Monday 30th May

I spent today with Annabelle and my parents at a craft fair.

Yes, I knew it would be ‘persisting’ down with rain all day but Mum played the ‘it’s my birthday tomorrow’ card.  Wily old bird that she is, she also promised me horses doing tricks and followed that up with mention of a beer tent.

Beer and people falling off horses. Count me in.

The beer tent sold coffee and the horses weren’t out of control at all, they were doing dressage.

I was expecting the full-on-riding-two-horses-at-once-circus-experience which could potentially have been a gripping event given the fact that Northamptonshire was experiencing it’s version of monsoon season, but it was not to be.

It was all very British and well organised, which is all well and good if you are someone that enjoys things ‘going as planned’. Personally, I found that trailing around after my parents in the rain, stone cold sober, and at an event where everything was going off without a hitch was just making me tense.

Tension like that sometimes makes me start biting people and so, it was with huge relief, that I happened upon the high point of the day.

I went into the craft marquee.

Hooray! The nutters!

It was like the local loony bin was having a show and tell day.  Every time I walked past one of their displays of ‘seriously-I-made-this-my-very-own-self’ junk, I was fixed with a look of such crazy eyed desperation that I began to wonder if I was going to make it out of there in one piece.

I quickly adopted a smiley ‘gosh that’s fabulous, if only I had eighty quid on me, I’d absolutely, definitely be going home with one of your hideous, purple, hairy handbags’ grimmace, which allowed me to slide by without their taking too much notice of me.

One woman was less fortunate. The man who had a rather unique display of cork pens, cork animal figures and cork cutlery on his wallpapering-table became incensed when she paused (don’t do it love, keep moving) picked up a pen, looked at it (I was wincing, I can tell you) and then, horror of horrors, tried to put it down again.

Last I saw of her, she was hurdling chairs and tables with the cork-man in hot pursuit. He was waving a cork-pen at her retreating silhouette and shouting ‘Okay, I’ll let you have it for fifteen’.

Annabelle didn’t help. She kept trying to catch my attention by shouting my name, frantically waving and gesturing at me to come and marvel at what some beaming eccentric had managed to achieve, no doubt in her cognitive therapy workshop, with some red felt and a glue-gun.

I finally relented and bought a bottle of cordial from a man with an inordinately big head. It’s got to be said, I thought it was some kind of weird home-made vodka so I’m not entirely happy with my purchase but £7.50 for lemon juice, who can complain at value like that?

If I mix it with enough vodka (and perhaps some LSD thrown in for good measure) maybe I can take up craft-stalling too.

Sunday 29th May

The Teenager slept in a field last night.

He was out with his chums for most of the day and popped home at about a quarter-past-Doctor-Who to ask if he could extend his eight ‘o’ clock curfew until 10pm.

Eyes firmly glued on those terrifying, jaw-stretching ‘Ganger’ crittures, I replied in the negative.

Mutter, mutter. Shout, shout. Door slams.

Annabelle and I had just turned to look at each other with ‘To-Be-Continued’ induced excitement, (turns out that Amy Pond hadn’t been Amy Pond for a long, long time and as a result of this The Doctor had no choice to zap her with his sonic-screwdriver and turn her into an Amy sized Pond of mush) when Annabelle obviously decided that now was as good a time as any to tell me that she thought she might have broken her vagina.

Why wait until tomorrow to give your mother the embolism you can just as well give her today.

For the tenth time this week my baseball bat was out and I was ready to roll.

Disaster, in the form of my upcoming twelve-stretch, was averted in the nick of time when she, arms gripped around my ankles as she rugby tackled my exit, squeaked that she’d broken it on the see-saw.

When the black dots had receded from my vision and I had finally got her securely and safely,Velcro-ed into bed, I realised that the other half of my juvenile-dream-team had failed to show.

Twenty to ten he strolls in.

He hadn’t even bothered to prepare an alien slash zombie related excuse.

Just headed in the direction of the microwave and his nosh and calmly stood there ‘getting his eat on’.

Having spent quite a lot of Friday and Saturday watching old re-runs of Dr Phil, I was determined to answer the question currently on the table of who, precisely and in fact, was the daddy around these parts.

Seriously, all I was missing was a stool, a ‘tache and a receding hairline.

His response to my attempts at a calm, reflective discussion on the reasoning behind his now being grounded for a week, was to snort derisively, remove a half-eaten lamb chop and some peas from his dinner plate, stuff them into his pocket and slam out of the door.

As a parting gift, he flipped open the letter-box and shouted at the top of his voice: “And how’s that working for you love”.

Apparently, not just me that’s been soaking up the Dr Phil-isms then.

Saturday 28th May

I have a feeling that I might be about to offend a few people. So without further delay, let’s get started.

First up. Cheryl Cole.

I think Cheryl Cole is a teeny-weeny package of Geordie fabulousness.

I am, as a result of recent events, seriously displeased with USA Inc. who has just apparently, sacked ‘our’ little girl. The reason USA Inc. have provided is that in the two seconds she was a judge on ‘Over-There-X- Factor’, she neither stood up to Paula Abdul nor managed to make her accent clearly understood.

So I thought, hey Single Mum, why don’t you give it a whirl.

Paula Abdul made one crap song a gazillion years ago, hands up who can remember it. Actually, don’t bother, if I force you to recollect it you won’t be able to get the tune out of your head all day and that’s just cruel.

(Two steps forward, three steps back!)

One-Hit-Wonder-Abdul was, in industry ‘speak’, a ‘big-fat-flop’ on the music scene. Granted, over here we only have the likes of The Beatles and people like Oasis, Elton John and The Rolling Stones to compare her to, but still.  

Moving swiftly on and apparently people in America can’t understand people who originate from the North-East of England. Am I to understand then, that Britain’s ‘Special Relationship’ with the US finds its northern border somewhere around the Watford Gap Service Station?

If this is indeed the case, all our service personnel whose homes are usually somewhere off the M6 but are currently fighting in either Libya or Afghanistan can pretty much heave a sigh of relief.

You’re coming home boys.

Sorry, what’s that you say? Oh I see. You can understand Geordies perfectly when it suits you.


For my part, whenever I have been on my holidays in Europe, and ever been unfortunate enough to be seated next to an American family in a restaurant as they attempted to order Low-Carb-Ranch-Dressing for their hand-made Italian pasta, my hiding-behind-my-menu-cringingly-embarrassed desire for the waiter to tell them to sling their hooks ‘cos they’d probably be better suited to the fine dining on offer at the Maccy-D’s three towns over, is completely overwhelming.

I trust that thus far I am not having any problems making myself understood.

Cheryl Cole is ours, we love her and you can stuff your copy-cat-show-format up your jacksies.

Second thing that has induced serious TV related cushion throwing around here is the imminent £1m wrongful sacking award that is going to be paid to the woman who was in charge of Haringey Social Services whilst they were brazenly ignoring the abuse that Baby-P suffered in his painfully short life.

This award is the result of a legal loop-hole.  The results of the external Ofsted report were not retracted.

What this means to you and me, is that she’s getting a million squid off the back of a technicality. Nobody has said that she wasn’t ultimately responsible for not getting that kid out of the house where he subsequently died at the hands of his own family.

She has been reported as claiming that ‘It’s not about the money’.

Phew, well at least some good will come out of this appalling situation then. I’m sure that ‘Over-The-Moon-Shoesmith’ is planning to hot-foot it off to the NSPCC or Childline when she gets her wedge, where she will  donate the lot, and finally manage to do some good for the kids she claims she has spent her life protecting.

Okay, I’m done. 

Baby-Peter-Connelly (March 1, 2006 – August 3, 2007).