Bad Lindy's precious gift of a man has been averted, at least in my case, and with Dave the decorator building Vicky's garden shed very, very slowly - he's depressed this week - she does, at least, have some protection. No man, however keen, will want to risk Dave and his Stanley knife.
This worry out of the way, I am able to concentrate on the invitation we've just received. 'Dress: glam,' it says.
It's such a shame. Here I am, well versed in looking raddled, desperate, hungover or tired separately or together, all at the drop of a pelvic floor, yet people will insist on opting for the hope over experience route. I give it my best shot, though, and after some intensive work, assemble a dazzling range of looks to enchant my fellow party-goers.
Look 1:
With blusher and free range eyebrows that are bursting out in every direction to celebrate the arrival of Spring
Effect: woman embarrassed to discover that she's been attacked by a pair of long-haired woodlice.
Look 2:
With blusher and plucked eyebrows.
Effect: Woman who can now see how old she is and is very, very surprised
Look 3:
With eye liner.
Effect: Surprised woman with very small eyes
Look 4:
With mascara.
Effect: Woman who has replaced woodlice with a pack of spiders to block out view of the mirror
Look 5
With lipstick.
Woman who, thanks to the mascara, cannot see to apply lipstick, and simply looks drunk
Look 6:
With more lipstick.
Ageing woman who is trying to catch up with her lips as they slide down her face in a bid to escape from face forever and find a new home on a younger, fresher complexion
Look 7:
With all of the above and the addition of alcohol.
Ageing woman who no longer knows what she looks like. And doesn't give a damn.
I suppose I could always slather myself in Motherpucker lip gloss and go as a gigantic pout.
Men will drool.....in terror.
Wednesday, 6 June 2007
Monday, 4 June 2007
Bad Lindy's excellent weekend
"Lindy's at it again," says Vicky, at the school gates. "Check your texts."
I do, and she's right. Bad Lindy's Motherpucker lip gloss is working overtime. The window cleaner keeps texting her pictures of his pants. Always one to share, she now has more men than she can deal with. Rather than letting them go to waste, she's parcelling up the spares and circulating them to the rest of us.
"Hi there," says my message. "You don't know me. I met your mate Lindy out the other night.....she is well sexy and a great kisser but she told me you are the sexiest person she knows and I really should get in touch with you. Is this true?"
"No," I text back. Experience has taught me that Lindy's men, once fired up, are best not ignored, and can create awkward domestic moments.
I compare texts with Vicky. Give or take the odd syntax error, hers says pretty much the same thing. We look round. Several of the other mothers are also staring at their phones with expressions ranging from horror to bemusement. Lindy has clearly had a very active weekend.
On the way home, I'm just passing Lindy's front door when it opens and there's the sound of a crash. Lindy appears in the doorway.
"My mobile phone's just exploded," she explains. "I've just been having words with India about it."
It seems likely that India is in for a national crisis. In the background, Bad Lindy's parents, both tiny, almost silent people, who are paying her a visit, sit quietly sipping their tea, smiling benignly and totally ignoring the epithets and small bits of plastic that are filling the air around them.
"Did you get my text?" asks Lindy, grinning. "I think you need a bit of pepping up."
At least, with her mobile temporarily out of action, there's limited damage she can do, I think. Wrongly. When I get home, there's another text, from Vicky this time. "Lindy has given mine my address," she says. "Watch out."
I do, and she's right. Bad Lindy's Motherpucker lip gloss is working overtime. The window cleaner keeps texting her pictures of his pants. Always one to share, she now has more men than she can deal with. Rather than letting them go to waste, she's parcelling up the spares and circulating them to the rest of us.
"Hi there," says my message. "You don't know me. I met your mate Lindy out the other night.....she is well sexy and a great kisser but she told me you are the sexiest person she knows and I really should get in touch with you. Is this true?"
"No," I text back. Experience has taught me that Lindy's men, once fired up, are best not ignored, and can create awkward domestic moments.
I compare texts with Vicky. Give or take the odd syntax error, hers says pretty much the same thing. We look round. Several of the other mothers are also staring at their phones with expressions ranging from horror to bemusement. Lindy has clearly had a very active weekend.
On the way home, I'm just passing Lindy's front door when it opens and there's the sound of a crash. Lindy appears in the doorway.
"My mobile phone's just exploded," she explains. "I've just been having words with India about it."
It seems likely that India is in for a national crisis. In the background, Bad Lindy's parents, both tiny, almost silent people, who are paying her a visit, sit quietly sipping their tea, smiling benignly and totally ignoring the epithets and small bits of plastic that are filling the air around them.
"Did you get my text?" asks Lindy, grinning. "I think you need a bit of pepping up."
At least, with her mobile temporarily out of action, there's limited damage she can do, I think. Wrongly. When I get home, there's another text, from Vicky this time. "Lindy has given mine my address," she says. "Watch out."
Trivialising grief
Francis suddenly starts sneezing and cannot stop. It's a late onset allergic reaction. "Hay fever," he says miserably.
I'm not so sure. I think over-exposure to head hunters may be the trigger, exacerbated by the high seasonal superlative count in the recruitment ads.
"Consummate professional," I say to him. "Results-oriented."
He sneezes more each time. There's no help for it. From now on, he's going to have to attend all interviews in an isolation suit, including ear protectors.
Just in the nick of time, I have identified another exciting career opportunity for him. I come across this ad somewhere in the further reaches of cyberspace:
'WHAT IS PET LOSS COUNSELING?
'Pet bereavement counseling is individualized to meet each client's needs. Every counselor has a different approach. We use talk therapy to identify, and help you cope with, the emotional stages of grief. You may learn how to deal with insensitive individuals who trivialize your grief, a pet's terminal illness, and the difficult decision of euthanasia. We use healing tools, such a journal, planning your pet's final arrangements or funeral, and your spiritual beliefs.'
'Talk therapy' would presumably refer to the revolutionary art of speaking to somebody.
What with Bad Lindy's distinctly casual approach to dead animals (she was born to trivialise grief, and if there's ever a national 'Week of the Insensitive Individual' I suspect she'd be top choice for mascot) there's got to be a suppurating mass of undealt-with grief just waiting for Francis and his shiny case of healing tools.
"I'm not talking to people about their stupid hamsters," he says. Oh, dear. I greatly fear that Francis, too, may need to sharpen up that talk therapy before he can be let loose on a mourning public.
I go up very close to him. "Customer-facing. Strong people and networking skills," I hiss, meanly. His eyes start to stream. "You see," I say. "You should think about it."
I wonder if there's a way of combining pet loss counselling with Megadik?
I'm not so sure. I think over-exposure to head hunters may be the trigger, exacerbated by the high seasonal superlative count in the recruitment ads.
"Consummate professional," I say to him. "Results-oriented."
He sneezes more each time. There's no help for it. From now on, he's going to have to attend all interviews in an isolation suit, including ear protectors.
Just in the nick of time, I have identified another exciting career opportunity for him. I come across this ad somewhere in the further reaches of cyberspace:
'WHAT IS PET LOSS COUNSELING?
'Pet bereavement counseling is individualized to meet each client's needs. Every counselor has a different approach. We use talk therapy to identify, and help you cope with, the emotional stages of grief. You may learn how to deal with insensitive individuals who trivialize your grief, a pet's terminal illness, and the difficult decision of euthanasia. We use healing tools, such a journal, planning your pet's final arrangements or funeral, and your spiritual beliefs.'
'Talk therapy' would presumably refer to the revolutionary art of speaking to somebody.
What with Bad Lindy's distinctly casual approach to dead animals (she was born to trivialise grief, and if there's ever a national 'Week of the Insensitive Individual' I suspect she'd be top choice for mascot) there's got to be a suppurating mass of undealt-with grief just waiting for Francis and his shiny case of healing tools.
"I'm not talking to people about their stupid hamsters," he says. Oh, dear. I greatly fear that Francis, too, may need to sharpen up that talk therapy before he can be let loose on a mourning public.
I go up very close to him. "Customer-facing. Strong people and networking skills," I hiss, meanly. His eyes start to stream. "You see," I say. "You should think about it."
I wonder if there's a way of combining pet loss counselling with Megadik?
Sunday, 3 June 2007
Fascinating tagging facts
I had a spider named after me at a zoo (just my first name, you understand - I hadn't discovered a new species in my back garden). She was a Mexican red-kneed bird-eating spider. She had a steady gaze and I suspect she could have drunk me under the table, but they refused to let her out for the evening so I could put it to the test
I do not have especially hairy knees, though I hope to grow a handlebar moustache for Christmas
I am the only one of my siblings not on anti-depressants. Sometimes, I wonder if it could be me who depresses them
I once piloted an airship. Briefly, somewhere over Bedford. It was fun, though.
I am around average height. But my brother is offically classified as a giant.
My father, who experienced it, wrote what is probably the only humorous account of the Holocaust. We are still trying to find a publisher
These are all the facts I can think of, but I will add some more later.
I would like to nominate Mother at Large, To Miss with Love, Debio, My Life Now, Orchidea and Wolfgrrl as tagees. And the best of luck to them. I think I also left comments for a couple of other people asking if they'd like to be tagged. If so, please, please add yourselves to the list.
I do not have especially hairy knees, though I hope to grow a handlebar moustache for Christmas
I am the only one of my siblings not on anti-depressants. Sometimes, I wonder if it could be me who depresses them
I once piloted an airship. Briefly, somewhere over Bedford. It was fun, though.
I am around average height. But my brother is offically classified as a giant.
My father, who experienced it, wrote what is probably the only humorous account of the Holocaust. We are still trying to find a publisher
These are all the facts I can think of, but I will add some more later.
I would like to nominate Mother at Large, To Miss with Love, Debio, My Life Now, Orchidea and Wolfgrrl as tagees. And the best of luck to them. I think I also left comments for a couple of other people asking if they'd like to be tagged. If so, please, please add yourselves to the list.
Jobs latest
Nothing from the spa bath people.
Nothing from the company that's built a critical mass in its back garden and doesn't know what to do with it next.
Nothing from the hair people.
Nothing from the newly engaged biscuit 'n' chocolate companies.
Even Nigel, the desperately nice headhunter, who must now be hurting so much inside that he has to swallow a packet of Elastoplast every morning to stem the bleeding, has stopped sending his caring e-mails.
A franchise has been suggested (thanks, Debio), and I'm inclined to think Megadik might be a good bet. At least the product name is memorable and, above all, there'd be plenty of opportunities for business expansion......If you believe toilet stalker Leon, that is.
Exciting tagging facts coming soon, just as soon as I've thought of some.
Nothing from the company that's built a critical mass in its back garden and doesn't know what to do with it next.
Nothing from the hair people.
Nothing from the newly engaged biscuit 'n' chocolate companies.
Even Nigel, the desperately nice headhunter, who must now be hurting so much inside that he has to swallow a packet of Elastoplast every morning to stem the bleeding, has stopped sending his caring e-mails.
A franchise has been suggested (thanks, Debio), and I'm inclined to think Megadik might be a good bet. At least the product name is memorable and, above all, there'd be plenty of opportunities for business expansion......If you believe toilet stalker Leon, that is.
Exciting tagging facts coming soon, just as soon as I've thought of some.
Saturday, 2 June 2007
Hug your radio close and think of Dave
A few weeks after the big, macho appliances have their 'look at me' day and break down, the minor electrical life forms decide it's their turn for a hissy fit.
The ancient radio in the bathroom goes all touchy feely on us, for reasons that are unclear but may be linked to an overdose of 'Woman's Hour', 'Archers' and 'Thought for the Day' - after all,too much Radio 4 certainly alternates my currents.
It will now work only when being lovingly squeezed round the middle with both hands.
Bonding with Sony in this intimate way is emotional for both of us, but it does make washing tricky, as the second you reach for the shampoo, the radio, sensing abandonment, cuts out.
I try to draft Deborah in as an emergency radio operator - inviting her to recreate some of the sense of excitement and danger of a spy transmitting in enemy territory. 'Eeugh!' she says, in response to the idea of sharing a room with a clothes-deficit mother.
Next, the computer picks up on the war theme and decides that, as a conscientious objector, it will no longer cooperate.
The new programme that has installed itself, uninvited, insists that it’s there simply to filter out junk. Then it takes against my mother in law’s e-mails and consigns them all to an electronic dustbin somewhere in cyberspace, meanwhile giving the green light to any spam, no matter how revolting or fraudulent. While I wade through reams of information from crooks - including many of Leon's friends from Megadik - who want to empty my bank account and enlarge every organ I possess, and some I don’t, her messages go unread and unanswered.
Then the printer has an anal retentive moment, getting half way through each sheet of A4 before deciding not to share, sucking it back up into its innards, then emitting a series of small, electronic belches and the occasional shower of slightly dirty confetti.
I ring Vicky for sympathy, but she has problems of her own. Dave has called her, ostensibly to ask how the seedlings are doing, but in fact to share the plans for his impending suicide.
"You can't kill yourself," she says anxiously. "You promised you'd put up the garden shed."
"You're quite right," he says. "OK. I won't. Not yet, anyway." Perhaps if I lent him my touch-deficit radio, it would take his mind off suicide. Though a surfeit of the current Archers plot line might simply accelerate the process.
The ancient radio in the bathroom goes all touchy feely on us, for reasons that are unclear but may be linked to an overdose of 'Woman's Hour', 'Archers' and 'Thought for the Day' - after all,too much Radio 4 certainly alternates my currents.
It will now work only when being lovingly squeezed round the middle with both hands.
Bonding with Sony in this intimate way is emotional for both of us, but it does make washing tricky, as the second you reach for the shampoo, the radio, sensing abandonment, cuts out.
I try to draft Deborah in as an emergency radio operator - inviting her to recreate some of the sense of excitement and danger of a spy transmitting in enemy territory. 'Eeugh!' she says, in response to the idea of sharing a room with a clothes-deficit mother.
Next, the computer picks up on the war theme and decides that, as a conscientious objector, it will no longer cooperate.
The new programme that has installed itself, uninvited, insists that it’s there simply to filter out junk. Then it takes against my mother in law’s e-mails and consigns them all to an electronic dustbin somewhere in cyberspace, meanwhile giving the green light to any spam, no matter how revolting or fraudulent. While I wade through reams of information from crooks - including many of Leon's friends from Megadik - who want to empty my bank account and enlarge every organ I possess, and some I don’t, her messages go unread and unanswered.
Then the printer has an anal retentive moment, getting half way through each sheet of A4 before deciding not to share, sucking it back up into its innards, then emitting a series of small, electronic belches and the occasional shower of slightly dirty confetti.
I ring Vicky for sympathy, but she has problems of her own. Dave has called her, ostensibly to ask how the seedlings are doing, but in fact to share the plans for his impending suicide.
"You can't kill yourself," she says anxiously. "You promised you'd put up the garden shed."
"You're quite right," he says. "OK. I won't. Not yet, anyway." Perhaps if I lent him my touch-deficit radio, it would take his mind off suicide. Though a surfeit of the current Archers plot line might simply accelerate the process.
Friday, 1 June 2007
Asbestos B. Womb - my new on-line chum
Every time I start the letter to the psychologist about Leo I sound either mad or more depressed than he is, so I take a break to check my e-mails.
Today, there's one from Asbestos B. Womb - what can her parents have been thinking of at the christening? She's teamed up with a friend, the lovely Vicky C. Oscilloscope and wants me, together with just a few million other hand picked total strangers, to take advantage of a unique investment opportunity in a totally unregulated fund operated out of a sub post office in the Phillipines. She says it's tipped to 'explode'. It sounds almost too good to be true.
The only other e-mail is from another potentially good chum called Leon. He says men and women used to giggle at him in public toilets - why was he in the Ladies, anyway? - until he took Megadik. Now, he says, he laughs at them. Laughter is, as we all know, a great healer. But someone needs to have a chat with Leon about his technique. Leaping out in a women's toilet and chortling at the customers has never, as far as I know, proved a path to great sex, with or without Megadik, though it would definitely offer a quick route to a place on the Sex Offender's Register.
Meanwhile Francis has been approached by scary headhunter to go for an appropriately scary job. The salary is mega, the offices are mega, and the benefits are - needless to say - mega. In fact, the whole package exudes so much testosterone that the company probably wrings out the job descriptions after it's finished with them, turns the juice into Viagra and does a buy one, get one free deal with Megadik.
But Asbestos and Vicky must have got there first because there's a catch. The board has got together and decided that to keep it in company jets and second mansions, sales have got to double. The successful candidate will be enthusiastic, go-getting and just bubbling over with exciting ideas to add nearly one billion pounds to the bottom line.
Francis looks so deflated by the whole thing that you could probably count his testosterone levels on the fingers of one hand. He's had three days to think up exciting ideas, and all he's come up so far is either employing Bad Lindy to trap customers in a corner with her shopping trolley until they buy more, or giving away a gold bar with every purchase. "It would definitely increase sales volume," he says. "Now I've just got to work on stopping them going bankrupt in the process."
Today, there's one from Asbestos B. Womb - what can her parents have been thinking of at the christening? She's teamed up with a friend, the lovely Vicky C. Oscilloscope and wants me, together with just a few million other hand picked total strangers, to take advantage of a unique investment opportunity in a totally unregulated fund operated out of a sub post office in the Phillipines. She says it's tipped to 'explode'. It sounds almost too good to be true.
The only other e-mail is from another potentially good chum called Leon. He says men and women used to giggle at him in public toilets - why was he in the Ladies, anyway? - until he took Megadik. Now, he says, he laughs at them. Laughter is, as we all know, a great healer. But someone needs to have a chat with Leon about his technique. Leaping out in a women's toilet and chortling at the customers has never, as far as I know, proved a path to great sex, with or without Megadik, though it would definitely offer a quick route to a place on the Sex Offender's Register.
Meanwhile Francis has been approached by scary headhunter to go for an appropriately scary job. The salary is mega, the offices are mega, and the benefits are - needless to say - mega. In fact, the whole package exudes so much testosterone that the company probably wrings out the job descriptions after it's finished with them, turns the juice into Viagra and does a buy one, get one free deal with Megadik.
But Asbestos and Vicky must have got there first because there's a catch. The board has got together and decided that to keep it in company jets and second mansions, sales have got to double. The successful candidate will be enthusiastic, go-getting and just bubbling over with exciting ideas to add nearly one billion pounds to the bottom line.
Francis looks so deflated by the whole thing that you could probably count his testosterone levels on the fingers of one hand. He's had three days to think up exciting ideas, and all he's come up so far is either employing Bad Lindy to trap customers in a corner with her shopping trolley until they buy more, or giving away a gold bar with every purchase. "It would definitely increase sales volume," he says. "Now I've just got to work on stopping them going bankrupt in the process."
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