The Story of My Gnashers (Continued)

Firstly, a Happy New Year to all my readers wherever you are in the world! Thank You All for repeatedly reading My Witty Ways and putting up with the utter nonsense that I write. You are brave, noble folks indeed! (Fool hardy perhaps but, nevertheless, exceedingly brave.) Anyhow, you have no idea how happy it makes me when I look at my blog statistics and see that I have had a hit that hasn't come from either Rampton or Wormwood Scrubs. So many thanks to you each and everyone of you and my very best wishes for a peaceful and prosperous 2010 to you and your families.

Now before I get on New Year Resolutions in my next post and my newly composed Mrs T's Hot Dish Diet (It's a corker!) I feel I should conclude the story of my gnashers. (That's English slang for teeth - just in case you didn't know.)

Well after my last agonizing post, I decided to take control of the situation as my intuition was telling me things were not improving. I rang my dentists on the morning of Christmas Eve who then decided they couldn't fit me in their schedule. (Bearing in mind I was told they would do a root canal for me on 24th if things had not improved I was not particularly impressed. ) So I then rang the NHS emergency dental service who said they couldn't see me unless I had chest pains or severe facial swelling.

Again, not particularly impressive. Chest pains?? With toothache?? Hmm. Of course, after over a week of agonizing toothache and going do-lally on painkillers I reckon I wasn't far off having chest pains. However, not being one to cause a fuss, I decided the only course of action was to go private otherwise it was likely things were just going to deteriorate during the course of the vacations.

Yep, and I was right. Because I didn't just have an infection, I also had a broken tooth that had split from top to bottom that somehow my lovely new dentist had failed to spot. I therefore had my tooth extracted, my mouth stitched (Just the rear bit folks not the lips!) for the cost of £73.00 by a private dentist. So I now have another new dentist; a thoroughly charming South African gentleman who, I think, was most impressed by the fact that I did not pass out at the size of his big needle. Now I know lots of people are squeamish about the dentists but fortunately I'm not one (for reasons explained in previous post) but nevertheless my new dentist kept probing me;

"Are you sure you're alright with injections Mrs Turley? Are you sure? Positive?

"I'm Sure."

"Now don't worry about the size of my needle, I'll be very gentle. It'll just be a little prick, I promise."

" I've no problems with little pricks. Fire away."

"Really, I'm sooo sorry to do this to you Mrs Turley the first time we meet!" (Plunges in big needle rather enthusiastically.)

At which point my tongue went numb - which was probably just as well because I think there was some rather naughty phraseology on the tip of it.

Anyway, after quite a lot of twisting, jerking and general rotating of the pliers my tooth came out. Whereupon, I gave a big long sigh because I knew that things would finally start to get better. My new dentist, however, expressed concerned at my exhalation;

"What's the matter Mrs T? Has my little prick upset you? Or the extraction?"

"No, I'm fine. Honest. I really have no problems with pricks or extractions. It's just the mouth wash. Yuck!"

Ho hum.

So all's well that ends well. My mouth is on the mend. At last. And my new dentist may just have come up with a cure for my insomnia. (More to come on that... but it has nothing to do with his little prick - just in case you were wondering.)

However, my tooth saga has been quite a painful episode and not the first unsatisfactory experience I've had with the NHS whose treatment of my father during his decline from cancer was shoddy to say the very least. But I'm a big supporter of the NHS. There maybe times when things don't work out as they should but, on the whole, it's still a wonderful service.

That said, I think it's time for me to quit my NHS dental practice and go private permanently. I'm at an age when I need to start taking better care of myself and a private practice seems to offer that solution. I guess I'm lucky that I have choice in the matter but I know many people don't and so I'm truly grateful that we have a service in the UK which in times of genuine personal crisis, chronic illness, and life and death situations is always there to serve us.

The NHS is a Great British Institution and long may she continue.

(Just not in my mouth.....Ho Hum.)

See you all soon!

Happy New Year!

Mrs T

XXX

(Unfortunately) Sober Ramblings II

Agony, agony, agony, agony, agony........

I can't believe I have put up with this toothache for almost an entire week. Nothing is working; antibiotics, painkillers,

NOTHING...........................................Arghhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

If the dentist doesn't do something tomorrow I will pull my own tooth out! With pliers. Or string. Or maybe pliers and string together. Or maybe I'll just take a mallet to my head....

Hmmm..no wait a minute that means I'd probably be dead. Maybe that's taking it a little too far.....

I must remember to sob uncontrollably for sympathy at the dentists, perhaps even wring my handkerchief out and collapse to my knees whilst beating my head against the wall. Maybe that way Mrs T would get a better response?

Yep, unfortunately, I was brought up in the good old fashioned English way (which is increasingly rare) which is to have a stiff upper lip and grin and bear it. Yes, we Brits have a habit of underplaying things....we say things like....

"Never mind both your legs got blown off darling - you can still wave for your bus!"

"Oh super, now I've got alopecia, I won't have to pay for a haircut! What a bonus!"

"Never mind the cataracts dear, it's all good practice for your role as King Lear at the Am Dram Society....."

However, I also have another problem. I tend to make jokes. Yes, even when I feel like death warmed up I can usually find something to laugh about. It's a problem for me and I must remember not to do it in future because I'm sure doctors, dentists, teachers and god knows who else think I can't be in pain or don't need to be taken seriously....I must stop being silly!

Anyway, last night in a moment of nightmarish half sleep I had a dream......

I dreamt I was at the altar again with Mr T. He turned to me, proffering his hand, and said...

" With this...... remote control.... I thee wed."

Yes, the gold band had been replaced by a small black rectangular object that has been welded to his hand ever since.......

Why, why, why do men have such a fetish for being in control of the telly and why is it that they keep flicking over the channels? By God, I only have to blink and the screen's gone from Inspector Morse, to Strictly Dancing to CrimeWatch. In fact, there's as much chance of me following the plot of CSI as there is as George Bush making a comeback........ i.e none at all!

Yep, after years of study of the male and female species I've concluded the following....

Women need;

Love. (Lots of it.)

Affection. (Lots of it.)

Chocolate. (Even more of it.)

A clothing allowance. (A reasonable sum.)

Caresses. (For obvious reasons.)

Foreplay. (ALL the time.)

And....even more love. Naturally.


Oh and maybe some flowers from time to time.

And men need....

A television.

A remote control.

Alcohol.

More alcohol.

A woman. ( Preferably one who is blind, deaf and like to open the front door stark naked.)

Thus speaks Mrs T. A wise old(ish) woman. With toothache.

(Unfortunately) Sober Ramblings.

Yes, it's the early hours and I have the dreaded toothache again.

Joy. Especially as I am stone cold sober. I went back to the dentists yesterday. My dentist concluded that the antibiotics are not working. (I think my description of getting drunk in the early hours may have helped.) So I have now another, more specific, course of antibiotics to run concurrently with the other. Unfortunately, the dentist's parting shot to me was;

"Mrs T, I advise you not to drink with these particular antibiotics as you will be violently sick."

Darn it. Darn it. Darn it. Life is cruel.

Anyway, in the last half hour I've dosed myself up with paracetamol, Nurofen and the 2 antibiotics and now I'm killing time before they all kick in. Well hopefully. If not, it could be another long night...................

You know I didn't feel too special yesterday morning. In fact, I felt decidedly queasy. There's a surprise! Anyway, the dentist tells me if the pain is not easing by Wednesday he will just drill out my root canal on Christmas Eve. Why how lovely! What a delightful Chrissy prezzie! Further, he told me..

"I'm afraid if the antibiotics don't work Mrs T it will be painful. Very Painful."

Excellent, excellent. (Please detect note of sarcasm - I am not a masochist.) Fortunately, I've got a high pain threshold - although you'd probably not think so with all the midnight whinging I've been doing lately.

Oh some good news...I found my car keys. It took 3 and a half days of tearing the house apart only to find them in the rubbish covered in spaghetti bolognese.

I hasten to add this was Mr T's home made spaghetti bolognese which hadn't gone down too well with the kids. Hmm... if there's one thing I've learnt with kids -if you are going to be a poor cook be consistently poor - otherwise when they get something decent they get confused......

Well anyway, back to pain. I know all about it. I've had three children you know. I've even given birth with no painkillers - well except that gas and air stuff. Which is good you know. You can believe anything under the influence of that stuff. I mean I believed Mr T was genuinely concerned about me during Master Benedict's birth. I mean he even managed to ask me some questions.....

" What do you think the answer to twelve across is? I think it's an anagram."

Hmm...

"Shall I get sandwiches from the canteen or shall I just nip home?"

Hmmm.....

"I wonder if they have any more comfortable chairs?"

Hmmmm..................

What is it with men? There I am giving birth - which, whatever they say, sure feels completely unnatural to me - and Mr T is worried about whether twelve across is an anagram or not. Still I suppose he was present at all the children's births which is something. It wasn't so long ago that men never did that kind of thing. My father was certainly never present at my birth or any of my siblings. In fact, I remember him pacing up and down the kitchen during the birth of my younger brother whilst we children took guesses at the name of our new sibling. Yep, while we considered all these fanciful, exotic names we overlooked the obvious; the same name as my father. Yep, he was John Junior or as we called him...Johnnie. Or sometimes "that irritating small person who makes a lot of noise in the night"....well you know....whichever slipped out first.....

Well on to other matters. (Sorry about the random nature of these posts lately.) Well we are under snow at the moment in the UK. It's the first time I remember snow before Christmas well for years.... in fact I can't remember snow before Christmas at all. There's snow all over Europe too and, I believe, severe snow sweeping parts of the US.

I can't help worrying about our climate.... especially after my interview with Paul Brown and reading his book Global Warning; The Last Chance for Change. Paul isn't like one of those shoddy journalists who'll just write anything to sell papers; he's old school. Indeed, he sat in my home and we discussed climate change for several hours. He has such a vast knowledge and, what's more, he understands the science behind climate change having studied and reported on it for years. That's knowledge that the average lay person doesn't have. I'm a terrible skeptic as you know (about pretty much everything) but well when I met Paul I felt I could trust him. You know how sometimes you meet a person in life and you instantly trust them ? Well I felt I could trust Paul to disseminate the information I don't have the scientific knowledge to truly understand - for climate change is a complex issue - and present it to me in a way which would enable me to make a proper and balanced judgement.

And I do believe climate change is happening. How severe it will be will depend on how we change the way we live in the next few years. It's obvious from the Copenhagen conference that some nations are still putting short term prosperity over global long term future. I guess if the 2 degrees tipping point is reached which will trigger runaway climate change believers such as myself will have the last laugh.

Unfortunately it will be one laugh I don't actually want to have.......

Gez, getting drunk in the night is so much more fun! Roll on 7 days time when I'm going to get merry!!

Gosh, it's nearly 5am. Hmm... I'm feeling decidedly cold now but at least the painkillers are working ......

Off to bed.....

Drunken Ramblings II

Yep, it's nearly 3 am and I'm up again with toothache. There is now more than one gremlin knocking on my tooth. I'm thinking the infection I have is most probably now an abscess as the 4 days of antibiotics, the Nurofen and paracetamol aren't making the blindest difference.

So I've decided to resort to a tried and tested formula for such times.... alcohol. Yep, I've just examined the drinks cupboard and I've elected for the 35% proof Glayva, a whisky liqueur. Yummy! Of course, I don't really recommend such a cocktail of drugs but hey it's Christmas, I've got severe pain and I'm prepared to try a new tactic for a few hours kip. So if this post ends abruptly you'll know I've passed out with my head on the keyboard.

Ooo..glass no 2 already. Excellent!

Dentists. Don't you just love 'em. Still I suppose I can be glad The Butcher has retired and on Friday I had a lovely young dentist (who God willing will see me tomorrow at short notice again.) My current problem is The Butcher's fault who just did not listen when Mrs T said she had a problem brewing. "It's just sensitive teeth." Ah.... God bless him for that other occasion when removing my wisdom tooth he broke the tooth in front as well and I had to have that one pulled out too. 2 abscesses in a month on that occasion. Fantastic!

Ooooo glass no 3! Only small glasses you know....it is liqueur. Ahh Glayva has a nice little bite to it! With any luck my mouth will be numb in a minute and hey, since everyone is asleep it won't matter if my tongue lolls out my mouth like Deputy Dawg. Thank God for small mercies!

Hmmm..another 2 glasses and I reckon I might be able to manage a chocolate Brazil nut - on the other side of the mouth of course. I mean, I wouldn't want the constabulary around thinking I'm conducting human scientific experiments when my screams reverberate down the street.

Ohhh..glass no 4! Again, I think I need to reiterate that these are small glasses.... but you know I'm beginning to feel strangely warm hearted. In fact, I'm even beginning to feel an affection for Tom Cruise..... the stuff is clearly working. I'm entering into the Christmas spirit (literally) and feeling generous to my fellow midget. I mean, "man" of course. A happy Christmas to the lovely Tom and I just like to say I loved Tom Thumb. A masterpiece if literature - why the hell doesn't he make it into a movie. I reckon he could produce that on a very small budget. Ho hum.

Right..what next? Ahhh... yesterday evening Mr T, myself and the two younger masters went to a lovely carol service conducted and arranged by Mr A (or Dr A I should say) - that's Mrs A's other half. It was lovely.... apart from the fact that just as I'm getting into the mood Master Ben nudges me, I lean down and he whispers to me;

" My dingly dangly bit is going stiff."

Okay readers. He might have used another term - but I think you know what he was saying. Blimey, I had such a hard time stifling the giggles! Of course, what I should have been doing is wondering why Master Jacob wouldn't say boo to a goose and why Master Ben feels the need to discuss the intricacies of his manhood during church. All I can say is - I hope he doesn't want to become a vicar otherwise I could have a serious problem on my hands.

Well, he could. I'll just have to stump up the bail.

Ohh...I swallowed then without pain. Things are looking up!

Umm...nope spoke too soon. Time for a refill.

You know I'm sort of approaching a new year's resolution. I think it's time to start taking care of myself. I've spent the last 18 years taking care of my family (and nothing's gonna change that) but I think I need to quit some of the other things I do and start taking more care of myself. I'm mid forties now and well....things aren't what they used to be. Hmm.... something to contemplate there. 10 days to mull it over before the New Year. Any suggestions anyone?

Yep, so a few days ago Master Sam turned 18. I 've got to admit that apart from the underpants issue, the filthy bedroom, the inability to remember anything he was told more than 5 minutes previous, the almost daily routine of missing the school bus no matter how much I prompt him, the decaying sandwiches under his bed, the fact that I haven't seem a letter from his school in about 5 years, the inability to decide what he wants to have for breakfast without contemplating for at least 30 minutes and using all the hot water from the tank so there's never enough for me.... well apart from all that.... he hasn't been a bad son. In fact, he's been pretty good. Of course, there's been times when I've told him otherwise and raised the suggestion that he was swapped at birth by the midwife. Of course, I've swiftly had to retract that statement by the following one....

"Unfortunately, I know you're mine. As there was only one other child born that night. And that child wasn't Caucasian."

Yep, he's definitely mine; I never fancied that milkman; it was the acne that did it.

Did you notice how politically correct I was there? Blimey, you can't say anything in the UK these days without being labelled a racist just for even mentioning colour or religion. It's kinda ridiculous. And a "Disabled Toilet" isn't a "Disabled Toilet" anymore - it's an "Accessible Toilet"...... unless it's not working. In which case it is "Disabled."

Get my drift?? All a bit crazzyyyy!!!

Anway, with any luck (and with a good boot up the backside) Master Sam will be off to university to study History and Politics next year. I guess he takes after me in that respect as he's fascinated by history and, frankly, he's far better read than I was (in historical terms) than I was at his age. I'm a bit worried about the "politics" bit though. I mean I'm pretty sure he's inherited my political viewpoint.... which is sort of right wing with leftist tendencies. But not down the middle. Sort of.... tyranny with a humanitarian feel. Know what I mean? Nah, you don't do you ?! Don't worry neither do I..................

Anyway, what I'm contemplating is... what if Master Sam goes into politics? What if I then had to assassinate my own son? Gez, that would be a hard card to call!

This Glayva is good stuff you know. I heartily recommend it. I would recommend a beaker though ... just for ease of administration.

Umm... I've now lost count of how many glasses. But hey, I'm feeling quite jovial but unfortunately for you readers not likely to pass out just yet. So what next?

Hmm.... let's talk Christmas TV viewing. Look, I'd just like to say I love Morecombe and Wise...but well they've both been dead for 10 years or more...can we have something new?? Blimey, every year it's the same old stuff. It's no wonder half the nation watches the Queen's Speech at 3pm when the only alternative is The Sound of Music again. Look, I love Julie Andrews but when I start to think a nun's habit is fashionable I start to get really worried.......

And let's not even mention those dreary soap operas. Am I the only person in the UK who doesn't watch that drivel? Why is that that the cast spend all year fighting, punching and generally just being unpleasant and come new year they all have a big shin dig and love each other to bits? Come on get real! I want to hear about a massacre on Albert Street - you know like in real life when the mother and law and daughter in law fall out over who is basting the turkey or whose going to pull the cracker with her son.......

Hmm....well back to the Queen. She's great isn't she? 80 plus and still going strong. Mind you, she needs some elocution lessons - I just can't understand a word she's saying during that her Christmas speech. And as for Charlie Boy... well he's special... in a sort of heir apparent sort of way.... that talks to flowers. But that's good because we need a "green" monarch. And Charlie sure beats the hell out of Shrek. Although I kinda like Shrek... I think it was the ears. Hmmm.. something he and Charlie have in common.

Ohhh.... I just like to make a formal complaint about Comet the electrical retailers who failed to deliver Master Sam's laptop I ordered especially for his Big Day. Yes, not once, not twice, but THREE times they failed to deliver. I loved that excuse they gave to Mr T on the Saturday when I had to leave home half way through my extended call to them....

"We tried to to deliver on Friday at 6.15 but no one was in."

Hmmm.... could I just point out to the lovely customer service team at Comet that at 6.15 on Friday I was on the phone to your good selves asking where the laptop was. In fact, I was in my kitchen, Master Sam looking concerned at my side, which happens to overlook my driveway. So I might just have noticed a van pulling up outside, perhaps a gentleman walking up my drive way, the floodlights going on AND someone knocking on the door. Indeed, had I been suddenly struck by a sudden paralysis and acute hearing loss I might also have noticed that little calling card they are suppose to leave when you are out......

Hmmm... two words spring to mind. " Blatant" being one and the other being "Lie." I feel an Arnold Schwarzenegger type letter coming on. Although it is Christmas so maybe something more poetical would be appropriate....

Let me think.

Comet rhymes with Vomit!!! Ohhhhhhh....................................................

Unfortunately, I may have to leave that to another day. Because you know what.... I feel... a little drunk............

You know that keyboard looks surprisingly attracti....................

Grrrrrrrr and Brrrrrrrrr and Midnight Tales

Yes Grrrrrrrrr and Brrrrrrrrrrr! It's early morning here and I have toothache! And it's cold and snowing outside! I'm all crossy wossy cos I should be all tucked up nice and cosy in my bed but alas there is a small gremlin tapping away on my tooth. Huh, and if that isn't enough bad news I've spent the last three days searching for my car and house keys and after ripping my house apart I still can't find the darn things. Life is sooo unfair!

Reluctantly, tomorrow it looks like I shall have to get the locks changed. My car has not been stolen so there's a good chance the keys are in the house somewhere and logic is screaming out at me.....Who the hell would want to steal my car with all its dents and scratches and an interior which looks like someone has let off a packet of party poppers?

I mean if you're going to steal something you want something that looks the biz don't you? Not some beat up Ford which looks it hasn't been valeted for a decade. Still, I guess I can't take the risk....

Anyway, I've got burglars on my mind at the moment. Cos well an Englishman's home is his castle you know and in recent years there's been a number of burglaries and car thefts from our village so I can't help being concerned. In fact, thinking about my lost keys reminds me of one such burglary a couple of years back at my good friend Mrs C's house. Now long term readers may remember Mrs C is the lady with the chickens that Master Benedict has an affection for and who is also a member of the local constabulary.

Now unfortunately, one night Mrs C forgot to follow her own advice and left her kitchen blind up so all her goodies were on show and also, even more stupidly, forgot to double lock her front door. Shocking behaviour for a member of the constabulary and a known recipe for disaster! Silly, silly Mrs C!

( Folks, you should always double lock double glazed doors as if you don't they can just be popped open with a screwdriver.)

Now anyway, on this particular night of gross inepitude by Mrs C, the good Mr C woke up to hear noises downstairs. Their young son had been sick for the previous few nights so naturally Mr C thought it was their young master up and about. Wearily, he and Mrs C get up. Mrs C pops into the loo and is ensconced in a moment of necessity and Mr C yells down the stairs;

"Young Master, are you alright?!"

At which point there is a flurry of activity and a big bang. (The front door closing.) Now Mr C (who alas is not quick witted) has no idea what is going on. However, Mrs C (although slightly inconvenienced by having her jim jams around her ankles and her derriere poised delicately on the porcelain) is very quick witted and of course being a member of the constabulary is screaming at Mr C;

"We are being burgled! Call the police!"

As I say, Mr C is not quick witted as the obvious reply was "You are the police Dear." However, duly instructed in the art of phoning 999 he makes the necessary call. The constabulary at base control realise, horror upon horror, that one of their own is being victimized and are down the street, lights blazing, sirens howling, like nothing you can imagine. (Except if your name's Tiger Woods and you've unfortunately hit a small fire hydrant in the early hours of the morning.)

On arriving at Mrs C's house, the constabulary find Mrs C standing in her hallway, surrounded by heaps of bags overflowing with stuff. In fact there is stuff, stuff and more stuff.... everywhere. The whole place looks a shambolic mess. The young police officer is duly shocked at the enormity of the situation;

"Oh, Officer C, you have been very very lucky. These rogues were going to clean you out good and proper. Look at all these bags!"

At which point, Mrs C looks all shamefaced and hands over her badge to the young officer, tears beginning to well up, and says...

"I'm afraid Officer P my house always looks like this. They only got my mobile phone."

Yes folks, this IS a shameful story of bad housekeeping. Very bad housekeeping indeed! Now the whole world knows Mrs C is a slovenly housekeeper! So the moral of this story is...

Always keep a tidy house, especially if you are in the constabulary otherwise your colleagues (and very possibly Mrs T) will never let you forget your ineptitude and deficient housekeeping skills! And always, always lock your front door properly!"

Hmm..the paracetamol for my toothache is working so it's back to bed.

I'll just check I've still got a car first though.....

.....and a mobile phone.....

Music Monday; Kenny & Dolly & the adventurous tales of Mrs T

Well you can tell from my last two posts that I have the Bee Gees on my mind at the moment. I'm still playing them in the car and singing enthusiastically along to Jive Talkin', Saturday Night fever, Stayin' Alive and many other classic Bee Gee tracks. I haven't managed to reach Barry's falsetto highs yet - although I did come quite close when singing Tragedy when I saw yet another car parked at the bottom of my drive.

But let's not forget that the BeeGees, in particular Barry Gibb, have also written some fabulous tunes that have been recorded by a host of other artists including Frankie Vali (Grease), Dionne Warwick (HeartBreaker), Diana Ross (Chain Reaction) and of course Barbra Streisand as mentioned in my last Music Monday post. However, today I thought I'd play Islands in the Stream sung by Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers but also written by the Bee Gees. I love the country and western feel they've put into this tune and what I like about both these artists is the way they are such natural singers; no beating of breasts, straining of voices... the songs just slip out with such joyful ease. Easy listening at its best.



Dolly is just great isn't she? Such an infectious happy personality. It really comes across how much she loves singing and performing. Mind you I'd be happy if I had assets like her. But what I really want to know is - how the hell does she stand up? Why doesn't she topple over? Has she got concrete in her heels? It's not fair, the last time I tried padding my modest 36c bra out with some stuffing I fell over and hit my head on the kerb. Mind you, perhaps I shouldn't have used wet Paxo. Maybe the cotton wool would have been a wiser option. Some women have all the luck, well all the boobs anyway. My boobs amount to car crashes and putting my foot in it on a regular basis. (And I'm not just talking about what you find on the sidewalk.) In fact, after I listened to Islands in the Stream on You Tube I listened to one of my other Dolly favourites Jolene and I remembered a time I put my foot in it good and proper. Take a listen to Dolly's chat prior to singing to Jolene.......




Yep, when Dolly talks about the song and about how it is about getting into fight with another women - the Jolene of the title - Mrs T remembered when she once put her foot in it and got into a fight with another girl.

Okay, pick yourselves up on the floor! I've never had a fight over a man (Although if I ever get within 200 feet of Mrs Pierce Brosnan I may have to be issued with a restraining order.) Yep, it was a case of Mrs T not knowing when to keep her mouth shut.....

I was about 13 at the time when we were playing indoor rounders. (That's like baseball) One of the school bullies deliberately tripped over my friend, Monique, to stop her from scoring and she went flying onto the hard floor. Well Mrs T (or Miss D as I was then) was upset cos not only was that extremely unkind but Monique was your genuine dizzy blonde and as harmless as a butterfly. Picking on her, out of everyone, seemed grossly unfair. So anyway Mrs T (not being wise) spoke up and said something like (being the sweet girl I was) "That wasn't a very nice thing to do." (Seriously folks - I was that polite back then!)

However, registering any discontent was obviously not the thing to do with school bullies -because after the lesson ended and we returned to the changing rooms Mrs T found herself cornered by the school bully and her cronies. Ohhhhhhh yes, and Mrs T knew what was coming next...Mrs T was expected to meek and compliant. But as the school bully's hand lashed out to hit poor Mrs T, Mrs T thought.......

" I am going to paste you, you skinny little bully!" (Roughly translated you understand.)

And although folks Mrs T doesn't condone violence in any way, shape or form sometimes she thinks......well you just got to stand up for yourself.

So a dramatic fight ensued.....out of the changing rooms....into the showers.....all the girls were standing around screaming and yelling whilst the bully and I beat and clawed each other. Well she clawed ...I just landed a few right hooks and searing blows to the stomach - I wasn't Right Back in the school hockey team for nothin' you know.

Umm......Perhaps I'd better point out for all my male readers who may at this point have some fanciful ideas about wet naked teenagers in showers that I still had my gymslip on.....

Anyway, let's just say somebody was losing and it wasn't Mrs T. However, all the noise reverberating from the changing rooms attracted the attention of the teachers who came and broke the fight up. Which was fortunate for the school bully because she got to keep her looks - just.

Shame about the nose though.

Anyway the good Mrs T didn't get into trouble when all was explained and you know what? For the remainder of my school years I never had any trouble from the school bullies and neither did Monique.

Enough said.

Except for -I'm a nice girl really. Honest I am.

Hmm....that post was too much information wasn't it? Oh well, obviously I've still got a big gob.

Darn it. Some people never learn. Mainly me though.

Caught Short (A slightly saucy story from the pen of Mrs T.)

Terri’s bike wobbled as the Lamborghini whipped past her doing about sixty mph, sucking the breath out of her and almost making her career into Lisa on her inside.

“Stupid idiot!” yelled Lisa as the slick silver car flew past. The swarthy male driver, eyes shielded by dark sunglasses, made not even the slightest indication of seeing the two shaken cyclists.

“Twat,” said Terri, regaining her breath and pulling a strand of her long black hair that had escaped from underneath her helmet from her mouth. “What a jerk driving at that speed down a country lane. He could’ve killed us.”

“I’ve scratched my arm on those thorn bushes,” replied Lisa, gently rubbing her left arm which now bore a cluster of bright red grazes and a trace of blood. “We were lucky though. It could’ve been worse.”

“Maybe he’ll plough himself into a lamp post and do the world a service by making one less moron with a flash car on the planet,” continued Terri, watching the sleek form disappear, tail lights flashing and tyres screeching as the driver negotiated a tight bend. “Let’s stop at that lay-by ahead and have a drink. I could do with a breather after that fright.”

“Okay, I’ll race you,” Lisa replied, pushing down hard on her pedals, her tanned legs and arms taut as she raced away. “I’m gonna beat you!” she screamed as she took the corner.

Terri’s legs pumped furiously up and down, her knuckles white and her hair flying loose again as she closed the gap.          

“Hey, the Lamborghini,” panted Lisa, slowing down as Terri caught up with her.

The car was pulled up in the lay-by a short distance ahead with the driver’s door wide open and the radio blasting out disco music into the quiet countryside.

“Let’s see what’s up,” said Terri. “Maybe we’ll have the chance to get our own back.”

The girls raced up to the car and dismounted. Taking a good look around and peering into the car, they couldn’t see any signs of the reckless, speeding owner.

“Wow, look at that interior!” said Lisa, pulling off her helmet to reveal her blonde bob and pixie face. She slipped into the smooth leather seat and ran her fingers lovingly around the steering wheel. “Just imagine having enough cash to buy one of these.”

“Yeah, that guy must be loaded. Pity he’s such a clown, otherwise it might have been worth making a move on him. But I think we should give him a lesson instead,” giggled Terri with delight. “Do you see what I see?”

“Oh you mean these?” Lisa pulled the keys from the ignition. “And what about this?” Lisa picked the mobile phone off the passenger seat and tossed it out to Terri with the keys. “How careless leaving a car like this open. He must be totally arrogant or so rich he doesn’t give a damn if anyone nicks it. Where do you think he’s gone?”

“I don’t know. But hardly anyone comes this way. Maybe he was caught short and thought it was safe to leave the car for a moment,” replied Terri, jangling the keys with a wicked smile. “I’ve got a plan; let’s hide further up the road before he comes back.”

Positioning themselves at a safe distance, the girls soon spotted a leg appearing over the stile in the lay-by followed by the body of a tall athletic man in his late thirties with film star looks.

“He’s a dish,” whispered Lisa.

“He sure is. All the more reason to make him suffer,” said Terri, perusing the jean clad demi-god. “And I know just how to do it.”

The man climbed back into the driver’s seat, pulling the door shut behind him. After a brief moment he began to search his pockets. Then his head disappeared down into the footwell and then over to the passenger seat. Finally, he got out of the car and started to retrace his footsteps towards the stile.

“COO…EEE!” Terri held the keys high in the air and waved them to and fro like a tempting treat for a puppy. “Were you looking for these?”

The man swivelled around towards the girls, and removed his glasses, assessing the situation, and the girls’ clinging attire.

“And maybe this?” said Lisa, tossing the phone high in the air, catching it and sticking it down the inside of her bra as the man looked on with interest.

“Geez, he’s seriously hot,” said Terri, speaking through gritted teeth as she dangled the keys. “I’m just gonna love this.”

“I see you ladies have me compromised,” said the man with a slight twitch of his mouth.

“You could’ve killed us back there,” said Lisa.

“I’m sorry. I’m on my way to a meeting and took a wrong turn. I’m running late.”

“That’s not a proper apology. Just excuses,” said Terri.

“Sorry again. Now can I have my keys back now you’ve had your fun?” said the man. “I need to go.”

“He’s a pretty cool dude,” said Lisa. “He doesn’t look in the least perturbed. If anything he’s amused.”

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to work for your keys. Let me see…twenty press-ups should do it,” said Terri.

“Are you serious?” replied the man.

“Yep,” said Terri, trying to keep a straight face.

“And then I can have my keys and phone?”

“Maybe.”

“Jesus. Women.” The man sighed, squatted down on the floor and quickly did twenty press-ups with a practised efficiency. Then he sprang upright and held out his palm. “Right, job done. Hand them over.”

“I’m not sure if that was good enough,” said Terri, turning to Lisa. “What do you think? Shall we give them to him? I think he needs to work harder.”

“It’s very hot today though. Maybe he needs to cool down first?” said Lisa, suggestively.

“Hmm…I believe you’re right,” said Terri, turning back to the handsome stranger. “Okay, Mr Speedy, strip off.”

“For God’s sake, what are you girls playing at?” said the man with exasperation. “Just give me my keys back before I lose my patience.”

“Oooh, you’re soooo gorgeous when you’re angry,” said Terri, revelling in the man’s annoyance. “Now do you want your keys back or not? It’s a long way home.”

“I don’t believe this,” said the man, his impatience soon replaced by tacit compliance as the clinking of the keys caught his attention again. “But you’d better give me my keys back this time, or I won’t be responsible for my actions.”

“It’s a deal,” said Terri, grinning.

Looking uncomfortable, the stranger undid the buttons on his shirt, revealing a muscular torso, and placed it neatly on the bonnet of the car. Terri waved the keys once more as his fingers fumbled over the buckle on his belt.

“Yes, and the trousers,” said Terri, unable to contain her laughter, “And don’t forget the pants. You can leave the socks on though - I like a man in the buff with his socks on. It speaks so much of his style.”

Lisa erupted with laughter.

“Bitch,” said the man, pulling his off his jeans and flinging them into a nearby bush. Then with a dramatic flourish he whipped off his underpants and hurtled them across the car bonnet into the lay-by where they caught on a fence post, hanging in the air like a white flag of defeat.

“I hope you like what you see,” said the man, his sarcasm turning to humour as the girls giggled out loud.

“He’s a big boy,” said Lisa.

“Yes, and if he gets any bigger I’ll be able to hang my washing out,” replied Terri, admiring the man’s assets.

At that moment the high pitched voices of the Bee Gees and a disco classic reverberated from the car.

“Okay, pretty boy. Dance. Travolta style,” said Terri, inspired by the thumping music.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” said the man, raising his eyes to the heavens in bewilderment.

“Nope. Dance. Come on, get moving. We haven’t got all day!”

The man stared at Terri’s resolute face, and then reluctantly started to sway his hips while the sexy beat that had swept generations onto the dance floor blasted out into the countryside.

“I’ve seen more movement in a corpse,” shouted Terri. “You can do better. No need to be shy!”

The man stared vehemently back at Terri, speeding up his gyrations as Terri continued heckling him.

“Come on, baby. Shake that booty. You know you want to!”

Lisa was bent double with laughter, tears running down her cheeks, as wearing only his socks, the man started exaggerating his hip movements to the chorus of Saturday Night Fever.

“Move those hips. Put some passion into it. Shake that butt!” said Terri.

The man turned around and wriggled his bottom furiously at the girls.

“That’s more like it,” cried Terri, enjoying her role. “Now the arm actions. Show us your groove!”

Up went the man’s right arm pointing to the sky and then down to the opposite hip. Turning back around to face them, up went his left arm and back down to his right hip. Now completely uninhibited, the man performed to the girls like a disco king.

“Oh my God, I think I’m going to wet my knickers,” said Lisa, now prostrate upon the floor, clutching her stomach and gasping for breath between bursts of uncontrollable giggles. “I think I’m gonna die and go to heaven.”

“I’m already there,” grinned Terri, casting her eyes over the stranger’s naked body. Returning her grin, the man gyrated his pelvis for her appreciation. “Boy, he can really move.”

“Oh my goodness, I think I’m going to pass out,” said Lisa, wiping away her tears.

“Come on, it’s the last chorus, give it your all. We want to see some real effort!” cried Terri.

The man continued dancing with abandon until the song came to an end. Terri held out the keys. Breathless and rosy cheeked, the stranger strode unashamedly over to the girls. Bending down, he retrieved his phone from Lisa’s bra as she lay curled up in a ball in the middle of the road, still laughing.

“Naughty girl,” said the man before turning to Terri and holding his hand out to receive the keys. “And you, young lady. I guess you’d like to see more of my moves?”

“I…um…ah…” Terri’s eyes flicked downwards, her cheeks turning crimson. When she looked up the man was grinning with amusement. Terri dropped the keys in his palm.

“Hmm…lost for words,” said the stranger. “That makes a change. Now unfortunately, I have a meeting to attend. A pity. I was just getting into the mood.” The man’s eyes twinkled with merriment. “But who knows, maybe we’ll meet again.”

Collecting his scattered clothes, the man put his clothes back on with no sign of his earlier embarrassment. Then, with a farewell salute, he jumped back into his car, fired up the engine and pulled out of the lay-by. As the car approached Terri and Lisa, the driver’s window slid down. The man leaned out of the window and handed Terri a business card.

“See you around, girls,” he winked and, with a roar from the engine, he sped off into the distance.

“Who is he?” said Lisa.

Terri looked down at the card. “It says, ʽMike Morgan, Car Valeting Service. Whenever. Wherever. We dance to your tune.ʼ ”

“Oh my God, do you think it wasn’t his car?” said Lisa. “And he isn’t rich?”

“Who knows,” grinned Terri. “But I’m not complaining. He certainly danced to our tune.”

© Jane Turley 2009.

Caught Short is now part of my short story collection A Modern Life which can be found on Amazon. It contains thirteen short stories of varying styles, including some as equally daft as this one!

Music Monday; Guilty Pleasures

Christmas is really on the way and those folks on the radio and in the shops just won't let us forget it will they? Yep, the incessant playing of seasonal songs drives me up the wall! In fact, by the time the Big Day is here I will probably be having nightmares about Cliff Richard turning up in my bedroom singing Mistletoe and Wine. Not a lot could be worse - except perhaps discovering that when your husband said he'd scored a birdie it wasn't quite the birdie you were thinking of.

Still, Mrs Tiger Woods has now got the opportunity to renegotiate her generous prenuptial settlement into an even more generous one. Fabulous! Only wish I'd done a prenup myself. Mind you half of nothing isn't a lot. (Although access to Mr T's garden shed is quite appealing.)

Whoops, got off track there; it's a bad habit I'm afraid. Anyhow... I love that Christmas spirit and some of those old songs like Slade's Merry Christmas Everybody, Wizard's I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day and the ultimate classic Bing's White Christmas. Of course, there are some great contemporary Christmas songs too like Wham's Last Christmas and Mariah Carey's All I Want For Christmas Is You but nevertheless there comes a time in December when I have to switch off the radio because I just can't stand Christmas songs any longer.

And that's what I did this week; I just wanted to hear some truly timeless songs that I can listen to every day of the year, year after year.

So I looked through my CDs and decided to alternate between two unique sounds both of which I adore; the superb voice of Barbra Streisand and the equally superb voices of the BeeGees. And of course, when you put Barbra and the BeeGees together you get something even better...

You get a little piece of magic.

Here's one of my all time favourite songs sung by Miss Barbra Streisand and Mr Barry Gibb and you know what? I never feel Guilty about listening to this song over, and over, and over again.



Hmm...Barry looks kinda good in tight white pants. And it explains the voice. You wouldn't want to sit down in those trousers though would you? I had a bit of a problem like that myself once. Yep, I went to a conference wearing tight black trousers. Unfortunately it was only when I got home I released I'd developed a rather large split in them. Just as well I was wearing my super dooper big black granny knickers - imagine the embarrassment if everyone had seen my Little Miss Saucy pair! Yikes, it doesn't bear thinking about! Still Barry does looks fab in tight white pants. Maybe not as good as John Travolta in Saturday Night fever though..... Although Barry doesn't have little green men whispering in his ear which has got to be a major plus.

By the by, I just read John Travolta turned down an opportunity to fly on Richard Branson's Virgin space shuttle. Apparently, he couldn't afford time of work to do the six months astronaut training. Hmm.... I didn't know John Travolta was so short of cash! Perhaps he has to pay a personal seamstress to stitch him into his pants daily or maybe he's just eaten too many pies and is worried about fitting into one of those tiny little seats??

Nah, I can't believe either of those.... I think he's just too scared of running into those little green men.

Okay, somebody watch my back please:)

Ps - I really like Barbra; she's such a modest lady. All that money and she still finds a second use for her tablecloth.

The Dog Who Came In From The Cold

Some of my readers will remember that a while ago I enthused about The No 1 Ladies' Detective Agency by Alexander McCall Smith. In the last 3 years I think it was one of a very few books that all the ladies of my book club agreed was thoroughly engrossing and entertaining. Normally, there’s at least one or two ladies that don’t like a book but the The No 1 Ladies' Detective Agency, alongside The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time by Mark Haddon and The Snowing and Greening of Thomas Passmore by Paul Burman has been one of the few that came out with a unanimous show of hands.

So let me tell you about Corduroy Mansions; The Dog Who Came In From The Cold, also by Alistair McCall Smith. Currently, the book is available FREE via The Daily Telegraph, either by reading it online or listening to it as a podcast entertainingly read by Andrew Sachs. (Many of you will remember Andrew as the unfortunate but endearing waiter in Fawlty Towers.)

And it is just grrrreat! Yes, I’m up to chapter 63 and I love it! In fact, I even prefer it to The No 1 Ladies' Detective Agency. I guess that’s because The Dog Who Came In From The Cold has more points of reference for me as it's set in Britain and involves a number of the most ridiculously stereotyped quirky British characters you could ever hope to meet. Yet, at the same time, it's full of wickedly clever observations and perceptions of British society at both its worst and best. As the novel has progressed I find I’m laughing more and more…and the star of the show is Freddie de la Hay – a dog recruited into MI6!

Yes, it’s a silly idea and yes it’s a stupid name for a dog; even his owner is embarrassed to admit that he called it such a daft name …but then it’s just another astute observation by McCall about how we Brits love our animals. By gum, we spend more on our vet's bills than we do on our teeth – it’s truly shocking! And look at me - I called my cat after James Bond! I’m afraid everything you’ve ever thought about us Brits being total fruitcakes will be confirmed by this novel … but what the heck you’ll love it as much as I do!

And I can’t not mention the daft parody of the title The Dog Who Came In From The Cold with John Le Carré's The Spy Who Came From In The Cold. Yes, Freddie de la Hay takes on a Russian Spy ring just like George Smiley but the good news is the plot is a hell of a lot simpler than any Le Carré novel I’ve ever read! Yep, if any of you folks out there understand the plot of Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy please do let me know. In the meantime, I’m gonna stick with Freddie, a Pimlico terrier who, believe it or not, actually lives in Pimlico!

Okay, finally, I should say there are some serious issues underneath all the mirth in The Dog Who Came In From the Cold about friendships, loneliness and most importantly love – and how we all need it. However, I won’t dwell on these because you know you just need to read this book yourself. It's perfect; full of fun and laughter, friendships and folly and ultimately what we say in Britain just “A cracking good read.”

And, if for some reason you can’t get to read it over at The Daily Telegraph you’ll be able to buy The Dog Who Came In From The Cold in 2010.