Monday 2nd January – What? Wait! Who’s dead?

Well, thank Lucifer that’s all over.

All that December 25th is missing is Bill Murray, a piano, some ice sculptures and a Groundhog.

And, while we’re on the subject; what actually is Christmas Spirit? More importantly, in what yule-ish activity does it cunningly hide out?

Maybe I’m flying solo here but I go to bed every Christmas-Day-Night a bit bewildered about what just happened.

My overwhelming sentiment every year is that I must have missed some very important element, in which all the Holiday-Sparkle was lurking, completely off my To-Do list.

cropped-screen-shot-2016-11-24-at-12-18-13.pngThis vacuum seems all the more confuzzling in light of all the industrious stuff I’ve been up to: I jammed that squirrel infested fire hazard laden with tinsel into the corner of my dining room, I nailed a bunch of berries onto my front door, I dutifully bought more wrapping paper because I couldn’t find the roll that was left from last year, I sat trying to find the end of the sellotape and I engaged in some giving and receiving of stuff.

I listened to The Pogues FFS?

The fact that I’m supposed to be able to legitimately drink my own body weight in alcohol really isn’t a selling point, since that really doesn’t differentiate the day from any of the other, three hundred and sixty four, less attention seeking days.

I can have a normal ‘Every-Sunday’ roast dinner but there’ll be sausages, bacon and miniature balls of cabbage on the plate too?

Shut the front door?!!!

I get to eat chocolate? Surely not?

Well why didn’t you say so?

Nope, the only, and I mean only, USPs for me, are as follows:

1) The Eastenders Christmas Special.
2) The Doctor Who Christmas Special
3) The Sherlock Christmas Special.

Doctor Who, you can sit back down as I have nothing to add, you entertained me up real good, and I thank you for your taking my mind off Cliff Richard and mistletoe for forty-five minutes.


Well, where to begin.

Oh, I know where: What????

This incarnation of Sherlock started off bloody marvellously – the contemporary backdrop was fresh, well directed and completely original. The plots were elegant, engaging and because Benedict Cumberbatch was such a white hot smarty-pants, I really felt warm and validated as a human being whenever I kinda, sorta came to the same conclusion as him.

Increasingly, I’ve noticed during the last few years, that the plots are becoming more and more incestuous and rotate almost entirely around the central cast which honestly, is a little bit dull.

Last night I missed five minutes whilst I went to wrestle this year’s leftover wrapping paper out of the dog’s mouth (Ohhhh, that’s where it went last year) and by the time I had burrowed my way back under my sofa-blanket, had missed enough of what was going on to have lost the entire thread.

Bish, bash bosh, next thing I know one of the main characters is slain and Sherlock is being implored to save Doctor Watson by way of a post humous Youtube video.

Why? What’s Watson done? Prescribed too much Calpol?

And why didn’t she (dead Mrs Watson) mention it before? Why did she have to wait till she be dead?

I don’t think I’ll be tuning in again but definitely not due to any quality reduction in the acting (still fab) but when the show revolves around eating it’s own cast, for me at least, the writing is to blame.

Moving on; Eastenders.

Errr? Any particular reason that you made me wait until the middle of Groundhog Night to watch it?

But, (and never has a ‘but’ been quite so ‘buttish) Bra-Flipping-Vo.

The closing scenes of last night’s episode were artistic, meaningful and so imbued withcropped-screen-shot-2016-11-24-at-12-18-13.png metaphor that even the Sh-eenager abandoned Instagram long enough to spot it.

If the gothic, slightly worrying concept of Ronnie as the Woman in White and Roxy as the Blonde in Black forever more roaming the halls of that hotel slash event complex in search of their children, doesn’t spin-off into a ghostly special for next Groundhog season then I, for one, will want to know the reason why.

Working title: The Christmas Bride, oooh I’m chilled and thrilled just thinking about it.

Having said that, between now and then we have the small matter of 2017 to contend with and so, from all of us here in the Single-Mum household, I would just like to wish you good health, increased wealth and, lest we be forgetting the deathly spectre of 2016:

Better than average odds of actually surviving it.


Wednesday 30th November – 10 Rillington Place

It appears that I might have a bit of a love hate relationship with the BBC.

On one hand, the treatment of Real-Top-Gear has really toasted my Twiglets, but then, on the other hand, I switch on the tele-box last eve to discover Tim Roth perpetrating some serial-killing, dramatic, witchery before my very eyes.

Now, it’s gotta be said, I love me a good serial killer and, whilst on the surface this isn’t really all that unique because, inexplicably, as a species, humans all seem to find depraved mass murderers fascinating, in my case it’s not because I want to know ‘how they tick’ – I think it’s because, in comparison to the victim of a psychopath, my life looks pretty darned good.

screen-shot-2016-11-24-at-12-18-13Yay me!

Friend-Kate achieves the same self-satisfaction in the face of Jeremy Kyle guests.

She experiences a huge surge of gratitude for the life she has been given.

She rhapsodises about the joy of having all of her front teeth still in situ; she’ll enthuse on the many benefits she experiences from not having a snaggle-toothed, nicotine stained ‘Ma’ who is currently to be found sharing her council flat with a seventeen year old puff dealer.

DNA test not required.

Friend-Kate remembers who the father was.

Yay her!

Yep, one dose of Jeremy Kyle and Friend-Kate is swaggering around home-making coleslaw like she’s 5 ft tall for the rest of the day.

For me, it’s seeing dismembered corpses dragged out of dumpsters.

Thus far, I haven’t been found in any of those bin liners and, given the shenanigans I am habitually a party to, I’m not ashamed to tell you, I take my celebratory high-fives where I can get them.

But, I digress, back to the shenanigans of the BBC.

The set of 10 Rillington Place is a nuance laden work of art; the peeling wallpaper and dim lighting provide a visual manifestation of Christie’s internal landscape and the largely absent appearance of any actual violence, despite our all knowing what the spots of blood mean, is both subtle and powerful.

Having said that, when I announce that we all know what the blood means, it just occurred to me that maybe we all don’t know what the blood means so, if you’re still wondering if there’s a cunning plot twist and in fact it’s Mrs Christie that’s done the blag:

Spoiler alert.

Anyway, I’m enthralled.screen-shot-2016-11-24-at-12-18-13

I’m hooked.

Good job BBC.

I will be cross-legged in front of the tele-box for next Tuesday’s instalment and I might even go out on a limb here and officially declare that, the excited anticipation of episode two, might just about be enough to act as a distraction from my traditional ‘Shit-Is-It-Really-Only-A-Fortnight-Away’ Black Friday internet shopping searches.

Nobody seems to have any of those ‘Seven-Days-And-You-Die’ videos in stock anyway.


Thursday 22nd April

Before I do anything else, I just want to give a big shout out to Mrs Y, Bobby, Lexy, Debbie, Sheena and Ally for their ever so kind comments of yesterday. Your thoughts really made my day, so thank you for taking the time to share them.

Anyway, back to this mad house.

At about 8.30pm last night I got a sudden and totally unprecedented attack of garden anxiety and decided it was high time that I removed some of the green straggly things from the border’s. I understand from my Mother that this process is often referred to in learned circles as ‘weeding’. I have it on good authority (again, from my Mother) that plants are generally to be found in soil; however, in my patch of England’s green and pleasant land, they appear to have been concreted in when the house was built.

I was chipping away at the ‘soil’ with a screwdriver when the back gate opened and the Teenager walked past. He was soaking wet and wearing only one trainer. My initial concern was that, like Ben Mitchell of Albert Square, a gaggle of Polish teenagers had nicked his chips and mocked his unnatural interest in musical theatre but as it turned out the solution was much harder to swallow.

He had become preoccupied with a group of people, of the ‘fit young lady variety’, lost the ability to walk in a straight line and fallen into the river.

Annabelle listened to his tale of woe and helpfully suggested that in future she accompany him if he was venturing out of the house. 

The teenager flounced out of the room on hearing Annabelle’s proposed care in the community strategy and the last I saw of him he was stamping up the stairs muttering something about ‘player-haters’. 

The shiny, pretty, girl from last week popped around at about 9pm to check he was okay and to tell me that his trainer had been spotted floating downstream. She was very sorry but they had, she said, been unable to capture it. 

Her deep regret at the unfortunate situation probably explains why she was bright red and had tears running down her face.