Monday, September 30, 2013

I Got The Moon

I treasure this photo of my four babes, it's so hard to believe they are all teenager's now!

All have grown, and three have matured - only my Sweet Sam is still as innocent as on the day this was first shot.  Yet he has grown, and so have I.  

We are both in a much better place than in way back then. 

Last night, having tucked my brood up, I locked the house up tight and propped up by a multitude of pillows, settled into bed with my trusty book.

All stayed quiet for the best part of an hour.


A clang and a commotion came rattling from the garage.

Did I mention our house is in a pretty isolated spot?  My husband works from the UK mainland every other week?  My dog never barks, and loves strangers (possibly burglars)?

And yup, this week I'm the only growdie-up at home?


Seeing no need to rush to my doom, I don my fluffy slippers and robe, go for a quick pee (wouldn't do to wet myself in the face of being slaughtered), and tip-toe down to the kitchen for the carving knife. 

The garage has a door leading directly into the house, one I lock up every night.  Whoever had been in there had obviously found their way through it, as I could hear them clattering about inside the hallway now.

Okay, enough is enough - time to stop the buggers where they stand, it's time for my (silent, hesitant) chaaaaaaaaaarge!

"Oh, hello Mum."


"Can you help me get the ladder out?"

"What the- what are you doing??"

He's struggling to lug the step-ladder round the passage and out again through the back door.

"I want to climb up to the moon."


"I want to go up and hug the moon."

I can't help but to laugh.

"Sweetie, I think we'll need a longer ladder for that."

"No we don't.  Come see."

His face is lit up almost as bright as the cloudless night.  Excitedly, he pulls me outside, and as I stand there gazing up through his eyes, I almost grasp what he sees.  Sure enough, it's certainly got to be well worth a try. 

Besides, aren't we here now?

So we prop the ladder against the house, me standing sentry behind, as he climbs up, one wobbly step at a time.  I can hear him giggle as he reaches the top - his arms reach up and spread (my heart in my mouth) - as he turns, pure joy in his eye.

"Look, I got the moon!"

And laughing, suddenly I'm blinded by tears.

Wednesday, September 4, 2013

Desperate Measures

Ken Ageswell: We interrupt this post to join Katie I'Madorable, live outside the scene of the Shrinky residence. Katie, what can you tell us?

Katie I'Madorable: Hello Ken. Yes, I have with us neighbour and self-confessed close family friend of the Shrinkies, Mrs. Dishthedirt. Tell us, Mrs. Dishthedirt, was there any build-up to this, were any signs missed?

Mrs. Dishthedirt: Thank you Katie, oh yes, there were so many. That poor woman was just crying out for help. I guess it all started months ago.  One Saturday, I was washing up at the kitchen window, and there she was - tearing around her back garden, screaming like a banshee at the top of her lungs. She was clad in nothing but a nightie. I ask you, is that normal? It wasn't the first time, either. I'll be honest, it scared me. I live alone, you know. My husband's left me. It's almost a year now, but the pain is still as if it's only yesterday. I'm not even sure I even want him back, not really - well, not since he moved in with that tart of his, I -

Katie: So she has displayed bizarre behaviour prior to this?

Mrs. Dishthedirt: Oh my, yes! I used to call round there regularly, I saw it first-hand. She started to become reclusive you know, hiding behind the door, pretending to be out, I even found her crouched under the hedge one day. Stress was written all over her face. I said to her, I said, Shrinky, you have got to get a grip dear. What if your husband abandons you? It's possible, you know. Mine did. She has no idea what stress is, not until that happens, believe me,

Katie: Do you have any clue as to what may have triggered this decline? Was there any key factor, any major event you can recall that may have led up this?

Mrs. Dishthedirt: Oh, for sure! She was fine up until she bought that lap-top. That's how she came to fall in with that cult..

Katie: A Cult?

Mrs. Dishthedirt: Yup, that's where it all began. Mark my words. She became a Blogger. It's true. She had no time at all for me after that, dropped me like a hot potato, so she did, just like that worthless shit of a husband of mine,

Katie: Thank you, Mrs. Dishthedirt, I'm afraid we're going to have to leave it here to re-join the studio. Breaking news is coming in.. Ken, is it true Mrs. Shrinky has stated her demands to the negotiator?

Ken Ageswell: Yes, Katie, the police have just released a statement. Dr. Phil is safe and unharmed, he is tired and emotional, but appears to be under no immediate threat of danger. Mrs. Shrinky claims she is very excited about her life, and is completely real about her situation. However, she is still refusing to release him unless he meets with her demands. I have Chief Inspector Lewis joining me. Chief Inspector, thank you for being with us, can you please update us on the current state of affairs?

Chief Inspector Lewis: Yes, thank you, Ken. Mrs.Shrinky has informed us via our negotiator, she will only release Dr. Phil on the sole condition he submits to immediately opening an emergency website from her server.

Ken: Do we have any indication about the nature of this website she's demanding?

Chief Inspector Lewis: It's grim, I'm afraid. She claims she and her fellow bloggers are being discriminated against, and is insisting Dr. Phil enters in to their sect to judge for himself. She also appears concerned at an apparent schism within her group, some of whom are stating Dr. Phil is, and always has been, nothing but a complete and utter charlatan. This is apparently causing Mrs. Shrinky considerable distress, which is why she demands he blog daily for a full week. In return, she promises to eventually turn him loose, when he can then give his own fully unedited and unbiased take, with a frank and honest appraisal of how he personally views their group.

Ken: Oh, that's awful. Brainwashing, eh?

Chief Inspector Lewis: He will be de-briefed, we'll do all we can for him. In the meantime, we are trying to keep the situation as calm and as stable as possible, and are providing as many chocolate biscuits as Mrs. Shrinky, her dog, and Dr. Phil can eat.

Ken: Thank you, Chief Inspector. We will, naturally, be keeping you up-dated with any future events, but for now, this is Ken Ageswell at BBC news, wishing you a safe and blog-free evening.

(If you, or anyone you know have been adversely affected by what you have just viewed, please contact our counselling advice-line at www.

Monday, September 2, 2013

The Further Fantasy Adventures of a Desperate(ly Bored) Housewife

Jeez, so much has happened, where do I start?

Well, you know about my kidnapping Dr. Phil and all that, from my last post, yeah? I have to confess it was more than just a tad stressy seeing all that paparazzi and helicopters whizzing about outside, I mean, talk about intrusive, or what? Sheesh!

And, oh my God, did you just see that bloomin' Dishthedirt nutter on the telly? Where does she get off telling everyone and their uncle that she and me are bosom buddies? Pul-eese! And it's hardly surprising, of course she thinks I'm a recluse - you would hide too, if yours was the drive she kept trundling down to camp out at 24/7. I'm telling you, with her IQ barely at room temperature, it's a bare faced cheek she had the audacity to dis' me like that, and right out there on live telly, n'all.


Anyways, just as I'd always suspected, turns out that Dr. Phil bloke is one hell of a decent chap, nothing short of a pure diamond, so he is. See, after a couple of days he was sporting enough to drop the charges, claimed it had all been a big mis-understanding, that he had actually been voluntarily staying with me all along - can you believe it? Before we knew it, all the squad cars, T.V. vans, and the hoop-la simply upped-sticks and quit. What a sweetie, eh? Course, he'd had the benefit of the blog by then, finally understood where I'm coming from. (Plus, I did hand over the bullets)

Long story short, turns out we really hit it off, him and me. In fact, he was even good enough to offer me my own T.V. Chat Show - seriously, he did! Well, I'm not a one to look a gift horse in the mouth, am I? And 'sides, it seemed kind of churlish to turn him down.

So, "O.k. Phil, fair enough," I said, "Let's go for it."

And that's just exactly what we went and did, big-time. I jest you not, I've been a very, very busy bunny since the last time we spoke. Actually, as it turns out, I'm pretty sure most of this is old news to you by now, seeing as how it all ended up the way it did.


I guess you've been following it in the tabloids, huh? Let me tell you, it was as much of a surprise to me than it was to anyone else.

I mean, who the hell expects a guest of theirs to commit murder in front of a live T.V. audience? Where was security, for heavens sake? Sure is the last time I hire again through that agency.

Besides, in light of his previous violent history, you'd have thought any silly bint with even half a semblance of any self-preservation would have known far, far better than to tell her boyfriend in front of the whole wide world that, oopsie, here she was, pregnant, not by him after all, but by his twenty-one-year-old step-grandad, the very same one whose sister she is now leaving him (the boyfriend that is, not the step-grandad) for. 

Is it that surprising he lost it?

Ironic really, considering it was all one big fat lie anyway (as the autopsy later proved).

Sheesh, what a mess.

It's ridiculous, listening to the media, you'd be forgiven for thinking it was me who had snapped her sorry neck.

Suddenly, my show has become a prime example of our morally bankrupt society, and I'm being castigated for shamelessly exploiting the weak-minded, in bringing what is now perceived as the most puerile, basest form of tasteless entertainment to ever grace our screens.

If you believe the polls, seems ten million of my ex-loyal viewers appear to agree.

I can tell you, between the Network dumping me from a great height, the tabloid's trashing me for all they're worth, and these endless sacks of hate-mail flooding through my door, I'm beginning to worry moral society won't be the only thing to end up bankrupt by the time this thing is through..

Did you witness that funeral?? Ye Gods, half the streets of Manchester were lined up in mourning. Sharon's sister made it plain whom she blames for her sister's death, and it certainly isn't the one currently locked up and awaiting trial in Wandsworth Scrubs. Oh dear me, no, he, it appears, is simply another vulnerable victim, shamelessly exploited and manipulated by a calculating and greedy predator, one who knew precisely what she was doing.

I'm scared to put my head outside the door.

Sharon's mother can't comment, on account she is still under contract to the Daily Star. I'm told ratings soared on the Six o' Clock news that night. Sharon Banks, heroin addict and ex-shop lifter, martyr status now fully achieved, is seemingly fast approaching Sainthood.

I hear there's talk of a record pay-out from my ex-network.

So yes, as I say, it's been quite a hectic few weeks, all things considered.

Ah well, c'est la vie, n'est pas? So much for the cruel, fickle Mistress of fame and fortune, eh?

Oops, sorry, gotta' go, something smelly and unmentionable has just dropped through my letterbox..

Thursday, August 1, 2013

More Adventures of a Desperate(ly Bored) Housewife

It's not as though I planned on going out.

Aside from me still trying to live down that whole talk-show fiasco, my road was all set to close up for the day, it being our Grand Prix race week an' all.  Actually I felt pretty grateful everything was on lock down, 'cos it's the safest I'd felt in weeks.  

Like you know, these poor frayed nerves of mine sorely needed the rest, I swear I had every intention of simply writing the day off under my duvet. 

I hadn't banked on our psycho Postie.

This guy seriously needs his parole revoked, Chief Minister's brother or not.  I'll bet none of his co-worker's get away with this breaking and entering lark of his.  Grant you he's certainly gifted, there's not many who can fold themselves through my catflap. 

He boasts he's never returned an undelivered parcel  yet.

If I wake to the doorbell, I have less than thirty seconds to cover my arse before his boot hits the stair. 

"Oh hullo, Mrs. Shrinkie, and what a fetching robe it is that you're wearing today,"  Whispering, "..though if you don't mind me saying, those legs of yours might use a little attention?"

It's just as well my face doesn't work first thing.

"And here I've come with your mail."

"What the f - what time is it?"

"Oh, early.  Six.  I thought it best to make the rounds before the roads seal off.  Can you sign for this package for Mrs. Dishthedirt?  I don't like to be waking her." 

Adding fresh insult to injury, he now needs to use my loo.  By the time he's done apologising for the smell, and for the broken brush down the blocked S-bend, I find I'm surprisingly wide, wide awake, and rapidly developing facial tics.

Sooooooo, being as how I'm now up and about, it dawns on me I have a few safe hours left before the roads are due to close, and as precious few people are likely to be out and around at this God-forsaken early hour, I reckon a wee drive down to the ferry port can't do much harm..  Like I say, it's sure been a while since I last dared push my head out the door, .  The daily mainland newspapers get shipped over at sunrise, and I want to know if my name is still being trashed about over there.

Swapping my robe over for a coat, I stick a hat over my haystack, and nonchalantly picking at the crusted sleep matter from the corner of one eye, I discard my fluffy slippers in favour of the mock tiger-skin pumps which Bec's conveniently lost by the door (Yeah, for a skinny shrimp, she sure does have big feet).

As I arrive, the news-vendor guy is still bent over cutting the string from the  paper-bales.

"Jesus, God and The Holy Virgin Mary, is that yours or the dog's legs you've come in on?"

What is this fixation with my personal grooming, today? 

Hiding my exposed shins against the counter, I grab the first three available tabloids to hand, and thrust a five pound note out to the insensitive bastard.

 "And maybe I can interest you in purchasing a disposable razor, too?"

I ignore the ignoramus and stick my hand out for my change, as a second person saunters into the store.  As I casually glance over, I'm telling ya' folks, my heart near explodes right up through my throat, so it does.  All I can say is it's a darn good job I hold possession  over a very healthy bladder, that's for sure.

You'll never guess who's standing there before us?  None but the very Dictator, yes, that sad, sorry skid mark on the knickers of society, it's only he himself, isn't it?  The contemptible and thieving, murderous and evil Colonel sodding Gadaffi, that's all!

(That's my outraged voice, by the way.)

(That's still in my outraged voice.)

He doesn't look near as nice close-up, y'know.  AND he stinks. You think he might have at least availed himself of a shower on the crossing, well assuming he blew in with the ferry, that is.

I can barely lift my jaw off the floor. 

I watch as up he strides to the counter, bold as brass, dragging his wheelie-case behind,  "Morning. Half an ounce of Golden Virginia tobacco, and a box of matches, please."

Now, I don't know about you, but I can't have any of that, can I?  I mean, this guy's a nasty war criminal.  

"Hey,"  I says to the Mr. Vendor-Man, "You can put that right back up on the shelf again - can't you see who this is?"

So he stares at me like an idjit.

Pointing accusingly, "Look, it's him,  that Gadaffi bloke, innit?"


I'd expect better from someone so tediously observant as he is in the hairy leg department..      

"Gadaffi!" shouts I, stabbing my pointy finger at the upheld front page photo in "The Sun", as I all but ram it (the paper, not my finger, that is) up his fat, spotty nose. "Him!"
 "Where?" asks Gadaffi, craftily swivelling his head to gawp out the window, all innocent-like.

"Don't you give me that, I'm on to you, Sonny Boy."

"No, I not Sonny boy, what you talk about?"

Seeing he's getting a bit agitated, I urge our idjit Mr. Vendor-Guy to get a move on, and to call the police, pronto, but (eyes-skywards) does he listen?  Where's the Cavalry when you need it, eh? 

Gadaffi edges for the door, but, ha, no way am I about to let him escape.

Spread-eaglling (yes, I think you'll find it is a word) myself upright against the door frame, I yell at Mr. Vendor-Man, the useless head-the-ball, frozen-in-the-headlights, worst-person-ever-to-have-with-you-in-a-tight-corner, to grow a spine and to flippin'-well help me, but it's only when I snatch up his Stanley Knife still lying atop the stack of paper's by the door, that he finally, glory hallelujah, reaches for the phone.

Well, that's what I'm assuming he's doing, since he's gone and buggered away off out the back.

Gadaffi throws his hands wide, "Puleese, lady, calm down, I no Gadaffi, I nice man - "  He smiles, "See?  I only come here to visit brother.."

"Oh for f***k's sake, don't tell me we've we got him over here, n'all..?"


Anyways friends, the police did eventually turn up, but instead of arresting Gadaffi, can you believe it was actually ME they had the affront to slap in hand cuff's?  I know, I know, talk about ingratitude, eh?  Proper offended I was.  These days, it's little wonder normal folk like us shy leery of ever getting involved, isn't it?

Fortunately, whilst attempting my citizen's arrest, I'd accidentally kicked the s**t out of Gadaffi, well, it was only to subdue him, of course, but the wimp somehow fainted (and no, he was not in a coma when they trundled him away in the ambulance, that's a pure, scurrilous lie, so it is).  

But, um, yes, it is true he did need to have a stay in Nobles hospital for a wee bit.  Which is actually just as well, isn't it?

At least the truth came out, since there's no denying finger-prints, eh?  Hmph.   Told you so!  And PROPER apologetic everyone suddenly finds themselves, don't they?

So I'm not charged with causing an affray, or of inflicting any grievous bodily harm now, am I?  Oh no, not at all, it appears the whole wide world and it's Uncle is now besotted with both me and my hairy legs.  

Um, yeah, 'twas kinda' unfortunate me meeting that storm of paparazzi so fresh from my release like that, most unflattering.  Like I say, I never dressed for going out that morning, for sure I would have been certain to have at least run a comb through my hair (on my head) had I even the slightest inkling of all the fuss I'd walk into.


Still, it all came out well in the end, eh?  The press have happily moved on from that recent regrettable incident, the one involving Sharon Banks and me, and the postie hasn't even delivered any more hate mail to my door in weeks.  Apparently I'm a hero now.

I'm in line for a medal, too.  Yeah, I'm off to Buckingham Palace next week.  Libya has invited me over as well, but I'm gonna' wait until their hotels are a bit more comfy, first.   

'Course, the reward money has come in handy, I've even managed to settle that civil suit Sharon's mum brought against me.

So then, doesn't that just go to show, eh?  However bleak and dismal life is, you simply and truly never really know what the dawn of a fresh tomorrow will bring..

Hey, hang on, is that David Cameron's dulcet tones on my answer-phone?

Friday, July 26, 2013

Away With The Faeries

Management have brought complaints to my attention I must up my game.

Apparently, my hairy-legged heroine with the hay-stack hair-do, fell way too far below the minimum "kempt" standard most bloggers expect and demand.  To wit, I'm told as no-one wants to actually read about my sorry personal hygiene problems, my character needs to either glam-up, or be immediately shut-down, with all future blogging privileges withdrawn forthwith.

Harsh, or what?

Soooo, with this borne in mind I hereby present you with

The Further "Scrubbed-Up" Fantasy Adventures Of A Desperate(ly Bored) Housewife

(Note to Management: All effort has been taken to cover any offensive appendages.)

Guess I knew it was only a matter of time before word of my super-powers got out.

In truth, I have tried to play them down some, because, well no one really likes a show off, do they? Still, I guess it was inevitable it would have to come out at some point. I mean, once you've got it, you've got it, haven't you? Be daft not to use it now and then, akin to stashing a billion quid in the house, only to then go stand in line at the soup kitchen.

Still, yes, with a little hindsight, I agree, perhaps I may have chosen a more fit, responsible way to test them out. No bones about it, I am truly very, very sorry.

I apologise.


But I ask you, who ever heard of a Super-hero having to do community service? And as for this ankle-tag nonsense, surely you cannot be serious?



On your own heads be it, then. C'mon, what happens when I need to save the world, and it's past my curfew? Have you really thought this one out? 

Okay, but don't let it be said I never warned you, is all..


I wouldn't mind, but it's hardly as though I actually asked to get set apart from all you common mortals. No-one thought to tap me on the shoulder to ask. A little, "Oh, 'scuse me Missus, how do you fancy me bestowing a few superhuman gifts on you?" might, maybe have come in handy.

I could have said no.

Unlikely, granted, but still, I might have.

They didn't know.

All I'm saying is, it would have been nice to at least have been given the option. But oh no, all I get is, " ZAP!" done deed!

Guess I should have known better than to get mixed up with that bunch of fairies. It all began when I took that sodding picture - you remember, down by Fairy Bridge?

Yeah, that's the one.

Naturally, it got my curiosity up, and I found myself being drawn back there. But for all my hours spent in searching, the fairies never revealed themselves again.

Reluctantly prepared to admit defeat, I finally made one last pilgrimage to lay my gift at the fairy shrine, tied my wish to their tree, and turned for home.

That's when I heard him. Proper foul language he was spouting at that.

'Course, I had no idea what was going on, but the mutt was acting in a real frenzy, I'd never seen him in such a vexed state.
Running over, I see something snagged on his upper canine. The curses and screams mixed together with Jake's snarling confuse me,  and I actually do a double take, believing it's the hound himself there that's doing all the yelling.

And then I see him.

Eyes out on stalks, my jaw gapes. Looped by his belt and snagged to Jake's tooth, is this angry-faced, livid, little creature, being tossed and flung around fit to rattle his every bone.

"Do something ya' great galloping galloot! Call yer fecking flea-bag off, right this minute, ya' gormless, puss-filled, face-ache of a vacant, howling waste o' space, ye.."

Well now, I don't know about you, but I don't respond very well to being spoken to in such tones.

Distressed as he is, there's no excuse for such a stunning lack of manners. Besides, he's certainly ignored me for long enough, hasn't he?  Have I received so much as one simple thank you for all those carefully chosen gifts, lovingly left lying by his shrine?

Ha!  Look, who needs the favour NOW then, eh? 

Grabbing Jake's collar, I calm and settle the little fella' down enough to reach over and pluck the wee guy loose, and raise him by his belt, level to my eye.

Big mistake!

Still kicking and cursing, he lets his fist fly straight, smack-bang into my retina - owowowowowow, that damn-well hurts - yet still I hold him fast (if a little farther away).

"Take yer shiftless, slimy, sticky mitts off a' me, ye stinkin' stream o' steaming sputum.."

Charming, eh?

Still, the little folk are hardly sought out for their polite after-dinner conversation. Everyone knows the catching of a fairy gives out huge rewards, but it's also common knowledge they rarely give up their favours with grace.

It takes several minutes of stern negotiation (the best part involving  ducking him in the river for a bit) before he finally swears to give up my just due.

Satisfied I've won a life-changing prize, I happily set the little fella' free, as once promised, no fairy can ever go back on their word, it's set in stone.

Admittedly, maybe I should have asked him to be a little more specific as to the gifts he'd bestow, but I'm not always the sharpest knife in the drawer when it comes to my trust.

I just kinda' assumed it would come in monetary form, y'know?

Not as in a bolt of lightening set to frizzle my being.

Sheesh, what the hell is all that about? 

No sooner have I let go of him, a flash of energy sears through my veins hot enough to rival any giant onset of the menopause, and I find myself soaring way up, up, over twenty foot high, only to plummet down fast and hard, landing slap-splash-crash into the middle of the boulder-strewn river.

Scares  the bejesus out of me, so it does (the wee rat-bag's way of revenge, no doubt)

I want to make it plain, I had no say whatsoever in the powers the warped little sod chose to gift me. Awesome as they may be, would you elect to have the ability to stop the bad guys by fetid stench alone?

It's hardly flattering to be known as the Queen of Skunks, y'know.

I'll have it said, my motives were nothing but pure when I chased down that mugger - how the hell was I to know the whole of Douglas would need evacuating, afterwards?

And another thing, so far as I was aware, I thought that whip he gave me was just a tool to round up the baddies with, no one told me it disabled folk by inflicting instant, multiple ejaculation.

(Eewwwh - pul-ease!)

Still, a girlie has to make the best of things.. I mean, at least the transport looks groovy, eh?

(Further note to Management: Ten cans of super-hold hairspray have been sacrificed to ensure each hair be expertly nailed into place, during the execution of this photograph.)

Monday, July 1, 2013

The Further Fantasy Adventures of a Desperate(ly Bored) Housewife - #5


Thing is, I've never been truly equipped for this rising at the crack of dawn lark.   

Preparing breakfast at the struggle of morn I sleepily contemplate the sizzling pan, as the aroma of frying bacon slowly wafts my taste buds awake  -  appears aromatherapy isn't all total bullshit, after all.  

Shame I don't eat first thing.   

Absently listening to the latest severe weather warning over the radio, I load up the toaster, switch the kettle on, and start laying up the kids vitamin pills out on the counter top, when the doorbell chimes. 

Bugger.  It's our psycho postie of course, hell-bent as usual upon finishing his route before sunrise.  I hurriedly scuttle for the door, in hopes of reaching it in the three seconds before his boot puts it through again  (he's never quite forgiven me for sealing up that cat flap of ours).
I'm quite taken aback to find it's not actually him there at all.  A total stranger is perched out on my doorstep.  Of course, ordinarily I'd be relieved, except there's something quite odd about this bloke standing before me.  I don't know, maybe it's the serial-killer beard, or perhaps it's that dead stare of his, the one colder than Mengele's bed-side manner with twins,  but suddenly I'm regretting flinging the door open so wide, and am wishing I'd had the foresight to keep a pack of slavering, trained to "savage, mutilate and swallow whole", Pit-Bull's around as pets, instead of a useless, sole, "pat me and I'm yours, I'm a lover, not a fighter" lump of Golden Retriever. (Sorry Jake, much as I love you, we both know this to be true). 

Fixing my best fake bon-homme smile, I allow Jake to squeeze forward anyway, proffering his bribe of choice (Sam's sweaty sock), but his waggy tail soon freezes into a droop, and he fast scoots backwards, ears flat, whining.

Isn't it funny how your voice always comes out really, really squeaky when you find you have no spit left in your mouth?

"Can I help you?"
"You are not the nubile one."

And strange, isn't it, how easily the slap of an insult can snap one so instantly wide awake?
"You what?  Er, sorry, come again?"
"I seek the supple female."
Well.  How bloody rude is he?  I'm speechless.  Almost.
Straightening my spine, I lower my shoulders, nostrils flared, "'Scuoooose me, Mate, I'll have you know I'm double-jointed.  I like to think I'm what would have happened if Marilyn Monroe had lived to discover cellulite and flat feet."
Then the light bulb pops.
"Hey, you that stinking streak of puss that's been stalking our Bec all week?"

(And here I'd thought she'd just invented him to secure my taxi services.  Sheesh, let the guilt seep in.)

I make to slam the door, but too fast, his arm snakes out, clamping my shoulder in a tight, painful vice.  I'm thinking nothing short of a field of garlic is likely to save me now, 'cos no way am I screaming (the last thing I need to fetch into the fray here, is the "Nubile One").

Oh great, now the feckin' burnt stench of soon to be alight bacon grabs my throat, and a screech of smoke-alarms kicks in.  Oddly enough, this appears to work in my favour, as the lunatic loses his grip on me, and falls down flailing, squirming on the porch, his eyes scrunched tightly shut, he grinds his hands over his ears.

Yeah, I know - pretty weird.  Quit complaining, you had to be there.

Losing no time, I sprint to the kitchen, lift the now spitting, crackling frying-pan up, and speed back with it, over to the prone numpty still writhing about on the floor.

"OUT," says I, "NOW! Or you'd best kiss your face a sweet  goodbye!"

By now we have an audience of three very startled kids on the stair.  The fourth and eldest is obviously still blissfully snoring in his pit - dead to the entire kaffufle, no doubt sleeping off his hang-over.  (Typical.  Where's the men when you need them?)    


"It's fine, Abby, go with the others back upstairs, and phone the police."

Ever obediant, no one moves. 

Except Sam. 


From the corner of my eye, I see his hand reach up.  Trained by years of my cremated offerings, he is more than well versed in how to disable a smoke-detector, it's his job, this is what he does


(To be Continued..)

Friday, June 14, 2013

Shuffling Off

God:  So tell me Shrinky, now your life has played out, any questions?       

Me: No it hasn't.

God: Sorry?

Me: My life, it's only halfway through, that's not "played out", that's "cut short tragically".

God: Ah.

Me: So yeah, here's a question, why the rush? I mean, what happened to those golden years, a paid up mortgage, a little return on my pension? Heck, even senility, that'll do - I'm no where near done yet, what about all the other things I want to do?

God: Oh, you have done everything you want to do.

Me: Huh?

God: Every one says that. If there were anything else you wanted to do, you would have done it.

Me: What utter bollocks! I've got loads of stuff I need to finish -

God: Perhaps you do, but do you want to?

Me: Yes!!! Yes, I do, as it happens. And what was all that about, anyway? What was with the being done to death by a cockroach bit? What did I ever do to deserve that? I mean, sure, I might not have led the most pious of lives, but I wasn't that bad, surely?

God: Of course you weren't, well not entirely. You did kill a lot of insects, mind.. Take it from me, all this dying in your sleep nonsense, it is an awfully dull end, you know. Besides, you did make the six o' clock news."

Me(preening): Really? 

God: Ummn. Choking to death in a restaurant. On a cockroach? Headlines, my dear. 

Me: (Smiling broadly) Aw, well yes, I suppose it would really, wouldn't it? Did they include my photo?

God: Of course, you are quite the celebrity, my dear. 

Me: Aw, that's nice. Which one?


God: Which what?


Me: Photo - which one did they use?


God: The dead one.


Me: WHAT?? You're kidding me, right? Tell me you're kidding me..


God: Sorry.


Me: Sorry?  I didn't even get my roots done - If I had to die this young,  I should at least have been allowed to make a presentable corpse, don't you think? Anyways, why take me now? I've been sweating blood to get that not-a-book-of-mine into print, the very least you could have done is let me see it published.

God: That's not my fault.


Me: Huh?


God: I gave you ample time to finish it, you were the one who chose to fritter it all away, blogging. Freedom of choice, remember?


Me: Well, how was I to know I was about to be yanked up here? Would it have killed you to give me a little advance warning?


God: I didn't want to depress you, you were rather glum enough as it was. Actually, that's one of the reasons I've called you in..


Me: What? Oh, that's nice, that is isn't it? You sling all this crap out at me, and the minute I complain, I'm toast? What the hell did you expect me to do?


God: Exactly what you did. You asked for my help.


Me: HELP? This is help? Think you and I need to consult more in future. Oh wait a minute, silly me, I forgot, I no longer have a future now, do I? Thanks God, cheers for that!

God: Of course you have a future, that's the whole point my dear. I'm sending you back. 

Me: Huh?

God: Yes, I have a plan for you, you see. I always have had. All that stuff you experienced wasn't at all by pure chance, you know. I went to a lot of trouble to make that happen.


Me: It was deliberate?

God: Sure it was. I'm proud to say you've learnt a lot. You're ready for the next stage now.

Me: Who says I want to go back?

God: For goodness sake, fickle creature, make up your mind..

Me: Well, yeah - sure, but I just want to know what the alternatives are first. I mean, I'm not going back for all that crap again, am I? What happened to heaven, and all that? Isn't there supposed to be a host of angels waiting up there for me?

God: No, not just yet, they're fully booked. It's by appointment only these days, I'm afraid, but if that's what you really want, I'd be happy to slot you in for a cancellation?

Me: Cancellation? What do you mean, cancellation? How can death be cancelled? Do you often have a change of heart at the last minute, then? "Oops, sorry Nigel - only joking!" You must be really hard up for entertainment, that's sick, that is.

God: It's got nothing to do with me, it's all those meddling doctors down there. Why do you think the planet is struggling so hard to support you all? Half of you should have checked out years ago.. I give everyone an expiratory date, but then we're back to that old free choice again, aren't we?  Not only have they introduced IVF, they've even taken to stealing each others organs now, you know.. So, how about it then, shall I sign you up for the next slot, or do you want to go back again?

Me: So this plan you have for me involves multiple choice? Forgive me for sounding cynical, but I'm starting to lose a wee bit of faith here..

God: I have a plan, it's entirely your choice whether you want to follow it or not.

Me: What happens if I don't?

God: You'll be sorry.

Me: Are you meant to be threatening me like this?

God: I'm God, I can do what I like.

Me: So let me see if I've got this right.. I'm not allowed to go back as myself?

God: It would be a bit pointless, don't you think? Anyway, every one's already been to your funeral.


Me: Never stopped you with Jesus..


God: As if everyone and their uncle hasn't tried to pull that one. The answer's no.


Me: I will at least be rich, though, right?


God: In which way?


Me: What do you mean, "which way"? Rich as in cash, of course, loads and loads of it, please. It's not as though you didn't make me suffer enough last time around, is it? It's only fair..


God: I have every intention of making you rich, but not in worldly goods. Unlike many, you will be returned to earth abundantly eloquent and remarkably healthy; gifts best suited for the purpose I have in hand.


Me: O-kay. Cool. But with a little, tiny million or so in cash, too? C'mon, it's hardly gonna' hurt you now, is it? I mean, where's the harm?


God: It would distract you, make you lazy. Trust me, I know you.

Me: That, uh - that is totally unfair, how can you even say that? You only know the me that I was, and that me had you riding my back, zapping my arse, and throwing curve-balls at me every five minutes. Now that me, hell yeah, sure I probably would have taken it a little easier, who could blame me? But that's not this me. I know how fragile life truly is now. I can do focused, believe me, I can do this, un-lazy rich is me, just roll it on, you'll see..


God: Thankfully, I don't need to. Oh, don't look so crest-fallen girl, you'll earn a perfectly decent living, don't fear. You really do need to have more faith, you know.


Me: Do I have any say in this?


God: You don't have to go back..


Me: Aside from that?


God: Sorry.


Me: You're not much of a liberal when it comes to this freedom of choice, are you?


God: Ha! Funny you should say that, because it brings us nicely on to my next point. To quote a certain famous car manufacturer; you can have any colour you like, so long as it's black.


Me: Eh?  Um..what?  WHAT??  Ut-oh, oh no, no way.  This your idea of funny?


God: It's my idea of true.

Me: What? Why? What difference does that make to the great scheme of things? Don't get me wrong here, I like black people - well, some of them, but - you're not serious, are you? I'm white, you know I'm white!

God: You're scared.


Me: Hell, yeah! Have you seen the deal these guys get down there? What're you smiling about? You know, I used to place a lot of trust in you, no one told me you were just plum crazy.


God: It'll work out well, you'll see.


Me: Oh, I get it, I'm going to be male, too, aren't I? And young. Twenties something? Gee God, you must really love me, after all, you're obviously going to be recalling me in again pretty soon..


God: No. Not that I don't love you, of course. But no, you are going to live a very long and productive life, rest assured, I would hardly have gone to all of this trouble just to go and waste you all over again, now would I?


Me: Well, as you put it so nicely. Alright, so I'm a young black man.. a handsome, muscular young, black man, right? I guess that's not so bad.. Pity though, I used to love flirting with all those guys.

God: Oh, that needn't change..


Me: Huh? No, uh-uh, you cannot be serious -


God: Never more, my dear. Sorry, we're not exactly talking Will Smith here, you're going to be a joyously gay young, black man quite well-known, too, I might add. Well you did so want to be well known in your last life didn't you, poor dear? I feel it's the very least I can do for you now..

Me: Why are you sounding so camp, all of a sudden?


God: What can I say? I am all things to all men. Women too, come to that.. anyway, where were we? Oh, yes, your purpose. You are going to make quite a mark, my dear. People are going to love you; not those who know you of course, but those whose lives you touch will be eternally grateful there is a God in heaven..

Me: Hold up.


God: Mmmn?


Me: Sorry to interrupt here, but I mean, if I touch someones life for the good and all that, I'm not saying they have to necessarily love me exactly, but they're bound to be more grateful to having me on the earth, as opposed to, say having you, ie., a God in heaven; a guy who, let's face it, has kinda' grown just a mite distant, and a tad remote down the years? Hell, why should you take all my credit?


God: Because I made you, and I can unmake you too. Where do you think parents actually got that saying from in the first place? Anyway, as I was saying.. I have a grand design for you, one that will impact beautifully on so many lives.


Me: I'm getting scared to ask. Does any of this involve me and hurt in any way?


God: Oh no, not at all. In any case, not physically. I grant you, you will not often, well hardly ever, actually probably never, be very liked by those around you, but really, that is such a small price to pay for all the good you will do for others..

Me: Glad you seem to think so.


God: I've groomed you, my girl. All your life has been leading up to this, this is it, your big moment! As good old Dr. Phil keeps saying, "I want you to get excited about your life."


Me: Is that the baldy, American guy? The one on day-time T.V.? Sheesh, you really have been slacking off up here. It rots the brain, you know.


God: You will not talk about St. John, like that, he's doing a fine job down there.


Me: Oh blimey, you mean - ?

God: None other. A fine man then, and a fine one now. Anyway, let's not digress.. time is getting short, and there is work to do. I'm sure you are probably well aware of the purpose I have in mind for you, so without further ado, let's get on with it.

(Ten minutes later)

Me: You're taking the piss.


God: I thought you'd be pleased.


Me: Oh, come on God, cut me some slack here, I hate those morons - you know I do!


God: Stop being such a drama queen; it's not them you hate, it's their actions. Which is why you are best qualified to go back down there to kick some ass. Think about it.


Me: Gee, you're a regular loving God, you are. Why don't you just save putting me to all this bother, and zap the sods with a bit of your good old smite, instead? It'd get the job done in half the time.


God: I know, it is tempting, isn't it? Not that it would work, of course. For every one of them, there are a dozen or so more who would soon take their place. No, I'm afraid it's more of a control and monitoring operation that we need.


Me: Talk for yourself here, I'm out of it, remember?


God: Stop sulking, you are going to love your new life. Trust me.


Me: So in between all this service to mankind business, do I actually get to have one, then? I mean, lots of fluffy, warm happy bits, stuff to make it all worthwhile?


God: Oh yes, lots.


Me: And I'll be handsome?


God: Of course. People predictably respond better to good looks, don't they?


Me: Will I be athletic?


God: You'll be very agile. Mentally.


Me: Mentally? - what's that got to do with the price of eggs? I'm gonna' be fit, yeah?

God: Absolutely. A club foot is nothing to worry about these days..

Me: No way!! Uh-uh, deals off, I'm walking away, with both of my two good feet, right now. You can stuff that for a game of soldiers, go and find some other poor sucker to play with. What the hell are you talking about, God?


God: You have to experience discrimination, in order to fully appreciate the injustice of it. Being a black, gay, disabled man will add a fire to your belly, a passion to your soul. I promise you, you will experience a hugely satisfying life, my dear, you will be far happier than you've ever known. You'll end up thanking me, honestly.

Me: Yeah, right. Thanks anyway, but just put me down for your nearest cancellation, will you? Point me to the waiting room, and give me a shout when the angels arrive. This second time around lark of yours sure stinks to high heaven.

God: Well, if that's what you really want, I can't hold you, it has to be your own free choice, of course. It is a great pity, though. You have no idea how badly you will regret this.

Me: Oh, surprise, surprise, here we go! I knew it was only a matter of time before you pulled this old one on me. Sure, yeah, you know what's best for me, and I'm gonna' suffer horribly if I choose any other path.. am I right?


God: You really do have a lot of insight, don't you?


Me: What kind of free choice do you call that?


God: The only one you have. Still, it is your call..


Me: You're just loving this, aren't you?

God: I'm merely offering you a guiding hand, is all.


Me: How can you say I'll be happy? What's to be happy about?


God: All the good you'll do. You're going to make a lot of people very grateful.


Me: I'll be a fabulous lover?


God: That wasn't what I meant.


Me: Maybe not - but I will be, won't I?


God: Er, it's probably not a good time to add this, but since you've asked, well, I'm going have to say that that's going to be rather

Me: Huh?


God: I'm sending you back impotent. I don't want you distracted.




God: Sex is highly over-rated, believe me. I only put it in there to give me a good laugh. You're far better off without it, you'll see.


Me: I don't want to see. Let me get laid!


God: No.

Me: I get laid, or I'm not going back.


God: That's your final answer?


Me: Oh, stop that! It isn't "Who wants to be a Millionaire", you know. This is my life we're talking about.


God: Which is why I urge you to make the right decision, my dear. It's the most important one you'll ever make.


Me: I don't want to be Prime Minister, it's boring. Like I say, I hate these guys!


God: Oh, don't worry, it won't be boring after I kit you out with a bigger brain.


Me: So now you're calling me thick too, eh? Well, humph, that's really nice, that is! Good job you never have to run for election, isn't it?


God: I don't want to press you, my dear, but this was meant to be my afternoon off, you know. Are you any closer to making your choice?

Me: There isn't one, is there?


God: Not really.


Me: Are you sure you know what you're doing?


God: You can always come back and sue me..


Me: I think someone already tried that, didn't they? 

God: I hate to press you..

Me: A black, impotent, gay, disabled Prime Minister, eh? Ah, what the hell, okay let's get on with it..