Sorry, what was that?

Writing this I should, be sitting in the calm, peaceful atmosphere of my dining room. Unfortunately I have a tumble dryer. Not one of your new, shiney, space age tumble driers. Oh no. Mine is old. Oh, lets not be coy here. Mine is ancient. My tumble drier wouldnt look out of place if it featured in Time Team. Now, owning a gerictric kitchen appliance would not normally cause me one iota of concern. Except today. Due to the attrocious weather we've all been having, (and the fact that, well lets just say 'domestic goddess' I aint, if you catch my drift) I have accumulated an outstanding amount of washing. I only realised how bad it had got when I witnessed an argument between my two daughters this morning about who was going to use the very last clean bath towel. OK, I thought, I really must tackle this.
That was the start of my problem. Now I know the tumble drier is old, and as such, not going to be as quiet and efficient and sleek as new model (are any of us?) but this is something else.
The noise is unbelievable. It whistles. Not Green Sleeves or the theme tune from The Bill or anything, but more the way I would imagine a parrot would sound, having a vasectomy sans anasthetic. It does this constantly. The whole time it's on. Now I am not in a position to rush out and purchase a new one at the moment, so, as I explained to the girls, we will just have to get on with it, stiff upper lip and all that. I thought they were taking it rather well. They didnt say much, just smiled and nodded. It was then that I realised I'd been left to it. They were'nt hearing me or the apocalyptic din of the satanic drier. They'd plugged in to their MP3's and were completely oblivious. Well, if you cant beat 'em, as they say. Anyway, if anyone reading this was thinking of popping round for a coffee or anything, I'd advise against it. Unless you bring your MP3. I can recommend Beethoven's 5th, anything by Metallica is good too. Oh and if you can lip read that would really be a plus.

It only hurts when I laugh

Splosh. That was the very undignified sound I made this morning when I slipped over in the ice/slush/snow. Thunk, that was the other sound, caused by my elbow rapidly coming into contact with the ground, only marginally later than my bottom. I was wet, I was cold, I was in some pain. I was also somewhat embarrassed, fortunately there were only two, rather startled, cats to witness my ice dance, but they have that aloof air, dont they? So whats the first thing I do? Pick myself up, check for broken bones, cuts or scrapes? No. Maybe it's my peculiar sense of humour, maybe I'm just slightly unhinged, I really dont know. I laughed. Not a giggle or an embarrassed grin, I howled. I actually couldnt get up for laughing. It took me a good two to three minutes to get myself under some sort of control for goodness sake.

Why? I imagined watching myself. Saw, in my minds eye, my legs, shooting out before me, my arms pinwheeling to try to regain my, obviously too far gone, balance. But most of all I imagined the suprised look on my face. Just writing it down has got me started again. I am battered and bruised, hobbling and limping, but oh! how I laughed.

I suppose the moral of this is, if you should happen to fall down in the icy weather, I hope you dont hurt yourself too badly, I also hope there arent too many people about to make you feel silly but, secretly, I hope I'm there!

Press to delete

Another Saturday of overtime behind me. Sunday spent cleaning, washing, ironing and generally tidying up. I, once again, find myself at my keyboard attempting to write at least one or two paragraphs that I will not end up deleting. That is the problem, the delete button. What, I wonder, would life be like if there was a delete button, for real? Would any of us survive for long? The guy that pulled out on me in Hamlet Court Rd for instance, well, he would have been instantly zapped. The woman in the ridiculously long checkout queue in Iceland who decided she wasnt going to see me, patiently waiting my turn, and plonked her basket on the counter in front of me - erased. Fans of opposing football teams....you see where this could lead? Of course some of us would be OK, it would only be the really annoying people that would have anything to worry about. The rest of us are just occasionally a bit daft, I seem to remember, several years ago, I inadvertantly washed my husands wages, nestled safely as they were, in the back pocket of his jeans. Oh, how we laughed. Well, eventually. I say, its got very dark in here has'nt it?....hello? .......... Is anyone there?.......hello?

The Continuing Adventures of Noggin & Ted

Saturday, apres overtime, finds me penniless as usual and tired to boot. Being creative is not easy when your eyes keep closing of their own volition. Perhaps I have, inadvertantly, 'bitten off more than I can chew', in that I am, at present, writing a short story (horror) a childrens book and the original 'novel'. Maybe I should concentrate on completing at least one at a time. Alternately, I could amalgamate the three and see what happens.

'He stared, unable to comprehend the brick wall the other side of the door. He ran to the window and threw open the dusty velvet curtains to reveal.......Noggin and Ted, Noggin was waering his bright red wellington boots, 'Oh Ted, he smiled at the little bear, 'I'm so happy with my beautiful birthday present, they really are the best boots ever!' Ted laughed his gruff little teddy bear laugh.......ironic really, he thought. 'Two divorces, three years in therapy and all because, it turns out, I have a shoe fetish.'

Oh, well. Maybe not.

In a Fair and Just World

In a fair and just world I would be living off the immense advance for my next (in this world I am prolific) best selling novel. My public would be waiting with great anticipation for the next, thrilling exploits of my well loved (Harry Potteresque one might say) hero. I would drive to the meeting with my (fawning) bank manager, in my British racing green BMW. We would have coffee, share a joke, discuss world events and ask after each others families. He would insist I came to dinner soon, I would reply that I'd 'call him'. I would leave with a cheery word and a nonchalont wave. The bank manager would stand on the steps until I was a just a speck in the infinate distance, he would be smiling at his good fortune.
Unfortunately 34p of ones overdraft left two weeks into the month does not seem to impress Bank Managers as a whole.