Dear Adam,
Wiping the top of my tea candle oil burner more thoroughly will help prevent me from knowing it has been used as an ashtray while you've wallowed in the bath.
Mum
xXx
ps.........wrapping a bit loo roll around the cigarette butt also helps to make sure it flushes clean away!
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It didn't hurt too much. Made the next '0' without any major hiccups. My twin sis and my daughter sadly couldn't make it up from London as originally planned, but as Kerri put it, when we do manage our next get-together it will be done in momentous-knees-up style. My lads PrettyBoy and PeaPod, made sure I wasn't heading for snuffleland, as this was the first birthday with that milestone zero in, that I haven't shared with my twin.
Anyhow - I was delighted with the cake that Carlene - PrettyBoy's partner - made for me. Decorated with favourite Swizzel Sweets from my childhood ( Love Hearts, Parmaviolets, Fizzers etc ) with a lolly representing each decade passed, I was in tooth decay Heaven. Later on, PeaPod put to me that in balance, now that I'm getting REALLY old, I no longer befitted my ' a-big-kid at heart ' title, but upgraded to 'a-teenager-at-heart' (with arthritis).
So, God help womanhood if bubble perms, Simon Shirts, and tartan-rimmed cropped trousers are all the trend again. God help Neil Sutherland (my high school crush) Jimbo Miles (my much older brothers' friend ) and Robert McMillan ( my handsome, 6ft 4in 'first' whose arms my big brothers may still want to break ) for ever having ruled my heart. R.I.P Spangles, Peanut Treets and Robertson's Gollywog Blackcurrent Jam. God bring back Tiswas, Barbapapa and Mr.Hopwood from Grange Hill to our HD ready screens, and turn back time to stop Duran Duran, Tenpole Tudor and Sister Sledge from ever having entered the charts.
But, as I may even had been too old back then in teen-mode, I'd easily settle still for a pair of clackers, a Pippa Doll (gee, those girls had class and great taste in men ) and most desired by me, a 3D Viewmaster. Any theme, I'm not fussed. So, c'mon, Lord. I know you can't help Muvva Naycha being a bitch and aging us but how about a mini miracle, a little slice of the past to help ride my remaining years out? There's cake in it for you if you do..........
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I'd never have missed a day at school if Mr.hopwood had been MY woodwork teacher! AND he'd never get away with this kind of 1980's thing in today's classroom.....but ain't he 'andsome!?
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As winter grasps it does its best to trap us all inside
Dimension vast in purest white, horizon lines collide
While in the midst uncertainty will tilt a prying head
And bring about a consequence for each one's daily bread
With heart of stone and iron will, the grinder crunches through
Mechanically groaning for the simple and the roux
And delivers there to many, on the snow filled beaten track
A cart, a heart, a lifeline slowly building up the stack
So let the land be laden with a blanket fit to plough
For the summers brimming harvest covered more than God allows
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We mostly know that I leave cooking and such like to my Cheaper Half! I do occasionally offer my services in the preparation of courses to wit I'm not too bad at . Providing there is a box of Elastoplast and a swear tin handy, I'm happy to chop away.
Strangely, when it comes to the cutting of onions I am extremely tolerant to that making my eyes water. In all honesty, I cannot remember the last time my eyes went bulb moist! I can only surmise the onion is now exacting revenge on the 21st century public, for some past-life humiliating, mutilation treatment or other and I was Queen Onion Worshiper of Ancient Egypt!
Of course, there are plenty hints and trials on how to keep tears at bay while chopping onions. My hubby suggests chopping and slicing the onion under water. But what kind of advice is that? Does he really expect people to keep popping up for air every 60 seconds or so? He may be an excellent cook but he can't half be silly at times...!!
Don't really matter if I'm getting wet
But I can't let my buddy go soggy
It's just him and I and a French cigarette
When the sea air is crystal or foggy
If the wine house has hired a musician like me
Then it's out on the streets to perform
Under a canvas or under a tree
Till the passing of rudeness and storm
Kids shout as they run past, old women hold ears
The scraping out-bellows the tuts
An instrument yearning orchestral austere
Which hurts like a kick in the guts!
Nay, we don't make a fortune, just clutter and noise
Only pleasing the odd girl or fellow
Romanticist's folly from belly to bow
A man and his best friend the cello
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As I'm heading towards the big 5-0 even faster (days now rather than weeks) my thoughts are with my twin, Margaret, abbreviated to Maggs (in England) but Migi (in Scotland). Sadly, due to commitments non negotiable, she has to remain in London, while I have to in Scotland, on the actual day! We as a family still plan a birthday get together shortly after. But I will miss her like crazy on the 27th.
Memories are turned to our youth and school days in particular which resurfaced fairly recently in the shape of Gail McArthur ( I promise to add you on FB soon. Ish. ) whom I bumped into after decades as I was visiting my doctor for my monthly fumble.
I was reminded of what a pair of mental and zany (Migi more than me) girls we were and a stint involving a certain admirer. There was a lad who was really sweet, a geek and a nervous one at that - who really fancied me. He knew the difference between my twin and I easily enough because Migi's first words to him were always :
" Fuck off, Leslie!"
Anyhow - between us we managed to convince him that I loved wheels - prompted perhaps by a favourite book I read (and still do) in my youth. I said I collected them but just in the singular. Car wheels, bikes, wheels from toys - any toys, water wheel, steering wheels from boats, cogs, car rims, any crap like that. We thought no one would fall for that or find it extremely weird and be scared off. But oh, no! Next thing we knew - the back garden was teeming with 'anonymous' round crap - and my dad went nuts as he came to the door with a few 'items' for me. He even went to the extent of making model 'wheels' out of matchsticks for me. Matchstick modelling was big back in the 70's, you know! Now it was time to flatten the poor bloke's tyre before he learned to unicycle!
Unlike my twin's subtle approach towards him, I was ordered to tell him it was all a cruel hoax and I should be ashamed of myself. I didn't. I said my dad told me to get rid of my collection for a proper one. He also said something about an exorcist too, come to think of it! Oh, Leslie......I wonder what you're doing now?
So, with such mad and happy memories, I'm thinking more towards the end of April and arranging a get together as best as, with old mates, ect. There's a few more 50th April birthdays among we friends (I've a good memory for dates!) and worth a consider if the idea kicks in early enough. Old photographs will have to be draped over the walls with the other deco. So many old childhood friends and high school friends have hunted my twin and I down via Facebook, and admittedly, I rarely keep in touch with any of them. Email a few, but my twin was always the popular one of we two!
On leaving high school, Migi parted with, tattoo, 10 Players No.6, felt tip pen graffiti all over her blazer, and 4 inch stilettos. I left with pristine uniform, lip balm, loafers and a snobbish attitude. But Migi has the bigger heart. I can be quite selfish at times but Gail's chat left me missing my twin even more and memories of the things that made us us.
We'll hire a hall get together as many old mates and heart breakers, book a band or two or three we know and just let the youthful fun and confessions explode! We may not ever have shared the same music, taste in blokes, clothes and the likes but our sense of humour and our genes, has never split. And that's wheelie special.
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Not my best topic but I thought I'd try a supernatural theme. I had fun with it anyhow!Can you see the little visitor in the picture...?
There's a tap on the door, that whisper again
as clear as the beam that emits
Drawing me ever so near to the edge
where me and herself often sits
Laughter awakens me, barefooted steps
are chasing the violet scent
That follows me spirally up to the top
as the thrashes of waves circumvent
Ribbons attach to the railings around,
seaweed invites itself in
A brooch hops about with no help from a hand
and lullaby echoes begin
A touch to the forehead, shadows that flit,
a quickening hush of the waves
Things thrown from high in the lantern room,
brought back on the gentlest lave
The sea took a gemstone, all calmness and light
adopting a beautiful pearl
Who misjudged the rocks leading back from the tower
a poor little slip of a girl
Such a beautiful haunting, the lighthouse agrees,
who'll believe it when he comes ashore?
The word of a Mariner heavily fuelled
with a lost soul and whisky galore
So there around runs little Molly,
with eyes of aquamarine
Saying hello with her antics -
felt but yet still to be seen
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My heart goes out to a neighbour today. On passing his house, there are a few signs that he has returned home. Some may have heard of the Glasgow tragedy involving a police helicopter crashing into the Clutha Bar last November, killing 10 people. We knew the pilot's father, Mr Traill, quite well, as he regularly brought his two Collie dogs to our park for exercise and fun. All the kids loved the dogs, Digger and Rambo, and often joined in play with them. This is tragedy enough, but 3 years earlier, he lost his younger son to cancer. It's the initial words, after the sympathy cards are taken down, that I'll struggle with.
In saying that - let me tell you of another happening at a recentish death. My older son's partner, Carlene, returned from the funeral of a family friend, clutching a programme. The planned hyms were popular, speeches fitting, and I think 'Ole Blue Eyes even had an airing. The only hiccup was the photo on front of the cards wasn't of the deceased.
Carlene's mum, the best friend of the dearly departed, organised the keepsake tribute cards, taking in a favourite picture of her and her best friend to the printers and somehow 'someone' got it wrong. Maybe it was grief, panic, hurry, whatever.....it was certainly a clanger of the major sort. However, copies were retrieved and all in all it was considered something the best friend would find very funny. And yes, I couldn't help but giggle, too! But I swear - if Metallica in some way, shape, or funny form find their to my last stand, I'll haunt the guilty one All Nightmare Long......!
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Just a quick poem that takes me back to my youthful, old town roots. It's not ALL from actual memory and stories...*ahem*
'Come unto me', the borough sighs,
amid the air its streets supplies
Offering a multitude
of promises, the night exudes
Ladies dominate the clubs
and smirks at all the men she snubs
Cobbles making ankles twist,
shines sequins dresses through the mist
Venues oozing pitchy beats
while skin and speakers overheat
Euphoric verse from local bands
as strangers hold each others' hands
A blind spot found to consummate
that pent up vibe hormones equate
No safety sake and such like sins
watched over by store mannequins
Alternate night life rarely sought,
where armies ran and soldiers fought
Replaced by battles outside bars,
the rush of rain and midnight cars
Homeward boundings of the younger
slaves to mashed heads and false hunger
Statue crowned with traffic cone
whose iron heart has turned to stone
Unmarked cop cars cruise along
preserving peace and drunken song
Until the city's whisper ends
preparing for its deepest cleanse
And in the morning, bang on six,
the scars of late post-teenage kicks
are strewn like litter on the breeze
contagious and desired disease
Noise and clutter reign again
business cards and fools campaign
In my town where familiar screams
till evening's bursting at the seams
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I actually lived life in the fast lane and remained downstairs after the bells went on Hogmanay, watching a film. My youngest son rolled in unusually early at 1.40am. He was totally rubbered and looked like he was walking with a third leg, so I thought it best to escort him to bed. Not having tucked him in for nigh on 10 years, I found it touching that he wanted read a story and started reciting bits of his favourite book 'Don't Eat The Teacher' that he bought at his very first book club at school aged five.
Our street was remarkably quiet once the fireworks were over and I was ever so thankful no open windows pounded out Runrig, Sydney Devine or Heedrum Hodrum stuff! I slept for a very nice 10 hours, which ended with my face being licked and a cold nose under the covers from Hetfield, my older son's mad little rescue doggie, who seems to be a mix of Jack Russell and Chihuahua, with the personality of a tyrannosaurus rex. We've never had a four-legged first foot before, so let's just see how the year pans out. During the visit, I took him for a huge walk and left my son's and hubby to their yuletide blokes' time and the TV darts' final.
As with Christmas day, I gave thought to our local water birds and took a huge bag of bakery and snack leftovers to their little pond for a feeding, only I rather innocently instigated a cracking swan fight just as I was throwing the food in. A grown cygnet and his mum/dad were beaking and wing-flailing the shit out of each other which resulted in the other swans, ducks and coots getting the best of the food while the dispute went on. Hetfield by this point was going nuts at the commotion and managed to get stuck in the reeds as his runner lead took off full length. So there I was screaming at a tiny dog, twisting and yanking at his lead in fear of him drowning or eaten as a few surrounding houses had people at their windows wondering what the Hell was going on! So much for my quiet escape to the pond park! And we got a soaking on the way home.
Just as I was contemplating an early book and bed night, PrettyBoy's partner Carlene turned up, saying there was a fight at her parent's house over a steak pie, so she decided to leave them to it and stay over here!
On return from my second doggie walk - that near saw a 'ikkle mouse in the jaws of death - I was kinda relieved that the huge bottle of sparkling cherry-wine that PeaPod bought me in an attempt to get me 'mortal' had been near emptied. There's nothing worse trying to force things down through politeness (ain't that right, hubby?) The night led into escapades of doggie dancing, dart and balloon challenges, Amy Winehouse impersonations, ballpoint pen tattoos, drunken psychic readings (that were quite spooky at times) and chatting one-to-one up until 4am, where I found out that Carlene survives on only 3 to 4 hours sleep at a time!
I'm glad to see the old year out and I'm not too convinced the new one will be any better......the first letter I received today was a medical reminder that my bowel cancer kit will be winging it's way to me soon!!
I've survived the festivites by indulging in the Sky Arts channels with Andre Rieu,
classic ballet performances and back to back episodes of (my guilty pleasure) Judge Judy. My resolutions are easy enough. Just keep taking the tablets and deep breaths.......it's over now, honey!
********************************************************* *ps......I'm catching up with my bloglist alphabetically, for a change.......*
I actually lived life in the fast lane and remained downstairs after the bells went on Hogmanay, watching a film. My youngest son rolled in unusually early at 1.40am. He was totally rubbered and looked like he was walking with a third leg, so I thought it best to escort him to bed. Not having tucked him in for nigh on 10 years, I found it touching that he wanted read a story and started reciting bits of his favourite book 'Don't Eat The Teacher' that he bought at his very first book club at school aged five.
Our street was remarkably quiet once the fireworks were over and I was ever so thankful no open windows pounded out Runrig, Sydney Devine or Heedrum Hodrum stuff! I slept for a very nice 10 hours, which ended with my face being licked and a cold nose under the covers from Hetfield, my older son's mad little rescue doggie, who seems to be a mix of Jack Russell and Chihuahua, with the personality of a tyrannosaurus rex. We've never had a four-legged first foot before, so let's just see how the year pans out. During the visit, I took him for a huge walk and left my son's and hubby to their yuletide blokes' time and the TV darts' final. 
As with Christmas day, I gave thought to our local water birds and took a huge bag of bakery and snack leftovers to their little pond for a feeding, only I rather innocently instigated a cracking swan fight just as I was throwing the food in. A grown cygnet and his mum/dad were beaking and wing-flailing the shit out of each other which resulted in the other swans, ducks and coots getting the best of the food while the dispute went on. Hetfield by this point was going nuts at the commotion and managed to get stuck in the reeds as his runner lead took off full length. So there I was screaming at a tiny dog, twisting and yanking at his lead in fear of him drowning or eaten as a few surrounding houses had people at their windows wondering what the Hell was going on! So much for my quiet escape to the pond park! And we got a soaking on the way home.
On return from my second doggie walk - that near saw a 'ikkle mouse in the jaws of death - I was kinda relieved that the huge bottle of sparkling cherry-wine that PeaPod bought me in an attempt to get me 'mortal' had been near emptied. There's nothing worse trying to force things down through politeness (ain't that right, hubby?) The night led into escapades of doggie dancing, dart and balloon challenges, Amy Winehouse impersonations, ballpoint pen tattoos, drunken psychic readings (that were quite spooky at times) and chatting one-to-one up until 4am, where I found out that Carlene survives on only 3 to 4 hours sleep at a time!
I've survived the festivites by indulging in the Sky Arts channels with Andre Rieu,