My Mother, Marilyn Monroe

Hard to believe that this is the same woman who gave birth to me, but here she is in her full fifteen years old glory, on Scratby beach or somewhere else equally exotic in 1952. 

Talk about glamorous. 

I remember my heart always picked up speed when I saw this photograph.  It was like looking at somebody else - which I guess we all are before we become mothers ourselves.

Happy Mothers Day, Mum.  And thanks for... you know, lots of stuff I never realised I had to be thankful for.

Miss you x

Here's One I Made Earlier...

"this is no ordinary chicken leftovers pie..." click to embiggen

Impressed?  I know... I know... no autographs please... it's just a Chicken leftovers pie.  And it actually tastes nearly as good as it looks.  As long as you like Brussels sprouts, which thankfully (clearly) we do!

I always try (hark at me, who do I think I am... Mrs Beeton, ffs?) to make my pastry slightly different each time..  Tonight I've added some dried Thyme to the mixture along with the usual Sage, salt and pepper.

I'm still trying to work up the courage to rub some Sage & Onion stuffing into the mix but I'm scared breadcrumbs might make the whole thing.... um... porous and soggy?

Am I feeling alright?  Regular readers will know that I am allergic to housework and stuff like that, and I'm fast becoming quite a competently crap (?) wife as well as errant mother.  I might loook up an Open University course in it, I've probably already passed.

And whilst I was eagerly.... not really.... more frantically trying to get the damned thing finished so I could get back up here to the 'real' world of writing and blogging, Tweeting and Facebooking, I remembered how much I used to love watching "The Galloping Gourmet" and how he might very well have been my first proper telly crush.  I think it was his cheeky twinkling eyes and the way he leapt over the dining chair at the end of his programme that did it.

Anyone else remember him?  Ah..... pastry rubbing.....

He NEVER swore, he never got cross with anything, never broke out in a sweat and he was always so lovely to his audience.  He even used to invite one member to sit down with him at the end of the programme and eat his meal with him.

I'll stop now.  I think I need a cold compress.

Call me old fashioned...

...but I think I'm old enough now to know what I like and what I don't.
Or rather, what I can tolerate and what I simply can't be arsed to any longer.  And I think I've reached that stage in my life where I'm absolutely allowed to say 'enough', 'move on', 'life's too short' and all that jazz.
Okay, let's get to the point.

My last book came through from the lovely Transworld people when we got back from Italy last week and, dutifully, excitedly, even, I got stuck in straight away.  But I don't like it.  It's full of rich people who run casinos in Las Vegas and who are clearly harbouring ill-gotten secrets that I already am not the slightest bit interested in finding out about.  And there's chicks, airheady bimbos, gangster bouncer-types, babes and stud-muffins - in fact all manner of alien life form (not literally, there's no proper green people prior to page 40) that I just can't  - dare I say 'won't'? - connect with.

Not since my Jilly Cooper heyday with all the horses and the 'gosh'es and the mummy's darlings dripping with education and million-carat mansions have I ever felt less connected to my main characters.  But back then I read them because I didn't 'get' the big deal with horses (my friends rode all the time and I thought I must be missing out on something) and thought the answer may have lain between Ms Cooper's lines.  The sex scenes were pretty cool too, of course.  In lieu of my mother ever telling me what went where, I learnt pretty much what I needed to do when faced with a straw bale, a pure-bred gelding and guy in jodhpurs wielding a whip.

Of course this knowledge would have come in handy had the only horse I ever came into real contact with, not sprayed snot all over my forehead before standing painfully on my foot and putting me off anything to do with stables for the rest of my life.

Some would call it Karma, I call it a lucky escape.

If anyone has a hankering for a gold-plated read, then let me know and the book is theirs.  I don't like to see words go to waste and it's not the authors' fault that I'm not impressed.  If she'd set the exact same story at the head office at Asda I might be more inclined for forge through.
But forging's too much effort, no?

So onto the next book.

Romantic Hero or Funny TV Guy?

Which my lovely niece lent me after she'd finished reading it in Italy.  And... well... call me old fashioned.... intolerant... whatever (go on - I can take anything at my age!) the minute I'd read this in the acknowledgements, I was already slightly irritated before I'd even started...

"...thanks to ***  for your help and enthusiasm, which were much appreciated..."

Is that right?  "were".  I read it once, I read it twice... I read it backwards, I shut my eyes and re-read it.  I even shouted it aloud to the Girl who was in the next room and she shouted back "eeeee-wwww!" so I knew it wasn't just me.

And even though I gave it a fair shot, the whole style of the writing annoyed me to inner screaming levels.  There was a "for" in almost every sentence e.g.  "the air was chilly, for the sun had since waned"  and "she had moved south, for there was no work in York..."  stuff like that.  And normally I'm all for conjunctives... but not the same bleedin' one every time.... per-lease.
And then six characters were introduced in two paragraphs.
Pass me the smelling salts somebody, it's only page 7!
I knew the Right Time had come when I read/re-read/lol'd at this:

..."She had missed him and Lotte a lot, though..."

Lotte... a lot...?  Weren't there any more words in the writer's toolkit than the one that sounded the same as the character's name? does the synonym icon not work south of the border?

And I just couldn't get over the fact that David Mitchell (of Mitchell and Webb/Peep Show - him up there) was actually a character in this either.  Apparently he'd bid at a charity auction to appear as a character in this book.  A wholly admirable thing to do, of course and generally I'm very happy and a bit swoony when he's being all clever and funny on TV.  But as a character in a book, he's not exactly the brooding, swarthy hero I have in my head for moments such as these and I couldn't concentrate properly.

Somebody please tell me it's not just me? Oh, and the Girl.  Maybe it's our Genes.  Do we need ones with slightly more 'give' in them?

If Kermit wore nail varnish

This morning I told the girl (as she lounged about at 9 am in her cool bedroom and her PJ's eating Nutella on toast - her breakfast of choice - because she's finished her GCSE's now and apparently doesn't have to go back to school... like... EVER  - not that one, anyway, she's off to another one in September to begin her Sixth Form) FOCUS, FOCUS FOCUS... that as I hadn't got much to blog about, I thought I'd take a picture of my feet and let everyone see how lovely the nail varnish is that I brushed onto my toes last night.

I can't remember the exact words she used in reply to my plan but I'm certain they weren't "Yay! - what an amazingly brilliant idea, mother, everyone will be thrilled - hell, people may even emulate such a scheme... shall I wash up the breakfast things whilst you're at work and then prepare a lovely greek salad lunch for your return?"
So... there... they are, I mean - I wasn't trying to sound all smug about the toes or the varnish - they just are... there. See?

Hmm... only now I'm thinking it maybe wasn't such a brilliant idea.  They look like Kermit's legs (and toes) but the only light that looked good on them was green.  I think I'm getting old lady legs, but since I'm all of 5 feet and 9 inches away from them most of the time, I never put much thought into them.  And I've NEVER taken a photograph of them before.  This is surely summer-heat-madness or else I really AM hitting the senility rather too soon for comfort.  This is what happens when a person has little to blog about.  they take photographs of their nether regions and turn them green before throwing them out into the WWWorld for pretty much everyblogger to see.

Peter Andre would call it Insania.
Probably.
If he cared.
p.s. doesn't he look like Gareth Gates there?

When Life was Simpler...

That's me on the left.  And that's my best friend holding the bananas. The hunky guy in the furry suit is the Cinema Manager - also my brother - on one of his good hair days. Taken at the opening of the new local Multiplex, I'd like to think that 'King Kong' might have been showing that evening, but I do have a vague recollection that my poor brother was given the only outfit large enough to take his stature - which I'm sure he'd have been delighted with because it maintains the air of mystery (or socio-phobic tendencies) which run in our family. We were all in our  twenties and, really, life couldn't have been simpler.   We shared the same house, shared responsibilities (i.e. I cooked, BF cleaned and sibling paid us both to do his share) and we all got on famously. There was a fourth lodger but we didn't really talk to  him much - he kept himself to himself, worked in something geeky like HR or IT, wore embarrassingly loud shirts and was forever jogging (in said shirts, oddly).  He also lived in the Harry Potter equivalent of a bedroom because we'd all bagged the best rooms by the time he'd got back from a run round the block the night we moved in. He merely served to make up the final quarter of the monthly rental.  Harsh but true.
And the only thing we all (apart from shirt-guy) had to worry about was whether there was stuff  we could make toasties with, if there was wine in the fridge and if, between us we had enough smokes to last until one of could be arsed to go to the corner shop and return with fresh supplies of all the above.
Work was an irritation which got in the way of being back home and having the best laughs I've ever had in my life.  Every weekend we had loud, drunken, hysterical dinner parties and our Sunday lunches became legendary.  Any day with a 'Y' in in it was a good enough reason to throw a party and before long we didn't even want to spend Christmasses away from each other.
And we knew those days were good, even at the time - we squeezed every last bit of fun out of them.
It's seeing a picture like this that makes me realise how easy everything was back then, no real responsibilities, no mortgages, no massive debts, the occasional blip with boyfriends/girlfriends but nothing that ever really got in the way of the life we all shared.  And of course I had no idea that one day, maybe 20 years hence, it would only take a phone call from the 'BF back then' to make me laugh during a time when laughs have been very thin on the ground. And after also not having seen each other for about 7 years, that's a pretty tall order. But then we've always been pretty tall girls.
And she said she'd missed seeing something funny come up on my blog recently, so I think this remedies that.

Just give me a home, where the buffalos roam.

I've just realised (although there's been a dawning of this coming on for a while, let me tell you) why God invented Retirement.  Why Nature invented a General Slowing Down.  Why Time needs so much of it to Work.  Etcetera.  An Epiphany?  A great flash of inspiration?  A sudden burst of hitherto untapped creativity?
Nah.
I just got back from dropping The Girl off on her 'Sixth Form Shadow Day' and accidentally bumped into my reflection in the rear view mirror as I was unclipping my seatbelt.
See Jackie Stallone there?
So did I.
This is clearly what happens to a person who has spent the best part of  their life trying to hold down a job of any description in the name of trying to keep a roof over their heads and something edible on the plate. 
Of course, getting up, dressed and made up in the dark this morning could also have something to do with it but I'm sticking to blaming it on the ravages of Time and Tide. My overworked body is just getting to tired to cope with commonplace funtions best left to youth.  It needs a rest.
And even whilst I adjusted my badly (embarrassingly badly)  applied lipstick from 6 a.m. I almost convinced myself that NOBODY else saw how insanely it had been flung on earlier, especially not The Girl, her boyfriend, his brother, his sister and his parents.  They wouldn't have seen anything at that hour, would they? In the bright lights of their kitchen.  Surely not.  After all, they live in the neighbouring village from Denial where I reside - it's probably in the water. And I'm hurtling towards the age where I just won't give a sh*t anyway. So,  I'm in training.
Embarrassment - moi?
I'd say.

All Downhill from Here...

There comes a time in every mum’s life when she realises she’s ‘getting on a bit’. I guess. I hope. It can’t just be ME, surely? And it doesn’t happen overnight either (unlike the spread of the age round the middle which seemed to just suddenly turn up one morning and has made itself very much at home now thank you) "GOaB" creeps up and taps you on the shoulder at times but you manage to ignore it until one day it flat out hits you squarely round the chops.
Meh.
Case in point this evening.
Girl is off on one of her jolly jaunts (I’m betting she doesn’t call them this and would cringe with a “de-er” and a tongue to the inside bottom lip with dismay if she heard me) this evening – a Christmas Bowling Extravaganza in the city with her Explorer Group (they’re like very grown up Scouts and Guides – they Kayak and Camp and Canoe and Climb and Paintball and do all sorts of exciting things).
Anyway.
Because of my continued afearement of driving in the car and especially at night and because hubby is still whittling in his workshop (Carpenters whittle legitimately – this is not a derogatory term) I refused to take her - with heart in mouth, I hasten to add - because I’m one of those parents who hates refusing my child anything unless it means an outbreak of another war and/or plague/pestilence/flood etc. I can’t help it. I was a deprived child. Which means the Girl will have everything in my power. Anyway – that’s a whole other issue… back to tonight…
So one of her fellow Explorers came to pick her up. Courtesy his own parents, no doubt (they’re all only 16 anyway). And whilst she was stuffing her lovely size sixes into her shoes, I entertained her escort on the front step.
(Are you picturing a Les Dawson type character with pinny, scarf and hair curlers, supporting a sagging chest with crossed arms and toothless smacking gums?)
(Please don’t. It’ll only make matters worse).
‘Hello,’ I said.
‘Hello,’ he said politely back, smiling and everything. They’re lovely these teenagers we have today aren’t they?
‘Well…’ I fumble for a natural continuation of the world “hello”. ‘Um… so…you’ve grown… haven’t you?’
(Note to self: Saying this to a child any older than ten is potentially embarrassing to both parties)
‘What?’ The Girl spins round.
‘Um... he’s grown... Well… haven’t you?’ I flash the Boy a (thinking back, very probably a senile) smile in the hope that he can corroborate my statement. ‘Taller, I mean…’ I fan the flame.
‘What?’ the Girl does incredulous brilliantly.
(The Boy is still very politely standing on the mat smiling nicely and rocking on his heels a bit. Clearly hasn’t a clue what to say. I’m beginning to feel as if I’ve just asked him if he’d like to see some puppies).
‘Well… he’s grown… up… taller – since the last time I saw him. Anyway. Hasn’t he? Look.’ my heart hammers away. I feel a Basil Fawlty moment coming on. I can either dig myself in deeper or else pretend to faint.
I don’t faint.
‘Since my Birthday party four weeks ago you mean?’ The girl says.
Ah.
‘Really?’ I peer at him over the threshold – even though I don’t need glasses for close-up. Maybe he’ll think I do. Maybe She’ll think I do.
Maybe I do.
‘You were at the party, were you?’ Three degrees below outside. Plenty hot in the hallway, I can tell you.
‘Yes mum. Who do you think this is?’ Girl doesn’t so much demand as try to lead me gently to a conclusion that needs to be reached.
‘Um… he’s… young John,’ I say – v-e-r-y slowly, swallowing and actually thinking to myself “Why the frigg did I just say the word YOUNG? Was it my manic attempt at trying to make him appear somehow shorter four weeks ago? It was. It didn’t work.
The Girl shook her head disbelievingly, made a ‘Gah!’-ing sound and hugged me goodbye, patting me on the back …shades of Happy Fields Nursing Home wafted through my ridiculous bones and I could have whipped myself with the nearest Birch twig for my idiocy.
I actually behaved like a total moron.
Like the totally moronic mother that I always vowed I would never become but which I now realise I have absolutely no control over becoming. I am an arse.
An arse with foot in mouth disease.
And now all I can hear in my head are the little whispers of apology she was making to her escort as they walked off down the drive to their car.
I still haven’t located my heart, it sank and slank, never to be seen again.
*whimper*