Gnarley and Me

Brian and I went to the cinema the other night; Brian will see almost anything if it is Orange 241 Wednesday. The film was no more than Ok ish because:

1. The trailers had pre-viewed all the best bits.
2. Jennifer Aniston as post-natally depressed Mommy did nothing for Brian.
3. Owen Wilson's nose was even more disconcerting than usual.

The protagonist was a lovable but wantonly destructive Labrador whose antics served to re-inforce Brian's relief in having thus far avoided one of his two worst familial nightmares ie dogs and sons, the latter now being safely off the agenda for reasons too personal to mention. Of course, Sir William has not seen the film and had he known of its subject matter, would have been even more indignant about the curtailment of his after (daylight) hours roaming time. Yesterday, however, there was an uncanny re-enactment of one scene in the movie. As I was admiring a necklace just given to me by my very kind GF from Canada (once again sharing the sofa) and twirling it gently in the midday sun, a set of grappling hooks wrested it from my grasp and for the next half hour or so it remained jealously closeted in Sir W's bosom. Fortunately, as he is not a dog, Sir W is under no primitive imperative to put anything and everything into his mouth- quite the reverse - so the necklace (not his colour) was in due course abandoned and reclaimed by its rightful owner without resort to laxatives or latex gloves.

I have just discovered a foolproof method of getting rid of door-step pests: soi-disant reformed criminals, hospice fundraisers and yes, Labrador sponsors. Simply open the door wearing that day's CAB outfit (shocking pink T shirt and black tabard) from the waist up and wide-leg blue and green plaid pyjama trousers and baby pink mules from the waist down. A sharp kitchen knife and an air of barely contained exasperation are useful accessories. Just one look and they'll be backing down the drive claiming to have come to the wrong house - guaranteed!

Bad Hair Day

Literally - in a weak moment I allowed my lovely hairdresser to apply straighteners to my already naturally lank locks and emerged looking like an Afghan hound - a rather elderly Afghan hound. After I'd been almost run over and then verbally abused by some p***k-brained youth in Sainsbury's car park, I was a very cross, old what-they-called-me which bore some relation to the female of the aforementioned species.

Sir William has also had a bad day, in fact, make that a bad fortnight starting with a horrid eye infection (trip to the Vet), Mum and Dad going away for the weekend (trip to l'hotel etc), an infected bite on shoulder and bursting bladder owing to difficulty in getting down from his sleeping platform (trip to Vet), check up (trip to Vet) and snow, snow, snow, effing snow. He has just begun to get out and about again in the last couple of days only to be confronted this morning by a fire engine with full crew (thankfully no siren) turning into Twitcher's Turning and making stately progress to the end of the cul de sac. Sir W was upstairs and back in the duvet bunker before I had comprehended his return. Some 20 minutes later, the red monster cruised back up past our window and out to the main road. I reckon someone's Mum had the coffee on - or perhaps, with any luck, Sir W's arch enemy (perpetrator of the wounded eye and shoulder) had got himself stuck up a tree.

Of course I can do Goddess...

I was fed up on Friday - snow-bound and suffering the usual inertia - so I decided to be a good wifey and hit the kitchen. For the next 3 hours I cleaned and cooked and so it was when MDH returned for the weekend, not only were the home fires burning but work tops were shining and laden with goodies including the piece de resistance, a delicious tower of fairy cakes displayed on my lovely new Kath Kidston wannabe cake stand. As I liquidized my own recipe parsnip with chilli and lemon soup and heated the pizza which, owing to its generous and irregular chunks of vegetable topping, could have passed for home-made (but actually came from Aldi), he expressed gratifying pleasure, tinged with just the merest soupcon of surprise, then spoilt it all by asking when I thought I'd get round to vacuuming the stairs! Forget "He's just not that into you"; in my experience, even after all these years it's much more likely that "He still just doesn't get it".

Jonathan Ross, Jeremy Clarkson, Carol Thatcher - we'd be better off without the lot of them and a few more besides. And Carol, if you're beating yourself up about the apology- don't. It's all about ratings (ie money) and you don't bring in any of those on your own account. If the Government needs any more evidence that self-obsessed, indulgent and absent parents raise mal-functioning offspring, the Thatcher twins could make an illuminating case-study. Talking of which, thank you to Jenni Murray and Weekend Woman's Hour for giving Sharon Shoesmith the platform on which to lay bare her total and absolute unsuitability to command the role from which she was so justifiably sacked.

Discoveries of a Domestic Slut

1. There is no need to buy any more kitchen bin liners - ever - as at least 3 charity collection bags come through my letter box every week.

2. If your tumble drier is broken and you are forced to dry towels on the radiators, you get a free full-body exfoliation next time you have a shower.

3. The "heart-healthy" cereal which is so very unpalatable at 8, 9, 10, 11 o'clock in the morning, when embellished with pro-biotic yogurt, a chopped apple and Aldi jumbo raisins makes a very satisfactory no effort, no guilt supper when your husband is away. But then so does a packet of Walker's cheese n'onion crisps and a large glass of Pinot - as long as no one else knows about it.

Out Damned Rot!

On the way back from l'hotel des chats yesterday evening, having dropped off a very disgruntled Sir W who had had the beans spilled to him earlier in the day by a careless- tongued vet, I heard an infuriating item on Radio 4's PM programme. It was an interview with Richard Olivier, son of Laurence, who had nabbed himself a no doubt extremely lucrative gig at Davos giving management seminars based on Shakespeare plays. The one in question was formulated on the Scottish Play ie Macbeth and Lady M (vain, suggestible, reckless and full of hubris) bad; Malcolm (steady, loyal, risk-averse) good - a conclusion that surely could be drawn by any half-decent English Literature A Level candidate. Apparently there are others such as "The As You Like It Business Model" - well I b****y don't, especially when I think of all that wasted dosh which just goes to show what a criminal waste of resources this Swiss farce really is. At least Alistair Darling had enough sense to stay at home - either that or he was too ashamed, the UK recession now expected, by all except Moron Brown, to be the worst in Europe. So, my apologies to the man in the Renault at the Town Hall roundabout - I wasn't shouting at you, just howling at the moon.

It's the way you tell 'em...

There was consternation at CAB (Citizens' Advice Bureau) this week. A new "diagnostic" interviewing process is to be introduced whereby advisers split into 2 teams: the first team take down clients' particulars and diagnose whether their problem can be dealt with immediately or if they will need a more in depth consultation with a member of team 2. For some reason this new regimen has not found favour with the old guard, one of whom memorably described the process thus:
"So I ask them if a quickie is OK or would they prefer a longer session?"
I know CAB are always looking to expand their service but really...

When I got out of the swimming pool today, another "regular", a lady some years my junior, complimented me on my changing shape which she has been monitoring for some months. It is so nice to receive words of encouragement as few are forthcoming from Brian on this subject. Apparently I have let the side down by not retaining, at almost 55, the figure I had at 15 when we first met. But I am on a roll or more accurately losing one, as I have now dealt with the Texas/Christmas blip and am back on course to shed the final 10lbs of my initial target. To help me on my way, I have even started eating rice cakes (3 = 1 WW point) and although it is just like munching on polystyrene I am determined to stick with it. And before you ask me when I last snacked on a ceiling tile, let me tell you it's much the same as coffee which smells delicious and tastes like the bottom of an ashtray - just use your imagination!

Oh Bummer!

OK, hands up! Who felt a pricking at the back of the eyeballs while watching the presidential inauguration of Barack Obama on Tuesday? I'll certainly own up to that but, ever mindful of May 1997, was determined not to get too carried away. And there were just one or two false notes to help me keep my feet on the ground, not least the attempt of Bush appointee Chief Justice, John Roberts, to reduce the incoming president to the verbal infelicity of his former boss. Of course, Obama wasn't falling for that one and firmly closed the door on any possible constitutional wrangling by getting sworn in again properly today - that's our boy. And then we had the musical tributes, led by Aretha Franklin (wearing a startling piece of headgear which appeared to be a surely highly inappropriate, given the historical significance of the day, homage to Scarlett O'Hara's dear ol Mammy) singing not the American National Anthem as billed but a largely unintelligible song whose tune seemed to owe at debt to the national anthem of another country dear to our own hearts but once, as President Obama was pleased to remind his fellow Americans, a sworn enemy of the "States United". So much for the Special Relationship, then. And to round it all off an "original" instrumental piece by John Williams, featuring Itzak Perlman and Yo-Yo Ma in which one of the movements was, I swear, first cousin if not a clone of "Lord of the Dance". I do hope these little mis-steps are not a portent of what we may get rather that what so many hope and expect from the Obama administration. I really want him to succeed but can one man really put right so much that is wrong and not fall into the traps of hubris and complacency?

Not much news on the domestic front. Brian (and his shingles) have been away in Korea. Sir W and I have developed a very nice little routine although perhaps not so nice on his part:

Day 1 - fight black cat out the front

Day 2 - fight ginger cat out the back

Day 3 - as Day 1 but later on so She has to make an unanticipated public appearance in pyjamas and curlers

Day 4 - Stand on fence hurling insults at grey cat so She comes out in the rain and climbs precariously on garden chair sunk in gravel, arms outstretched while I slide down the other side and squat under next door's shed feeling smug and dry.

Days 5, 6, 7 etc - more of same.

U K shamed by Prominent Personality

No, it's not Prince Harry. I'm very much inclined to cut him some slack - that's the way boys talk to one another (and worse) and I don't believe any malice, racial or otherwise, was intended. At least, after yet another gaff, we need be in no doubt that Harry has inherited Prince Philip's genes and is therefore, without doubt, his father's son. But Kate Winslet - what were you thinking?! Cringe, cringe, cringe! And now you've cooked your goose as far as an Oscar's concerned - who could risk a repeat performance of such orgasmic embarrassment?

Why?? What!!

Why is Sharon Shoesmith (and others) suspended on full pay? What is Ed Balls going to do about it? When will we ever get these things right?

So.. George W's greatest regret of his presidency is the "intelligence failure" regarding Sadaam's WMD's 'cos otherwise, you know, he wouldn't have dreamed of invading Iraq.....

es un escandalo!

Was it xenophobia, patriotism or a strategic remark of Simon Cowell's ("proud to be British") which brought about the demise of Spanish rocker, the talented if jarringly named Ruth Lorenzo, on X Factor last night? Whatever the reason, it was a travesty given that, the stellar Alexandra Burke aside, we are left with the disappointingly one trick pony Diana Vickers who can't even hold a tune after her bout of laryngitis, well below average boring boy band, JLS, and Eoghan Quigg, an adolescent hobbit beloved of tweenies and grannies. If Alexandra doesn't win...well who cares? Brian and I are off to the States for a couple of weeks and by the time we get back the whole nonsense will be just so much recycling or, in these economically lethargic times, yet more landfill.

No One likes a Know-it-all

We have a new cat in our lives. Before you think Sir W has gone soft, the feline in question belongs to Daughter (and Boyfriend) Number 3 and therefore resides at a safe distance in Brighton. She is jet black and slinky and called Circe (pron. ser-say) after the sorceress in Greek mythology and not Fur Face, as initially and erroneously reported by Brian. When we met for the first time last weekend I immediately noticed that something was amiss with her right eye, an apparently malicious suggestion which was greeted with universal disdain. Last night Daughter and BF 3 shelled out £40 at the Vet's for eye drops and were placed on cat flu alert.

Last week I was urged to watch the Tuesday edition of Egg Heads because the new(ish) wife of the ex-husband of a good friend was one of the challengers. She Who Is not to be Admired and her team put up a good showing which impressed my mother-in-law who seemed strangely disinclined to believe that I, too, had known all the answers (who doesn't know about "langues de chats" yawned Sir W).

I have another good friend (believe it or not) who recently waxed lyrical on the gratification of being old enough to know everything. Well, at some 12 years her junior (a fact which, despite an otherwise razor-sharp intellect, she invariably manages to "forget") I sometimes feel I have reached a similar level of omniscience but without the universal acclaim. Of course, I haven't routed any builders or got the whole street a significant reduction on their Council Tax so I am not a local hero and, my recent CAB training aside, never expect to be. However, a little more appreciation from ones' own family members (Sir W excepted) wouldn't come amiss especially from Brian who, for the first time in 32 years of marriage, has taken to "popping" home at lunch time and daring to complain about the "state" of the house. Today, when leaving with a flea in his ear, he tripped over of the three pairs of his shoes which have been gracing the hall for the past 2 weeks. Perhaps my efforts are not going entirely unrecognised after all.

No Man. Date

So John Sergeant reads my blog! Well, perhaps not but good on yer, John, and I look forward to your farewell performance on Saturday night - no hard feelings. And last Saturday on X Factor decidedly dicey Daniel finally bit the dust so all is well in the world of reality TV except:

1. "I'm a Celebrity.." has just started - I barely recognise any of the "Names" and will not be watching, honest.

2. It has been rumoured - and, I believe, corroborated - that Peter (Lord) Mandelson is dying to be asked to participate in "Strictly" next year. This cannot happen.* I doubt even the lovely and infinitely resourceful Christina Rianoff could make a silk purse out of that particular pig's ear although Mandy's preference would presumably to be placed in the firm and capable hands of Anton du Beck or perhaps that nice new boy from California.

*Members of the Government should be barred from popular TV.
** The exposure of P. M. in a black see-through chiffon shirt? - let's not go there - ever!!

Potzamoney!

Brian, who has become very news conscious in recent weeks and not always in relation to the progress of the Icesave reimbursement, has pointed out to me a snippet about preparations for the 2012 Olympics. Apparently, pot plants, as opposed to flower bouquets, will be presented to medal winners. Not only is this deemed to be more "green" but has the added advantage that the potted plants should last longer, possibly even long enough to be taken back in triumph to the home country ( import restrictions may apply). You will not be surprised to hear that I have a better idea which is not only even greener but also more in tune with the spirit of the"Austerity Games". If we must have flowers, let's have a number of tasteful artificial bouquets made up, present them to the Olympians for the duration of the medal ceremony only, then claw them back for the next lot. When the Shindig is over, let Boris' mum/wife/mistress pick her favourite for the mantelpiece and distribute the rest to local hospitals, nursing homes etc. Brilliant, though I say so myself.

Aldi treats of the week:

Tilapia (frozen fish counter - almost as good as any eaten in Texas)
Stollen Bites (Xmas goodies - delish)
Goat's cheese Curly Crackers (nibbles - very goaty)

Also coming this Thursday- and only/mainly for the girls - a "Swarowski Style Laptop" in pink or white. Yours for a very competitive £499.99 and co-incidentally to within 1p of the amount allocated to Daughter Number 3 by her employer for the purchase of "I T Equipment". "How cool is that, Miss?!"

A little shop with Horror

Yesterday afternoon, for want of any other diversion, I took Brian into town with me. For one thing, we needed to find him a new shirt to wear to the wedding we are attending in Grand Cayman (whoo-hoo) in December. A suitable item was found surprisingly quickly, in fact surprisingly full stop, in our local M&S (it was the smallest branch in the UK in 1977 and I doubt it has lost that doubtful claim to fame in the intervening years). To be on the safe side, and despite their redoubtable returns policy, Brian decided to "try before we buy". Size "L" (anno domini and all that) was given the thumbs up and I left him to get back into his own shirt and jacket while I bagged a spot in the speedily lengthening till queue (note the singular). Five minutes later he was still in the cubicle while outside a coterie of elderly ladies waited patiently to try on acrylic Christmas twin sets. With seconds to spare he joined me as I was summoned to the till. "What have you been doing?" I hissed. "Putting back all the pins and plastic packaging - it's taken me ages" says he, proudly. As well as the shirt, Brian had also (self) selected a pack of colour co-ordinated sports socks (to replace the ones he insisted I had "done something with" which were later found slowly bio-degrading in his sports bag along with the rest of his kit from Tuesday's wet run). Size 6 - 71/2? chirped the cashier. Wrong - Brian dashes back to the sock aisle and returns triumphant. Size 11 - 13? Wrong again and the crowd is getting restive. "I'm sorry, I knew it was a mistake to bring him", I smile conspiratorially at the lady behind the till who is also the mother of one of Daughter Number 3's old school friends. Finally, socks in size 8 - 10 are found and purchased. Brian feigns insouciance but trails behind me like a naughty school boy. "I could have got it right" he mutters defiantly, "If only you hadn't put me off by finding that shirt!!"

"Effective, determined and committed" is how 60 headteachers in the London borough of Haringay have described Head of Children's Services, Sharon Shoesmith, in a letter asking that she not lose her job over the Baby P affair. How, I wonder, if he had lived long enough to formulate an opinion, would Baby P have described the lady and her team of social workers, many of whom were apparently deployed in local schools and not investigating the plight of a helpless toddler held captive by and at the mercy of the sadistic tormentors who, we now learn, had earlier abused his sister? Social work is not meant to be an easy option; it takes a certain type of temperament to do the job properly. I don't think I could do it and if I were a social worker in Haringay I know I'd rather be based in a school than going, possibly alone, into the dwellings of violent and amoral individuals to check on the welfare of their children. But I hope if I had had even a suspicion of what was happening to Baby P, I would have acted to remove him from that home, secure in the support of my department and its boss. Sharon Shoesmith held the top job, was paid top dollar to do that job properly and the buck stops with her. That's the deal. She should be deeply ashamed but not only has she refused to apologise or shoulder any responsibility for the belief-beggaring failure of her department, she now has her daughter telling the media to "stop picking on my Mum" - a signal lapse of judgement which Brian, in an uncharacteristic but nonetheless welcome intervention, pronounced to be "a sacking offence in its own right, in my book." My only hope now is that the Children's Secretary finds some balls and takes action to properly protect children at risk, not their parents and certainly not incompetent, complacent public servants - and then I won't have to get these heavy matters off my chest and can concentrate on bringing Brian to book instead.

Sofa Suffering

This week at CAB I met a very nice man who, through no fault of his own, was homeless and therefore "sofa surfing" at various friends' houses. At home we have a very annoying man who is sofa surfing because he is a pest! When GF was with us, Sir William and I allowed her to share our sofa (best view of the telly) and Sir W would happily settle down on his blanket between us, next to the TV remote and WW choc bars, while Brian seethed with jealousy from his very own, self-chosen sofa on the other side of the room. No longer! Now when I come in from stacking the dishwasher after preparing our delicious evening repast and look forward to an evening of well-deserved, uninterrupted viewing in the company of my Beloved, there is an interloper on the sofa, interfering with my pussy. I don't like it and neither does he. Worse still, if I manage to get there first, Brian has the cheek to insinuate both his cheeks between me and Sir W and interfere with everything, including the pouffe, all at once. Sir William has done his best to make Brian aware of his grave mistake, giving him The Look and then staring pointedly at the vacant sofa but to no avail. So last night, after several evenings' provocation, he lost it and if Brian has the audacity to sit on our sofa tonight, thick skin notwithstanding, he'd better be wearing protective gloves and body armour because between my elbows and Sir W's newly-honed claws, he'll soon find out who put the "ouch" in couch.

Beyond Shame

I was going to express my incredulity and dismay about the way in which the inquiry into Baby P's miserable little life and death has been handled thus far but David Cameron has beaten me to it - good on him. You will probably be relieved to hear that I find the whole topic too distressing to say very much anyway. However, if the controller of Radio 2 can resign over the Brand/Ross affair, then Sharon Shoesmith, Head of Haringay Child Services, whose staff had more than 60 opportunities to remove that 17 month old child from his sadistic "carers" and to whom she has issued only "written warnings", should be laying her own head on the block.

Come on, John Sargeant, you've had your fun and we've had some laughs, but it's time to bow out of "Strictly" and allow the programme to retain some integrity. The never was much integrity to preserve in "X Factor" so no wonder that's degenerated into a total mess with questions even being asked in parliament - another arena where there isn't very much etc etc. Next year, please let's get rid of Louis Walsh, neither use nor ornament. He had the chance to say goodbye to the distinctly creepy Daniel weeks ago but couldn't resist getting shot of one of Simon's proteges instead and now another media low life, Chris Moyles, has got in on the act. BTW, my money is on Diana (no knickers - inside info) Vickers and my track record in picking winners is very good. And if the above paragraph is all Greek to you - you don't know what you're missing!

Delight and Disgrace

So the Winds of Change summoned by Barack Obama himself have blown him into the White House on the back of an historic electoral victory. I heard the news with relief on the 7 o'clock radio news and several hours later enjoyed the TV scenes of celebration with tears in my eyes. However, my joy wasn't entirely unalloyed as I well remember feeling not dissimilar emotions in May 1997 as I watched Tony Blair bring his family to 10 Downing Street - and what a sycophantic, sanctimonious, self-serving slime ball he turned out to be! I don't have the same fears for Obama's presidency but I do hope, in the face of a very difficult task, he can keep close to his principles and I hope, in turn, Someone will keep him and his family safe.

While I was watching the TV, in dressing gown and slippers (yesterday's shopping expedition which turned into the hunt for the perfect LBD having taken its toll) Sir William was out front doing his own thing which I strongly suspect, despite provision of an indoor litter tray and designated outdoor earth bed, means polluting someone else's garden but what can you do? However, he was in his own front yard and took great exception to a miniature dachshund and a Chihuahua trotting past on leads but in the case of the little "wiener" showing a little too much interest in Sir W. Perhaps he said something he shouldn't, perhaps the pair just looked so totally contemptible in Sir W's eyes he had to act but his blood was up and he meant business - nasty business. A humiliating street appearance (nightclothes at 1 pm) from Yours Truly, profuse apologies to the owner and Sir W was called off at the 3 rd attempt. This is serious - not only disgrace on the House of Merchant but someone is going to get hurt, quite possibly Sir W on the end of an outraged dog-owners boot. If our house wasn't rented we could erect a fence. As it is, Brian is thinking on the lines of a harness and bungee rope. And the worst thing about it is, I might have to agree!

Shopping Follies

A friend and I are going shopping tomorrow. We need to go further afield than Middletown to find a proper department store as we are both in search of "magic" knickers (or "solution lingerie" as it is more euphemistically known) to go under flimsy special occasion dresses and Debenhams website has revealed a goodly if somewhat intimidating selection. [Brian would like you to know that his NICS have been deemed too small and the Inland Revenue wants to inspect his P60 - he seems to find this funny]. We also need to visit Primark to avail ourselves of several more pairs of cheap reading glasses. I think I may go up a point this time as, when planning my weekly viewing from the Sunday Times Culture supplement, I came across a programme which appeared to promise "taking a look at herpes in romantic fiction". I'm afraid I pondered this unsavoury if enlightened oddity for quite some minutes before it finally dawned that the operative word was in fact heroes.

A prayer to the God of Politics: Please let Barack Obama be elected - and let him not disappoint.

Egg Shelled

Thwack! Thwack!! Sir William and I had our TV viewing rudely interrupted last night by the impact of 2 eggs making explosive contact with the living rooms windows. By the time we had alerted Brian to go outside and investigate there was no egg sheller to be seen but the man from a house across the road was also stood by his front windows, scratching his head. An early Halloween prank was his suggestion but we have been shelled once before - in February. At that time I put it down to a disaffected student who had recognised my car in the driveway. This time Brian has a new theory. As both we and the man across the road are renting our respective houses and stubbornly waiting before we buy, Brian's prime suspect is an eggsasperated estate agent.* Be that as it may, I have bought in a bumper sized tub of E numbers with which to appease the Trick or Treaters of Gazeuponafactory Est. Oh, and any tips for getting egg shell off leaded glass?

*Or perhaps it was Russell Brand and Jonathan Ross although I hope they now have more serious matters on their minds.

Sack Them!

OK, I've stolen this headline from the Daily Mail but it was also what I was shouting at the radio this morning. As you know, I have been a fan of Russell Brand in the past. I still think he is an original if sometimes outrageous wit but he knows no boundaries. As for Jonathan Ross, I've always been slightly mystified as to just what constitutes his prodigious talent and therefore justifies his ridiculously inflated salary. Their crudely puerile treatment of Andrew Sachs and the impugning of his 23 year old granddaughter is far more than the over-used and euphemistic "inappropriate"; it is frankly disgusting, especially from Ross, himself the father, I believe, of 2 young girls. Just as sickening is the support for their behaviour from sycophantic fellow "comedians" (Alexander Armstrong) hoping to emulate their financial success and BBC "spokespeople" maintaining that the publicly funded corporation has nothing to answer for. Ross, Brand and Co think they are above censure because their obscenely inflated salaries tell them so. It's time to send them the unequivocal message we so often fail to deliver not only in public life but also in our schools - a pathetically insincere apology and even a few flowers just won't cut it. Contrary to the doctrine I heard a secondary school head preaching on Midlands Today this week, actions do have consequences and a system of rewards (ie. bribes) is no substitute for the "learning opportunity" in allowing those consequences to be felt.