Friday Night is Chill Night

It's Friday night, so it's chill night. Tonight, I have mixed feelings about chill night as I have a double blow to bear - I'm missing out on a book club night and Mr T is away from home.

 However, on the plus side...

I HAVE FULL CONTROL OF THE TV REMOTE !

Oh sweet joy.

Anyway, before I crack on with the 20 litre case of red wine discarded from the tennis club by the wine snobs, flick through thirty random channels just to irritate the cat and settle on some late night horror movie ( Sex in the City 2) I'm going to play some Friday night chill music.

 Here's Craig David with Seven Days

A Shock Phone Call

The other morning I got a shock phone call at 9.30am.

No, it wasn't from David Cameron offering me a position in the government which is surprising as I would make an excellent MP. After all, I have a lot of experience at doing nothing at all and getting away it. I would fit in perfectly and I'm sure I could find plenty of time to fill in my expense forms.

And no... it wasn't from Angelina Jolie offering me a part in her latest movie as her twin sister. I think it's because I have normal shaped lips. I mean c'mon are her lips for real? Actually, I think her lips are the real thing because she's had them so long. (Since birth apparently.) Anyway, they didn't inflate overnight like most celeb's lips. Hmm...so I guess flicking your finger between you lips as a kid and making brrrrring noises does pay off then.

And no... it wasn't from Barack Obama telling me he got a role in the remake of Dumbo. To tell the the truth I'd never noticed he'd got big ears. But now I know, I've told Master Ben not to worry about the size of his ears as even though he might get his head stuck between some railings he could still become a world leader.

And no, it wasn't from the captain of the Costa Concordia reassuring me that he "fell into a lifeboat." This is because I know how to "fall into a sweet shop", "fall into a bottle of red wine" and ""fall into Marks and Spencer's delicatessen." Get my drift.

And no, it wasn't from Michael Jackson telling me his death is a spoof and he is currently living in Las Vegas disguised as an Elvis impersonator. Because then it wouldn't be a secret and some twit on twitter would announce to the world that Michael Jackson is not dead and everyone would go round to his house and annoy him some more.

Actually the phone call was from Young Sam. Now the first shocking thing about this call was that it was at 9.30 am. Normally, he is still concussed at this time. However, from the timing of this call I deduced that either a) he  hadn't actually gone to bed yet b) he was very short of cash c) he used up his last clean pair of  underpants or d) he had something really important to tell me.

It was d)

Young Sam had rang to tell me that he'd got a first in his latest essay. This is hard to believe as I know him. However, he has switched to philosophy this year which (and I studied it for a year at university) I refer to as the "Bullshitting Degree". Now this is not like a Media Degree which is just bullshit but "proper" bullshit - ie the type politicians use.

So all those years of bullshitting debating with Young Sam in the kitchen have finally paid off.

Now all I have to do is to get him to go into politics and I'm saved from destitution in old age. Free heating bills, trips to Bingo and healthcare for OAPs and I'm sorted. Excellent.

Hmm..Maybe some free trips to the West End Theatres too....and maybe Champneys.

It's not a lot to ask for his beloved mother.

No, really.

3.10pm - Oh come on, somebody somebody rise up in favour of Media degrees. Let's have a battle of words! Do some flan flinging. Hmm... me thinks I'm bored; I need some intellectual stimulus. Okay, okay I'll look up the Open University prospectus then......ugh Media...

The Truth about Curriculum Vitaes

I am rewriting my curriculum vitae at the moment. It is such a tedious task. The trouble is I have this inherent desire to spice things up but I am trying to restrict myself to being truthful which not only is boring but extremely dull to write. The trouble is when I spice things up I often end up in trouble - a bit like the time when writing up my teaching observations at a drug hostel I decided to offer my five top tips for teaching adolescents. One of those pointers was to "never, ever talk about sex or you might wake up the next morning next to an acne-faced teenager."  I can't remember the other four points but they were equally in bad taste. Boy, did I get into trouble for that one.

It's unfortunate that folks just don't have much humour any more - well not if they work in local government. Which is ironic as when I look at our politicians I often think to myself "Boy, have we as a nation got a sense of humour!" Mind you, some people just have absolutely no sense of humour at all. I'm still laughing that the Germans thought we won the Battle of Britain because we ate a lot of carrots. I wonder what they thought those massive antennae on the coast were? Perhaps they thought those radars were a cute British seaside trait - perhaps climbing frames for the kids or a new helter skelter ride?

"Ahh zee British zey are so cute with zer funny ways! It is a shame, Herr Fuhrer, to invade but ve vill look forward to zose itsy bitsy cucumber sandwiches and playing on zose amazing helter skelters!"

Ah the Germans. God bless them. Well somebody has to. Personally, I just like them for their sausages.

Anyway, curriculum vitaes. Now here's a question for you. Have you ever lied on your CV? Now I haven't -well not yet. I am thinking of leaving off half my qualifications though as I feel slightly overqualified for that job in Tescos. Maybe I should delete my degree and insert my cycling proficiency test instead. Hmm...I kinda like that idea. Maybe I could work in the home delivery section? 

You know, the other day Mr T got a request on one of these networks that people who work or want to work use - unlike people like me who use Facebook  - which if you plaster pictures of yourself  out on a drunken binge, smoking pot and flashing your knickers on a street corner you definitely won't have a job the next day. Now as this request came through Mr T started to laugh and says (I shall roughly translate)  "You remember Joe Bloggs? What a jerk!" And indeed I remembered the many times Mr T had come home saying "You won't believe what Joe Bloggs has done today!" Now I can't remember all those stories exactly now - but let's just say Joe was the kinda guy who came to work with his pants inside out, wearing in a turnip on his head and would set off the fire alarms whilst trying to work out how to open the Gents. And that was before even got into the office. Anyway, the funny thing was as Mr T reads this guy's CV online he leaps up from his chair and says;

"I can't believe it! He has put down that he did my job on his CV!"

Yeah. Joe was a bit of a jerk. Anyway, I felt sorry for poor Mr T. There's him working hard doing a stressful job and this guy is just blagging it. What a cheat.  

Anyway, I was a bit curious at this point so I leant over Mr T's shoulders and said;

"Ohhhhhh...is there a picture of him with his pants inside out?"

So CVs - there are what you make of them I suppose. Truthful or not. Currently I am describing myself as "mature" ( in age only - no one give the game away please), "enthusiastic" (I haven't qualified in exactly which area as I feel "chocolate, sex and late night films" wouldn't go down too well) and "An excellent communicator."  To which I can qualify - that when some guy lambasted me for parking legally in a place where he so happened to want to cross the road (Yes it's true) I communicated excellently. As anyone in about a 10 mile radius could testify.

That's the last time that male chauvinist pig will pick on the weaker sex I can tell you.

Well time to go and finish off this CV. See you around!

Ps - if anyone wants to employ me. I am available for washing up at a hugely expensive rate. I can bring my own soap.

Appointment with Theft (A short story.)

“Are you having a coronary?”

            Small pieces of Albert’s scone flew over the table cloth.

“What, dear?” Albert spluttered, dabbing at the spewed crumbs with his napkin whilst reluctantly looking away from the buxom young lady at the adjoining table.

“Your eyes are bulging.”

            “Are they? But there’s nothing wrong with me. I was just thinking about…strawberries.”

“Strawberries?”

“Yes…this is fine strawberry jam indeed. The best I’ve ever had!”

Martha sighed. Albert was so predictable. He could home in like a pigeon on any pair of breasts over a 36c. She’d never quite forgiven him for that moment at Brighton beach in 1965 when, after a whole day drooling like a rabid dog over Doris Fleming’s bosom, Doris had slapped him across the choppers.

Albert’s obsession was humiliating, but at least it allowed Martha to focus on her own projects. Currently, her interest was solving mysteries. Detective work was very rewarding and she was becoming quite skilled at it. She’d already returned several lost gloves, found a stray poodle and reported several incidents of suspicious looking cars. She’d even witnessed Doris shoplifting at the chemists and, perhaps, taken rather too much delight in getting her arrested.

It was important for detectives to look innocuous, thought Martha. However, she was simply not going to wear a silly tweed hat like Miss Marple. Her grey beret was infinitely better. She pulled it down further; it looked rather fetching with her matching grey mackintosh. She could almost be a secret agent.

“Are you having a stroke, Martha?”

“Pardon?”

“You’re pulling some very strange faces. You keep raising one eyebrow and twitching your mouth.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Albert! I was just thinking…what a lovely day it is for our anniversary coach trip!”

“Really?”

“Yes…and you’re right, this jam is delicious. It must be made homemade. It’s as good as Lucy Avery’s preserve which won first prize at the WI in 1974.”

“Ah…Lucy. It’s twenty years since she passed on. Damn fine woman. Excellent strawberries…I mean strawberry jam.”

Martha gazed over the restaurant veranda at the nearby park and surroundings whilst smiling at yet another of Albert’s verbal faux pas. He’d never make a secret agent. She could imagine him being interrogated like Dustin Hoffman in Marathon Man. He’d submit at the merest mention of dental floss let alone a drill:

Oh God, not the floss. Anything but the floss! I’ll tell you everything. My name is Albert. I have a wife, three children, seven grandchildren, two goldfish and I like women’s breasts… and underwear…

“Look over there!”

“What?” Martha coloured. She’d been so busy fantasising she’d forgotten to be observant. All the best detectives were observant.

“There’s a youth climbing through that factory window!”

“Oh yes! I see him. Let’s go down and see what he’s up to!”

“Don’t be silly, dear. Let’s call the police.”

Albert emptied his pockets looking for his phone: wallet, handkerchief, indigestion tablets, penknife, a bottle of pills, an old tobacco tin containing his Fisherman’s Friends, the new compact camera the boys had bought for their anniversary and which he had no idea how to use…but no phone. Where was it? Maybe he’d left it…

“Oh stop wasting time Albert! I’ve got my phone so let’s get down there. We can get a proper description.”

“I’m not going. It’s police work. You’re just obsessed with spying.”

“I’m not!”

“You are. Every bloody night it’s Agatha Christie or Murder, She Wrote. If I have to see Angela Lansbury feigning surprise one more time I’m going to top myself. And stop dressing like Miss Marple!”

“I don’t dress like Miss Marple! And I’m not spying, I’m merely observing.”

“So that’s what you call peeping between curtains and looking through keyholes.”

“I don’t!”

“Oh yes you do.”

“I don’t! Anyway, how dare you ridicule me when for the last forty years I’ve put up with you eyeing every pair of breasts within a ten mile radius!”

“I don’t!”

“Oh yes you do.”

“I don’t!”

“You do! And I’m going down there whether you like it or not.” 

Martha got up and marched down the steps from the veranda towards the factory. Damn her, thought Albert, pocketing his belongings and hurrying after her. She was still as infuriating as the day he’d met her at the local Am Dram auditions and he’d been cast as Lord Fancourt Babberley in Charley’s Aunt and she as his love interest. Three months she’d played coy both on and off the stage and it hadn’t been until the after-show party that he’d finally planted a proper smacker.

“Wait for me!” called Albert, eventually catching up with Martha hiding behind a wall.

“You could’ve waited. I could die being this short of breath.”

 “You get short of breath every time you see a picture of Oprah Winfrey.”

 “You’re a heartless woman at times, Martha.”

Martha ignored Albert’s pitiful look and peered round the wall.

“The door’s ajar. He must’ve opened it ready for a quick getaway. Let’s go in and see what he’s doing.”

“No way. He might be a druggie.”

“Ssshh.”

“Look, dear,” said Albert, lowering his voice. “I don’t want to end my days knifed by a teenage hoodlum. I want to die in my own bed.”

“Hallucinating about vast breasts I suppose,” Martha whispered under her breath.

“What? Speak louder. You know my hearing’s not so good.”

“I said ruminating about last requests. You want to die ruminating about last requests.”

“Yes, yes. Last requests. A double scotch perhaps. Maybe a cigar.”

“Oh whatever, Albert. Now get out that camera, we’re going in! Let’s get some pictures.”

“I can’t work that camera!”

“Well, figure it out. The boys said it was ready to use. Now follow me.”

Martha silently pulled the door open and tiptoed inside. Albert followed, fumbling with the camera. Once inside, they were surrounded by numerous rails of clothing. Martha grabbed Albert’s arm and pulled him in between some garments so they were hidden from sight.

“I can’t see him,” whispered Martha. “But I can hear movement from beyond that door.”

“Oh my God!”

Martha looked at Albert. His face was as red as a plum tomato, sweat glistening on his forehead.

“What’s the matter?”

“It’s…a…basque,” whimpered Albert.

On the clothing rails hung ladies underwear of every conceivable type. Every size, material and colour possible. And right at this very moment Albert’s nose was planted between two giant double D cups of a black leather basque.

Martha looked at Albert’s tortured face; it was like he was still a drooling adolescent. Would he ever get over his obsession with breasts? She’d inscribe on his gravestone; “I give them eternal life, and they shall never perish; no one can snatch them out of my hand.” Only she would know the real meaning. And Doris perhaps.

“Oh grow up, Albert! Now get out the camera!”

Martha peeked back through the clothing just as the youth appeared in the room. He began ransacking desks, pulling out drawers and tipping them out. He unplugged some phones and a laptop computer, pausing briefly to admire them, and then shoved them in a holdall. Martha gestured to Albert for the camera. But he was still turning it over in his hands, looking bewildered.

“It’s not working!” Albert whispered.

“Oh for goodness sake - I’d better phone the police then,” said Martha irritably, opening her bag for her phone. But it wasn't there. She looked again.

“It’s not here!”

“Are you sure?”

“I put it in this morning. But now it’s gone!”

“You mean you forgot it. I told you your memory was going! Now look what a mess we’re in.”

“Nothing‘s wrong with my memory!”

“Your memory’s kaput. And your mind is going. The first stage of Alzheimers is believing you’re a spy you know.”

“What rubbish! Anyway, you can hardly talk. Where’s your phone then?”

Albert wiped his sleeve across his brow, his heart beating furiously. The excitement was all too much for him.

“I don’t care where it is. I’m dying!”

Martha peeked back through the clothes again.

“He’s gone into another office. Let’s get out of here and sort you out, you silly old codger.”

Martha crept out of the building, pulling Albert by the sleeve. Outside, Albert gasped for breath, his chest heaving with exertion.

“Look, there’s a bench opposite. Let’s get you seated,” said Martha.

“Give me my pills!”

“For heaven’s sake, Albert, you’ve just seen a few pairs of knickers. Now get over it!” Martha handed him the bottle she’d extracted from his pocket. “Besides, these pills are just for cholesterol.”

“Look, there’s your man,” mumbled Albert, stuffing the pills in his mouth.The youth was outside the factory adjusting his bags.

“I’ve an idea,” whispered Martha.

“Oh dear God,” groaned Albert.

“Just stay calm and play along. Remember your am dram days."

“Oh dear God,” groaned Albert again.

“Excuse me!” Martha shouted, waving furiously. The youth tensed, looking as if he might run off.

“Excuse me!” shouted Martha again in her most distressed voice and waving her handbag. “Could you please help us?”

The youth still looked reluctant to help so Martha began to sway on her feet. Sullenly, he crossed the road towards them.

“I’m so sorry to trouble you,” whimpered Martha. “I can see you’re busy. Moving house?”

“Um…yeah. That’s right,” the youth mumbled. “Moving in with my girlfriend.”

“Oh, how delightful. You lucky young people. My husband and I have been together for forty years. In fact, it’s forty years today.” Martha took the youth aside and continued; “My husband’s not feeling so well today though. It’s his weak heart. Would you mind taking a photo of us? You know, just in case…it’d be such a shame not to have a memento of our special day.”

“I dunno.” The youth shifted his bags around impatiently. “I've got things to do.”

“Oh please, please. I’d be so grateful,” begged Martha, casting a concerned look at Albert and giving him a wink.

“I really ain’t got time, granny.”

Martha winked desperately at Albert. As the youth turned away it finally clicked with Albert what Martha was up to and he started to cough and splutter.

“Oh no! I think he’s having an attack!” howled Martha after the youth.

“I can’t breathe!” cried Albert, clutching his chest and rolling his head from side to side.

The youth hesitated, looking back towards them.

“Oh please help,” sobbed Martha. “Can you help him while I call the police?”

“You don’t want the police,” said the youth alarmed and walking back. “You want an ambulance. Look, I’ll take that photo and maybe he’ll calm down.”

“Oh you sweet, sweet boy,” said Martha, pretending to wipe away her tears and turning back to Albert. “This lovely young man is going to take a photo of us. Have you got your camera, dear?”

“No idea how it works,” gasped Albert dramatically, enjoying the ruse.

“No worries, guv. Got one of these myself.”

“Oh my goodness, I don’t think you’ll manage that tiny camera with those leather gloves you’ve got on,” said Martha.

“Yeah, you’re right,” replied the youth, slipping off his gloves and handing them to Martha, who took her seat beside Albert. They held hands and smiled innocently. The youth looked down at the camera, flicked a couple of buttons and took a photo.

“Oh my goodness, that was so simple,” said Martha, rising from her seat. “You are so clever. My husband has been trying to figure it out all day!”

“Easy when you know how,” said the youth. “Here, you just open the shutter. Turn to “auto,” focus and shoot. It does it all for you.”

“You mean like this?” Martha grabbed the camera from the youth’s hands, placed it up to her eye and started taking photos…of Albert, the sky, the factory and finally the youth. She laughed delightedly. “This is amazing! We must take lots and lots of pictures of our special day, my dear. And thank you so much, young man, for helping us. You’re so very, very kind.”

“No worries,” said the youth, accepting his gloves back from Martha and picking up his bags. “He looks okay now.”

“Thanks to you!” said Martha. “Have a lovely day with your girlfriend!”

The youth walked off.

“You deceptive cow,” said Albert.

“Yes, I was rather good, wasn’t I?” replied Martha.

“Hmm. Bloody brilliant actually.”

“Yes, I’ve his photo and his fingerprints. Miss Marple couldn’t have done better!”

“I suppose not,” Albert grinned. “And I’m feeling much better. Let’s find a police station and then get back to the coach.”

“Yes, let’s go.”

They linked arms and headed back to the restaurant in amicable silence.

“Look what I’ve got,” said Albert after a few minutes, pulling a lacy bra out of his pocket.

“Albert, you’ve stolen it!” gasped Martha.

“Call it a reward. Besides, no one will miss it. It’s tiny.”

“What size is it?”

“A 34a.”

“That’s my size.”

“I know.”

“You old devil.”

“I can’t wait to get home,” replied Albert. “Because you know what they say?”

“No?”

“You can never keep a good man down.”

Albert winked and put the bra back in his pocket.

_________________________________________

The End.

 (And yes I have been watching too much Miss Marple.)

When Lying Comes Easy

A lot of people think a third world war will start in the Middle East.

I think it's more likely to happen on the edge of a tennis court somewhere in the English Home Counties.

You know, I'm convinced that if all the irate tennis mums channelled their energies into politics this country would soon be back on its feet again. The threat of terrorism would be wiped out instantly. Some butch tennis mum yelling "Let your balls stray on my court Mr Foreigner and you are in big trouble!" would have even the most harden terrorist quaking in his boots. This is because a tennis mum is a ticking time bomb which can spontaneously explode unleashing a whirlwind of aggression and mayhem. I've heard stories where some tennis mums have actually come to blows. And I'm not kidding!

I hasten to add that this is not the lovely Mrs T (who once or twice may have lost her cool with other cheating, conniving parents) but who is always on the side of righteousness and would never, ever punch out another tennis mum... unless she was really, really provoked.

I know I'm such a goody two shoes. And I've only ever been in one fight. Ever. 

Yeah, I know. It is probably one more fight than most women but it was really, really justified. I was only about 13 at the time and that school bully really needed to be put in her place. Which was on the floor - obviously.

Ahhh - it was such fun in the old days before that politically correct dogma took hold. You could have a decent school yard punch up and all you got was a slap on the wrist. These days you can't even play conkers and breaking wind is a criminal offence in the classroom. I feel sorry for the children of today- you can't win the school 100 metres dash without everyone else getting a medal "for taking part." Hmm...if politicians only applied the same principle to government we'd actually have proportional representation instead of a first past the post system. Now there's an interesting thought.

Anyhow, let's not forget tennis dads in this rant. Yeah, I know I mustn't generalise as some of them are normal but mainly they're total fruitcakes trying to live their dreams out through their children. This means they can get really, really upset. Think John McEnroe on speed with a wasp nest in his pants and you'll get the picture.

Anyway, many of these tennis mums and dads employ psychological warfare. This might be a statement such as "My son only picked up a tennis racket for the first time last week, I just don't understand how is beating your son" which actually translates as "My son is beating your son and my son is such a genuine talent! Such a genius! Did you know your son is a complete loser?"

Now the actual truth of this situation will be something akin to the child having being born with a silver tennis racket in his mouth, possessing a personal coach since he was a toddler and probably training 20 hours a week at a high performance academy.

Here's another example: a couple of years ago Master Jacob was waiting to play a well known player who trains full time at a tennis academy. Master Ben and I were sitting down at a picnic table having our lunch when the opposition's dad came over, plonks his backside right on our table (not a chair at the table actually on the table) so his (large) backside in just a few inches away from our picnic. He then took out his mobile phone and proceeded to have a conversation whilst we have the pleasure of his arse stuck in our faces.

Now that is what I call rude. Blatantly rude. And of course there's a psychological message in that arse in the face message - I don't think it takes much to work it out. Anyway, my hand wavered over Master Ben's diet coke can which was a couple of inches away from his derrière but alas, Dear Readers, I didn't push it over. What a jerk I was. Yes, that moment will be frozen in my memory forever. I doubt my deathbed speech will be anything philosophical, I'll probably gasp "If ...only... I'd... pushed... over... that... Coke... can........."

So much for changing the world then if all I've got to worry about is an unspilt coke can. Where did I go wrong? I need to go and work on a kibbutz on something, smoke some pot, do something outrageous!

Hmm... I not too keen on the kibbutz idea. But I suppose I could wear some Vivian Westwood and roll up some loo roll and smoke it behind the garden shed.

Anyway, back to my rant. So after years of being a tennis mum I've found that apart from a few trusted "normal" mums it's best to keep one's own counsel. However, yesterday I relented when Master Ben's opponent's mother started chatting to me. She seemed so nice and normal and genuine that we chatted for several hours during which time she told me at least 3/4 times her son had only be playing tennis 2 years and had never played with the mini orange or mini red balls that the younger children use.

So later that evening, I was checking Master Ben's statistics and my curiosity got the better of me and I decided to check out the other boys statistics too and I saw he had played 110 tournaments. Well I was amazed! Master Ben who has been playing tennis since he was preschool has only played 68 which is peanuts compared to the big time players the majority of whom at age 10 will have played over 100 and may be as many as 200 tournaments. A simple calculation tells me that even for the most dedicated player a tournament every week for two years would be nigh impossible. So I looked back further and I see that the boy has in fact been competing since 2008. This probably means he has been playing for at least a year beforehand, if not two years. So, in essence he's been playing a minimum of 4 years and probably at least 5 or 6. And as for the claim that he hadn't played with orange balls - he'd actually played thirty orange tournaments. Yes, thirty.

You know I feel a bit of a fool to have been taken in so easily. I usually consider myself reasonably astute. If I see this tennis mum again on the tennis circuit again I will keep my own counsel. But the thing I ask myself most is not the purpose or reasoning of her lying but this...

When did lying become so easy?

Stephen Hawking and the Case of the Reborn Doll

The great scientist Stephen Hawking, author of A Brief History of Time, doesn't understand women.

Well that's a relief. I was worried that his seismic career might end with a whimper with some curious titles like A Brief History of Women in Stockings  or The Universe is a Women's Mind or possibly even Black Underwear and Baby Slings and Other Essays.

But fortunately, Mr Hawking hasn't got to grips with women yet so we won't be subjected to any such titles which is a huge relief. I would have felt compelled to purchase them just to see if his theories were right. However, it turns out Mr Hawking is the same as any other man - he doesn't have a inkling about women. Praise the Lord. I wouldn't want my female cunning to be exposed.

Yep, I've been married for over 20 years and Mr T still hasn't got a clue what's going on in my head. This means that, as yet, Mr T isn't bored with me and hasn't ditched me for a younger model. Now I'm convinced this is because he doesn't know from day to day which of my personalities he's going to see. This is like having 6 or 7 wives (a man's idea of heaven) with the only thing they/me have in common (apart from being well hot obviously) is their/my generosity in allowing him to have control of the TV remote. So there you have it; the secret of a good marriage is, in effect, not to be boring. Now some women attempt to be exciting in other ways. For example - by cooking exotic dinners every night. But I say - why not go all the way and just have a load of different personalities? Beats studying recipe books in my opinion.

You know, generally speaking, I think I understand most men and women. (I'm excluding Christian Scientists.) Not wanting to offend my lovely male readers and I certainly don't want to oversimplify things too much but if I said a man's world was ruled by a) his pants b) his pints and c) his remote control - I wouldn't be far off would I? I could add in that peculiar fascination with balls which I talked about here but, as I say, best to keep things simple so there's a better chance my male Readers understand what I'm going on about.

Ho hum. I'm just teasing of course. I love men!

Anyway, I admit that sometimes even I, The Housewife Extraordinaire, don't understand women. Like this particular lady who takes her collection of dolls, known as Reborn Dolls rather too seriously. These imitation babies are supposed to be very realistic - although in some of the pictures I've seen they look like hideous creatures from outer space. In fact, I look forward to seeing them on a future episode of Dr Who.

This one doesn't look too bad. Although with those bags under the eyes  I think Mum should avoid taking her baby out for a night on the town. Maybe she should take a trip down the clinic instead. Preferably the "clinic" where the exits are locked.

Hmm- I'd prefer this one in a romper suit. Still, there's no accounting for taste.

Now I want to be balanced and fair (I can be you know) so I'm going to say there's no shame, no shame at all, in collecting stuff. Think of all things commonly collected: stamps, antiques, teapots, shoes, butterflies, books, train registration numbers. We don't think anything's strange about collecting such items...well maybe the train spotters are a bit peculiar. As it happens, one of my brothers was a train spotter when he was a teenager but I think it was actually an excuse to talk about a) his pants b) pints c) my father's ownership of the TV remote and d) balls. Anyway, he grew up to relatively normal and as far as I'm aware he doesn't own a raincoat or a Network Rail Card.

Furthermore, I admit I also collect things. Yes, I do.

Principally, this is jewellery.

Initially, I had aspired to collect gold bullion but life doesn't always work out as planned does it?

Anyway, the woman featured in the article takes her Reborn Dolls so seriously that she buys them expensive designer clothes and has a nursery for them. (Chokes back vomit.) She even has one that looks 6 weeks premature which she keeps in her bedroom in a crib. Now I had two children born 5 weeks premature and I can tell you I would not want to be reminded of that in a million years. Just the smell of a small baby and I could win any 100 metre sprint. Hmm... I bet that lady's husband prays to God every night that Stephen Hawking works out women because you can bet your life he hasn't clue what's going on.

So to sum up my balanced and fair article the words completely and nuts come to mind.

Ahhhhh...it feels good to be sane. It's not often I can say that. But today I feel good, good, good. In fact, I'm going to write to Stephen Hawking - maybe we could collaborate on a book.

Season's Greetings

Happy New Year Everyone!

2011 has been a very hard year for many people around the globe. So I hope that wherever you are and whatever your circumstances the new year brings you all peace, prosperity and good health.

 My best wishes to you and your families.

And a big Thank You for taking timeout to read my blog.

Jane