Into the Depths of Darkness

A few weeks ago you may recall that I recounted the story of Johnny Potato VC - a potato I found in the dark depths of Master Benedict's rucksack.

Now, dear readers, I must own up to being a slack mother because after discovering the potato I looked no further - I was so distraught/gobsmacked/ashamed to look any further. Until this morning. When I discovered this:

A tube of Morrison's tomato puree which has, obviously, seen better days.
It's a miracle Master Benedict has not caught bubonic plaque.

But that's not all I found. Oh no. I am afraid the contents of Master Benedict's bag were gross beyond all imagination. Everything was stuck together in a tangled mess of decomposing food, mangled paper, bottles, wrappers and some hideous gooey stuff.

Down in one corner I found this:

I know you're asking yourself - what is it? That, my friends, is the box in which Master Benedict keeps
his gum shield. It's stuck to a decomposing food wrapper. I know, I know - it's almost inconceivable he would
actually remove anything from that box and stick it in his mouth - but then again he's a teenager and oral hygenine isn't
at the top f his agenda. 

Oh amongst all the crap I also found this:

That is a door safety chain and a packet of decomposing food  - I've know idea what kind of food as it is unrecognisable - as were the decaying (I think) sandwiches. Still, at least it's still in the packet as opposed to all the other stuff...

You know, when I lifted the door chain out of Master Benedict's bag some really terrible thoughts crossed my mind.  

Had Master Benedict mugged a granny on her doorstep? 

Was he planning to barricade himself in his bedroom and play Call of Duty for a month?

Or perhaps he planning to lock me in my study and therefore subject people all around the world to a merciless barrage of overwrought blogging? 

Anyway, luckily, just as I was ringing social services and musing over the potential ramifications of Master Benedict's diabolical plans, he informed me that he had made the safety chain in craft and design lessons at school.

To which I say..

Why can't they make something useful in those lessons?

Like a Porsche Carrera.

Why is it that they always make something you don't need? Like a three-legged stool that no one but Rumpelstiltskin would use. Or a necklace moulded out of metal which is so heavy that if you wore it would look like you'd had a stroke. Or a hand-stitched napkin that looks someone has vomited on it?

Why I ask you? Why? What drugs are all these craft and design teachers on?

Anyway folks, you know what the discovery of the tomato puree means? It means that very shortly I will have to continue the story of Johnny Potato VC. You can read about my discovery of Johnny Potato HERE and part one of his true (cough, cough) story HERE.

See you soon!

A Personal Picture Post

Well I don't normally do these kind of intimate posts. But today is an exception. This is because I was up in our loft room having a bit of a tidy-up and came across some old photos of me and thought Yippee-Do I can make a quick blog post of this! (Sincerity is my middle name.) 

So folks, this will be a deeply revealing pictorial post about me rather than a written one which really is rather lucky for you lot cos normally deeply revealing blog posts from writers involve hideous tales about depression, failed relationships and fifteen-year struggles to publish debut novels after twenty billion rejection letters and amputation below the knee.

Or something like that anyway.

So lets get on with it!

One of my more flattering shots taken at Halloween around 2006/7. Not many children come
to visit me anymore. I am so sad about that.

Evidence that my ability to burn anything started a long, long time ago. This was me on my birthday which fell on a Shrove Tuesday in around 1984.

Me and Mr T at a New Year's Party back in the early 2000s. I made the masks which drew favourable comparisons to
our real selves....

God I look good. This one was taken in about 2004 when obviously I still looked hot and had pert breasts.

I'm on the left in the leopard skin. Pulling faces is second nature to me. Here it was at university
in a production of The Country Wife in about 1984/5

So there you have it. A deeply revealing post featuring some of my most photogenic shots.

Ho hum.

Hotel Horrors and Birthday Books

So after a few days break from blogging and the A to Z challenge, I'm back!

Now for some of those days I was transfixed by the TV coverage of the UK General Election, but for another three days I was at a tennis tournament with Master Benedict during which I spent two nights in a rather grubby hotel in London.

"Grubby" seems a suitable description for that hell-hole of a place. In fact, I could spend the whole blog whinging about it. Briefly; the shower only had two settings (freezing cold/scalding hot) which was made even more difficult to regulate because the handle fell off, the room keys didn't work, two of our rooms were in another building, they didn't take credit cards and (horror upon horrors) there was no bacon and tomato ketchup at breakfast. However, instead of whinging too much and boring the pants of you all I shall sum the experience with this short tale...

After discovering that the keys to the rooms didn't work, I went back to the reception whereupon they gave me new keys with this parting throwaway line:

"Oh by the way, there might be trouble in the room in between your rooms tonight."

Yes, that's right, the hotel had not only booked half the team in another building but also with a room in between them where some delinquents were apparently going to be hanging out and partying all night. Because, as the hotel receptionist knowingly told me, "They knew this kind of thing."

Now I am not sure if I was meant to be impressed by this worldly knowledge but at that moment I turned from the polite and patient Housewife Extraordinaire that I normally am into a vitriolic middle-age woman with a forked tongue.

I don't normally lose my rag. But when I am told that my team might be disturbed by rowdy part-goers I kinda thought that the hotel ought to be speaking to the occupants of the offending rooms, and not me, about the protocols of staying in a hotel.

Ugh. What can I say? London's changed a lot since I lived there. And not all of it for the better.

Anyway, now I've got that whine over with ... I can continue with another! Last Thursday, son No 1 came home to cast his vote in the General Election and to give me a book as a belated birthday present. The book was this one:

Now I am rather partial to thrillers so I quickly flipped it over and read the blurb which was not the usual format and consisted of some lines taken from the book:

"Your mother...She's not well...She's been imagining things - terrible, terrible things...."

"Everything that man has told you is a lie. I'm not mad....I need the police."

"None of what she claims is real."

"If you refuse to believe me, I will no longer consider you my son...."

At which point I wondered if the gift was a subliminal message. I duly raised my concerns with Young Sam who merely laughed.

Hmm.

I wonder what I'll get for my B-day next year? I have a feeling it won't be bath salts.