practice…perhaps I should offer my services? I am after all in need of a vocation…I might just have found it!   However, I think after their little disclaimer I think they’ve missed a proper English treat….Spotted Dick Condoms…..

Right I’m off to polish my tiara, find a gown and await a prince charming.  Still, at almost 50 now, I think he’s lost his way without asking directions.  Fortunately unlike sleeping beauty, I rarely sleep and although the forest is trimmed, I suspect that my prince on his white charger has charged past!

Wonder if the large purple plastic bunting is putting them off???

PS.  If you think THIS is a rant, just wait till I get started on the saga of my new car and the joys of salesmen….oh yes….

“It is better to be hated for what you are than to be loved for what you are not.”

‘Dress with swagger’ it stated in small print on the reverse of the invitation to the première.  The fact that I didn’t actually comprehend the concept of ‘swagger’ in the first place was a bit of a clue that I was possibly not only over the hill, but over the hill and into the next century!

I did my best.  I made an obligatory purchase of 3 pairs of shoes.  Shoes that were so ridiculously high but I swear  when I saw the shoes they called to me…”lovely lady, go on, just slip me on, with us on your feet  we’ll miraculously transform your fat, podgy little shape into the lithe body and legs of a supermodel”

Diva Shoes

I get the shoes home only to find that they are male and have lied to me.  They are in cahoots with my eyes.  They turned my swagger into a laughable stagger before I’d left even the confines of my bedroom.  Once more my eyes are lying to my body.   The only thing model like about me in these shoes is that I walk with the animated strut of a model robot.  Oh yes, one that has the proportions of R2D2 rather than C3PO!

Fat Diva Robot Swagger

So to walk with a swagger I’m in need of something of a secret weapon, and you can’t get anything much more secret than……..

Who’d have thought that such a little box would hold such pivotal importance.  I looked at it, stroked it and caressed it with as much excitement as I would have done had I known the contents might possibly have yielded a coveted ‘Tiffany’ diamond.  However, this little box would spawn a Tiffany box with a slightly different significance, but to a woman just about to launch into her 50^th year, would be just as life affirming as to any young nubile about to give her soul to one man who she believes will be her everything for the rest of her days.

Mixing the first of the 2 stage colour process in the little dish made me smile like a cat that got the cream.  The sheer joy of knowing that in little more than 30 minutes The Diva would be back to her full glory gave me the kind of anticipatory rush that I’ve only ever read about.  Minikini should be obligatory for all ‘invisible’ women.  Our own little secret that just makes you wonder……

I haven’t been ‘The PurpleDiva’ in all my glory for some months now.  For those of you who may have wondered if I’d dropped off the face of the earth well I haven’t ……for those of you who wished I had….hahaha….  I’m BACK, and in EVERY sense of the words!

First I was afraid

I was petrified

Kept thinking I could never live

without you by my side

But I spent so many nights

thinking how you did me wrong

I grew strong

I learned how to carry on

Oh yes, tis the mantra on the lips of every divorcee, and once again I am honorary club member.  So if you’ve wondered what happened to ‘La Diva’ well, in a nutshell she was abducted by aliens again, that fucked with her mind, shook her life upside down, inside out and then without so much as a diazepam (although they did allow morphine!) shoved me out on the street to fend for myself and get on with it.  All in the space of a few months!!!

Apparently the most difficult times of our lives are dealing with a death, divorce or decamping (yes, moving/relocating to normal people but it didn’t begin with ‘D’ so didn’t fit!) and I’ve had two of those at once and often feared the third.  Well not so much feared, but almost welcomed it.

It has been a ‘trying’ few months.  Certain forces tried to break me.  I’ve had the most outrageous accusations, unjustly thrust at me from those closest to me, and have met deep betrayal from places I never would’ve imagined.  But it’s quite true how people’s true colours show in times of duress.  I have found that my real friends have been the most unlikely ones and yet those I thought would be there for me turned against me.  How sad.  Couldn’t see what’s right in front of their noses.  It’s their loss.

But woohoohoo….It didn’t break me, I’m here, stronger, ‘bigger’ and fucking formidable.  God help ANYONE that tries to tell me otherwise.

Just watch my swagger now B I A T C H 

Bad Diva

Peaches and cream; gin and tonic; Fred and Ginger; DIY and La Diva.  Okay, spot the odd one out? You’ve got it.  DIY and la diva are two words that you just wouldn’t naturally associate in the same sentence, so you can imagine my complete surprise when an email lands in my inbox suggesting that I would like to write an article on such a subject matter…. ‘DIY’.

To say I did a double take was an understatement.  I re read the email a few times and even sent it off to the delightful Douglas (Brimson) for confirmation that it was indeed meant for me, as the only makeshift implements for any ‘do it yourself’ that I actually possess are a hearty soled, stout walking shoe which doubles as a damn good hammer when needed, (the heel fell off the other one, after the dog had managed a good chew at it..…Fortunately) and a favourite knife which I managed to blunt in an afternoon of showing off how clever I was at knife throwing.  I wasn’t clever, and that one remaining knife from my ‘oh so expensive Japanese’ knife set is testament to my lack of skill at knife throwing AND debating (aka arguing).  I spectacularly lost at both.  It is now a trophy screwdriver with a very square, blunt tip.  I also possess a pair of pliers.  Okay, so technically they’re tweezers…..details, details, they do the same job….eventually.  I am nothing if not tenacious.

Reality sunk in with a 20 second telephone call from my dear, outspoken friend who said in a nutshell “you dozy blonde, re read and insert the word SEX”  Ah yes, so now the penny drops, THIS makes much more sense, La Diva & DIY ‘SEX’.  I don’t know how I’d managed to skip over it, as it was plain to see from the outset, but in my defense I had been reading rather a lot and the words were beginning to blur.  Come to think of it, isn’t that an argument that is used from a young age to stop you having a little play and exploration? “Don’t do that darling, you’ll go blind”.  Obviously that’s why we all need glasses as we get older, due to our deteriorating sight.  They don’t ask that question on a health questionnaire, or put that sign up at the opticians do they!

BAD woman.....

Now I am nothing if not candid in my openness and fondness for all sexual activities, of which I am quite happy to talk about, but which can sometimes come as a shock to your naïve friends, when you’re sipping through the froth on your hot cappuccino in the peaceful haven of a Costa coffee bar.  Although in this instance, I was the one left open mouthed at a revelation I wasn’t quite prepared for…….

My friend, aged 39 and happily married with one child, left me wholly bemused by her candid revelation that she’d never owned or used a vibrator.  If that wasn’t enough to leave my face as long as SJP’s, she further reveals that neither has she EVER indulged in a little playful, self DIY, tweaking or otherwise.  My face was a picture. Probably akin to that of a plastic blow up doll, with mouth open wide and wide staring eyes.  My red lipstick wouldn’t have helped the look, but I needn’t have worried, as dear friend probably wouldn’t note the similarities anyway, although I’m sure the shriek from me and ‘that’ look, made a few customers wonder if there was a Meg Ryan moment about to erupt!

My horror was to be further compounded later that evening, in an animated phone call with another of my oldest friends.  Upon relaying the details of my little research subject, she too informs me that she has neither experienced or owned the likes of a rampant rabbit, bullet, love eggs, or anything else that enhances pleasurable feelings……well, other than chocolate  (Which as any woman will tell you, is THE best aphrodisiac there is, although the thought of Daniel Craig in those little shorts works well for me).  For a woman of 48 to be quite so unworldly was a revelation and even more shocking, and yet on another level, strangely sad.

Okay, I do understand that some of the shop bought specific gadgets can seem a little intimidating, but I’m also surprised that they have never actually engaged in any sexual activity other than with a man present and active (‘active’ status varies from model to model so I’m not sure that ‘active’ is an appropriate use of the word).

Now, I’m not entirely certain that I totally believe the tales I’m being told.  You see, I think that if I were to do a little rummage around their homes, no doubt I could find tell tale items that prove a different story to the naivety of their words and innocent faces.   Whether intentional or not, our homes are packed with DIY items.  Or maybe there’s the possibility that it’s just my mind!

1. The washing machine.  Oh purleeeeze. There can’t be a woman on this planet that hasn’t put her machine on fast spin and stood close enough to get a momentary thrill. With a leather clad ‘Orgasmatron’ available complete with saddle you don’t even have to be discreet about it. http://www.dominicwilcox.com/orgasmatron.html There are 6 settings are from Oh to Ooooooh!  So its not true, you don’t only get an ‘ooh’ with Typhoo!

Meg Ryan eat your heart out!

You don't only get an ooh!......

2. Electric toothbrush.  Use the brushless side for a gentle buzz as they are specifically ‘designed to get between hard to reach places’ (although they’re already gentle enough for any little buttons they may come into contact with) An added bonus is that it may save any unnecessary blushes when travelling.  You wouldn’t mind pulling a rogue, vibrating toothbrush out of your bag at airport security but a rabbit out of the hat is one trick too far.  Even for me! (Although there is now a specially made adaptor! http://www.tingletip.com/index.html)

3 & 4 Shower hose & bath tap.   You can’t tell me that that when you’ve stood in the shower, with a shower hose in your hand, pulsating the water over your body, that there hasn’t been a time when concentrating on those nooks and crannies hasn’t induced a little more tingling than from the sensation of the water hitting your sensitive skin!  Okay, I do appreciate that if you’ve got a shower head that trickles water as in some pratt standing on your hosepipe in the garden, then you’re not in for much fun at all, but if you’re lucky enough to be able to vary the strength and pulse…..then woohoo, linger a little longer.

If you don’t have a shower at all, well make do with the bath tap running whilst laying in the bath (oh don’t say you haven’t thought of it) AND I am not responsible for any heat or friction induced injuries…common sense MUST prevail, do test the water temperature beforehand.  And don’t be tempted to stick your toe up the tap. Would hate to have to call a fireman for such an emergency…….

5. Vibrating Razor.  When choosing your next weapon of choice…err razor, make sure to choose wisely.  Preferably one with a vibrating handle!  The vibration is pretty useless as its intended use as an aid to hair removal, however, once finished, replace the safety guard, flip it over and keep up the momentum with the vibrating handle!   If caught in the act, you really can say “I am just shaving my legs”……

6. Food.  I’m sure that this is incredibly self explanatory, but don’t just think about the obvious….explore the freezer too.  Ice pops have their uses on a very warm day….

7. Fingers.  I’m NOT talking sponge fingers! Do not attempt playing with sugary sponge fingers. They’re too crumbly, too sugary (sugar induces yeast infection….I’ll say no more!) ooh, just NO!

I am shocked that in these enlightened times, that there are women who have not experienced the pleasures that some of these gadgets whether bought or improvised, can bring.  if you don’t know your way around your body, what you like (or don’t like), how can you expect your partner to be a good lover? YOU are responsible for your pleasure and you need to tell them, show them what you like or don’t like.  It’s only by experimenting that you can truly know and an added proven benefit is not only stress relief but also headache relief. So girls,  when you feel you have a headache coming on, don’t reach for the paracetamol or whatever else you might generally take to relieve the pain, don your tool belt and aim for a bit of DIY, if of course you don’t have a handy man readily available to take care of all eventualities.  (The only exception to this being that if you’re on the 14:35 train from Doncaster to St Pancras, paracetamol should probably be the first choice of item to whip out of your handbag, to avoid unnecessary stares!)

However, taking it all on board, in the words of Marvin Gaye & Tammi Terrell “Ain’t nothing like the real thing baby”……

Jessica Rabbit

Hanging on his every word, with me giggling like a demented schoolgirl every time he said something mildly amusing, we walked arm in arm down the corridor.  Reaching the door, he deftly pulled out the key from his pocket whilst holding my gaze.  I was bewitched and under his spell.

Ironically, it hadn’t been ‘him’ that I’d been interested in, but his brother, who I knew well, which is how we’d been introduced.  3 brothers actually, all pilots but in different fields, commercial, private and the RAF.  I was impressed and a little excited that someone of their ‘standing’ would be interested in little ‘ol me.

With a decree absolute still raw and slightly smarting, and after 3 months of a debilitating illness that I’d only just recovered from, this was my first night of freedom for months.  It was coming up to Christmas.  I was vulnerable …

With a few friends from my dance group, we ventured off, first to a local pub and then onto a nightclub, with the ‘3 musketeers’ (pilots) in tow, as they were staying together with the brother that I knew, at a nearby hotel.  RAF man was flying out to Bosnia in a few days to begin a long period of placement there.

It was a wonderful evening, lots of laughter and merriment. I couldn’t drink alcohol as I was driving, but that didn’t stop the fun and frolics.  And then ‘he’ (RAF man) uttered those infamous words……no, not what you’re thinking, but far more subtle; “You are simply amazing, I could talk to you all night”.

And I fell for it!

So, I agree to drive him back to the hotel where he is staying for a couple of nights, and have innocently decided it would be okay to go in for a coffee and that further little talk, because I really am so amazing.  Being female, the first thing I do is to check out the bathroom, especially after a night of copious drinking and intermittent snogging.  It’s probably the first time for a couple of hours that I’ve checked to see if my trademark red lipstick isn’t smeared up to my nose and down to my chin, giving me a trout pout to rival that of Lesley Ash or Meg Ryan (but I’m not quite so cute looking…..(It’s quite hard to be ‘cute’ when you’re a plumpcious size 16, don’t you think?)

Walking out of the bathroom my jaw drops quicker than my rose tinted glasses. I’m suddenly faced with the stark reality of the situation before me, akin to being thrust in front of Simon Cowell and the full force of the x factor judges along with glaring theatrical lights spotlighting ME!   I am confronted by RAF man, laying face up, naked on the bed, grinning, and, let’s just say for the sake of lady like decorum….fairly proud of himself!

The enormity of the situation, rather than his ‘proudness’ was what struck me.  He certainly had nothing to be proud of.  I’d smiled and occasionally lusted over larger courgettes in Sainsbury’s than what was now thrust in front of me, BUT what the hell was I going to do?

Like a rabbit in the headlights, my penance for my stupidity (although I’m not particularly religious so don’t know why I use this word), was to stay, give myself a 5 second talking to, and, strike a Madonna-esque pose.  All the while, muttering under my breath words like ‘stupid cow’ and ‘brace yourself Ethel’, and humming in my head silently, ‘always look on the bright side of life…dodo dodo dodododo’.

Ironically, there was nothing to brace, it was over and done in seconds, and I felt like a piece of pooh.  So, I guess the big question is…why did I stay?

The simple answer is, because ‘I’ felt responsible. I genuinely, 100% thought he wanted to ‘talk’ to me.  I was 33 years old, divorced, with 2 children, a mortgage, and full time career…..HOW could I have been so ‘bleeping’ stupid?  Not to mention immature … not to have seen through the façade and blarney that I was being spun like candyfloss on a stick.  I couldn’t even blame it on alcohol consumption!

I didn’t see through it, because I didn’t want to.  I wanted to believe that someone wanted me, in a naïve way despite the truth showing itself in full glorious technicolor, 3D and with scratch n sniff features!   I walked away with a fake smile, having learnt one of ‘the’ best lessons I’ve ever learnt in my life, albeit with a high price tag.

Men lie for sex.

The trick is in asking the right questions to determine the genuine ones, of which there are many.  As the saying goes, ‘you have to kiss a lot of frogs to find your prince’ and thank God my trout pout days are well and truly over.

Although … I am still quite partial to the occasional tingle …

Paddingtons grand day out

and my footwear of choice was more suited to a tart with a heart than a bear with a jar of marmalade.  Unthinkably high, gloriously red patent shoes and not his trademark red wellington boots.  Mine are pink and blue anyway.  I do have some, but they’ve never graced my little fat legs.  They have the wrong label on them………

I did feel like I should have had an obligatory tag of some sort, because I was in need of something, and a little TLC wouldn’t have gone amiss…It was, after all, what I was in search of.  Armed once again with my best Orla Kiely suitcase AND this time with my passport, I was prepared for a trip, and even darkest Peru was looking pretty enticing for an Easter Monday morning.

It’s not the first time I’ve left home.  I do it fairly frequently.  Well, I have done over the past few years.  But I’m not too successful at it:

I did once leave my first husband and make a dash for Cheltenham.  I thought it would be quite nice, and I’d never been there. But on reaching Bedford bus station, to my utter despair, found that the bus had already left, and the furthest I could go to was Oxford.  So Oxford it was!  I stayed in a very dingy B & B, which I think probably doubled as a house of ill repute.  There was certainly a lot of coming and goings in the night, and possibly hot bedding.  Similar I think to hot desking in office terms, only using beds…and women.  I stayed one night, sleeping fully clothed on the top of the bed and begged my husband to come and collect me.  I never tried leaving on a bus again.  Oh and he left me.  For good.

In an emotional state that had been building between R and I for some time, I once again left properly ‘ish’ a couple of years ago.  God knows what I thought I was going to do, or where I was actually going to go, but I arrived at Dover with a passport, my car and little else.  A telephone call from my sister whilst awaiting the arrival of the 7.00 am ferry to anywhere, halted my imminent departure for the other side of the World and no doubt an adventure with a hunky, mysterious Spanish bullfighter that I was going to meet on my travels.  This was of course prior to the French vineyard owner that was going to take pity on me and let me seek refuge in a beautiful, gite that he happened to have waiting for my imminent arrival at any time to suit me, along with a welcoming glass of chilled white wine, something fresh to nibble on that he might have just rustled up, along with his devilishly handsome smile…oh yes.  I had it all planned……… meticulously.    Sisters eh…love em…

So, once again I’m here, suitcase in hand.  I’m not sure what exactly the turmoil is about this time, but it’s been months since the last trauma so I’m due my turn now.  The only difference this time is that I am leaving slightly more prepared than the previous times. This time I am equipped with my Neuhaus chocolate Easter egg too.   Ooh, and morphine patches, and 2 walking sticks.  So, a quick recap on my previous escapes…..Oxford & Dover.  How far this time?  Harpenden.  Exactly 22 miles from my home.  Not that I didn’t plan to go further you understand, but I did need to stop for coffee and take stock of the situation and plan in meticulous detail.  I planned to go to the airport and take a flight BUT I didn’t want them to put my beautiful suitcase in the hold, nor did I want them to squash my egg.  Then it occurred to me that despite having a suitcase full of items (mainly toiletries) that I actually only had ONE ‘T’ shirt in there….AND I was wearing boots and a heavy coat.  If I got a flight to Spain I’d have to buy a new wardrobe on arrival….If I went to Glasgow, I’d still have to buy a new wardrobe on arrival.  Neither option filled me with joy.

After 4 hours of drinking coffee I thought it safer to drive to my chosen destination (Only I still hadn’t chosen).  So, made my way to the motorway, and turned south.  With the intention of heading for anywhere beginning with ‘B’ (seemed a good enough reason at the time…..I’m a woman!)  Brighton or Bournemouth were in my thoughts, not so much Brentwood or Bognor.

I didn’t much like the look of the road heading south, and after two junctions thought that maybe Glasgow was looking slightly better after all, and in my normal decisive style, turned off, did an about turn and headed north!  The wonderful Aussie man on my satellite navigation gizmo, informs me that it should take me approximately 5 ½ hours to complete the trip….oh yeah rite!!  If I had a blue light police escort maybe, but with the best will in the world I knew that this was more likely to be 9 hours minimum.  (‘Time’ and I are a phenomenon known and understood to only a few very close to me).  With 3 junctions down, reality kicked in, along with tiredness.  I had also forgotten to factor in the morphine factor.

Having been out of hospital after operation no.7 on dodgy knee, for no more than 2 weeks, perhaps this wasn’t really the ideal time to consider undertaking a journey of such magnitude, especially given that I was dosed up the eyeballs with morphine and other such powerful pain relieving drugs, and probably shouldn’t be in charge of a 70% cocoa solids Easter egg, let alone a 3.2 V6 Audi Quattro TT!

So once again I limped home, having been gone all day, in emotional turmoil….with my suitcase, laptop, AND Easter Egg.  To be greeted upon my return by the words uttered from ‘R’s lips……

“Have you had a nice day out?”

I MUST apologies for the lack of blogging that’s been done over the past few weeks.  I’m a VERY bad girl and know that I should be punished.  However, as always I have a whole plethora of excuses that I could use if I so wished.  From the sublime to the completely ridiculous.

The ridiculous being that I’ve been in hospital yet again for another operation on dodgy knee.  Of course that would be so f’ing ridiculous in the extreme because that would now be op no. 7 and in our grand NHS that would just be absurd.  Well…..truth is stranger than fiction….

Add into the mix a little sublime pleasure in that yours truly now has an appointed literary ‘agent’ and has indeed penned and submitted two proposals for novels.  All incredibly exciting but also demanding in a wonderful way.  So if my blog is a little lapse sometime, you know that ‘something’ is happening in a wonderful way elsewhere.  Or else I’ve been abducted by aliens…oh, don’t mock, I REALLY have been abducted by aliens.  They took my original body and gave me that of some other poor cows with dodgy knees.  It all happened about 3 years ago after a boozy night in London on pink champagne.  That’ll teach me to say no to the guy with the funny little mouth and bulging eyes.  When he talked about wanting to probe me, I assumed he was talking about information…

I’ve also been writing for a fabulous website www.moanaboutmen.co.uk for which I will be submitting articles on a regular basis. (the articles will eventually be placed here, but after they have appeared on MAM) Please do check in on the site which is very interactive with lots to comment on, book clubs, celebrity profiles, forums, and of course my own wicked view on the world.  One of my favourite people Dougie Brimson will also be a regular contributor.  I have a hunch that our ‘spats’ are destined to become legendary

Another little addition to my pudding mix is that I am now the Public Relations Director of another company also….. www.theenglishcaravancompany.com

Which has also started trading in these last few weeks.  This has been incredibly traumatic for numerous reasons.  The company is a fabulous  new concept of quintessentially English retro caravans, with the emphasis on small and very beautiful, caravans with ‘curve’ appeal…proud to tow, and proud to show. If you know nothing about ‘glamping’  (glamour camping) you soon will!