Friday 27th April – The blog becomes a book

Bit of a red-letter day for me.

The Secret Diary of a Single Mum is now available as an e-book for the Kindle, iPad or iPhone on Amazon.

If an interested party were to type the name into Amazon, they’d be able to either review it (positively of course) or even, purchase it to take on holiday this year.

Just saying.

Friday 20th April. Drip, Drip, Drip Little April Showers.

Yip-dee-doo-dal-ar-ly, it’s Friday.

And it’s sunny.

Fridays are always good for the obvious, not having to get dressed for two days, reasons but lately a certain frisson has been added to my end of week celebrations due to ‘that’ column in the Daily Mirror.

Checking in with ‘The Secret Diary of a Single Mum’ to see which of my previous blog ideas ‘Lady-Who-Copies-Writes-It’ has gone with this week is wicked.

Keep up the good work ‘Lady-Who-Copies-Writes-It.’

Now I know how The Little Britain crew feel whenever they overhear a man in the street saying that “the computer says no.”

It’s a warm and talent-affirming sensation.

Whilst I was busily glowing with ‘Cool-I’ve-Bin-Ripped-Off’ pride, I noticed in the paper that it’s going to rain this weekend, and what I want to know is, will this cause ‘Parts-Of-Britain’ to be lifted out of the Mojave-Desert-Style-Drought pickle in which they have tragically found themselves.

Now I watch the weather report, at some stage, on most days and it seems to me that the blue patches that the ‘Wevver-Bird’ is always pointing at, are pretty much as blue, and as widespread as they ever have been.

So 24/7 rain is apparently not a solution to drought.

Good to know.

Perhaps someone could let the African continent know that it’s high time they stopped bleating about their problems.

Tell ‘em to look up Newbury on Google Earth and they’ll see what hard times really are.

Comic Relief will, in future, be filming it’s pot-bellied, starving, malaria racked orphans from a sewer-strewn shanty-town just outside Harlow.

As we speak, somewhere near Norwich, the cattle are sinking to their knees.

The groaning earth is cracking under the relentless noonday sun, the buzzards are menacingly picking off the bewildered hedgehogs who, having been accustomed to being the only demographic hitherto interested in ‘thinkin’-they’ll-go-eat-worms’ for dinner, are now getting a bit stressed-out as all the decent bugs are snatched up and thrust down the gullets of the starving, skeletal kiddies by their anguished ‘Baby-Mommas.’

Don’t be fooled by the green, lush spring grass or the blossoming apple trees you see out of your sitting-room window, or even whatever it is that the ‘wevver-bird’ is trying to sell you, ‘Parts-of-Britain’ are in the bony, vicelike grip of a famine-grade disaster.

Having said all that, if the industrial users of 60% of the water in this country would stop using it to cool their machinery and nuclear power stations et cetera, et-cetera which, when they’ve finished with it, is all contaminated (and that) and cannot be re-introduced to the water-table, maybe things would improve.

Alternatively, you could solve the problem by refraining from watering your daffodils with your hose-pipe.

Yeah, That’ll do it.

Friday 6th April. Nail-Polish & Rugby Players

Last night, when I arrived home from work and was going through my usual routine of attempting to exit the vehicle without all of the empty fag packets, Twiglet packets and half-drunk Lucozade bottles, craftily following me and spilling out onto my parking bay, I heard a voice in my head telling me that my back brake-light’s out.’

Charmed as always by the happy circumstance of living my life with a team of disembodied voices chattering, entertainingly away in my head, it took me a second to realise that, with a few notable fantasy dream-sequence type exceptions involving me, Jason Statham and a blindfold, the voices aren’t usually manly-ish.

I looked up at the sky for a bit, waiting patiently to see if there might be any additional information headed my way, when the voice coughed.

Well everyone knows that the ‘voices’ don’t get minor, upper respiratory infections and so that left only one plausible option, and turning round to discover my neighbour, David, standing right behind me confirmed my suspicions.

Neighbour-David moved in about six months ago and is dead helpful when it comes to pointing out everything that’s wrong with my car.

Since my usual response to things like having tyres but no air or a tax disc holder containing only a cartoon sketch of a penis, are usually of the breezy, ‘what-you-gonna-do’ shrugging variety, I have to say I’m surprised he’s still bothering.

I smiled politely, (the voices, on the other hand, were at this point singing a Katy Perry song quite loudly, which was nice) and since I was quite confident that he’d realise any minute now that this particular avenue of conversation was going to be entirely a one-way-street, went back to humming along with Katy.

The music stopped abruptly when we (and by we, I mean me and my friendly council of advisory voices) heard the words “and I wondered if you’d like to come with me.”

Who’s-that-what-now?

The voices, who were clearly pretending not to listen, suddenly remembered they needed to dust the coffee table, and had gone unhelpfully quiet.

The upshot is I agreed to go out to a lunch to somewhere or other next weekend on an outing that isn’t a date <insert nervous, psuedo-masculine giggling here> with some sporting friends of his.

I only agreed because the words rugby shorts and piss-up appeared in the same sentence.

Fast-forward an hour and a half.

I’m watching the Sopranos, painting my toes to make them look like they’ve got long nails growing on them, trying to keep Annabelle out of my nail-polish box by hissing and waving my legs at her threateningly from direction of the sofa, when I get a text message.

Aha my old friend, so we meet again.

Handsome-Rob’s back.

And he wants to talk.