I have ordered a new pair of wellies from Amazon for the daily walk to school. My current hardly-at-all-old pair has developed a fissure along one toe. I only noticed this when I was wading along the stream that flows brownly past bobbing Argos bags en route to the afternoon pick up, and I was not pleased. They are a glamorous pair with pink spots and white swirls, bought to ease my daughter's pain in ackowledging a wellie-wearing, stream-paddling mother in public. I now distrust wellies with spots and swirls, so order a safe-looking green pair. Better to be waterproof than glamorous. Royal Mail gets them as far as my door, thrusts through a 'Sorry you were out' card, and promptly loses them. Amazon is sympathetic and dispatches a replacement pair. This also makes it to my door and again a card is left. This time I decide to pick them up in person from the Royal Mail depot. The man behind the glass screen makes off with my delivery card and probably has a cup of tea and
Daily Mail columnist Liz Jones has provoked the ire of Twitter with by declaring that mummy bloggers are blinkered dimwits whose lives are spiced by Napisan. I'm afraid I have to sympathise with her, for all of her prejudices echo my own: Writing about my life has pretty much ruined it. Supper last night was an elderly carrot glued to the fridge shelf by a pool of brown mucus and the floor was flooded when I left the bath taps running because Blogger has diverted me from domestic essentials. I've had to shut the children in front of the television when a new post has assailed me and some family members no longer speak to me because Twitter interactions leave me no time to reach the telephone. But there is a big part of me that thinks writing should be hard: you should cringe whenever you press that 'publish' button. Artists – and I'm sorry, I do consider myself an artist – have to wrench the dirtiest, most disgusting part of their inner soul and show it t
The picture is the prompt for this week's 100-word Challenge . The orange spot daubs trees that are to be felled to make way for the rest. It's an apt choice as our ash trees are incinerated, but it made me think of a worn leather album that records my family through the 1930 and 1940s. There's the woman in uniform beaming in a field, a teenage Hercules posed in a loincloth and a girl in a garden with dramatic tumbling hair. Each died young and violently - the woman crushed during wartime training and the teenager electrocuted at work. The flowing-haired girl slit her throat. I gaze at their smiles and hunt for a portent - a sign in their eyes that they knew Fate had marked them. But they gaze gaily back, vitality frozen in sepia. And now I fear future eyes finding my albums, studying the smiles of my children with the awful benefit of hindsight.
This will get us through the vicar's sermons.
ReplyDeleteNow I know why Spanish beer tastes of cats' pee...
ReplyDeleteI'm guarding the good stuff....hic
ReplyDeleteMy eyes are too beautiful to be seen in public all the time! bye
ReplyDeleteI found the EMPTY box... someone else drank the beer ... honest! hic
ReplyDeleteIf I hide in here I might some beer
ReplyDeleteDon't forget your pets this Christmas
ReplyDeleteSan Miguel's advertising idea of getting a free cat with each cartoon was a roaring success!
ReplyDeleteIs it a coincidence my eyes are the same colour as lager?....hic!
ReplyDeleteTa da! What? Oh, right, you said Puss in BOOTS. Sorry.
ReplyDeleteWho's the designated driver?
ReplyDeleteA cat is for life not just for boozing . . . ;)
ReplyDeleteWhat beer? *hic* *meow*
ReplyDeleteMiaow who drunk all the cats piss?
ReplyDeleteI'll be hibernatingin here for the next few weeks, come and get me when all that darn christmas fuss is over
ReplyDeleteIs it safe to come out? Has xfactor finished yet?
ReplyDeleteAnother reason to drink San Miguel - it comes with free cat carrier! (pet not included)
ReplyDelete