Monday 27th June

I decided yesterday afternoon that enough, really was enough.

When your back ‘lawn’ has grown to such an extent that letting the dog or the kids out to play, means not seeing them again for the next twenty minutes, it’s probably a sign that you need to borrow one of those mower things.

All that has been visible of my family’s attempts to enjoy our English country garden, has been the very top of the grass parting as one or the other of them scampers hither and thither way down, among the roots.

I imagine a childhood like this must be considered normal in the prairies of the USA but, as the Teenager has pointed out on more than one occasion, we aren’t in Kansas as ‘any-moron’ will be able to tell you.

Two mutter, mutter, shove, shove hours later, I was the proud owner of an emerald, Wimbledon-esque patch of the green, green grass of home (admittedly, you needed to squint a bit if you wanted to achieve the full effect, but still).

I on the other hand was a bright-red, sweaty, green-stained, dirt-smeared, vision of 300 degree, hair-dripping, garden-iness.

The Teenager chose that very moment to open the front door and tell the doorbell-ringing, flower-clutching, Handsome-Rob that I was “out there” and that it would be just dandy for him to “go on through.”

Oh Lordy, Lordy.

Not only was he clutching flowers for me, he had also brought Annabelle a Disney DVD (because she’d been poorly) and the Teenager a book about successfully negotiating your young adult years without getting yourself ‘nicked’ again (long story).

Mindful of the fright that HR must have experienced when he was confronted with the sight of me hacking at a fourteen foot thistle with a carving knife, I leapt into action and, like the well prepared hostess that I really am, offered him a cup of tea.

No tea-bags.

Nor was there any coffee powder, and a scramble around under the sink, the towels in the airing cupboard and my bed revealed, there was no alcohol either.

We ended up drinking tomato and herb Cup-a-Soup whilst perched on my one and only remaining, creaking, canvas sun lounger.

It was dead romantic.

In a trailer-trash-chic kind of way.

Don’t ‘spect I’ll be seeing him again as by now, he too must have finally decided that enough, really is enough.

Saturday 25th June

If I were to try and sell you the idea that today hasn’t been living proof of the fact that my existence really is just a bowl of toe nail clippings, I would I fear, be the word-mongering equivalent of one of those shifty individuals down the market, toting a battered suitcase, a shit-eating grin and a boot full of ‘Jimmy Smoo’ shoes.

First up, I tried to go into town to purchase a new t-shirt for my hot date with Handsome-Rob tonight.

Car bitched and moaned when I asked it to wake up, then it tried to pretend that it had used up all of the five quids worth of petrol that I gave it last week.

Having kids and a dog has taught me that sometimes, keeping this show on the road means exercising a stubborn refusal to accept reality. That may sound ‘a bit Bear Grylls’ to you but in my experience, fronting up to danger head on, by closing your eyes, crossing your fingers and uttering the magical words:

“Ghosty, ghosty, go away, you’re not real anyway,” has gotten me out of more than one sticky situation in my life, I can tell you.

The ‘Ghosty-Ghosty-Go-Away-Fairy’ must have been away on a city-break this weekend, because two and a half miles out of the village, the car went quietly into the good night without so much as a whimper, let alone a roar.


Doesn’t the stupid car realise that petrol’s ever so expensive these days? We’re all having to tighten our belts. I’m reduced to drinking the ‘Produce of Kazakhstan’ cheap corner shop, six bottles for three and a half quid, wine and I’m on my way to purchase my ‘look-I’d-make-a-fabulous-wife’, hot-date outfit, from the Age Concern shop.

When I finally managed, with the assistance of my Mother and her ‘just-in-case’ petrol can, to get the car back to Pimmsley, I discovered that Annabelle had taken ‘crook’ and had occupied herself during my absence with a good old fashioned game of ‘pin the vomit on the ceiling’.

The Teenager on the other hand, was chill-axing on his bed, watching the Robbie Williams episode of cribs and eating a bumper bag of Doritos.

I dialled Handsome-Rob’s hot-date cancellation line with one hand, and ferreted around in the kitchen cupboard for my rubber gloves and a bucket with the other.

I spose it was inevitable around here, that the path of true love would turn out to be a thistle-strewn, weedy, nettle-ridden road to despair.


Friday 24th June

This week I’ve mainly been listening to Radio 2.

The Teenager claims that radio-related number climbing, up and away from Chris Moyles and the Radio 1 Breakfast show, is the final proof that I have finally gotten on the same page as my advancing years, and have dropped all pretence that I am still a Flirty-Thirty-Something.

As I pointed out to him, if getting a 40th birthday card from Friend-Kate last year that said ‘Smile while you still have teeth’, didn’t tip me off that I was on a downward slide into ‘Vintage-class-of-’85-classic’ then Annabelle and her ‘Were you alive when……..’ questions surely have.

All I can say is ‘Thank you Horrible Histories’ because having watched an episode, she then spends the next few hours traipsing around behind me quizzing me about things like whether or not I was alive when Elizabeth I fought off the Spanish Armada or whether it really was ‘Party-Central’ when Charles II took back the throne during the restoration of the monarchy.

No, I don’t remember what it was like before there were trains and yes, I would hazard a guess that the Great Fire of London was a bit hot but no, I wasn’t bloody well there.

Anyway, so, Radio 2.

Maybe I’m in denial but I really don’t think its next stop Radio 4 or Classic FM or anything like that but I very much enjoy the music, the guests and the banter.

Just this morning, I found out, courtesy of Chris Evans, that Victoria Wood is a vegetarian and likes listening to music such as The Pointer Sisters (me too) and that (best of all) she came to the studio on a motorbike-taxi.

How cool is that?

High five!

So, my conclusions are as follows.

Radio 2 is the new Radio1.

Radio 2 is not a radio-related admission of the need for a bus pass. It’s very hip. It’s very cool. It’s interesting and there aren’t commercials every two seconds (a-la commercial station radio-ing). 

Chris Moyles isn’t on it either which, to be honest, is a bit of a bonus from my point of view.

Radio 2 is where it’s at. You heard it here first (well, not first exactly. It’s apparently been around for a while so I guess that I can’t take all the credit).

As I have now finished writing, I shall now attempt to stand up without going “Oooooh, my knees hurt”.

Good luck with that love.