I apologise profusely for my lack of communication. I had stopped writing in the flurry up to Christmas. But getting out of the habit and a little bit of soul searching left me questioning why I was ‘blogging’ in the first place. The finality of fireworks and bells ringing out 2011 (now to be known as the ‘year my pussy died’!!!???) and welcoming in 2012 made me take stock of my blogging ‘inspirations and aspirations’. Continue reading
My children are getting older and as Christmas approaches and classmates whisper, that year old question arises, ‘does Santa exist?’ As ever I give them my stock answer.
‘Santa will always come to this house.’ Continue reading
His mother, Miss Amelia, a haughty and sophisticated specimen, known for her striking beauty and poise, had been promised to an to an older and more worldly, but highly respected fellow. This arrangement had been carefully contrived to procure wealth and continue the strong lineage for both parties. It was her destiny. Continue reading
I think Halloween signifies a time for nesting in for the winter, getting jobs around the house sorted and preparing for the cold season ahead. Traditionally this is what are forefathers’ would have done. Christmas cakes, puddings, pickling, jams and sweet mincemeat are all ways of preserving the harvests. It’s a wonderful time of the year but it can bring out the inadequate in me. Continue reading
The evenings are getting dark and the rain is never ending. There is a truckload of sweets in the house for Halloween and I’m finding it hard to pass the cupboard without shoving a load of chocolate in my mouth. I am whinging to the English Boy about everything and anything, but mostly about my insecurities.
‘The blog is not getting enough hits, I’m hopeless with social media, the picture and poster business we’ve been working on is a slow burner, I need to retrain but I haven’t a brain cell left, I need more stimulation.’
And on and on, I’m worse than the rain. As the leaves start to wilt so do my spirits. Is it just the season or I’m I entering into the autumn of life… Continue reading
I tread lightly with the question. I don’t want to push them into a corner. It’s such a cliché. I very rarely touch on the subject. But I’ve just heard another blooming successful starlet say ‘I knew I wanted to act since I was two, it all I ever wanted to do.’ I’m just curious if they’ve given it much thought, so I ask my kids,
‘What do you think you might like to do when you grow up?’… Continue reading
I call my daily walk ‘The road to Menopause.’
Braless, my cleavage could appear at the wrong end of my T-shirt.
I recently tanned the underside of my boobs while applying fake tan to my legs.
Think about it!
Workers take to the streets.
Ireland breaks links with existing currency.
Huge petrol shortages due to the Middle Eastern Crisis.
High rates of emigration. Sound familiar?
The Year is 1979… Continue reading
- Winning X factor is not a suitable career plan.
- Straight teeth cost a lot of money. Never remove bottles tops with them.
- Facebook and Uggs will go out of fashion. They will! Won’t they?
- Eyeliner is a gift from the Ancient Egyptians. Use It sparingly and with respect.
- Orange is not a skin tone.
- You’ll know you are in love, when your stomach turns upside down and your face is as pink as Barbie’s Dream House. That, or you have swine flu. Either way, inform a responsible adult.
- PMT, as bad as it is, can be used as an excuse to behave intolerably, eat vast amounts of chocolate, while lying on the sofa, watching rubbish television.
- Your father will annoy you for the next five years. Deal with it.
- Your mother will annoy you for the rest of her life. Deal with it.
- You are never too old to sob uncontrollably in your mother’s arms.
- Man made fibres + underwear = Canesten.
- Winning ‘Next Top Model’ is also not a suitable career plan.
- Life is very short. AND SO IS THAT SKIRT, SO GO UP STAIRS AND TAKE IT OFF!
The pandemonium of small boy and man leaving for football is a distant din; final door slam and there off. I curl up on the sofa, a big pot of tea and a load of toast near to hand, a pile of mags on my lap, television remote ready for when Saturday Kitchen is on. Bliss! In time, my daughter joins me. She loves a lie in with a good book, then a snuggle with her mum on the sofa. More tea, more toast, more bliss. I relish Saturday mornings with my daughter. It’s so calm, neither of us have any expectations of each other, it’s like mother and daughter amnesty. And there we remain, the great unwashed until Rachael Allen’s contrived, super sickly voice forces me to be realistic; I will never cook any of the recipes that I have witnessed in the last hour and a half and the fridge is empty so I’d better get off my sorry ass and get some food in for the weekend. But Saturday mornings are about to change… Continue reading